EIGHT
After the ladies’ disastrous visit, Lord Matthias instructed Rawkin to refuse further visitors.
Cecily understood why.
His lordship retreated to the stables, only emerging to sleep and eat a hasty meal. All his focus narrowed to his horses.
She would see him out the window, working with one mount and then another.
It was fascinating to observe. Standing in the center of the paddock, he would urge the horse forward until it dipped its head or showed other signs of relaxation and submission.
Then, his lordship would back away. Over and over, he did this—applying a gentle pressure, and then releasing it when the horses’ body slackened and their posture showed compliance.
Slowly, the animals adapted their behavior to his wishes.
When the April wind turned chill—as was Nature’s habit this far north—Lord Matthias donned his worn greatcoat.
When the sun radiated even a hint of warmth, he tossed the coat aside and worked in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat.
Even on days when rain drummed against the window panes and overflowed the gutters, he still trudged down to the stables.
The wounded silence of his demeanor, the quiet suffering, tugged at Cecily’s heart.
She found him a conundrum, so unlike any other gentleman she had met. In her experience, men were blusterers. Fond of the sound of their own voices and quick to anger or action depending on how a given situation struck their mood.
Yet, Lord Matthias worked tirelessly, and according to Mackenzie, never uttered a cross word.
But as time wore on . . . the last of the snowdrops giving way to cheery daffodils .
. . Lord Matthias appeared careworn and, if Cecily were honest, melancholy.
Whenever she crossed his path, he would look away, like he wished to conceal the misery buried in his gaze.
His spine slumped with a tangible loneliness .
. . as if he were bent over, attempting to study a life he didn’t have.
But Cecily felt his eyes on her as she laughed with Rawkin or polished silver with the maids or chatted with Farmer McCall about the estate’s next beef delivery. How often had Cecily herself stared at married couples, happy and laughing, and wondered why? Why had her own marriage gone so wrong?
It was that sense of empathy that set her feet toward the stables on a particularly lackluster Tuesday. Rain beat on the roof tiles and puddled on the drive. Cecily needed to plan menus with Mrs. Finlayson, and it was high time Lord Matthias stated a few preferences.
At least, that was the excuse she told herself.
It certainly wasn’t because she longed to look in Lord Matthias’s dark eyes and discern if there was any way she could help him. Or, at the very least, share a few minutes of conversation that might make his day a wee bit less lonely.
Matt stood in the barn stall, brushing Indira’s coat.
She was a sensitive animal, he had realized, easily swayed by the emotions of the humans around her. But if Matt appeared calm and steady, she would behave accordingly. Thankfully, her manners had been gradually improving.
Rain fell in a soft mist outside the open stable doors as he ran the brush down Indira’s haunch. It was a sign of the mare’s trust that she let him circle her in the stall without attempting to bite. Granted, she adored a good brushing, but Matt felt they were coming to know each other.
He had received another letter this morning. A follow-on from the missive he still hadn’t discussed with Gray. Strange how a few simple moments in his brother’s study in London all those years ago so fundamentally altered everything. Would he and Gray ever be freed from the strain of it?
This latest missive suggested No.
It was frustrating to be attempting to free himself from the past, all while the thorns of it cut deeper.
Matt leaned his chest against Indira’s flank, letting the steady thrum of her heart soothe his own body.
More than once, he had wondered if part of his love for horses stemmed from touch.
The large animals welcomed his weight against theirs.
As a boy, when the need for creature comfort became too acute, he would steal to the stables in the dead of night and drape his body over a sleeping horse. Anything to feel less alone.
Today, Indira helped ease the ache of that long-ago isolation.
Indira’s ears pricked up, her front foot lifting in agitation.
“What is it, girl?” he murmured.
Matt smelled Mrs. Armstrong before he saw her—a hint of fresh violets like summer come early.
His heart lifted and sank in equal measure. Mrs. Cecily Armstrong presented a different sort of challenge. Not due to her performance as housekeeper, of course. She ensured the castle staff and household operated with machine-like precision.
No, Matt himself struggled to temper his reactions. Whenever she came near, his gaze morphed into an untried colt—tugging at the halter rope, fighting to wander to her without his express permission.
Moreover, his curiosity regarding the former Miss Moulton would not ebb. Why was she here, in this remote corner of the Highlands? What had happened to her former life?
The previous week, Matt had caved and written to Isla requesting her help in finding answers.
His sister had always been his closest—truly, his only—friend.
She wouldn’t judge him for remembering a lady from a decade past, though she would undoubtedly pester him with questions and plumb the depth and heft of his longing in precise detail.
But even then, Isla would be discreet in inquiring after the former Miss Cecily Moulton.
Mrs. Armstrong appeared around the corner of Indira’s stall, standing respectfully outside, waiting.
Matt shot her a glance and then turned back to his brushing.
Anything to avoid staring. But the image of her remained seared on his vision—bright red cloak over a dark blue pelisse, a simple straw bonnet, and cheeks pink from the chilly breeze off the North Sea.
The fleeting glimpse landed like the first crisp bite of an apple in autumn—sweet and delicious.
“Mrs. Armstrong,” he nodded, intent on his brushing. His actions likely came off as rude, but he worried that if he looked at her directly, he wouldn’t have the wherewithal to look away.
“My lord.” She curtsied in his periphery.
“How may I help you?”
“I had questions about menus for the next few weeks, if it’s not too much bother.”
You are never a bother, he nearly replied.
The distance between their stations grated. Matt longed to inquire after her day, her moods, the weather. Any topic other than household matters. But such familiarity would put her reputation in jeopardy, and Matt liked her far too well to do that.
Not trusting himself to speak, he merely nodded for her to continue.
She pulled a small notebook from her pocket along with a pencil. “Excellent, my lord. Do you prefer beef or fish when dining?”
That was easy.
“Fish.” Matt adored beef but hated the humiliation of requesting a footman to cut it for him. Fish never required two hands to eat.
“What about soups? Do you prefer a consommé or a stew?”
“A stew.”
“A fish stew then, like Cullen Skink?”
“Yes . . . or even a hearty beef stew.” If the beef were in a stew, then it wouldn’t require cutting.
Mrs. Armstrong lifted an eyebrow. She was far too intelligent not to suss out his logic, but she wrote without comment.
They went back and forth, Matt appreciating her kindness more with each word. Her considerate questions allowed him to assert his dietary preferences without having to clarify which dishes required two functioning hands.
Eventually, she tucked her notebook away.
Matt had finished brushing Indira, but the mare whickered, nudging for his attention. He smiled and rubbed her neck. The animal might prove affectionate after all.
Mrs. Armstrong lifted a hand toward Indira. “May I?”
As with the last time they had conversed alone, the trace of Scotland in her speech became fainter and fainter as they spoke.
“Of course.”
“I should have palmed a carrot from Cook.” Mrs. Armstrong rubbed the mare’s forelock.
“Are you fond of horses, Mrs. Armstrong?”
“Aye.”
The light from the open doors washed the housekeeper’s face, catching in her blue eyes. He mentally added “loves horses” to his reasons for feeling besotted. His list was becoming unwieldy.
Indira nuzzled Mrs. Armstrong’s hand, as if agreeing with Matt’s besottedness.
“You’re a bonnie one, aren’t ye?” she murmured before lifting her eyes to Matt. “What’s her name?”
“Indira.”
“Ah. A Hindu goddess. That seems appropriate.” Stepping into the stall, Mrs. Armstrong ran an appreciative hand down Indira’s neck.
Matt swallowed and stepped back along Indira’s flank—anything to keep a healthy distance between himself and his housekeeper who spoke of Hindu goddesses with ease.
“She has beautiful lines,” Mrs. Armstrong continued.
His lone hand fisted in Indira’s mane. “Do you ride?”
She nodded. “Or rather, I suppose I should say I did ride, once upon a time. Not much need for a housekeeper to ride to the hounds.”
She winced, faint but noticeable, as if belatedly realizing her words—Hindu goddess, opinions on horses and riding to hounds—revealed a past different from the present she was living.
A typical housekeeper wouldn’t recognize Asian deities.
An average woman didn’t casually ride to the hounds—an activity that required an exceptional degree of skill and practice, as well as the financial wherewithal to purchase and stable a well-trained horse.
Unbidden, a vision rose—Mrs. Armstrong crouched sidesaddle atop Indira, riding hell-for-leather across the Scottish moors, skirts billowing in the wind.
Matt’s heart cracked—adoration and yearning puncturing his resistance. Hunger surged through the gap, punishing in its force. Never had he experienced such kinship to another human being.