Chapter 5 #2
Henry stood by the sitting room window, half listening to his sister and Clara’s conversation.
Too many choices weighed on his mind to give the ladies his full attention.
Should he put out a discreet watch on Edwin Parker or confront the man himself?
Yet what did he really have to say to him other than question why he’d skulked about yesterday in the bakery doorway?
That was no crime. And then there was the matter of the enigmatic poacher.
He would speak with Carver today about intensifying security, but how to go about that?
A snare for the setter of snares? Armed men?
A concealed spring gun? Pah! None seemed right for a slip of a woman toting a game bag over her shoulder.
There was also the matter of Charity. Was sending her to Italy truly the best option?
Father would be sure to question her sudden arrival, and she was certainly giving Clara a stalwart defense for remaining at home.
A flicker of movement snagged his attention outside, and he brushed the curtain aside with his finger.
Woodley, the footman, darted past the stables.
What the deuce was he doing out there? A frown tightened his brow.
Perhaps it was time to discuss with Mrs. Hamby about keeping a closer eye on the man.
“Isn’t that right, Henry?”
He let the curtain fall as he turned back to the women perched on the settee. Clara’s head angled like a curious robin. Clearly she waited for an answer.
“Whatever it is,” he drawled, “I am sure you are right.”
“There, you see?” She leaned towards Charity, patting her knee. “Your brother is nothing if not agreeable.”
His sister cast him a malignant glance. “I doubt he was even listening.”
“Tsk.” Clara clucked her tongue. “Of course he was. Your brother has always had your best interests at heart—anyone can see that. Truly, darling, I think this trip could be good for you. I’ve heard Italy is breathtaking in the autumn.”
Henry lowered himself into the chair across from his sister, glad for the gentle push. “She’s right. Father would be glad of your company.”
Charity sighed but said nothing.
Clara leaned forwards. “I haven’t said it before, but you do seem pale lately. Tired. A change of scenery might be just the thing. I would miss you at the ball, of course—but your health comes first.”
Henry gave her a grateful look, only for Clara to wave it off. “You’ll come back refreshed and ready to conquer every last social engagement. Though I’ll have to fend off that dreadful Grace Woolcott by myself in your absence. You must repay me for that one day.”
Charity let out a weak laugh, though it sounded more weary than amused. “You make it sound as though I’m a grand lady off to the Continent for a season of leisure, rather than being shuffled about like a piece on a chessboard.”
“Nonsense,” Clara said, tone light. “You’d be the queen, not the pawn. And I daresay Italy will suit you. Sun, vineyards, handsome gentlemen … If Mother did not need me here for her megrim attacks, I could easily be persuaded to join you.”
“I wish you could.” Charity gave Henry a sidelong glance, her lips pressing tight. “Because nothing about this seems much like a holiday.”
Henry straightened. “Holiday. A visit to Father. Surrendering to your brother’s concerns. Call it what you will.”
Clara nodded earnestly. “I agree. And since we are airing concerns, I have another one, this time for you, Henry. On my way in I noticed that new footman of yours skulking about near the stables. He looked positively shifty.” She wrinkled her nose. “You might have Mrs. Hamby speak to him.”
Exactly what he’d been thinking. “Thank you,” he said. “I shall see to it.”
Clara brightened as her gaze settled on Charity. “Then it’s settled. You’ll think about Italy, will you not?”
Charity exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Yes … I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” Clara stood, smoothing her gloves. “Now, I must go. Mother’s determined to rehearse our Sunday duets and heaven help me if I miss a note. Until later, my friends.”
“Until then,” Henry and Charity echoed together.
She glided from the room, skirts whispering against the floor.
Henry watched her go, the weight in his chest lighter than before.
At least Clara suspected nothing … and she’d left him with one more reason to keep an eye on Woodley.
Strolling to the tea table, he poured a cup of stout black.
By the time he reclaimed his seat, his sister smirked at him with a knowing arch to her brow.
He eyed her over the rim of his cup. “What?”
She blew a disgusted huff. “She is sweet on you, Brother. Anyone can see that.”
“How absurd. She cares for you as much as she does me.”
“Perhaps,” Charity agreed, though her tone suggested otherwise. “But in a far different manner. She would like more than friendship with you.”
Hmm. Did she? He ran his finger around the top of the cup, pondering. If what his sister said was true, he surely hadn’t noticed. “She has never said as much. She has never even hinted at anything else.”
“Oh, Henry.” Charity rolled her eyes. “She is a lady, not a trollop.” His sister angled her head, lips pursing for a long moment.
“Tell me, Brother, why have you never pursued her? Clara Whitmore is lovely, well connected, and takes interest in you. You could do worse, and you’re not getting any younger, you know. ”
“Neither are you.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Leaning forwards, she swatted his arm. “Brat!”
“Hey!” He chuckled as he set down his cup and dabbed away the few dribbles of tea that’d dripped onto his trousers. “I concede Clara is lovely and charming, and also a dear friend, but she is not really what I am looking for.”
Charity spread her hands. “Then what are you looking for?”
What a loaded question that was, and something he didn’t usually take the time to ponder.
He had a household to maintain. Tenants to manage.
Paperwork to see to in a timely fashion in his father’s absence.
And somewhere deep down, the quiet drive to be enough on his own—to hold steady without calling for reinforcements.
Though it was now empty, he reached for his cup, giving his fingers something to do while composing some sort of an answer—for her question would not be blown away so easily.
“I suppose …” He hesitated, collecting words that would suit both his sister and him.
“I want someone who is more than a pretty face or a familiar name. A woman who is not enamored with titles or status. Someone with spirit, resilience, one who faces challenges head-on and does not shy away from difficult situations.”
Charity cooed. “That sounds very much like Clara. She is all those things—save for the familiarity.”
“Yes …” He flipped the cup round and round, searching for the right words.
“I admit Clara has many fine qualities, but she is predictable. Adept at the usual female pastimes—needlework, household management, knowing all the steps to the latest dances. I want more than that. Someone who surprises me. Someone who knows her own mind but is not overbearing about it. I want a woman who stands tall when the world tries to knock her down.”
“My!” Charity snorted. “Are you sure such a woman exists?”
“I hope so, though I have not found her yet.” The words barely passed his lips when his mind betrayed him, flitting to the image of a lithe figure moving swiftly through the woods—the poacher who’d eluded him.
A woman who had the nerve and skill to get by on her own, without the protection of any man or title.
“And if you did find her?” Charity coaxed.
“Well then.” He set the cup down and stood, staring down his nose at his sister. “I would not hesitate to make her my own.”
He spoke with certainty, but as he strode towards the door, doubt crept in, unbidden and unwelcome.
Could he even recognize such a woman if she stood before him?
He’d spent the past years so deeply entrenched in furthering his father’s fine wine business that he’d scarcely given thought to women or marriage.
His life had been a sequence of duties and obligations, each more pressing than the last.
But his sister was right. He wasn’t getting any younger. And while he had always assumed there would be time later for matrimony and family, now he wondered … had he waited too long?