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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

C yrus had made himself scarce all morning, not wishing to intrude on the last hours of the three visitors’ time with Teresa. Although, if he was being honest, he likely would have stayed away if her sisters and friend had not been there too.

“Your Grace?” Belinda’s familiar voice called out from the hallway outside his study. Her knock followed soon after.

“Come in,” he replied, looking up from the correspondence he had been endeavoring to read and respond to since he awoke.

His words were as scrambled as his thoughts.

The housekeeper entered, fiddling with her chatelaine in a manner that was unusually agitated. “Your Grace, I just came to inform you that the ladies are leaving.”

“Very good, Belinda. Thank you for telling me.” He dropped his gaze to the latest version of a letter that would undoubtedly end up in the fireplace.

Yet, the housekeeper did not depart, the scuff of her shoe against the flagstones sounding out whatever grievance she did not wish to say aloud.

“Was there something else?” he asked impatiently.

Belinda hesitated. “Far be it from me to tell you what you should and shouldn’t do, Your Grace, but I think it might be wise if you were to bid them farewell. Her Grace would certainly appreciate the gesture.”

“Did she say that?” Cyrus sat back in his chair, eyeing the woman he had known for so many years.

“No, but… if I were her, I’d want you to be there to bid my family farewell,” Belinda replied, lowering her gaze to the floor. “It’s the courteous thing to do, Your Grace. Although, again, I wouldn’t dare to tell you what you should and shouldn’t do.”

Setting down his quill, Cyrus turned his attention toward the window. What had been a beautiful chain of sunny, bright days that seemed like it might never end had finally surrendered to the temperamental English weather, turning rather cold and overcast, the threat of rain not far off.

I wonder if it is any reflection of my wife’s mood…

He shook off the alarmingly sentimental thought and scraped back his chair, rising to his feet.

As he did, he told himself that it was not for Teresa’s sake that he was heading down to say goodbye to her loved ones, but for the sake of courtesy.

He would not have anyone accusing him of not being courteous, for that was not how he had been raised.

“You’re going?” Belinda sounded astonished.

Cyrus flashed her a look. “It is my duty.” He paused at the threshold of his study, though he did not turn back. “Will she be sad?”

“Pardon?”

“My wife. Will she be sad at the departure of those women?”

Belinda coughed as if someone had startled her in the midst of eating her breakfast. “Why, yes, I imagine she will be. It’s clear as day how much they mean to her, and who knows when she’ll see them next.”

Cyrus nodded somberly. “Is there cake?”

“Excuse me, Your Grace?”

Expelling a mildly annoyed sigh, Cyrus repeated himself. “Is there cake? Ladies… like cake, do they not? I think I read somewhere that sugar is an excellent remedy for sorrowful moods, particularly for women.”

He felt foolish and loathed the sensation. It boiled in the pit of his stomach, spitting upward into his chest with all the vengeance of hot oil. What concern was it of his if his wife was briefly sad? She would overcome it with another of her transformational endeavors, would she not?

Still, he did not rescind the question, waiting for Belinda’s reply.

“I think that sounds like one of the cook’s proverbs,” the housekeeper said, and though he was not looking at her, he could almost hear her smile. “That doesn’t make it untrue, mind you. There’s very little that cake and good tea can’t solve.”

Cyrus nodded. “Then, have a tray sent to wherever she wishes to go. Tea and cake.”

“I’ll see to it right now, Your Grace,” Belinda replied.

With that, Cyrus strode onward, heading through the drafty hallways of his castle to the entrance hall.

He heard the ladies before he saw them, as he came around the last curve of the main stairwell. All the laughter and chatter of the previous few days had distilled down into tearful promises to see one another again soon, and to write more often than was humanly possible.

The ladies embraced, holding on far longer than Cyrus deemed necessary, all four of them a tangle of arms and bonnets and faces and hair, becoming an odd chimera.

To be loved like that… He observed, not oblivious to the irony of being on the outside, spectating on such an unfamiliar scene.

“There he is!” the youngest shrieked, shattering the solemn peace. “You see, I told you he would not be so rude as to remain absent for our departure, yet you all said I was wrong! Of course my dear brother-in-law has come to bid me farewell.”

Cyrus rallied quickly, straightening his posture as he descended the stairs. “I apologize if I have delayed you.”

“Delayed us?” Prudence chirped, waving a dismissive hand.

“Not at all. We have at least ten minutes of wailing and pulling out our hair to do before we even step outside, where another ten minutes of embracing and weeping will commence. Then, there might well be another ten minutes before we think about getting into the carriages.”

He eyed the girl warily, uncertain of why she had decided to be so forthright with him. Over the past few days of their visit, she was the only one who had been almost warm toward him, and seemed to relish teasing him.

The oldest sister had not changed her opinion much, or so it appeared. And the best friend; she evidently and unashamedly despised him.

“If you could find a way to lessen that to one display of ten minutes, I would be grateful,” Cyrus said, aiming for humor.

To his secret delight, Prudence burst out laughing. “For your sake and mine, I shall do my best. But are you so eager to be rid of us?”

“You are welcome to stay as long as you please,” he replied more sincerely, lifting his gaze to where Teresa stood.

She had her arms around Isolde, but, over the older woman’s shoulder, Teresa’s eyes were looking at him. They glistened with tears, softened by her sadness, but they did not harden as they met his gaze. Rather, inexplicably, they seemed to soften further.

“ I would,” Prudence jumped back in, “but Izzie says Mama will take leave of her senses if I am away too long, considering society has instructed its vultures to watch over us. And though I have no trouble distressing my mother, I cannot do it to my sisters.”

Cyrus let his gaze flit to Beatrice. “What of you, Miss Johnson? Can you not be compelled to stay with your friend?”

“Alas, I am under similar maternal scrutiny,” Beatrice replied, her tone marginally less cold than usual. “There was an incident; I am to return home and receive my punishment.”

“An incident?” Cyrus lifted an eyebrow.

Beatrice smiled coolly. “An Earl tried to touch a friend of mine inappropriately. I lured him out to a place that I know and dropped several buckets of wet manure onto his head, and paid some children to pelt him with rotten vegetables.” She sighed, her eyes flashing.

“It would have been perfect, but his driver recognized me, and my parents were informed. Still, I shall always have the satisfaction of hearing his girlish screams, and I doubt he will ever touch a young lady again without thinking of that wet manure on his head.”

Cyrus did not know whether to laugh or applaud, so he did neither, staring at her blankly. He had heard Anthony mention something about a similar incident—surely, it had to be the same one. The Earl in question had been handsomely ridiculed, adding insult to injury.

He was about to tell Beatrice that, hoping it might make her opinion of him better, but Prudence leaped in before he could.

“Come on, we have a long journey ahead of us and I am already bored,” the young woman declared, grabbing Isolde and Beatrice by the hands, tugging them outside.

Teresa hid a laugh behind her hand as she went to the front doors with them. “Swear you will visit again soon!” she called out.

“So soon you will think we never left,” Beatrice replied.

“I shall bring Joseph next time, so he can pretend to be a knight,” Isolde promised.

“And I will sneak away the moment Mama starts lecturing me,” Prudence said, pushing the other two into the waiting carriages. One for Beatrice and Prudence, one for Isolde, returning to their respective country estates.

Still in the entrance hall, Cyrus stayed back for a moment, admiring the silhouette of Teresa in the doorway. He did not know if he would be welcome to stand at her side, or if she would prefer to stand there alone, or if he should not care about that and stand with her anyway. Out of propriety.

She will be sad, he told himself, urging his feet forward.

He stood just behind her, taking a breath before he rested his hand against the middle of her back to let her know he was there. That he had come down, and that he was standing with her.

She jumped a little, but did not try to move his hand or step away from his touch. Rather, she seemed to lean back into it, her gaze fixed on the carriages as they began to move off, circling the perimeter of gravel that bordered the bailey.

“It will be quieter without them,” he said, as the carriages made their way down the opposite side, coming closer to the gates.

Teresa nodded. “I hope not too quiet.”

“Is silence not preferred for reading?” He cursed himself inwardly, certain he must sound like an idiot who had never spoken to a person—much less a woman—before.

She raised her hand to offer a final wave to her sisters and friend. “Yes, I suppose it is. But it is not good for a person to always be in silence and solitude. They have taught me that.”

Is she talking about me? He frowned down at her, though she did not notice.

“There is tea and cake,” he said stiffly.

She turned to him at last, her eyes narrowed in confusion. “You are inviting me to have tea with you?” She paused, tilting her head to one side in thought. “It is not yet afternoon, but I suppose that would be quite pleasant. I accept your invitation.”

He stared at her, every prepared word about how sorry he was that the other ladies had to leave, and how he hoped she would have a nice afternoon vanishing off his tongue. He had not meant to join his wife for tea and cake, but if he refused, he worried she might be even sadder.

“Where is your preference?” he asked, resigned.

She smiled, those beautiful eyes brightening a touch. “The Tea House, I think. Where better for tea and cake?”

“I shall see to it immediately,” he said, walking off to instruct Belinda about the slight change of events.

“May I be honest with you?” Teresa said, gingerly sipping the hot, comforting tea.

The gloomy weather outside the glass Tea House made the tea even more delicious, and would have soothed her heart completely if it were not for the company. For at least twenty minutes, Cyrus had been sitting there, staring out at the gardens, not saying a word.

Cyrus shook his head as if emerging from a trance, his gaze falling on her. “Of course.”

“Am I such terrible company?”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

“Well, it often seems like you would rather be anywhere else,” she replied, And I am tired of being invisible.

A look of genuine confusion clouded his expression, his throat bobbing as he took a sip of his tea. “I am having a lovely time.”

“You are?” Her frown deepened, unable to decide if he was being serious or not.

He nodded. “It is rare that I am not buried under a pile of correspondence and ledgers and contracts, rarer still that I am not alone in that endeavor.” He took another sip.

“You said it did not do a person any good to be isolated, and I was enjoying sharing the quiet with company. Is this not what you meant?”

To her surprise, and partial delight, a laugh bubbled up the back of her throat and spilled out through the Tea House.

For the past twenty minutes, she had thought he was deliberately ignoring her, trying to make the occasion as awkward as possible so she would not request it again.

All the while, actually reveling in every moment.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Did I say something funny?”

“Not directly,” she replied, softening. “It was not what I meant, in truth, but… now that I think about it, it is rather nice to share silence with someone. I just did not realize that was what we were doing.”

“I see.” He took up a piece of strawberry cake, though he did not bite into it. “What were you expecting?”

She shrugged. “I have no expectations, as you have dictated.”

“Was that a jest?” he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Perhaps.” She chuckled, taking a piece of the luxurious, buttery strawberry cake for herself. “But some conversation might be nice. We could talk about the weather, about the extortionate price of horses, about the morning papers. Just a few things to consider.”

He raised his piece of cake as if in a toast. “Tell me, Teresa, do you think it will rain?”

She ‘clinked’ her cake against his, grinning at the bewildered crease of his eyes. “I think, if it does, it will be very good for the flowers.”

And it might keep us in this Tea House a while longer…

It was not a great stride toward a closer relationship, but it was a tiny tiptoe and, as far as she was concerned, either would get her to where she wanted to be. It just required patience and perseverance, which, fortunately, she had in abundance.

Just then, as if summoned, the first few droplets began to fall from the gray skies, tapping against the glass like a nudge and a wink.