Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Anna
Besides the ticking of a little clock on my desk which read five thirty-seven the next morning, Highcliffe House was without a sound, but I was awake. Alert. Unable to sit still.
Not long after Graham and I had made our deal, we walked home, Graham carrying Tabs until she was awake enough to stumble down the path and chase the wind. He hadn’t said much, but I knew his mind was at work planning out our week.
As promised, the notes I’d made in my notebook after dinner were straightforward, perhaps tinted in favor for the way the sea had relaxed me. I’d mentioned how easily I could see families picnicking there, chasing one another, perhaps tossing an unlucky member in the sea. Knowing Graham would read it later made me laugh. I ended with a final assessment: Brighton was no better than Lyme; worse, if one considered how rocky the beach was. Therefore, nothing had convinced me that its popularity might last long enough to warrant a grand investment.
Let Graham argue that point.
I’d yet to call for Mariah and decided to simply enjoy the view. As I opened my balcony doors, salty sea air and sunshine assaulted my senses. Just above the line of treetops rose the sea, blue and green and sparkling brilliantly at the start of a new day. Leaning against the cold balustrade, I untied my curling papers and watched the waves roil from far out. The sea was musical, soothing as it welcomed the morning. Five more days until Papa came for me. My future looked brighter than it had in some time. I tugged on a few crooked curls.
Then a man coughed.
I lurched backward, crouching low, not wanting anyone to see me in my nightdress. On my knees, I peeked through the pillars in the balustrade.
Graham.
Dressed in a white shirt and brown, worn breeches, he carried an armful of wooden poles hefted over his shoulder, heading downward on a trail toward a little white building partially hidden behind a copse of trees. What was he doing?
Perhaps I had seen wrong. Perhaps I was still groggy, and I’d mistaken a servant for my host, but I’d known Graham for years. I wished I could deny it, but his angles and features were frustratingly familiar.
I glanced back to my notebook and pencil resting on the writing table beside my bed. Then at my already half-tied stays and pink-and-brown-striped cotton pelisse folded in a chair. And before I knew what I was doing, I was sloppily dressed, tiptoeing down the stairs and out the front door.
Following him.
The air became more frigid the closer to the sea I traveled. I moved slowly, for the trail Graham had followed veered to the right before continuing toward a grassy area and the little building where by now he’d surely stopped. Stone barriers as tall as my waist lined the path on either side as I drew closer. They veered out and connected with a wooden fence that surrounded the little stable house.
Was it a stable house?
Graham owned several horses, but I’d assumed, seeing as he lived in a sea town, he housed them elsewhere. He couldn’t possibly fit them all in that small building. The wooden poles he’d carried now leaned against the shaded side of the building. What was he doing here, so early and in such informal dress?
I took careful steps, peering around each side of the building until I’d walked its entirety. No sign of him. Not a single rustling of leaves.
He’d gone inside, then. What could he possibly be doing? Building something? Worse, hiding something? Whatever it was, I had to know. I’d come down all this way from my bed. I hadn’t even arranged my hair.
I lifted my chin. If not for my sake, for Papa’s. In one swift movement, I slid the door open.
And there he was. Sitting on a stool. With a pail of milk under a cow.
He looked up, his neck bare from his loose shirt, then blinked down to the cow and looked up at me again. Then he jumped up, knocking over his stool. “Anna? What are you—”
My jaw hung open, eyes racing from the cow stepping forward then back over a sloshing pail of milk to Graham’s parted lips, his eyes growing wide with alarm. “Are you ... milking a cow?” Where were his servants? I could count on my hand the ones I’d seen so far.
Graham took the bucket and swung around, setting it on a little table across from the cow’s stall. One cow. No horses. A brown-and-white tabby cat zigzagged around Graham’s boots.
“It is very early. You should be in bed.” His cheeks were ruddy, but the rest of him was entirely pale. He grabbed a rag and wiped his hands, then pushed the cow back into her stall. “You should not be wandering about on your own.”
I was still in a state of shock, but I managed, “I saw you from the balcony, and I wondered what you were doing, and I ... Why do you have a cow? In the middle of Brighton.”
Graham shook the cat off his boot. “Get off, Constantine. Go on.”
My eyes trailed his clothes—clothes that he clearly reserved for working in.
“We have a lot to see this afternoon. A lot of walking. You should return to your room and—”
“I find I am wide awake.”
We stared at each other. Graham, filthy. Me, without so much as having splashed water upon my face.
“We brought them with us,” he muttered. His brows drew together as he looked anywhere but my face. “When we moved here from the country. We couldn’t stand to sell the cow, after everything. And Tabs loves this stupid cat.” He shook the creature off his boot again, and I found myself reaching out to—what?—help him? Help the cat? Who was this man? This version of Graham was so hesitant and serious and unsettled. In London, he walked with a sure gait, a steady pace, an intimidating confidence. This man could hardly look me in the eye. He closed the cow’s gate and brushed past me, out the door.
I didn’t know what to say, but I could not stay there, so I followed him and said the thing running circles in my head: “You are milking a cow. By the sea.”
“It’s not that unusual, Anna. If we didn’t have her to milk, we’d be buying it. And we already had her, so ...”
“But—” Oh, it would be rude to ask him outright again. Ruder than I already had been by following him. There was something he wasn’t saying. Something he didn’t want to say, judging by how ready he was to abandon me. He gathered the wooden poles and trudged to the fence line. Despite the gate a few paces down, he hopped over the fence, then hoisted the wooden poles over his shoulder and turned toward the pasture.
“Graham,” I called as I strode to the gate, my shaking fingers working to unlatch it.
I nearly skipped to match his quick pace, but he would not offer more than a grunt until we finally reached the other side of the enclosure, and he dropped the wooden poles. The fence encompassed a small plot of grassy land, a pasture for the cow. Though I’d tied my hair back, it was a mess of curls along my shoulders. I wiped my brow with my sleeve, very unladylike, then placed my hands on my hips. I was not finished with this conversation, but I’d have to tread carefully to get the answers I wanted.
“The cat I understand. But the cow? Why did you not just sell it and buy a new one?”
Graham huffed out a breath, looking along the fence line. Then he bent down and picked up an axe that had been left leaning against a spot on the fence. “I purchased that cow when I returned home from Cambridge. When my family needed her most, she produced more than a cow should. And she was halfway through her third pregnancy when I purchased Highcliffe House. Selling her when we left would have felt like a crime after all she did for us.”
“Left? But why would you leave your childhood home?” I swallowed. This was none of my business. Indeed, I’d inserted myself into Graham’s private affairs without cause or necessity, and here I was, asking for more, but I had to know.
“Home?” Graham reared back, brows furrowed. A look of disgust passed over his features. “That place was not a home.”
I furrowed my brow. Not home? What, then, caused his family to leave? Graham never spoke of his childhood. Rarely allowed a glimpse into his life before London to anyone. If he had, I’d have heard something by now. To Papa, he’d spoken of his mother, his sisters, but never ...
“Do you mean it was not a home after your father died?” I winced. So forward, and so brash. But there was something Graham wasn’t saying, something that pained him beyond words, and we were teetering on the precipice.
Graham was silent, watching me carefully, with sweat on his brow and specks of dirt on his unshaven jaw. Then he drew in a steady breath and tilted his head, thoughtful. “My father did not die, Anna. He left us. I have not seen him in almost nine years.”
My features froze. No, that could not be. A father leaving his family was unfathomable. The greatest dishonor. I thought back over everything Papa had told me and every piece of Graham’s life story I’d gleaned from random conversation over the years. “But that cannot be. You’ve a country house just outside of London. And I swear someone told me you lived with your grandfather in the summers.”
“Yes. My grandfather cared for my education. He did everything he could to account for my father’s lacking.” He gripped the axe naturally, and without his waistcoat or jacket, he seemed somehow bigger, stronger. Lines of muscle were taut with strength from his neck down into his arms.
Graham.
Graham Everett.
He turned to the fence and swung down upon a wooden pole lining the fence. It busted too easily, and I realized the wood had rotted. “My father traveled in the summers, seeking easy money to maintain the fa?ade he showed Society, while my mother stayed behind with Ginny.”
He swung again, and five wood panels broke away. Mesmerized by his strength and how easily he managed his axe, I watched his back as he kicked at the remnants, pushing them away with his boot.
“He left you all.” My voice was small, quiet with remorse and disbelief.
Graham picked up a long log and set it in the same fashion the others had been placed. Then he turned the axe over to the flat side and started hammering the wood into the supple earth. “Grandfather hired tutors for me, then sent me to Cambridge on his own account when I was sixteen. I attended for nearly two years. When he died, I went home to mourn with my family, only to realize that the happy letters my mother was sending me were all pretenses.”
I waited while he set another log against the others. “Something was wrong?”
He grunted, then started hammering again. “My father had not returned all year, and our funds were as nonexistent as our food. My mother managed the house and tended the garden alone because, without pay, our servants had found better employment. I used my meager savings to buy a cow—that cow—and the last necessities we needed to get through the winter.”
I stood there gaping like a fish, trying to decide what to say. All the time I had berated him both in my mind and through that stupid game we’d played tormenting each other, Graham had been struggling to support his family?
“Graham, I had no idea.”
He reached out, pointed to a smaller wooden pole at my feet, and I quickly lifted it, tilting it toward him. Before turning back, he stopped and looked me straight on. “You didn’t know?”
Brows raised in shock, I puffed out a breath and shook my head. “Forgive me. I suppose I made assumptions based on ... Well, I thought your father had died. I assumed you’d inherited a house. Land. A living.”
He watched me carefully for a moment, holding fast to the wooden pole and axe. “I thought you knew. I was sure your father had told you, and that was why—” He stopped himself, heaved a great sigh, then turned and placed the log beside the other. “You should go back inside. Dress properly.”
“You thought that was why what?” I took a step toward him. My mind warred with my heart. I had not necessarily felt bad for tormenting him because he’d tormented me right back. His circumstances did not change the fact that he’d invaded our home and stolen Papa’s attention. Except, apparently, he’d done it out of dire need.
Ignoring me, he swung the flat side of the axe several times, until he was satisfied that the wooden fence was secure. He leaned his weight against it, testing its hold.
I waited, unmoving, until he faced me, more confident and sure of himself than he’d been all morning. “I thought that was why you hate me so much.”
I scoffed. “I don’t hate you.”
His gaze moved to just above my shoulder. “You treat me rather poorly. And I seem to remember you saying just yesterday—”
“Well, I had no idea of your circumstances yesterday.”
“You would have felt pity for me, if you had?” He smirked. “Don’t, please. I’ve managed just fine on my own. It was all for the better. Stop looking at me with those sad eyes. Please, do go back to hating me again.”
“I don’t hate you,” I repeated, but my feelings were starting to blur. Hatred felt an awful lot like compassion of late.
“Say something genuine, Anna. I dare you.” He mimicked me from yesterday. The nerve!
But he was right. I could be honest about how I felt without being cruel. He’d spoken honestly with me yesterday, and with how vulnerable he was now, I owed him that respect, however small. “I just think you’re ...”
He stood there, without turning away, and crossed his arms in a show of patience.
“You’re a little too ... put together.”
“And what, pray tell, does that mean?”
“Oh, come now, Graham. You’re always with your perfect manners in London, perfect smile, all amiable and easy to please.”
His lips twitched into a smile, eyebrows raised in a show of surprise, and he ducked his chin. “And I’m the one with a book of poetry?”
I frowned. “On second thought, I take it all back. I do hate you.”
He laughed outright, and I tried desperately not to join him. “I think we both know how to play our hands well when we need to,” he said, and the way his eyes trailed over my face made my skin come alive.
Who was this man? I shook my head. “And why were you milking your cow?”
He shrugged. “My staff is overworked this week, and I was awake. I learned how to milk her back when I first bought her. It calms me.”
I crossed my arms despite the lightening mood between us. I felt eighteen again, thinking back to when Graham and I had first met. How harshly I’d judged him and his scuffed boots. How he’d aimed to charm us. And how I’d thrown it all right back in his face. Of course he’d hated me right back, how could he not? I rubbed my burning cheeks. What a mess I’d made—first with Mr. Lennox, and now with Graham. I was the very worst judge of character.
He seemed to read my mind, like he knew how it felt to be standing there, stripped of any illusions, unbearably honest in front of another person. He shifted, leaning back against the now sturdy fence at his waist, elbows resting on the wood, still watching me. Then he said, simply, “I like your hair down like that.”
My hand immediately touched the curls over my shoulder. “It’s a mess.”
“That you would come outside so unkempt. I like that about you too. You don’t care about the opinions of others. Not to say you are not normally, otherwise, perfect in every way. But you do it so effortlessly.”
What was he playing at? There had to be an underlying meaning to his words. But these compliments did not feel like his usual flattery. These felt real. An uncomfortable lump raised up in my throat, and I did not know how to respond to Graham’s kindness.
Kindness I so clearly did not deserve.
“I’m going to walk you back to the house,” he said, straightening. “When you’re dressed, if you’re desperate for more time with Tabs, she can show you around this morning, if you’d like. I have plans for us this afternoon.”
He wanted solitude, and I could give him that. Especially after all he’d just given me. I walked beside him back toward the little barn. “And what of you?”
He smirked. “Well, the chore I need to do next is not fit for a lady’s eyes or sensibilities. But it must be done. And then I must finish working on a formal proposal for a potential investment.”
“Always business.”
“If I could survive by sitting on piles of inherited coin, believe me, I would. But that is not my lot in life.”
My heart betrayed me. I had the sudden urge to take his arm, to comfort him, to compliment him on the hard work he’d done to save his family despite what that had meant for my dynamic with Papa. I hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of disarray Graham had gone home to after his schooling. And directly after his grandfather’s passing. Nor the years between then and when he’d knocked on Papa’s door. All because the one man he should’ve been able to trust had left him.
“Do you know where your father is now?” I asked.
He held open a gate on the other side of the barn. “Not precisely. And I couldn’t care less. He came back only once, to gather a few things, making empty promises as usual, then nine months later we had another mouth to feed.”
“Tabs?” I asked as I passed through the gate.
He smiled. “Tabs.”
We shared a moment’s humor, imagining a world without that girl. Then another ache squeezed my heart. Tabs did not know her father. Graham had taken that role as well. How very strong he must be to carry such a load. As angry as I was at him, a little piece of my heart softened. “Thank you for telling me.”
He latched the gate, turning slowly to face me. When our eyes met, he seemed surprised that I’d thanked him. He offered me a gracious smile in return and said, “Thank you for asking.”