Page 30 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)

T wo hundred years.

Kipling believed the story he’d told her, a story she couldn’t entirely dismiss despite its being impossible.

She couldn’t deny his sincerity or that he was distressed about his circumstances.

Regardless of whether those “circumstances” really were being centuries out of his own time, he wasn’t entirely happy on Guilford with her.

And yet, Kipling held her hand and spoke kindly to her. He was cheerful and eagerly helped where he could. He’d left the island and come back. He made her smile and laugh. With him, she felt more confident and competent. She felt safe and cared about.

Two hundred years.

She didn’t know how to reconcile that.

“How discouraged you must be, Miss Archibald, that this estate is not part of your inheritance.” Mr. Winthrop’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Her uncle and his new friend hadn’t needed her input through most of their dinner conversation. Not being Mr. Winthrop’s focus for the first part of the meal had been a welcome reprieve.

“I have never had any wish to lay claim to Guilford,” she said.

His smile leaned too close to patronizing. “Your modesty does you credit.”

He made her so deeply uncomfortable. If only there’d been a way to include Kipling in the evening meal. He might have managed to dampen Mr. Winthrop’s disagreeable attentions. And she would have enjoyed having Kipling there for his own sake.

“Guilford is part of the Stirling estate entailment,” Uncle said to his friend.

“My niece’s inheritance is quite substantial, I assure you.

” He wore the look of one on the verge of panic.

His fish was wriggling on its hook. “There is more than enough for purchasing an elegant estate and seeing it run and kept up properly.”

“An elegant estate”—Mr. Winthrop leaned forward, gazing intently at her from across the table—“and an equally elegant and beautiful lady. What a remarkable combination.”

How was it that a compliment could make a person feel so entirely belittled?

“Rest assured, Winthrop,” Uncle said, “even half her inheritance is more than sufficient for making improvements to an already elegant estate.”

That brought a flash of remembered understanding to Mr. Winthrop’s face. And on the heels of that reminder came an expression of increased intrigue. Indeed, his gaze on her grew warmer, more intense.

A tiptoe of misgiving crawled over her skin. There was no doubt any longer of her Uncle’s intention where his mercenary friend was concerned.

“Even half her inheritance ...” That was what a future husband would receive if she were declared a failure at Guilford.

Mr. Winthrop already had plans for using her dowry for his own benefit.

She suspected her best hope in being forced to wed Mr. Winthrop would be that he would get her money and forget all about her.

But she likely wasn’t that lucky.

She simply couldn’t fail at Guilford. She would record every single thing she accomplished.

Perhaps Smudge would talk with the people in the village to see if they would take her part.

They didn’t have to make the journey to the estate, but if they would at least support her in making her case to her uncle, she might manage to weather this storm.

The time came for her to withdraw so the gentlemen could enjoy their port. It was the perfect escape.

She rose, as did they. “I fear I am exceptionally weary this evening.” It wasn’t untrue, although her weariness was more mental and emotional than physical. “I will bid you both farewell in the morning when you depart.”

Afraid they might seize upon the topic to declare themselves content to remain beyond the morning, she curtsied and, cane firmly in hand, made the swiftest retreat she could manage while still maintaining a semblance of elegance.

She didn’t stop until she reached the corridor leading to her bedchamber, where she fully intended to unabashedly hide.

Even Mr. Winthrop, with his uncomfortable gaze, wouldn’t breach that threshold.

Or would he? Amelia hated that she didn’t know for certain.

Her rush toward her bedchamber came to a sudden halt.

There was a footman standing against the corridor wall not terribly far from her door.

He was dressed in full livery, which only made the sight doubly surprising.

They didn’t have any footmen. And she didn’t think the estate had livery for any hypothetical footman to wear.

She approached slowly, unsure what she intended to do. Insisting he explain himself would only work if he actually chose to do so. The same was true of demanding that he leave. He didn’t work for her, so what motivation would he have to comply?

But as she drew close, he winked. Winked . And she knew him in an instant.

“Kipling, what are you doing here? And what are you wearing?”

“The remarkable Marsh knew where the livery for the Guilford footmen was stored belowstairs. He kitted me out.”

Amelia wasn’t familiar with that phrase. She assumed it meant Marsh had given Kipling the livery to wear.

“But why are you dressed as a footman?”

“A footman posted in the corridor prevents a lot of mischief, at least according to The Beau .”

“When did you speak with Mr. Brummell?” she asked.

“Brummell?” His confusion quite suddenly turned to understanding. “Beau Brummell. He lives now, doesn’t he? A real flesh-and-blood person.” He shook his head in amazement. “Beau Brum-mell. Man.”

He lives now.

Two hundred years.

“I still don’t understand why you are dressed as a footman,” she said, “and are standing in the corridor.”

“Because Mr. Winthrop makes you uncomfortable. I think he even frightens you to a degree.” Kipling gave a quick, firm nod. “If I am here tonight, he will be far more likely to behave.”

He was protecting her—and at cost to himself. “You intend to stand up all night?”

“Once the potential mischief maker is in his own room long enough to have fallen asleep, I’ll sit in a chair and doze a bit.”

“You will be exhausted come morning.”

His eyes softened on her. “But you will be safe. And you will sleep better if you aren’t afraid.”

Good heavens. She didn’t think she’d ever known anyone quite like him. “I am beginning to suspect you are a remarkable person, Kipling Summerfield.”

“Feel free to tell that to—” His brow pulled. His mouth twisted tight. Whatever he’d originally meant to say, he finished his sentence with a quiet “hmm.” And whatever thought was pulling that “hmm” from him appeared to be a heavy and even difficult one.

Sensing he needed a moment to himself, she took a step toward her bedchamber door. “Thank you, Kipling. I will feel better tonight knowing there is someone watching for mischief.”

“I am glad to help.” His thoughts clearly remained elsewhere.

Amelia slipped into her room. Having not had a lady’s maid of her own at her uncle’s house, her wardrobe consisted entirely of clothes she could, with a great deal of twisting and bending, change in and out of on her own.

She was able to prepare for bed quickly, without having to wait for anyone to come help her.

Warm in her nightdress, a wrapper on over it, and donning thick-knit stockings, she tiptoed back to the door. She hesitated a moment. It really was rather bold of her to be even considering gabbing with a gentleman, one dressed as a footman, while in her nightclothes.

And yet she found she couldn’t entirely stop herself.

She opened the door a crack and peeked out, keeping most of herself in her room. He looked over at her. And he smiled. Amelia suspected that smile would always melt her heart.

“I’m still here,” he said with a laugh.

“I wasn’t doubting your dedication.” She hoped he could hear how sincere she was.

“I wanted to ask ... I still don’t know how certain I am of your .

.. travels. But I know that you do believe it.

And that leaves me wondering how you are faring with all you have .

.. learned today. With what has happened to you. ”

His expression clouded once more.

“But only if you wish to talk about it,” she quickly amended. “I’m not attempting to pry. I only wanted to offer a listening ear if you wished for one.”

“You wish to listen to me opine about something you are relatively sure isn’t true or possible?”

“I am certain that you are a person deserving of being listened to and worthy of being believed. Accepting impossible things takes time, so I hope you will be patient.”

He glanced down the corridor toward the turn that led to the grand stairs, the direction her visitors would eventually be coming. Amelia leaned back into her room, but didn’t close the door. She stood very still and waited. And listened.

“If I weren’t the one personally experiencing these ‘impossible things,’ I think I wouldn’t believe it. But it’s true, Amelia. It’s mind-bogglingly true. The reality of it is crashing down on me, creating wave after wave of realizations that I am not entirely prepared for.”

Amelia pressed her back against the wall beside the door, feeling somehow closer to him, knowing his back was pressed to the other side of that same wall.

“There are people I will never see again.” Pain punctuated the words. “And while it is truly daunting to know that I will never again see anyone I know, it is the moments when specific people enter my thoughts that I am overwhelmed by it all.”

“Your family?” she guessed.

“I will miss my family.” There was a caveat coming. “But there is a great deal of difficulty there. That makes it harder in some ways. The rift between us will never be healed.”

“I am sorry, Kipling.”

“If you grew up in your uncle’s home, you must have lost your parents as well.”