Follow the Heart (21 page)

After sating her hunger on several pieces of toast with raspberry preserves and two steaming cups of tea—though she would have preferred coffee—Kate returned to her room. Athena, looking as bleary eyed as Kate felt, helped her into her walking gown and stout boots.

Outside, a bright, cold blue painted the sky. She wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck, bringing her hood in closer to keep her ears warm, and set out into the gardens, hoping to find Andrew and see what he thought of her sketches.

After half an hour’s walking, with numb feet and tingling nose and fingers, Kate finally admitted to herself that Andrew wasn’t coming. And she couldn’t blame him, really, not with this weather.

She walked back by way of the greenhouses and kitchen garden, to see if she could get a glimpse of him working in there today. Surely temperatures this low meant extra work trying to stave off the cold from ruining the delicate produce and flowers. But he wasn’t there, either.

Disappointed, she returned to the house. Several servants stepped out of her way with bowed heads as she excused herself through the servants’ wing and returned to the main part of the house. She’d just turned the corner into the entry hall when Lord Thynne stepped from the bottom of the marble staircase.

He gave her a formal bow. “Miss Dearing.”

Her knees creaked like a frozen hinge when she curtsied. “Lord Thynne.” She smiled up at him . . . but faltered when he didn’t return the expression.

“You have been out in this cold?” His eyes rested on the mud-caked hem of her skirt.

She focused on removing her mittens to hide her embarrassment . . . and ire. “I walk every day. I told you that the first time you came upon me out in the grounds.”

“What attraction could possibly draw you out on a day like today?” He crossed his arms, almost hiding his green silk waistcoat.

“Fresh air and exercise. What else?”

Lord Thynne shrugged one imperious shoulder. “So you walked alone?”

“Yes. I walked alone.” Not that she had intended to. And on the heels of that thought came the suspicion that Lord Thynne might have guessed her reason for walking out in the cold. “I derive great comfort from spending time alone out-of-doors, though that time is limited to a brisk walk this time of year.”

Lord Thynne relaxed his stance, dropping his arms to his sides. “Have you breakfasted yet?”

“I have, thank you. And now I must go change into something more appropriate. For if one of my cousins saw me standing here conversing with a viscount and my hem six inches in dirt, I believe they would disown me and send me packing back to America.”

He smiled at her attempt at humor, but his eyes didn’t twinkle as they had last night.

Kate trudged up the stairs, and worry chewed at her exhausted brain. Had she done or said something to offend Lord Thynne? Had it bothered him that she’d danced and flirted with other men after he had singled her out by taking her away from the ball for a walk?

Or had jealousy caused his haughtiness when he thought she’d gone out this morning to meet Andrew? Could Lord Thynne have come to care for her that much in just a week’s time?

Athena helped her change into a blue-and-brown plaid woolen gown, layered with plenty of quilted petticoats underneath, which today not only served to add volume, but provided additional warmth. She imagined Edith would whisper complaints to Dorcas about Kate’s refusal to wear bright colors, but the gown was warm, fashionable—it had been one of the last she’d had made in Philadelphia, and she’d picked the design out of
Godey’s
herself—and serviceable.

She stayed in her room reading, sitting by the fire to bring life and feeling back to her limbs, for above an hour. But the book could not hold her interest. And she would not admit the reason why.

Setting the book on the small marble-topped table beside the plush armchair, she pushed herself up, straightened her skirts, draped a thick shawl over her shoulders, and went downstairs.

She bypassed the sitting room—though she could hear feminine voices emanating from there—and headed toward the recesses of the house beyond the gallery. She got a bit turned about in one of the dark corridors beyond Sir Anthony’s study, ending up at the billiards room. She peeked through the open door, but the room was vacant save for a few pale rays of light through the tall windows on the opposite wall.

Now that she had her bearings, she turned down the next hallway and stopped at the third door on the right. She rapped lightly.

“Come in,” Christopher’s voice called.

She entered the small chamber. Leaving the door open, Kate glanced around the room. It retained much of its previous vacant state, since Christopher did not have much with which to furnish it. Only the few books he’d had room for in his trunk.

He looked over his shoulder from the desk and turned when he saw her, the Jeffersonian swivel chair squeaking as he did.

“What brings you to the dungeon, Kate?” Christopher motioned her to the only other chair in the room—wooden with narrowly spaced arms that did not invite lingering overlong.

Kate perched on the edge of the seat, knowing her layers of petticoats would be too wide to fit. “We always visit the morning after a ball. I hardly saw you last night, except for on the dance floor, and I would hear your thoughts on the event.”

Christopher’s chair squeaked again as he leaned back and crossed his long legs. “No, what you want to hear is if I met any eligible young ladies last night.”

“I was under the impression that all of the young ladies you danced with were eligible.” Kate canted her head to the side and gave him the teasing grin he usually couldn’t resist.

Christopher rolled his neck and closed his eyes a moment. Slowly, but inevitably, an answering grin stole over his face. “I have a feeling that if any of those eligible young ladies express to their fathers today that they found me of interest, it would take less than five minutes for those fathers to discover just how
in
eligible I am.”

He opened his eyes and the amusement slid from his expression. “Kate, you must know it’s easier for a woman of little means to find a husband than for a man to do the same.” He rubbed his neck and sighed. “I’m glad Andrew and I are leaving for London on Monday.”

Kate’s insides felt as if she’d swallowed a bucket of snow. “Monday?”

“Yes. Andrew came to see me this morning and told me he saw no reason for further delay, so long as I could be ready to depart by then.”

The snow inside her turned into a glacier, growing and expanding to fill every crevice of her being. Though Andrew had not been present at the ball last night, she could not forget the look on his face several days ago when Lord Thynne had taken her away from him at the site of the elliptical garden. He probably guessed that Stephen was paying more than a little attention to Kate.

“Shall I see you to the train station?” She hoped her voice hadn’t sounded as strained as it felt leaving her throat.

“We leave on the seven o’clock train Monday morning. There is no need for you to rise so early and subject yourself to the cold. We’ll only be gone about two weeks.” His grin returned and he leaned forward, resting his arm on the edge of the desk. “You should be accustomed to my absences for much longer spans of time, what with my being gone for university, law school, and my apprenticeship these last six years.”

She reached over and laid her hand on his wrist. “And it is those years of absence that make me want to spend as much time with you now as I can.”

His expression seemed to say,
A likely story.
But he did not contradict her. He rotated his arm to turn his hand palm up and took her hand in his. “It would be better for you to stay here, snug and warm. In fact, I hope you’ll think about ceasing your daily walks with the weather so drear.”

Kate ran her tongue along the back of her teeth, searching her brother’s eyes.

He knew.

Had Andrew told Christopher about their meetings on the grounds? Had he shared with her brother what they’d discussed? How she’d sketched ideas for him?

She pulled her hand away from Christopher’s and stood. “I will keep my own counsel on if the weather is too bad for walking, thank you. Just as I will keep my own counsel on . . . whatever else affects me and me alone.” The distance to the door vanished in three steps.

“Kate, I didn’t mean . . .” Christopher sighed.

Glancing heavenward for calmness, Kate turned. “I know. You have only my best interests at heart with your warning. But I am not a child, Christopher. If I need your counsel, you will be the first to know.”

“I love you, you know that, right?” Christopher rose and pulled Kate into a hug.

The urge to weep at the unsolicited gesture took Kate by surprise. She allowed herself a moment of weakness and melted into his strong embrace.

But no matter how much he might want to, Christopher could not solve her problems. She must stand on her own, rely on her own best judgment.

She pushed away from him before she really wanted to. “I know. And I love you too. I’ll let you get back to your work.”

After closing the door behind her, Kate leaned against the wall, fighting tears, fearing that Christopher would be the only man who ever said those words to her.

Sunday morning, though Andrew stood with everyone else in the small congregation when Lord Thynne and the Buchanans entered, he refused to take his gaze from the pulpit. He’d caught the entrance of the three Buchanan sisters from the corner of his eye. And he hadn’t missed the fact that Edith came in by herself and not on the arm of Lord Thynne, who entered behind them.

But Thynne hadn’t walked Kate in, either. No, she came in on the arm of Sir Anthony, looking quite comfortable being attended by the middle-aged baronet.

Escorted into church by a baronet; led from the ball for a private walk by a viscount. If she had her way, she’d likely be taking tea with the queen next.

Andrew clamped his back teeth together until his jaw ached. How could he have been so stupid, letting her flirting lead him to believe she might be attracted to him?

Once the Buchanans, the Dearings, and Lord Thynne were settled into their row, the vicar called the service to order. By the time it ended, Andrew’s neck ached from holding his head resolutely away from Kate—difficult, since she sat in his line of vision to the front of the sanctuary—and a headache raged between his temples.

The final amen still clung to the vicar’s lips when Andrew slipped out the door. Jamming his hat on his head and thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his coat, he set off down the road back to Wakesdown as fast as he could without running. He would never run away from anyone.

After a luncheon of cold meat, bread, and cheese—sent home with him by the housekeeper after supper in the servants’ hall last night—Andrew tried to settle down to some much-neglected correspondence, which should have been finished long before the trip back to London. If he did not get letters out to the vendors by the day of his arrival, they might not have time to get the supplies he needed within the fortnight. And then he would have to delay his return to Wakesdown, risking Sir Anthony’s irritation at the change in schedule.

But the longer he sat bent over the table, the greater the urgency he felt to get away—to move, to exert himself, to burn off the anxiety and anger building in his chest like a spring thunderhead.

Donning his hardiest work clothes, and sticking a few tapers and his matchbox in his coat pockets, Andrew left the half-finished letter on the table, not bothering to cork the ink pot, and left the cottage. He’d put off examining the folly on the far side of the fountain pond far too long. Tearing down the ivy and other vines growing over the extravagant, fanciful building would suit his need for physical exertion. Then he could start taking measurements. By the look of the clouds gathering on the horizon, he wouldn’t have long before the approaching storm would send him inside the decorative building for shelter anyway.

In the gardeners’ bothy, he found hedging shears and a pruning hook. Since most of the gardeners had Sunday afternoon off, he met no one, much to his satisfaction.

When he reached the folly—designed by one of Sir Anthony’s ancestors at the end of the last century to look like an ancient Roman temple—Andrew gladly shrugged out of his coat, welcoming the cool breeze that penetrated his rough linen shirt. Years of neglect and overgrowth of the verdure gave the white stone structure the look of a much more ancient facade than the 1767 on the cornerstone suggested.

Though he would leave some of the decorative, flowering vines in place, Andrew began hacking away at the gooseberry and raspberry vines. The berries drew birds, and birds created mess. Limiting the appeal of the greenery around the folly would discourage flocks of them from gathering to eat the berries this summer.

As he worked, the memory of Kate’s voice rang in his head, espousing the beauty inherent in the wildness of nature, trying to convince him how beauty could be found in the freedom of plants to take their own course, not in the strict structure and discipline Andrew intended for the gardens he designed.