Chapter 12
IN A QUARTER of an hour, Benedict and Grace were mounted, with several grooms following on additional horses.
A light drizzle had begun, but it did not deter Miss Whitmore in the least. She’d mounted her mare with far more ease this time and was smiling around at the bustle that came with a semi-large party setting out.
To think, she’d not been accustomed to riding a horse less than a fortnight ago.
Benedict led the way, setting a sedate pace. In these conditions, the ground could be quite slick, and happy as he was to have Miss Whitmore’s company, he’d not be the reason for her falling.
“You seem far more comfortable this time?” he asked.
She nodded, actually looking at him, and not at the road in front of them. “I think I rode before. Not often, but enough. Some has come back to me, and coupled with our few outings, I am feeling much more capable in a saddle.”
“I am happy to hear it. And how is your head?”
“Not a twinge to it.”
“Do the pains come often?” He navigated his stallion off the road and onto the small lane that led to the Turner cottage. Miss Whitmore followed.
“Once a week. Every few days, perhaps. I hope they are not a permanent addition to my life, but if so, a little rest and tea set me right again.”
He nudged the horse a little to the side, closer to her. “I am glad you feel better.”
“Thank you. And thank you for helping me last night.”
He’d not liked seeing her in pain. “Thank you for helping me today.”
Her light laugh sounded then. “I do not know how much help I will be, but I will endeavor to stay out of your way.”
“What a disappointment that would be. To have you out of my way.”
She ducked her head, but not before he saw the smile on her lips.
They rode in tandem for a few minutes, sharing the occasional glance or remark. Her fingers thumbed the reins, though, and he was certain something was on her mind. Knowing her as he’d come to, if he were to wait, she would speak when ready. He had an inkling he knew what it was about.
“Do you…” she began, darting a quick glance his way and then out at the vibrant landscape around them. “Do you have a relationship with Miss Lennox? I’d not heard, and yet—”
“No.” It was the height of rudeness to cut off her words, but he did not need to hear anything else. “Her arrival at my door was entirely unexpected and, frankly, undesired.”
Rather than accepting his speech, she tilted her head, still watching the damp, colorful foliage along their path. “It would be understandable. She is very beautiful.”
Benedict shook his head. “There is only one woman I wish a relationship with, and I fear she does not know me well enough for me to even ask.”
Her eyes lifted from the reins, meeting his. They lingered there in his gaze. “It does not hurt to ask.”
“I worry it does, though.” He moved the horse around an outcropping of rock as they left the main road to travel the fields to the Turners’ cottage.
“Miss Whitmore, I am not proud of the man I was a year ago. In fact, I am not always proud of the man I was yesterday. I would tell you everything, every one of my failures and missteps, but I…” His gloved hand tightened around the reins. “I fear you would run.”
Her answering words were soft, heard on the wind. “I told you last night that I have no desire for perfection, in myself or others. I do not need a list of your misdeeds. After all, I cannot give you one of my own in return.”
Heat built in his midsection at the implication of her words. He still wished her to know everything. But was it possible to look to a future in this moment?
“Miss Whitmore,” he asked, steadying his words, “would you allow me to court you?”
Her head remained down for some time—though it was likely only a dozen or so seconds. Her chest rose with a breath as she adjusted her skirt. “Yes, Lord Ellison, you may.”
His heart pounded against its cage. “Call me Benedict,” he insisted.
Her eyes met his, and the smile that was perpetually on her lips was there in their dark depths. “Benedict.”
Oh gads, never before had his name held such importance as it did rolling off her tongue. He was obliged to tear his eyes from her mouth to navigate his horse up a rocky rise.
When they’d crested the top, and he could see the Turner cottage below, he risked a look back at her. Her eyes were already on him.
“Might I have permission to call you by your Christian name?” he asked, emboldened when he had no right to be.
Her nod was swift. “Yes. It is Grace.”
“Thank you, Grace.”
Figures came out of the cottage below, and Mr. Turner raised a hand in greeting. It was not long before they were all dismounted in front of the man.
“We’ve come to see about the tree in the river,” Benedict said. “I think together we can pull it free, if you will show me the way?”
Mrs. Turner came out of the cottage, taking in the group gathered in her yard. Her eyes froze on Grace.
“Miss Whitmore!” she exclaimed. “It has been far too long!”
Grace’s eyes cut to his, wide and questioning.
Benedict stepped closer to her, placing a hand on her back. “Mrs. Turner, Miss Whitmore had an accident nearly two months past that took much of her memory.”
The young woman’s eyes rounded, and she pressed folded hands to her stomach.
“Oh dear—I am so terribly sorry to hear that. I had wondered where you’d gone off to.
I have missed our visits.” The woman was likely no more than half a decade Grace’s senior, but outside of age, what did they have to tie them together?
The Turners were Benedict’s tenants, after all. How had Grace known them?
Grace smiled down at Mrs. Turner. “Perhaps we can have one now? I should dearly like to renew our acquaintance until such time as the memories are returned to me.”
The woman brightened. “I will put a pot of tea on. If you wish to join me?”
With an excited look to Benedict, Grace let herself be led into the small cottage.
He wished to follow—to see if more questions might be answered for him there.
How would a woman who had portrayed herself as perfection itself find herself to be friends with a woman of a lower class? What did Mrs. Turner know about her?
His questions would have to wait, as he shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Even with the light rain and overcast sky, he would not have the range of motion he needed in that coat.
Mr. Turner took him to the river’s edge. The tree appeared to have fallen sideways, and water was mostly dammed in the lower portion.
“We didn’t think too much of it at first, my lord, as it’s not too big,” Turner said.
“But then, when the rains came last night, the river was too much for the dam. Water began pushing up the hill, see, and was just a dozen feet from the front door. Our donkey was ineffective when I attempted to remove it myself.”
Benedict nodded, considering his options. The roots on the tree would be best for tying their ropes to, and if they put the horses uphill from the blockage, they ought to have the necessary angle to pull the thing out.
It took nearly three-quarters of an hour, but they managed it. And then the groomsmen helped to chop up the trunk, providing a good deal of firewood to dry for the Turners’ stock.
“Thank ye, sir,” Mr. Turner said, shaking Benedict’s hand. “The missus has tea on, and some cold meat, if you’d like to rest yourself for a time?”
Benedict looked to the sky. The clouds did not seem to threaten much more rain, and sunset was still hours off—a brief rest for himself and his men would be appreciated. And a chance to speak with Grace and Mrs. Turner.
“Thank you, Mr. Turner, we would appreciate that.”
Their crew settled the horses and approached the small cottage.
“If we may, sir,” one of the Ellison grooms said, “I think we’d be happy with a cuppa and a seat in the lean-to. Just a moment to rest our feet.”
“Splendid idea.” And in short time, the three men were given sustenance and went their way as Benedict ducked into the home.
Grace was seated near the hearth, and like a horse on a lead, Benedict was drawn to her. Her chin tipped up to meet his eyes as he sat beside her.
“I think I’ll change me clothes a’fore I sit,” Mr. Turner said, disappearing into a back room.
“Were you successful?” Grace asked as Mrs. Turner provided him a cup and plate with cheese and meat. He thanked her.
“Yes.” He settled back in the seat. The warmth of the place was wonderful.
A baby’s cry sounded, and Mrs. Turner, who’d just sat, shot to her feet. “Oh dear, he is probably hungry. I will return soon.”
And then he and Grace were alone, with dim light filtering through the glass and the fire flickering beside them.