Chapter 19
Agatha was quick and efficient. Within an hour, I was bathed, dressed, and wrapped in a thick blanket, seated on the window bench overlooking the lawn. It was remarkable what a scalding bath, a hot cup of tea, and a good book could do for one’s mood.
Not that I had forgotten the morning’s events or the revelations that had turned my world upside down.
Now that I had the time and distance to attempt to view Mrs. Rawlings’s treatment of me with any sort of objectivity, I tried.
I thought back to our first meeting, when I’d appeared so unexpectedly with her son in her home.
Then she’d learned that I would be staying there, acting as her companion, invading the privacy she held so fiercely.
And somewhere in the midst of all that, she’d heard from Stroud that I’d been in a most inappropriate state of undress when we’d arrived.
I shook my head, hating that I was beginning to understand her point of view. How might I have reacted if my son had shown up with a suspicious woman and a rather far-fetched story about a murderer on their trail?
Still, I did not think I would ever have been half so awful as she had been to me.
Disapproval in every glance and making me sew until my fingers went numb.
Instead of trying to learn more about me and form her own judgments, she simply saw what she wanted to see and set herself against me at every turn.
I knew from experience how impossible it was to please people like that.
My eyes wandered across the landscape, back toward the water garden. The bench where I’d sat with Alexander was hidden from view, but just the thought of it made every emotion I’d felt during our conversation rush back into my chest.
Everything he’d told me about his childhood simply made so much sense.
It fit into the puzzle I’d been constructing about him, filled in the gaps and made the picture more complete.
It explained why he’d been so standoffish and reticent when we’d first met, why he disliked Briarstone with a passion, why he kept everything a secret from his friends in London.
Why he tolerated his mother’s nosiness and irritability. Because of all she’d sacrificed for him.
I did not want to think of Mrs. Rawlings any longer—my emotions clashed too much. Instead, I recalled the way Alexander’s hands had warmed my own, the feel of his heavy jacket around my body, the way his damp hair had swooped across his forehead.
How had it come to this? How had I lost myself to him so quickly?
I certainly hadn’t expected it or even hoped for it.
I’d spent the last week longing to return to London.
But now, all I longed for was to be with him.
I wanted to make those lips dart up in surprise and feel his hands on my waist. I wanted to sit beside him before a crackling fire, reading as he worked on this case or that.
I wanted those dark, enigmatic eyes to follow me—and only me—for the rest of our days.
I wanted a great many things from Alexander, but I did not know if he wanted them as well.
He kept his emotions so tightly inside him.
I knew he felt something for me—a woman could sense these things—but was it simply a passing physical attraction?
An inevitable result of our forced proximity since we’d left London?
Or did he also feel that invisible thread between us, pulling us closer with every moment we spent together?
I sighed and took a sip of tea. It was all so very tangled—Alexander, my feelings, the case, Mrs. Rawlings, Briarstone. Perhaps once this was all over, once we could return to London and our normal lives, we might have a chance to see if this connection between us was anything more.
A sudden, sharp knock at the door nearly made me drop my teacup. I hadn’t heard any footsteps, and the knock did not sound like Alexander’s. “Yes?”
There was a pause, then—“May I come in?”
I sat up straight. It was Mrs. Rawlings. Her voice was stiff and stilted, but it was her.
I dearly wanted to refuse her. I had every right, considering what she had accused me of not three hours ago. But my curiosity—my Achilles heel—had to know what she wished to say. “Very well,” I said.
The door opened, and Mrs. Rawlings stepped inside. She found me immediately, still seated on the window bench.
I stood slowly, gaze narrowed, and I kept my blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I did not curtsy. “Mrs. Rawlings,” I said, my voice flat.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she closed the door behind her. So this would be a conversation she did not wish anyone to overhear.
“If you are here to demand I leave—” I began.
“No,” she interrupted. “No, I am not.”
But she did not say what she was here for, only clasped her hands behind her back and paced to the other window. I let the silence stew between us. She could speak when she wished to.
“Alexander said you saved his life,” she finally said.
That was not what I’d been expecting in the least. “Pardon?”
“At Vauxhall.” She turned to face me, though she inspected the rug instead of looking at me directly. “When you both were attacked—he said you saved his life.”
I swallowed hard, gripping my blankets around me. “He saved mine as well.”
She seemed not to hear me. “He told me you hit the man over the head. That he would be dead now if not for you.”
I said nothing, staring at her. Where precisely was this conversation headed?
“I feel it my duty as his mother,” she went on, “to thank you.”
My brows shot up. “Thank me?” I repeated skeptically.
She looked me in the eye for the first time since entering. “Yes,” she said. “If you had not done that, I would have lost my only son. And so I must thank you”—she took a deep breath—“and ask your forgiveness.”
The silence that grew between us was as thick as the blanket around my shoulders and filled with an echoing disbelief.
“Do you mean that?” I said quietly.
“Yes.” Her chin held a stubborn tilt, as if she were determined to pretend this was not strange in the slightest. “I made assumptions about you that were entirely incorrect, and I—I am sorry for it. Please accept my sincerest apology.”
I inspected her face. Was it sincere? Or had Alexander forced it?
But I saw something there that I’d never seen before. Regret. Whether it was for her actions or the consequences she now faced, I did not know. But I decided to offer her the benefit of the doubt. My anger faded away. “You were protecting your son,” I said. “As any mother would have.”
“Perhaps next time, I will do so a little more judiciously.”
Her unexpected levity caught me by surprise, and I exhaled a short laugh. “Heavens, was that a joke, Mrs. Rawlings? You mustn’t shock me too much, or I shall expire on the spot.”
She did not laugh or even smile, but a tiny muscle in her cheek gave the slightest twitch. “We cannot have that. Alexander would be even more put out with me.” She eyed me. “He was very defensive of you.”
I lifted one shoulder. “I imagine he would defend anyone who needed it.”
“Perhaps not quite so ardently.”
I coughed a little. “I’m not—that is, we aren’t—”
“Aren’t what?”
I paused, seeing that spark of interest in her eyes. She wanted information from me. She wanted to know what was happening between Alexander and me, which meant he hadn’t told her anything. Neither would I. It was none of her business, though she would no doubt attempt to make it so.
I smiled at her, which I knew would only aggravate her further. “Nothing, Mrs. Rawlings. Nothing whatsoever.”
I would accept her apology, but I did not owe her anything beyond that.
She sniffed, knowing very well that I’d thwarted her. “Alexander told me I am to beg that you come to dinner tonight. I’ve never begged in my life, and I do not intend to start now.” She paused. “But I should appreciate it if you did come. He is rather angry with me, I think.”
I almost denied her. It would have been a lovely, sweet sort of justice. But continuing this feud between us would help nothing, especially . . .
Especially not knowing what the future held. For me. For Alexander.
“I will come,” I said.
Mrs. Rawlings nodded, paused as if she meant to say something more, then seemed to decide against it. She turned and left, closing the door behind her.
I gave a shake of my head, still rather shocked at what had unfolded. Mrs. Rawlings—stubborn, arrogant, aloof Mrs. Rawlings—had apologized. To me. What was the world coming to?
Perhaps I should still be angry with her, but I found I could not summon the emotion. She’d asked for my forgiveness, which was more than many in my life had ever done. I did not have it in me to hold a grudge. It was far too exhausting.
I curled up again on the window bench, the tightness in my lungs easing ever so slightly. I stared out at the rain-drenched landscape, not truly seeing, my mind preoccupied.
Then I blinked. I sat up, pulling the curtain farther back. My breathing quickened. I focused on a spot in the distance, just beyond the stables, where a crowd of silver birch trees grew. For a moment, I thought I’d seen a figure in the dreary gloom of the storm.
Shadows gathered around the trees, the wind rustling the leaves. I watched for a minute longer, but there was nothing else. No sudden movement. No figure. And yet my body braced—muscles tight, veins racing, thoughts tangled—as if it knew something my mind did not.
“You’re being silly,” I whispered to myself. This business with Mrs. Rawlings had simply set me on edge, and I was conjuring up phantoms.
I stood and drew the curtains closed. It would do no good to indulge my imagination. There was no nefarious villain searching my room and no vengeful murderer hiding in the shadows.
I’d never enjoyed extended periods of idleness, so in the early afternoon, I dressed and went searching for Alexander. I found him, as always, in his study. I stepped inside, and he stood immediately.