Page 27 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)

Amelia wasn’t entirely certain if Mr. Winthrop thought Guilford was part of her inheritance, but the way he inspected it, with an assessing gaze rather than an appreciative one, led her to suspect that was exactly what he believed.

He had undertaken a rather meticulous tour of the public rooms of the house after having returned from what was likely an equally painstaking tour of the island, and she was more than ready for him to leave.

She knew, however, that her uncle intended to remain overnight, which meant Mr. Winthrop would as well.

This was her home for the time being, and she was within her rights to ask them to leave, but she knew that would be seen as the mark of a poor hostess. Her uncle might very well declare that a show of ineptitude. She didn’t dare risk it.

She stood near her desk in the book room, watching as Mr. Winthrop eyed the spines of the various books.

He had been making a very slow circuit of the room.

Was he counting to see just how many books were there?

None was particularly valuable, but there was likely some worth to the collection as a whole.

Uncle stood nearby and had already lost interest in the collection.

Amelia took advantage of the opportunity and motioned to the chair at the desk.

“The broken spindle in the back of the chair has been repaired,” she said.

“You, I am certain, took note of the repairs made to the banister on the main staircase. The armoire in the sitting room has been repaired as well. Progress is being made around the estate.”

He eyed the chair, though whether he was doing so to appease her or because he was actually interested, she didn’t know.

It was disconcerting how their current arrangement left her so confused about a man she’d felt, up until now, she had more or less understood.

He didn’t feel as trustworthy as he always had before.

Amelia didn’t care to be one who jumped to conclusions about people. But she knew instinctively that Mr. Winthrop, while perhaps not actually dangerous, was not the sort of person who ought to be trusted overly much.

“You made good progress on the garden as well.” Uncle seemed reluctant to admit as much. His innate stubbornness was likely making it difficult to adjust his expectations.

“I have kept a very detailed accounting of all the work that has been accomplished and all that is currently being undertaken.” She had not known him to be truly dishonest, but she still intended to make it difficult for him to misrepresent the truth at Guilford.

“I am certain you’re being very thorough,” he said.

She smiled benignly. “I thought it a wise thing to approach such a significant undertaking with an equally significant plan. This way, I’m unlikely to miss something that should be done or forget something that was accomplished.

” At the last minute, she’d decided to use the word forget instead of saying “not be given credit for.” She didn’t want to set his back up.

“That is a good approach,” he acknowledged.

The tiniest bit of worry entered his expression.

Though she didn’t know for certain if he had already decided he meant to declare her a failure either way, she knew in that moment, he was at least considering it, and her detailed accounting was undermining his plan.

In this moment, I am grateful for my love of lists.

“This is a fine collection, Miss Archibald.” Mr. Winthrop sidled up near her, his smile both insincere and unnerving.

“I have not had the time to peruse it properly myself, but what I have seen is very nice, indeed.”

His smile expanded. “A lady ought not spend all her time reading, after all.”

“Perhaps not all of it,” was all she could think to say. The fact that she had agreed with him in any way seemed to meet with his approval.

He inched closer. She attempted to inch back but couldn’t get her cane moved in a way that would facilitate it.

“I noticed a pianoforte in the drawing room,” he said. “Do you play?”

“A little,” she said.

Thoughts of Kipling sitting at the instrument, playing his unfamiliar American tune, flitted through her mind. Would he do so again? Would he actually teach her how to play the tune he’d played that evening?

Mr. Winthrop set a hand atop hers, holding her cane. She couldn’t pull her hand free without losing the steadying assistance of her much-needed walking stick. “I can see by your smile that you have a fondness for music. How fortuitous. I like music myself.”

“I am fond of music.” She wrapped her fingers more tightly around her cane, then attempted to slip free of his hold. “But I am also no virtuoso.”

“Humility is an admirable trait in a lady,” he said.

She managed to free her hand. “I have found in my nearly twenty-six years that unwanted arrogance is not particularly admirable in anyone.”

Amelia watched him for his reaction to the mention of her age.

It was precisely what she had thought it would be: He seemed both surprised and a little displeased.

Though he was decidedly more than twice her age, he had given the impression of being the sort of gentleman who wished for a wife who was even younger than she.

In revealing that, he had given her a means of dealing with him.

Quiet ladies were so often dismissed as weak and ineffectual. People would be surprised if they knew how many of those “quiet, helpless, useless” ladies were actually brilliantly navigating sticky situations in ways so subtle no one knew what they were up to.

“Of course,” she continued, “when a lady reaches my age, she has learned a thing or two about when to deflect a compliment and when to acknowledge that it is not the truth. There’s also a lesson to be learned about having discovered which accomplishments are worth pursuing and maintaining and which do not offer enough benefit to continue on with. ”

It was an innocuous statement, one he couldn’t really argue with, but it also did the trick of showing him that she had opinions and thoughts of her own. It would give him pause, and that was what she needed. She didn’t dare give offense, but hesitation was well worth engendering.

His pause didn’t last nearly long enough though. He stepped closer once more. She shifted enough to keep her cane hand at an inconvenient distance from him, reducing the chances that he would manage to trap her.

“Your uncle tells me you like working in the garden, but you aren’t overly tanned, as so many ladies allow themselves to become. Indeed, you have a very pleasing complexion.”

She knew that was meant to be a compliment, and she was meant to be very flattered by it, but all it did was make her skin crawl.

“I do make certain to wear a bonnet when I am outdoors. Though I understand the harshness of the wind off the sea can undermine a complexion, even with the use of a bonnet.”

Let him ponder that for a while. A lady who was older than he preferred, had thoughts of her own, and would soon enough be grizzled and aged by the sea was not exactly what he was hoping for, she would wager.

His encroachment on her had led her to back up to the window.

Through it, she spotted a pony cart making its way along the side of the house.

With her eyes straining just a mite, she could make out the two occupants.

One was a man she didn’t know, and the other was Kipling.

She’d seen him leave for the village and had told herself he would come back, even though she’d struggled to believe it. But he had returned.

“You must excuse me,” she said. “Two of our workers have returned, and I need to consult with them as to what else remains to be done.”

Though she was not one who could walk swiftly away from anyone, she turned as quickly as she could.

That would allow her to simply ignore any spoken objections.

Fortunately, Mr. Winthrop didn’t make any.

With her cane echoing down the corridor, the stairs, and the exterior steps, he wouldn’t exactly struggle to follow her if he chose to.

Amelia took the path leading past the garden and back toward the stables. She attempted to take in a deep breath of relief, but she found her heart was pounding a little too hard for it. Kipling had come back. He’d had the chance to escape the island and leave her behind, but he hadn’t.

And he’d brought someone with him, someone from the village. How had he managed that?

She paused at the large entrance to the stable, watching as the men saw to the cart. The man Kipling had brought back with him was doing the bulk of the work. Kipling didn’t appear to entirely know what to do.

He smiled when he saw her, which flipped her heart over again.

She smiled in return. “You came back.”

“I told you I would.”

She stepped closer to him, feeling better just having him nearby. “I have never been very important to anyone. I have every reason to believe that will continue to be true.”

“Perhaps I will, in time, sort out what it is I need to do to give you ‘every reason to believe’ me .”

It wasn’t launched as a complaint but almost as a glimmer of hope. And that did her heart even more good.

“This is Smudge.” Kipling motioned to the man beside him. “He’s come up from the village and says he’ll do some work around the place.”

From the village? Come to work? Kipling had managed a miracle.

“Thank you both. There is so very much to do, and my uncle is being very hardnosed about it all.”

“I am correct, then, in assuming your visitors have not been as pleasant as one would hope?”

“My uncle’s being critical,” she said. “Mr. Winthrop is being too ... familiar, I suppose. Assessing. I don’t know how to characterize it, but he makes me uneasy.”

“His name is Winthrop?” That appeared to be a significant discovery for Kipling.

“Yes.”

“Do you happen to know his given name?”

Amelia shook her head. She hadn’t the first idea.

“Is he about my age, thick, golden hair, blue eyes, probably too handsome for his own good?”

A laugh burst from Amelia. “Not at all. At least twice my age, thinning brown hair. I don’t know what color his eyes are, only that I do not like them.”

“Have any other Winthrops been in the area?” Kipling pressed. “ Malcolm Winthrop, by chance?”

“Your friend Malcolm—the saint—his surname is Winthrop?”

Kipling nodded.

“Maybe the Mr. Winthrop who is here at the moment is related to him.” That seemed unlikely though.

Kipling, after all, was from America, which made it likely that his friend was as well.

And a gentleman whom Kipling had described as a saint didn’t seem enough like the Mr. Winthrop she’d been enduring all day for her to assume the two were family, even distantly.

“I supposed they could be.” Kipling looked uneasy, almost bothered. “I have some work I didn’t get done this morning. I’ll go out to my work shed and see what I can accomplish before the day grows too late. Smudge can sort out whatever it is he can do around here.”

With a quick dip of his head in place of a bow, Kipling turned around, put his hands in the pockets of his coat, and walked off. Something in his stooped posture spoke not of defeat but of a heavy mind.

“I am a quick study at most things,” Smudge said. “Tell me what’s needing done around here, and chances are, I can manage it.”

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Most people in the village stay away from here.”

“The power of the water is a fearful thing.”

“So, why were you willing to come here?”

He twitched his head in the direction Kipling had gone. “Him’s a long way from home.”

“America is far from here.”

But Smudge shook his head. “Him’s traveled much farther than that but doesn’t know it yet.”