Page 14 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Eleven

Samuel sat in the forge and watched Ridley bend glowing metal into submission.

Ridley always said blacksmithing was less about strength and more about how one managed the hammer, but Samuel watched the sweat bead along his friend’s forehead and was glad he did not have to work in this way to make a living.

He only had to marry an heiress instead. His lips curled into a wry smile. He had just finished telling his friend he was fairly certain his hunt for a bride was over.

“You’ve found the woman you want to marry?” Ridley asked, lowering the hammer and dropping the hot metal in the fire again. He wiped at his forehead with his sleeve. “How long have you known her?”

Truly, for ages, but only a few days in person. What answer did he give? “I feel like I’ve known her for years.”

“I understand.”

“How did you know when you wanted to marry Eliza?”

Ridley glanced over his shoulder, toward the cottage. “It was difficult for us. I knew I couldn’t marry her, so I did not allow myself to want it.”

Samuel nodded. “I suppose I am wondering how long I ought to wait to ask her to marry me.”

“If you have kissed her?—”

“I have not.”

Ridley’s eyebrows shot up. “You are more of a gentleman than I gave you credit for.”

“I am not certain if that’s a compliment or not.”

He pulled his tongs from the fire, set his metal on the anvil, and grinned. “Not.”

The clanging rang out in the forge again, making conversation impossible as Ridley formed and shaped the object he was working on.

Samuel felt a presence behind him and shifted to see Eliza, a shawl wrapped tightly over her shoulders despite the warmth in the forge.

Ridley ceased the moment he noticed his wife.

“Peter would like for you to come in and say good night to him.”

Ridley looked at his project briefly. He dunked it in the water and went about putting out the forge. “I’ll be right in. Need to put everything out.”

“I’ll let him know.” Eliza put her arm around Samuel’s shoulders. “Come in for some tea. I’ll heat the water.”

He nodded.

“You cannot deny your cousin,” Ridley teased when they made their way toward the cottage. It was true, so Samuel did not argue. When they entered the home, Peter was kneeling before the cradle where Lydia cooed, his sleeping gown pulling at his knees.

“Careful, Peter,” Eliza said. “You don’t want to rip a hole in your gown.”

“I already did,” he said, leaning forward to peck a kiss on Lydia’s forehead, before jumping to his feet. The boy was all gangly knobs. He pulled at the aged fabric to show Eliza where a hole had started to unravel the fabric .

“I shall need to mend that in the morning before it grows,” she mused.

“It has been growing for weeks,” Peter said.

“You need to care for that gown.” Ridley nodded to it. “Recall the gift it was and treat it accordingly.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said, dipping his head.

“Now, come here.” Peter ran across the small room into Ridley’s arms and hugged him tightly.

Samuel’s heart panged, knowing Ridley had only brought Peter into his home a few years ago as an apprentice.

The child was not even an adopted son, and still there was so much love for him in this home.

Looking upon this family, one would never know Peter was not a natural child of Ridley and Eliza’s.

Samuel’s chest burned. He wanted this for himself. He wanted a family, for a son to desire his hug before it was time to retire for the evening. In Samuel’s own home growing up, he had not experienced a relationship like this with his parents, but he wanted to give it to his future children.

Samuel looked again at Peter, at the sleeping gown he wore and the aged, yellowing fabric. The style was antiquated, as though it had come from another time, as though the gown was something Samuel himself would have worn as a young boy.

“Up to bed now,” Ridley said. Peter climbed into the loft without further argument.

Their servant Anne brought the tea service in on a tray and set it on the table, and Eliza began to pour.

“Where did the gown come from?” Samuel asked. He knew Ridley and Oliver were half-brothers and wondered if it was somehow tied to the pair of them.

Ridley took his cup and swallowed the tea hot. “Marguerite Perreau. She is a friend of ours. Are you familiar?—”

“Yes, I know her.” Samuel accepted his cup and thanked Eliza.

“When Peter first came to me, he had nothing,” Ridley said. “ I had hoped she would help me with his clothing, and she provided that gown for him to sleep in. She said it had belonged to someone she had loved dearly, but Peter could have it.”

“Her nephew, I believe,” Eliza said.

Ridley nodded.

“Her nephew must have been rather old,” Samuel said. “It wasn’t a new garment.”

Shaking his head, Ridley merely shrugged. “It does not matter to me. She was kind in my moment of need, and we became friends. I like her very much.”

“She has a good soul,” Eliza agreed. “I deeply enjoy our conversations. But we are not able to have them frequently enough for my taste. She keeps herself rather busy.”

“Her talent does that for her,” Samuel muttered, recalling how stunning her last ensemble looked.

He thought of her standing in front of the Locksley Inn that morning, waiting for the post chaise.

Whatever her business had been, she had looked worried, her fair eyebrows drawn together, concentration pulling her pink lips into a gentle frown.

Samuel was used to seeing Marguerite stoic and strong, not so clearly troubled. Her expression hadn’t left him all day.

The setting sun beyond the trees darkened the Ridleys’ windows.

It was late. Had she returned home by now?

In fact, in what manner had she traveled to Locksley so early that morning?

He hadn’t recalled seeing anyone else from Harewood.

If she’d had a horse or carriage of her own, she would not have needed the post.

Tipping back the rest of his cup, Samuel drained it in two swallows. “Thank you for the tea and the company. You both would make the Faversham events vastly more entertaining with your presence. I do not know why that woman cannot see sense.”

“Fustian,” Eliza said. “You are being ridiculous.”

“I speak the truth.” Samuel laid a hand over his heart. “If I did not think I was spending time with my future wife, I would not be attending her events either.”

“Miss Farrow.” Eliza gave him a knowing smile. “Ruth told me. She is beautiful.”

“And of good character?” Samuel asked, though he knew from her letters that she was.

“As far as I know.”

Ridley put his cup down and leaned back on the settee, putting his arm around his wife. “I know nothing of the woman, but if you love her, I support your choice.”

“Thank you.”

“She is Miss Kimball’s cousin,” Eliza said—a fact which did not endear her to many. Miss Kimball had given Eliza the cut for years. She still did not treat her as an equal. “I would probably not be welcome at Miss Farrow’s table.”

Samuel felt a strange twist in his gut. He looked Eliza in the eye. “If her table is my table, you will be welcome at it.”

Eliza leaned into her husband. “It matters not what others think. We are loved, and we are happy here.”

“I know.” Samuel rose. “Thank you for the tea. I’ll bid a good evening to you both.” He dipped a low bow to Lydia, who was blowing raspberries in her cradle. “And to you, little one.”

As soon as Samuel reached his curricle, he directed it onto the High Street, which was not far from Ridley’s forge.

His stomach dropped when he noticed that Marguerite’s shop and the room above it were both dark, no candlelight flickering in the windows.

The sun was fading, the sky darkening steadily.

He slowed his horses, understanding that he was being especially worried over matters that had absolutely nothing to do with him.

After seeing the shadowed man peering through Marguerite’s windows, though, he couldn’t stomach the idea of her walking home from Locksley alone in the dark.

Unless she wasn’t coming home tonight at all.

Samuel had not asked about her plans. He scrubbed a hand over his face and debated his options for only a few more seconds before deciding. He turned his curricle in the wide street and directed his horse toward Locksley.

Not only did Samuel drive all the way to Locksley without seeing Marguerite, but he was able to let himself into the inn and have a drink while he asked when the post chaise was expected. As it turned out, the final post was scheduled to come through in twenty minutes.

If she was not on the carriage, he would return home and give himself a lecture about not being quite so…impertinent? Curious? Her safety was none of his business, yet still he worried.

Oh, blast. She was going to be furious when she saw him, wasn’t she?

He debated leaving, so he could accidentally come upon her on the walk home. Yes, that would be best. Samuel would find her on the road and the offer of a ride home would be natural.

But as he was asking for his curricle to be brought round, the post arrived early. Marguerite was the only passenger to step off.

“Mr. Harding,” she said with surprise. Her face was drawn, tired from her day of travel, undoubtedly.

“Have you already organized a ride home this evening, or will you allow me to drive you?”

She stared. The moon was half-showing overhead, brightly lighting the innyard.

Torches glowed on the chaise and near the inn doors, making Marguerite’s face burn orange.

Her delicate features were sharpened in the light, so capable and beautiful.

He could see the moment she chose to give in.

“I am too tired to argue, monsieur. If you are leaving now, I will accept a ride.”

“Lovely. Ah, here we are.” A groom walked his curricle out of the yard and held the horses’ heads while he crossed to the step.

He offered his hand to help Marguerite climb onto the seat.

She placed her gloved hand in his and squeezed his fingers, stepping up onto the high bench.

Samuel waited until she was situated before circling the curricle and climbing up on the other side.

He drew in a deep breath, though he didn’t quite know why he felt he needed it.

Taking the reins from the groom, he commanded his horses to walk on, and they moved smoothly through Locksley’s streets, dodging a group of men walking in the road and a wide carriage passing in the other direction.

“You are a good driver, Mr. Harding.”

“I would tell you of the race I won last year, but I do not wish to appear boastful.” He flashed her a wide smile, which made her laugh. The sound was surprising and melodic, making Samuel realize he hadn’t heard her laugh much before. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”

“I visited an old friend of my family, and it was nice to see him. Though I feel every time I see him, he looks much older.”

“But he is in good health?”

“He seems to be, yes.” She was quiet for a moment, the dark countryside passing them by. “You did not wait at the inn the entire day, did you?”

Samuel looked at her sharply. “I might be concerned for you, Marguerite, but I am not mad.”

She drew in a sharp, surprised breath.

Realizing his blunder at once, Samuel drew his horses to a walk and turned to face her better.

“Please forgive me. That was exceedingly impertinent. I spent the evening with friends who are on such terms as to call you by your Christian name, and I fear they managed to put it in my mind. I should not have spoken it aloud, and I vow never to do so again.”

She was silent for a moment. “Which friends?”

“Jacob and Eliza Ridley. ”

She looked down at her hands, resting in her lap. “I have given them permission.”

“But not me.”

“ You have not asked me.”

He glanced at her, attempting to read her face. She was a work of stone, her mouth a resolute line, her chin firm. “May I call you Marguerite? I should like for you to call me Samuel. I enjoy our conversations, and I would like to call you a friend.”

She was quiet much longer than he had expected. It had felt for a moment like she wanted him to make the request, but now she was holding her response. “I would like that, Samuel.”

Something deep in his chest gave a little jolt.

He glanced at her sidelong and commanded his horses to move faster.

It was not in his habit to drive around unmarried ladies late at night, but Marguerite was a widow, and thus he felt she was in a different situation.

But did it matter? She was young and beautiful, and people would still come to conclusions were they to be seen together.

“What did you mean when you said you were concerned for me?” she asked.

“I did not like seeing that man peer through your windows late at night.” He tried to shrug, because he didn’t want to make her more worried than she needed to be. “It is not natural.”

“No, but that does not make it nefarious.”

“Do you have relentless suitors? Anything questionable?”

Marguerite pulled at her hands, playing with each finger before pressing them on her lap to still them. “No, nothing like that. I am sure it was a curious person leaving the inn. Probably someone who drank too much and looked in all the windows as they walked.”

“Hmm.” Samuel let it drop. He asked Marguerite about her pelisse. They spoke of trimmings and the wrong sort of hats some women liked to wear as they traveled to her shop.

Marguerite’s laugh tinted the cool night air again as she told of the last time she influenced a young woman toward a better color and how glad the woman ought to be that she did not end up with the horrid gown she originally wanted.

“You love your occupation,” Samuel said.

Her smile was sweet, arresting him. “I do. I am fortunate to have found something I find such joy in.”

He considered Ridley’s blacksmithing and Oliver’s estate management.

Both men were good at what they did and found joy in their lives.

Samuel wanted nothing more than a family.

A wife. A companion. Someone to ease his tired loneliness and fill the crevices of his heart. “You are, indeed,” he agreed.

Her independence and fortitude were impressive. Samuel respected her greatly. Their conversation flowed smoothly, and each laugh he drew from her felt like a small victory.

But when they reached the High Street, the unease had not fully left him.

While he watched her unlock her shop and walk inside, then lock the door behind her, he wondered about the man he’d seen swathed in shadows peeking through her window.

If he had innocently been looking in all the shops, why did he disappear as soon as Samuel had stopped to check on Marguerite?