Page 53

T he morning light crept through the curtains, nudging her awake like an impatient kitten. The scent of salt and the sound of distant crashing waves whispered that the day had begun without her.

The worn pages of The Mysteries of Udolpho lay beside her, abandoned sometime in the night. She had read well into the early hours, drawn in by Emily’s plight, but sleep had stolen the ending from her, not that it mattered. She had read the story enough times to know how it would all end.

She dressed and went for an early walk, deciding to have breakfast afterward. There were only a few brave souls up this early. She went down to the beach and walked along the shore.

Her thoughts drifted back to Emily St. Aubert, the heroine so cruelly tossed about by fate, enduring one misfortune after another.

Yet, in the end, patience prevailed, courage triumphed, and love…

love had found her. Honoria shook her head, amused but unconvinced. A charming fantasy, but nothing more .

“How ridiculous. It is only a fairy tale.” Or was it? She imagined the Commander as the dashing Valancourt. Now, the story lingered in her mind uncomfortably close to her own situation.

She shook her head. “As if real life were ever so neat.”

“Am I to assume the sea has offended you, Mrs. Bainbridge?”

She turned at the sound of the Commander’s voice, finding him a few paces away, one hand resting lightly atop his cane, the other in his pocket. He had been walking the shoreline as well, his boots leaving firm imprints in the wet sand.

“Not the sea,” she replied smoothly. “Only the absurdity of Gothic novels.”

He arched a brow. “Ah. I was unaware you disapproved of novels. Should I be concerned that you have abandoned them entirely in favor of brooding seaside walks?”

She tilted her head. “Hardly. I merely take issue with their exaggerations. Women constantly fainting. Men declaring undying love within a fortnight. It is all very… dramatic.”

“And yet,” he mused, “you were reading one.”

She narrowed her eyes at his perceptiveness. “And yet you seem oddly amused by this discovery.”

“I find it intriguing,” he admitted, the breeze tousling his dark hair slightly. “What, precisely, compelled you to subject yourself to such overwrought fiction? You did purchase it yesterday.”

She hesitated, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she had been drawn in. “A passing interest in human folly.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding as though he believed her. “So it had nothing to do with the dashing young hero throwing himself at the feet of the fair lady?”

She huffed a laugh. “Certainly not.”

The Commander smirked. “No admiration for the reckless devotion of a man willing to storm a fortress for love?”

“Storming a fortress is all well and good,” she replied lightly. “But will he remember to close the shutters when it storms? Love is grand in fiction, but I have found practicality to be far more useful in real life.”

The Commander chuckled, shaking his head. “A harsh assessment, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

“Reality often is, Commander.”

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the waves rolling steadily against the shore.

“And tell me,” he said after a short pause, “did the book have a happy ending?”

She hesitated. “I suppose it depends on one’s perspective.”

“How so?”

She turned her face toward the horizon. “The heroine finds love in the end, but only after enduring countless hardships. Every battle she fought, every moment of uncertainty… all of it was simply a trial she had to survive before she was permitted happiness.”

He studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. “And do you think happiness is something that must be earned?”

She swallowed, suddenly feeling too exposed under his gaze. “I think,” she said carefully, “that some people are luckier than others.”

He nodded as though he understood more than she had intended to say as they started back to the town square.

“Have you had breakfast?” he asked.

“No. I thought I would come to the beach before the crowds made it too difficult to see the shoreline.”

“Would you share my table this morning?” he asked as they reached the square.

“That would be—”

As they crossed from the quiet path along the beach into the bustling town square, the morning sounds shifted. Waves fading into market calls, gulls replaced by the clip of hooves and the rattle of carts.

The sharp crack of a whip split through the air, followed by the startled whinny of a horse. Mrs. Bainbridge turned just in time to see the chaos unfold.

A large bay, its eyes rolling wildly, reared in the middle of the town square.

The driver yanked the reins hard, but the movement only sent the animal into a panicked sidestep, its hooves scraping dangerously close to an overturned fruit cart.

The vendor shouted, trying to shove his wares out of the way before they were trampled.

The Commander was already moving.

“Stay back,” he ordered over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for argument.

She ignored him entirely.

He stepped forward, his posture calm but purposeful, his gaze locked on the horse. His hands twitched slightly, ready to act, but before he could take control of the situation, Mrs. Bainbridge moved first.

She let out a sharp, deliberate sound, followed by a low, even murmur, something soothing yet authoritative.

The horse’s ears flicked toward her voice.

The Commander froze. The response was immediate and precise. Her action was not a lucky guess. It was a learned technique.

Mrs. Bainbridge took another step forward, repeating the same calm, steady cadence, her voice firm but reassuring. The animal hesitated, muscles still taut with panic, but its hooves stilled. A heartbeat later, the horse let out a sharp exhale, shivering slightly but no longer trying to bolt.

The Commander closed the final distance and grabbed the bridle, his grip firm yet gentle. The beast relented, trembling but no longer a threat.

A relieved murmur rippled through the crowd.

He turned to Mrs. Bainbridge, his expression unreadable. “That was not instinct.”

She lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug. “No, I suppose it wasn’t.”

He eyed her, his mind clearly running through the possibilities. “Most society ladies panic at the sight of a runaway horse.”

“Most society ladies,” she replied, brightly and proudly smiling, “do not run a girls school.”

His brow lifted. “A girls school where you train them to handle wild horses?”

Bainbridge smoothed her skirts. “Not wild horses, Commander. However, I did have one student with exceptional equestrian skills, and I believe in making sure all my girls are capable of managing themselves. Horses included.”

The Commander tilted his head, visibly intrigued. That was not the answer he expected.

The stablemaster arrived, breathless with apologies, as he took the horse from the Commander. The onlookers slowly dispersed, some offering grateful nods, others whispering behind their hands.

One particularly sharp-eyed gentleman near the vendor stalls muttered something, Honoria didn’t catch it all, but the words ‘ horse trainer ,’ carried in the air.

The Commander’s heard turned slightly at the remark. “There aren’t many women with that kind of control over a frightened horse. I know of only one, Miss Eleanor Wright. She trains cavalry mounts.”

Honoria turned to him with a serene, unreadable look. She didn’t confirm or deny what he said. But her smile brightened and broadened with pride.

“Thank you for your assistance, Commander.”

He watched her for a moment longer than necessary, then nodded. “The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

As she stepped away, he was left with a nagging certainty. This woman was far more than she seemed.

They continued on to the inn. The scent of fresh bread and coffee filled the air as Mrs. Bainbridge followed the Commander into the dining room. The early morning bustle had begun to fade, leaving only a few lingering guests sipping tea and finishing their meals.

The Commander, no, Mr. Kenworth, she reminded herself.

There were no battles here. He was just a man.

He selected a quiet table near the window.

Sunlight streamed through the glass panes, casting a golden glow over the crisp linen.

He pulled out a chair for her, a small but natural gesture, before taking his seat across from her.

“Are you always this insistent about sharing meals?” she asked, arching a brow as she unfolded her napkin.

Kenworth’s lips twitched. “Only when I find the company agreeable.”

She tilted her head. “Ah, so you make a habit of dining with strangers?”

“I would hardly call you a stranger, Mrs. Bainbridge.” His gaze was steady, assessing. “After all, we have survived a near disaster together. That creates a sort of camaraderie, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Camaraderie?” She let the word roll off her tongue, considering it. “A rather grand term for an incident that lasted less than a minute.”

“But an illuminating minute,” he countered. “Tell me, have you always been so… adaptable?”

She reached for her teacup, taking her time before answering. “I like to think one learns how to adjust as life requires.”

Mr. Kenworth tilted his head, one brow lifting ever so slightly. “A skill earned through experience, I imagine.”

She tapped a finger lightly against the handle of her cup. “Indeed.”

A server arrived, setting a fresh pot of tea and a plate of warm bread between them. The Commander thanked the man before leaning back in his chair, studying her the way a strategist might assess an opponent across a battlefield, not in a suspicious way, but in a curious one.

“And what experiences have shaped you, Mrs. Bainbridge?”

She tore off a piece of bread, buttering it with careful precision. “Oh, nothing so grand as dodging cannon fire, I assure you.”

His lips quirked. “You assume I was in the line of fire?”

“You assume I wasn’t?” A short silence followed, punctuated only by the clink of silverware from another table.

His expression shifted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. Then, with deliberate ease, he said, “You strike me as someone who values discretion.”

She smiled. “As do you.” Another moment passed between them, one that held more meaning than mere pleasantries. She should not enjoy this game so much.

“And yet,” he continued, “I find myself wondering.”

“Wondering about what?”

He took a sip of coffee, his voice light but measured. “What it is you’re not saying.”

Mrs. Bainbridge set down her cup. “Surely we all have pieces of ourselves we choose to keep.”

Something flickered in his gaze, acknowledgment, perhaps? “Of course.”

She reached for another slice of bread. “And what about you, Mr. Kenworth? What pieces do you keep?”

His expression didn’t change, but she sensed the briefest hesitation before he replied, “A few, I imagine.”

“And will you ever share them?” she asked, tilting her head in challenge.

A slow smile brightened his face. “Perhaps.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, an understanding lingering between them. There was certainly curiosity but also an unspoken agreement not to press too hard. Not yet.

Outside, the morning sun had risen higher, burnishing the sea a glittery gold. But inside, at their quiet table, the tide of conversation rose and receded, just like the sea beyond the window. Both of them holding back, yet neither willing to walk away.