Chapter 13
If there was one thing Margaret Hythe was certain of after spending fifty years in society, it was that something had happened between Corinna Beckett and James Westham. What that something was she didn’t know, but Margaret was rather determined to learn exactly what that something was.
Subtly, of course.
She went in search of the girl and found her in a small sitting room at the end of the east corridor, at the window with a book open in her lap that she was obviously not reading. The book was, after all, upside down.
"The weather is dreary, is it not?” Margaret said in lieu of greeting.
Corinna looked up with a warm smile. “I do wish the rain would come to an end at some point. I’d much rather be out-of-doors.”
Yes, that was very much in her nature. Being cooped up inside was probably driving the girl half mad.
“You are, indeed, Bernard’s daughter through and through.” Margaret settled into the chair nearest the fire. "He would’ve been pacing the corridors after the last two days.”
“Papa didn’t like being stuck indoors,” Corinna agreed with a soft laugh.
“All of the rain aside, how are you finding Acklan?" Margaret asked, genuinely curious.
"Oh, I love it." Corinna’s face brightened. "I think I loved it within an hour of arriving.”
“Indeed?”
“That probably sounds foolish."
Margaret shook her head. "On the contrary, it sounds truthful. I think your father would’ve liked it too," she told her. "He had an eye for a place that had been lived in rather than merely kept."
A sad smile settled on the girl’s face. Not grief, exactly. But the loss of her father was still evident if one knew what they were looking for. "He'd have wanted to see the moors in every season."
Margaret nodded in agreement, wishing, not for the first time, that her old friend was still with them.
But wishing wouldn’t bring him back, so she refocused on the matter at hand and was quiet for a moment while she decided the best way to broach the topic.
She finally landed on… "Linthorpe loves it here, though he’s spent the last three years pretending otherwise. "
It was a small thing to mention. A simple observation. But Margaret watched for Corinna’s reaction.
The girl didn't look away. She didn't shift in her seat or redirect the conversation. She simply held Margaret's gaze for a moment and said, "He does seem at home here. Moreso than in London."
"Considerably more," Margaret agreed. "In London, he manages. Here, he simply is." She tilted her head slightly, the picture of nonchalance. "I think this fortnight has been good for him."
Corinna glanced back toward the window. The moors were invisible behind the rain.
"He’s a good man," Margaret continued in the same mild, conversational tone as she smoothed her skirts in her lap. "He’s been very careful with himself since his wife died. Very contained.” She paused slightly.
“I sometimes wonder if the contained version of himself has forgotten that there ever was another one. "
Cori sent her a sidelong glance but kept her own counsel.
"Of course, he would not thank me for saying so," Margaret continued.
"But I’ve known him since he was eight years old, and I am old enough to say what I observe without requiring his permission.
" Then she turned slightly in her chair to look more directly at Corinna.
"And what I have observed this last sennight is that something in him has shifted. I cannot account for all of it. But I’ve noticed it. "
Corinna said nothing. Her gaze had dropped to the upside-down book in her lap, which was in itself an answer of a kind.
Margaret let the silence sit for a moment, allowing Corinna to focus on her own thoughts for a bit. Then she added softly, "He will not make it easy for you, my dear girl."
Corinna looked up and met her gaze straight on.
"Whatever this is—" Margaret shrugged "—he will not make it easy. That’s not a flaw in him. It’s simply who he is. He’s careful and he’s slow and he carries more weight on his shoulders than he allows the world to see.
A woman who wanted an uncomplicated man would not be happy with him.
" She held the girl's gaze. "But a woman who was up to the challenge could not find a better man. "
The fire settled. The rain moved against the glass.
“I know.” Cori was quiet for a long moment. Then she released a breath she’d been holding. “But do you think he'll let me try?"
"Corinna, I would not be sitting in this chair if I thought otherwise."
Her words landed the way Margaret intended them to, simply, and without room for argument.
Corinna turned her attention back to the window. Something in her face had shifted, some small resolution forming beneath the surface that hadn’t been there when Margaret arrived. She wouldn’t push any further.
"Your father," Margaret began, returning to an easier topic, "once told me that the most reliable test of a place was whether you could imagine wintering there. Not visiting, not passing through. But wintering."
The very tip of Corinna’s lips uplifted in a small smile. "What did he say about Bermuda?"
"He said he could not imagine being anywhere else in February. Which told me everything I needed to know about Bermuda."
Corinna laughed at that, soft and genuine, and for a moment she looked exactly like the little girl she once was rather than the young woman she was becoming. "And what would you say about Acklan in February?"
Margaret considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. "Cold," she finally said. "Magnificent. Entirely uncompromising." Then she tilted her head. "Rather like its owner, I should think."
Corinna looked at her for a moment. Then she looked back at the window, at the rain and the grey and the moors that were out there somewhere behind it all, patient and vast and permanent.
Bermuda.
James couldn't stop thinking about Bermuda.
After spending the entire day successfully not thinking about Cori, he now could focus on little else as he strode into his ducal chambers.
Damn it all. What if Cori went back to Bermuda? She could very easily do so. He hated to admit that it was a real possibility, but it was. After summer came to an end, she could pack her trunks and sail back across the Atlantic as though she'd never met him. She had a life somewhere else and he—
Well, he was being a bloody fool.
Pritchard appeared from the dressing room, evening clothes laid ready, and said nothing about the fact that James was standing in the middle of his chambers staring at nothing in particular. Of course, Pritchard never said anything about such things. It was one of the reasons he was invaluable.
"Your Grace," the valet said.
James shook thoughts of Cori from his mind and began to undress. "What have I missed at Acklan today, Pritchard?"
"Lady Hannah escaped the nursery again this afternoon." Pritchard retrieved the loosened cravat and reached for James’ jacket.
"I am aware."
Pritchard accepted this and moved on, saying nothing further until James had been efficiently relieved of his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt and was pulling on the fresh one. "The orange kitten was also seen in the kitchens this morning."
"Was he?"
"Cook asked me to mention that the kitchen latch was replaced a sennight ago." Pritchard's hands moved with practiced efficiency. "She wishes it known that she does not consider this a failure of the latch."
"What does she consider it?" James asked.
"A failure," Pritchard said, "of the cat."
James looked at himself in the glass. The cravat was, as always, exactly right. "Tell Cook the matter is noted."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Pritchard stepped back, assessed the overall effect, made one small adjustment, and stepped back again. "Will that be all, Your Grace?"
"Yes," James said. "Thank you, Pritchard."
Pritchard inclined his head the precise fraction that indicated acknowledgment without overstepping his bounds, gathered James’ discarded day clothes, and withdrew.
James stood alone for a moment. The castle would go on exactly as it always had. Some things did not change regardless of what else was happening. Marmalade would find another way into the kitchens. Hannah would find another reason to be wherever she decided to be. But…
Well, would Cori find her way to Bermuda or remain in England? The question still plagued him as he went to join the others for dinner.
Cori was going to be perfectly fine this evening.
She'd decided that on the walk down from her chambers, and she intended to hold to it. After all, it was only dinner. She’d sat next to the man at a dinner table before and managed perfectly well.
She could do it again. She might not even be placed beside him.
Perhaps she’d be further down the table.
Though she wasn’t certain if that would be helpful or otherwise at this point.
James was already in the drawing room when she arrived, standing near the fire with Daniel and Reese, a glass in hand.
He didn't look up when she entered the room.
But that was entirely unremarkable. It was.
People didn't look up every time someone entered a room. That he didn’t look at her meant absolutely nothing whatsoever.
She reached for a glass of claret from a passing tray and was glad to find Emma Atherton near a window. They talked about the rain in England and the sun in Bermuda until it was time to go in to dinner, and Cori was grateful for every minute of distraction.
Mr. Atherton was seated to her left with Emma on her right. The turtle soup was dark and rich and warmed her from the inside, which the old stone walls of Acklan were never quite going to manage on their own.
“I have approximately fourteen hours of conversation left," Mr. Atherton announced, to no one in particular and everyone in general, as he abandoned his soup spoon. "I intend to use every one of them."
"It's eight o'clock in the evening, Arch," Emma said.