FOURTEEN #3
But one question still lingered. “As your newest friend, Cecily, I would like to ask an impertinent question of my own.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“Why do you feel your old life is lost to you? Why not simply return to England and become Mrs. George Miller once more? You do not owe me answers, but I cannot help but wonder as to your reasons. Must you still hide?”
She tucked the letter into the pocket of her dress, smoothing the fabric. “Once a lady takes up employment as a housekeeper, the door to her previous life closes. It is rather the way of the world.”
“Perhaps. But before you confirmed your identity for me, I asked Lady Isla about you.” He held up a hand.
“I didn’t disclose your current situation, of course.
I merely mentioned a curiosity to learn what had happened to you.
My sister discovered that your husband died last summer, and everyone she spoke with assumes you are living on an estate outside Lincoln.
That was all. The information that you haven’t resided with your husband for years does not appear to be commonly known. ”
Silence.
Cecily blink, blink, blinked in surprise.
“All that to say,” he continued, “it sounds as if your old life is merely waiting for you to take it up again.”
Her lips twisted. “Even if that were the case—which I obviously did not know—I cannot imagine my absence has been hidden without cause. My Uncle and Aunt put out that I was unwell with a long-term illness to explain why I haven’t returned for a visit with them.
But knowing that George hid my absence as well .
. . I would need to understand why and how before reappearing. ”
Yes, Matt rather suspected as much. “Would you like to take up your old life, if you could? To become Mrs. George Miller once more?”
Her eyes went glassy, and she pivoted away, returning to her small chair.
He remained beside the window, waiting her out.
Finally, she shrugged, warming her hands over the fire. “It scarcely matters, I suppose. If I dwell too much on what might be, I become weepy. Life hasn’t afforded me the luxury of wishes and desires.”
That was the saddest statement he had ever heard, Matt decided. And yet, he understood her well. How often had he felt the same? And he was a duke’s son, born to wealth and privilege.
Her shoulders straightened, and she pasted a too-bright smile on her face. “Tell me—how go things with Indira?”
Matt sighed and permitted her to change the topic.
“She is improving more rapidly than anticipated.” He returned to his seat.
“That’s wonderful to hear. What are your hopes with regard to her?”
“That is an excellent question.”
Matt talked about Indira and his training techniques—his approach to rebuilding the mare’s trust and his methods to improve her nervousness around people.
Cecily asked questions, and soon they were discussing riding and their personal preferences. She was knowledgeable, he realized. A true horsewoman who understood animals and how best to coax them into trust.
The mantle clock chimed, and Matt realized over half an hour had passed.
“You lead me to the subject of horses, and I cannot stop my mouth.”
“Nonsense. I find the topic engaging. So will you retrain Indira to a sidesaddle?”
“I would like to.” He paused. “The problem is finding a competent female rider to put Indira through her paces.”
Cecily lifted an eyebrow. “Are you requesting my help?”
Matt noted that she didn’t seem to doubt her abilities. After speaking with her so openly, Matt had few doubts as to Cecily’s competence in the saddle. He wouldn’t have suggested the possibility if he worried that Cecily might hamper Indira’s forward progress.
“Perhaps. But only as a friend. Not as your employer. I don’t wish you to feel obligated.”
She bit her bottom lip. “I have missed riding rather dreadfully.”
“Do you have a riding habit?”
“I do. It’s at least eight years out of fashion, but still far too fine a garment for a housekeeper to own. I haven’t been able to bring myself to part with it.”
“I shall take that as a sign.”
She continued to nibble on her bottom lip. “It will cause talk . . . my riding.”
“Among the servants?”
“Yes . . . and then the neighborhood. So little happens in this rural corner of Scotland that a housekeeper who owns an expensive habit and sits a horse like a lady . . . well. You can imagine how tongues will wag.”
Matt could. He suspected she would be a glorious sight. That alone would arrest others’ notice.
“It would be a risk,” he nodded. “And you are correct. Your reputation is paramount.”
“But . . . I would be helping my employer . . .”
“You would.” He permitted himself a small smile. “Very much so.”
“And there is no harm in that.”
“No. If anything, it’s admirable . . . and kind.”
She matched his smile.
Matt decided to take a chance. To push her, just a wee bit . . . as a good friend would do.
“Will you meet me down at the stables tomorrow morning?” he asked.
“What if I’m unable to ride as I once did?”
“Well . . . then we shall practice until you can.”