Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Minerva woke to the sound of a log popping. For an instant, she lay, disoriented. The room was not hers, the sounds wrong, not the sea or the wind or the creak of floorboards. Not Cliff Cottage.
Then she remembered and a small, secret smile curved her lips.
She had crossed a threshold that could not be uncrossed and what she had found on the other side was better than she had expected.
Wonderful, in fact. But what she felt in the aftermath was not simple or singular.
It was a complicated mix of satisfaction tinged with a hint of uncertainty and a bit of amazement.
She knew what society would say about her now and though she felt a small twinge at the realization, she could summon nothing more.
Kitty would not think poorly of her. Dashiell certainly would not. Who else mattered?
The light through the window told her it was late afternoon. The jar of wild thyme on the desk caught the thinning gold sunlight, the small purple flowers bright against the gray stone of the windowsill.
She rolled to her side, the muscles of her neck and upper shoulders protesting the movement.
Swallowing, she found that the acute pain had eased, but the deep ache remained.
She stretched out her hand only to find that Dashiell was not beside her.
She heard him then in the dressing room, moving about quietly.
He appeared in the doorway a moment later, hair combed, clothing neat and pristine.
Holding the sheet against her chest, she sat up, her gaze taking him in, the smile still on her lips.
He saw it and the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly in return.
“I wonder that married people ever get out of bed,” she said. “Or unmarried people.” Her voice was still rough, the tone lower than usual.
He laughed, that lovely, smoky sound, half whiskey, half gravel. She loved that sound, all the more so because she knew it was rare and uncommon and he chose to share it with her.
“So, I did not disappoint?” he asked, his tone dry, the words more statement than question.
“You know you did not.” She looked away, her cheeks heating. “You do not need the crumbs of my praise to reassure you.”
The bed dipped as he returned to her side and gathered her in his arms. His fingertips skimmed her throat, feather light. “Are you in pain?”
“Some. More of an ache.”
His jaw tightened.
“I must go back,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. Neither of them moved. Minutes ticked past and finally he said, “Yes,” again and loosened his embrace as he rose. He went to the adjacent room and returned with her dress over one arm.
“Mrs. Chegwidden,” he said in explanation.
Minerva kept the sheet wrapped around herself as she rose, careful to make no sudden movements with her head or neck. He watched her with a hawk’s gaze as she took the dress from him.
The housekeeper had worked on it in the intervening hours.
The mud had been brushed away, but as Minerva turned the fabric, she saw the shadows of the stains, ghosts of the morning’s events.
Mrs. Chegwidden had stitched the tear closed, small, even stitches done in thread that did not quite match, just a bit darker than the merino’s brown.
Minerva ran her thumb along the stitches.
“It was kind of her to do this,” she murmured. The repairs offered her the dignity of arriving home in her own garment.
“Remove it when you get home. Burn it,” Dashiell said. “I will buy you a dozen to replace it.”
Minerva’s fingers strayed over the remnants of brushed mud and the careful stitches. She stared at the brown merino that she would not have chosen for herself but had purchased simply because it was available and less costly than other options.
“I will burn it. But not because you decided I must. I will burn it because I want to never wear this dress again.” She paused, thinking of the much-mended, threadbare dresses she had worn for years.
“Upon consideration, I have decided not to burn it,” she said, amending her initial declaration.
“Instead, I will clean it and offer it to a woman who is in need. Destroying a perfectly functional garment simply because I cannot stand the sight of it is wasteful.” She lifted her chin then and met his gaze.
“And you will not buy me a dozen dresses to replace it. I will buy myself what replacements I require.”
The spare turn of his lips in that fleeting, wonderful hint of a smile was her reward.
“As you wish,” he said. Then he crossed to the window and stood looking out, his back to her as he offered her privacy. She took a moment to admire the width of his shoulders and the way his deep brown riding trousers hugged the muscles of his thighs.
Once she was dressed, they left the room together, walking side by side through the halls of his home.
She catalogued all she glimpsed, tucking away information.
They were nearly at the bottom of the stairs when a maid came along the corridor below, carrying a pile of pressed linen.
The girl did not flatten herself against the wall or drop her gaze.
Instead, she offered a spare curtsey and a polite, “sir,” and went about her business.
Minerva had lived on both sides of the divide, and she recognized the difference in the behaviour of a servant who was treated fairly and one who was not.
It seemed that while the villagers were wary of Dashiell, even hostile toward him, his servants did not fear him.
“Your staff,” Minerva said. “Are they from local families?”
Dashiell slanted her a sidelong glance. “With a few exceptions, local families will not work at Carrek,” he said. He paused and then amended, “Will not work for me. They have concern I might murder them in their sleep.”
She thought he meant the words to be humorous, but she could find no laughter. “Have you murdered many servants?”
“None that I recall.”
The library door was open as they passed.
She slowed, noting the stack of books at the corner of the desk and another on the table by the wingback chair near the fire.
There were gaps on the shelves where volumes had been removed and not returned, all of which suggested that Dashiell’s large collection of books did not merely sit on the shelves ignored, gathering dust.
His hand found the small of her back as they continued on and she reveled in his touch, the feel of him so close at her side.
When they went out to the yard, the sky was late-afternoon blue, cloudless, with just a hint of a breeze.
She drew a deep breath, letting her lungs fill, turning her face to the sun.
As she turned, she noticed a strange panel on the upper floor of the house, remarkable against the dark stone notched with rows of deeply set, narrow windows.
The panel looked like an oversized shutter, though none of the windows required one so large.
Too, it was odd in its construction, fitted with brass hardware, the mechanism visible even from this distance.
“What is that?” she asked.
He followed her gaze and pursed his lips, as though deciding on his answer.
“The wall opens,” he said at last. “For the telescope.”
“You have a telescope?” she asked, the words soft with wonder.
“Yes.”
“And you modified a wall in your home to accommodate it?”
“Carrying the telescope up to the flat section of the roof every time I wished to use it was inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient,” she echoed.
“And impractical. So, I had a section of exterior wall removed and fitted with brass counterweights.”
“Much more practical,” she said solemnly.
“Much.” The corners of his lips turned in that wonderful almost-smile that never failed to kindle a soft warmth in her breast.
“I have looked through a telescope once before,” she said, the memory of a cloudless night sky, star-flung and velvet dark, and the moon, so bright and white clear in her mind.
“My father showed me the moon when I was a child. I don’t remember where we had gone or why there was a telescope there.
But I remember Papa’s hands guiding mine.
And I remember him telling me the large, dark patch was a sea. ”
“Mare Tranquillitatis,” Dashiell said. “The Sea of Tranquility.”
“A sea on the moon.” She shook her head. “What other wonders does your telescope reveal?”
“On a clear night you can see the Pleiades. Seven stars. Most people see six.”
“How many do you see?” she asked, already knowing what his answer would be.
“Seven. Always seven.”
“I would like to—” She broke off and glanced away.
“Like to see the stars?” he asked, his voice low. “I will show you.”
It was an offer left there in the open should she wish to accept.
“I would like that,” she said, holding his gaze.
The groom—Pascoe she had heard Dashiell call him—led Cato forward.
Dashiell glanced at Minerva. “Do you prefer the carriage?”
She stepped forward and lifted her hand to the horse’s velvety muzzle. The beast nudged her gently.
“No,” she said with a smile.
Dashiell helped her up and swung up behind her and they rode out of the yard with his arms around her. She knew they had ridden thus hours ago—was it only hours ago?—but she barely recalled the trip, so distraught had she been. Now, she settled back against him, feeling warm and safe and…happy.
Dashiell was aware of her the entire ride along the cliff path. He kept Cato to a slow walk enjoying the feel of Minerva’s back against his chest, her bottom nestled between his legs, the smell of her hair. He was honest enough to admit that he was in no rush to reach Cliff Cottage.