"Yes, sir," Mr. La.r.s.en said, a pleased smile on his face.

Thomas's stomach, on the other hand, was sinking. What was he doing, going back to the cottage? How would he ever get past his obsession with Miss Sterlington if he did not keep himself out of her path? Doing the right thing bypa.s.sed his regrets, however. He could not not help a woman in need; he'd been raised to such things all of his life. He told himself he was doing it for Mrs. Miller, though. Not for Miss Sterlington.

"Could you arrange to have Mrs. Miller delivered to the manor in one hour's time? Perhaps the vicar could a.s.sist you." He turned to the woman. "Your horse and gig can be cared for in our stables, and I shall have them returned to Step Cottage when the weather lifts."

Mrs. Miller blinked at him in surprise. "I should refuse your offer, sir, but I am most eager to return to my mistress as she has already been alone for two days' time. I am most grateful for your generosity. Thank you."

Thomas inclined his head before meeting Mr. La.r.s.en's gaze. "See that Mrs. Miller gets to the manor, and I shall see that she gets home."

When Thomas explained the situation to Lord and Lady Fielding, Albert agreed to lend use of the coach and Diane offered to act as Mrs. Miller's chaperone. Thomas accepted her offer with a reluctance he hoped she did not note. He had already come up with a list of questions he wanted to ask Mrs. Miller. But with Lady Fielding in attendance, he could not be so bold. Thomas couldn't refuse his sister-in-law, however, and convinced himself it would be better if she came. It would ensure propriety and, he reminded himself, he didn't want to know more about Miss Sterlington. Lady Fielding's presence would secure his ignorance.

Mrs. Clawson, the vicar's wife, arrived with Mrs. Miller and intended to go with her, so it was a full carriage that made its way to Step Cottage, which was nearly four and a half miles from the manor. A very long and slow four miles.

Diane and Mrs. Clawson enjoyed some light conversation in the carriage about the weather and the parish and the health of one another's husbands and children. Mrs. Miller did not partic.i.p.ate, she was a servant after all, and Thomas was content to stare at the words on the page of the book he'd brought with him-a book on architecture he hoped would help him with the design of the house he planned to begin this spring. He kept reading the same words over and over, however, unable to think of anything other than the fact that every turn of the wheel was taking him closer to the woman who haunted him.

When they arrived at Step Cottage it was late afternoon, and Mrs. Miller promised them tea if they would wait in the carriage just a few minutes for her to ready the cottage. Her nervousness made far more sense to Thomas than she could ever have guessed, and his whole body was taut with expectation as he looked up the steps that led to her. Miss Sterlington did not know they were coming which meant he might be able to catch her unawares.

"We do not need tea," Mrs. Clawson said, a bit presumptuously, Thomas thought. "Please give your mistress our regards, however. The groom will help you with your supplies, and then we should return to town as quickly as possible while the roads are still pa.s.sable."

"I shall a.s.sist with the supplies," Thomas said quickly, finding a secondary reason to enter the cottage.

Mrs. Miller had come to town to refresh the stores, and thus was returning with two crates of supplies as well as the pot Mr. La.r.s.en had repaired. Thomas exited the carriage first and then a.s.sisted Mrs. Miller.

As soon as both feet were on the ground, Mrs. Miller lifted her skirts and hurried up the snow-covered steps-not even giving instruction to the groom.

The groom removed the supply crates from beneath the carriage far too slowly for Thomas's mind, but as soon as Thomas had the first parcel in his arms, he took the steps as quickly as he dared. The front door had been left open in Mrs. Miller's haste, and Thomas smiled to himself, feeling antic.i.p.ation of coming face to face with Miss Sterlington. What would she do? Would she know him from exchanges in London?

He ducked through the door in time to hear hurried footsteps moving on the stairs. Thomas looked up in time to catch a flash of blue skirt and snowy white petticoat as they disappeared around the corner.

Chapter 29.

Thomas clenched his jaw in frustration at having missed his chance, but turned his attention to Mrs. Miller who approached from the kitchen, an anxious but relieved smile on her face.

"Thank you so very much for your kind a.s.sistance," she said before glancing up the stairwell. Seeing it empty seemed to bring her greater relief.

"Of course," Thomas said. Miss Sterlington had set quite a pace for her escape-and up the stairs, no less. Could she have moved so quickly if she were nearing the end of her confinement? He hated thinking in that direction but found some of the weight in his chest lifted by what seemed to be proof against the condition he feared. What other reason would she be confined to this cottage?

"Would you mind bringing the supplies into the kitchen, please?" Mrs. Miller asked.

Thomas nodded and followed the footman-who had just now caught up-into the small but warm cooking area. As he set down his crate of supplies, he tried to imagine Amber Sterlington in such a room. It was primitive and confined, nothing like the kitchens of the great homes she was accustomed to. Then he realized that the fire in the grate would have to have been maintained by Miss Sterlington herself, since her housekeeper had been in town these two days. He scanned the room with greater attention and saw a potato quartered on the counter. He noticed the scent of recent baking and was stunned by the realization that Miss Sterlington . . . cooked?

"Are there any other servants here?" Thomas asked, turning quickly to Mrs. Miller. He felt sure she was the only help as he had not encountered any others on his previous visits, but it had become very important of a sudden that he know for sure.

"Only me, sir, which is why it was so kind of you to deliver me home. I am indebted to you. As is my mistress. It is a fearful thing to be alone too long in weather like this."

"Yes," Thomas said, nodding slowly while trying to puzzle through the situation. "Was . . . Mrs. Chandler well in your absence?"

Mrs. Miller turned her eyes to the counter and the fire, just as Thomas had, and he knew she understood why he was asking. Mrs. Chandler had been rumored about town to be a widow of genteel birth, yet she had cared for herself in her servant's absence. Mrs. Miller looked at the floor and seemed to be struggling with how to answer, which made Thomas feel badly for having put her in an awkward situation. He knew the true ident.i.ty of her mistress; there was no reason to make the housekeeper uncomfortable.

"I am glad to have been of a.s.sistance," he said, saving the woman from a reply. "Is there anything else we can do before we return? Shall we fill your coal box from the shed?"

Mrs. Miller busied herself with something at the counter and gave them a nervous smile. "You have done so very much already. I do have some oat biscuits you can take for your return trip. I know it is not equal to your efforts on our behalf, but I have no other way to express our thanks."

"We are glad to have been able to help," Thomas said while ushering the groom outside to fill the coal bucket. The maid pa.s.sed him a basket lined with linen, and he pulled back the cloth to verify that the biscuits were still warm-biscuits Miss Sterlington had baked herself. He replaced the linen covering with a degree of reverence. "Please thank your mistress for the refreshment."

She smiled, then turned to instruct the returning groom on where to put the coal. As she led them to the door, Thomas looked up the stairwell but could see no indication of Miss Sterlington. Yet he knew she was there. Standing just out of view, listening to them talk. Unwilling to thank him herself. He did not know how he knew it, but he did.

When the door shut, Thomas felt sure Mrs. Miller was glad to have him gone.

The groom began to move down the stairs, but Thomas stepped back to the door and listened to the sound of m.u.f.fled voices and the creak of stairs as Miss Sterlington surely returned to the main level. He could not hear what was being said and closed his eyes against the desire to throw open the door and confront her. But to what end?

Oh, the aggravation!

He looked at the confused groom, shifting his weight on the porch, and then nodded him forward, reluctantly following the man away from the cottage.

Once inside the carriage, the three occupants dismissed manners and ceremony in order to enjoy the biscuits. "If I'd known how long this journey would take, I'd have brought us a full picnic," Lady Fielding said, eating her biscuit one pinch at a time. "Specifically a crock of milk to go with these cakes. They are good, if perhaps a bit dry."

Thomas did not find them dry. He found them delicious even as he told himself to dislike them on principle. "The mistress of the house baked them," he said, causing both women to raise their eyebrows. He turned his gaze to Mrs. Clawson. "Have you met her?"

"Mrs. Chandler?" Mrs. Clawson said as though Thomas could mean anyone else. "Not myself, no. A queer woman from what I've been able to gather, though I know very little."

"You surely know more than anyone else," Lady Fielding said, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief and unknowingly saving Thomas from having to ask the question himself. "No one in town seems to know much about her. Thomas even came to search the library for a doc.u.ment, but Mrs. Chandler did not even make an introduction."

Mrs. Clawson smiled at him. "Yes, Mrs. Miller said you had come for the use of the library. I sense she'd hoped her mistress would have been more welcoming."

"She was quite welcoming," Thomas said, rising to Miss Sterlington's defense far easier than he would have liked. He thought back to that afternoon and wondered if the cake she'd served him could have been made by her own hands. The idea was exciting to him, yet the excitement annoyed him. "But, no, she stayed above stairs and did not introduce herself." Well, on the stairs, actually, but he was not going to explain that part.

"She has met with no one in town, not even her man of business," Mrs. Clawson said as though trying to soothe his feelings. "And Mrs. Miller does not often talk of her. She is oddly protective of her mistress."

"She seemed quite eager to return despite Mrs. Chandler's apparent self-sufficiency," Lady Fielding said.

"I'm sure you know that a bond often develops between the staff and their betters. Mrs. Miller is rather fond of the widow, I think. Never disparaging or cross about her, which says a great deal about both of them."

"How odd that she would develop such a kindness in her staff, but be so inaccessible to the town, especially clergy," Lady Fielding said, her eyes bright with the antic.i.p.ation of gossip. Thomas clenched his jaw and wished again that his sister-in-law had not come.

"I have the impression she had some great difficulty before coming here," Mrs. Clawson continued. "Lost her husband, of course, and no family to speak of. I believe she is a cripple."

"She is not a cripple," Thomas said quickly, thinking again of the footsteps he heard and the flash of skirt on the stairs. Only when he noticed both women looking at him did he realize he would need to explain, which he did.

"Odd," Mrs. Clawson said, her eyebrows knit together. "I feel certain Mrs. Miller said she had some trouble with her legs, but I suppose Mrs. Chandler has had to learn some measure of independence for Mrs. Miller to leave her for town." She shrugged as though it was an inconsequential detail.

"Perhaps her husband was a scoundrel and she has run from his reputation to live in peace," Lady Fielding said, seeming to like the idea. "Or maybe she was a scoundrel and all the doors of her acquaintances were closed to her." Thomas's breath caught at the remarkably astute a.s.sessment and he tried to cover it with a cough. Fortunately, Lady Fielding kept her attention on Mrs. Clawson. "Did she not turn away you and the vicar not once but twice? Only someone out of favor with the church would do such a thing."

"Or perhaps she is simply an eccentric woman who prefers her own company. I've no reason to doubt that nor speculate on her situation if she is unwilling to share it." Mrs. Clawson's smile was befitting the wife of a clergyman, but her reprimand did not go unnoticed. "There was another woman who lived there years ago, you know. It seems that Mrs. Chandler has much in common with the former occupant."

"Oh?" Lady Fielding said, raising her eyebrows. Thomas was equally interested. The cottage had been owned by Lord Marchent for more than two decades. Who had lived there before his daughter?

"She was very much the same as this one, I believe. It was before Mr. Clawson and I came to North Riding, so I don't know much myself. With Mrs. Chandler's arrival we have heard talk, however. That woman was not a widow, however, but rather a spinster. Stayed in Step Cottage as Mrs. Chandler does, but was far more forceful regarding people leaving her be. Her servants avoided anyone in town and were not even allowed to go to church."

"How long ago was this?" Lady Fielding asked.

"I believe the former occupant pa.s.sed away about six years ago. There was a rather difficult year of influenza and she did not survive it. Her servants quit to London once she was buried. The house has been empty ever since."

"Until Mrs. Chandler," Lady Fielding said, a thoughtful smile on her face. "Curious. I wonder if the wife of a local baron might receive different reception if she called upon Mrs. Chandler. Perhaps her position would earn her an audience."

Thomas looked out the window, irritated with himself for envying Lady Fielding's courage to present herself. He did not think Miss Sterlington would receive her, however. Surely if she were to meet anyone, it would be Mr. and Mrs. Clawson. Yet she had lied to them as much as she'd lied to everyone else. She had worked hard to keep herself hidden.

"Perhaps," Mrs. Clawson said reluctantly.

When the silence stretched on too long, Thomas glanced toward the women to find Mrs. Clawson looking at him, a smile on her face that seemed determined to change the topic of conversation. "Now, Mr. Richards, I have been meaning to ask you about the progress you have made toward the transfer of land you and Lord Fielding are orchestrating. I must say it has caused quite a stir for a man of your station to want to wear a working man's coat."

Chapter 30.

Amber bent over the paper, her quill hovering over the page as she stared at the words she'd written so far: "Dear Mr. Richards." She put the quill back in the stock and pushed away from the desk. Suzanne was in the kitchen, washing the dishes from breakfast when Amber entered.

"Should I be addressing the letter to Mr. Richards or Lady Fielding?" Amber asked Suzanne. "She was the highest-ranking member of the party who escorted you home."

"But Mr. Richards was the one who offered the help and served as escort." Suzanne smiled slightly though Amber had no idea why. This was important. She must do it properly.

Amber thought of something else. "The carriage belonged to Lord Fielding. Perhaps I should address the letter to him as he outranks everyone."

Suzanne fixed her gaze on her mistress, eyebrows raised. "Perhaps you should stop trying to talk yourself out of writing a letter to Mr. Richards."

"I only want to do it correctly," Amber defended, but that was not entirely true. She was anxious about this letter-this reaching out. She was unsure if it was putting her situation at risk.

"Then perhaps you should write to all three of them. A letter to Lord and Lady Fielding for the carriage, and another one to Mr. Richards for orchestrating the travel."

"Yes, that is an option." But it still made her nervous. Even though he did not know it, she had spent far too much time thinking of Mr. Richards since his visit to the library a month ago. It was surely due to her removal from the society he represented, but the attention her mind gave to him was not helpful. She feared that writing to him would be some kind of . . . invitation. Openness. Interest. She could not risk any of those things.

"Write the letters, Amber," Suzanne said. "You are making this far too important in your mind."

Amber nodded, knowing Suzanne was right and that she ought to just get it over with. She returned to the desk in the library and took a breath. Writing two letters was a good idea, so she pushed aside the one already addressed to Mr. Richards and started a fresh one that, thankfully, was much easier to write. She thanked Lord and Lady Fielding for the generosity of the carriage and the chaperone, emphasizing that she was writing two days after Suzanne's return and the storm had left the roads impa.s.sable. Had Suzanne not returned when she had, Amber would be alone still.

It wasn't until after she had signed her name "Miss Amber Sterlington" that she remembered she was Mrs. Chandler now. Grunting with frustration, she balled up the letter and threw it in the fire, where it crackled before being swallowed up in flames. She wrote a second letter, as equally eloquent as the first but signed Mrs. Chandler.

While she waited for the ink to dry, she read the words over and worried they were too kind. It didn't seem right to be less than kind, but it would not do to sound as though she would welcome a continued acquaintance. Goodness, what if Lady Fielding called at the cottage? Turning away someone of her station would be nothing short of an insult, but a visit would be impossible.

Amber groaned again and crumpled the letter, as she did with her third and fourth attempt until, finally, she felt she struck the right balance of grat.i.tude and distance. Never mind that it was also the most pathetic letter she had ever dared write.

Dear Lord and Lady Fielding, I am writing this letter to thank you for the use of your carriage and for Lady Fielding's attendance in returning my housekeeper to me on January the sixth. I am quite dependent on her as I am disinclined for anyone's society but hers and am glad to have had her delivered safely.

Sincerely, Mrs. Chandler She was still shaking her head when she sealed it, hating the coldness of her words but knowing no better course. Moments later she was staring at the letter to Mr. Richards again, no better prepared to write it now than she had been an hour ago. She didn't want to be so cold and distant with him as he was the one who had come to Suzanne's rescue. As he was of greater importance in her thoughts, she wanted greater honesty in her letter to him. Surely he would not call on her himself if her wording was too kind; single men did not make calls on crippled widows. With that in mind, she took a breath to calm her nerves, c.o.c.ked her head, and simply said what she wanted him to know.

Dear Mr. Richards, I cannot adequately thank you for the kindness you showed to both Mrs. Miller and myself on January sixth when you returned her to Step Cottage. As I write this letter, the roads are quite impa.s.sable, which means she would still be in Romanby if not for your generosity. It was surely a great sacrifice of your time and your household, and I want to be sure that you know what a blessing it was to me. Though I know few people in this area, you and your family seem to be the very best of them and I thank you again for your kindness and attention.

Sincerely, Mrs. Chandler How she wished she could put her own name on the letter and feel a sense of ownership for the words. It was not possible, however. She waited for the ink to dry before sealing it up and putting Mr. Richards's name on the front. She stacked both letters on the edge of the desk where they would wait until Suzanne was next able to go to town.

She looked out the window in front of the desk and frowned. It was snowing again, and she wondered how long they could expect to be trapped here. They had enough necessities, but it was uncomfortable to know they were cut off from town completely. Even when the weather cleared, however, they were without Sally and the gig, which were being kept at Peakview Manor. She wondered if Mr. Richards would return the items himself. The idea made her smile.

She glanced once more at the letters on the desk and allowed herself the contentment at having written them. Thanking those who had returned Suzanne had been the right thing to do, and she felt as though she had lived up to her station in having done it.

The task complete, she returned to the kitchen where Suzanne was bent over a book. Amber paused in the doorway and smiled. She'd been helping Suzanne improve her reading on these cold winter nights and was glad to see she was taking the time to practice. She must have sensed Amber in the doorway since she looked up and then closed the book and pushed it away as though embarra.s.sed to be found with it.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you," Amber said, crossing the room to take the stool on the other side of the table. "What are you reading?"

Suzanne turned the book over so Amber could see the t.i.tle.

"Romeo and Juliet?" Amber's knit cap moved up a bit instead of her eyebrows. "I would not have guessed you to be such a romantic."

Suzanne shrugged. "When I looked over the bookshelves for something to practice my reading, it was the only t.i.tle I recognized."

Suzanne's talk about Mr. La.r.s.en, the blacksmith in town, had increased these last weeks, and Amber wondered if the choice of literature might have something to do with the attention the man seemed to be paying Suzanne.

"And do you like the story?" Amber asked.

Suzanne frowned. "I don't know that I read well enough understand it. The Capulets and the Montagues dislike one another, but I don't understand why."

"That is part of the brilliance of the story," Amber said, leaning forward and tapping the book. "Whatever it was that caused the discord was so long ago it has been forgotten. Their hatred has simply become a . . . tradition, I suppose. They hate each other simply because their families always have."

"Seems a poor reason."

"As prejudice usually is," Amber said, thinking of how she had always looked down on people below her cla.s.s simply because it was how she'd seen it done. Tradition. "How much have you read?"

"Not much at all," Suzanne said, still frowning. "I have to read some portions three or four times to try to understand it."

Amber nodded, she could understand that. She had done much the same thing when she'd first revisited some of the Bard's works this winter. He wrote with such eloquence and power that without strict attention the details of the story could be lost. "Perhaps you could read it to me and together we can sort out the meaning; I'm sure I could benefit from such study." Specifically she needed a distraction that would keep her from reading the letter she'd written to Mr. Richards over and over again. Why did the honest grat.i.tude she'd shared on paper make her feel so vulnerable?

Chapter 31.

It took another five days before the skies and the roads were clear enough for the gig and horse to be returned to Step Cottage. Thomas helped ready the heavy farm wagon that was to make the trip-the lighter carriages would have a harder time on the slick roads-but declined to go with the party of four groomsmen who facilitated the delivery.