“I don’t need an escort,” she explained. “But I would welcome your company, if you’d like to come.”
He smiled. “I would.”
She smiled back, her color just a little heightened. “You had better fetch your hat.”
He could not be bothered with hats, but she was right. People were less critical when one behaved according to rules he never quite saw the point of.
“I’ll wait for you at the gate.”
Re-entering his cottage, he hastily washed his hands, wiped a smut of soil off his cheek, and fetched his hat and slightly worn gloves. Another hour or two in Sophie’s company was more than he had dared hope for.
But when he left the house again, she was outside the gate, talking to Peregrine Mortimer.
His happiness evaporated. She didn’t like Mortimer, who frightened her in some way, and yet, like most people, shefelt compelled to be polite to him. Which meant choosing him over Quintin because of his rank and his relationship to Miss Mortimer, as well as her parents’ wishes. In truth, Quintin didn’t understand any of that, but he accepted it.
Disappointment and a dislike of confrontation almost caused him to turn and go back inside. But he would stick to the offer he had made until told otherwise. He walked up the path and opened the gate.
Sophie smiled at him as he joined her. He thought there was relief in her eyes. He pulled on his gloves and waited.
“Oggie,” Mortimer mocked as he always did, as though Quintin was one of his own pupils and Mortimer the teacher. “Where are you off to this fine, wintry morning?”
“I’m escorting Miss Chadwick to the Gimlets’ farm.”
Mortimer laughed. “Don’t be silly. What use are you as an escort? If you must go, Sophie—though I have never seen the attraction of mud and pig swill—I shall take you. Run along, Oggie.”
Defeated, Quintin nevertheless refused to retreat until Sophie stated her preference. But it seemed she wouldn’t have to. Mortimer simply took her hand—she had changed her gardening gloves for finer ones—and began to pull it through his winged arm.
Misery swamped Quintin. But he had no time to dwell upon it, for Sophie snatched her hand free of him, moving instinctively closer to Quintin.
“No, sir! I have chosen my escort.”
“Oh, Oggie doesn’t mind,” Mortimer said. “Do you, Oggie?”
He did mind, of course. More than anything, Quintin minded the way Mortimer reached for her again, and the fear in Sophie’s face.
Without conscious thought, he stepped between them. “Miss Chadwick minds. She said no.”
“Whatdid you say?” Mortimer thrust his face into his, forcing his ugly gaze onto Quintin’s, which was almost painful. He was a bully. Quintin had seen that from the first. But he had been dealing with bullies all his life, on his own account and then on behalf of his pupils.
Quintin held the gaze, and was ready for any violence, though he doubted it would come. “I believe you heard the lady.”
Mortimer’s mouth was ugly too. “Send the half-wit on his way, Sophie. He doesn’t seem to understand he isde trop.”
Sophie’s hand curled around Quintin’s elbow. Which would make it difficult to fight with both hands. Neither of them spoke.
Abruptly, Mortimer spun around and stalked off.
“Oh, well done, sir,” Sophie breathed. “Thank you.”
And Quintin felt he was walking on air, the happiest man alive.
*
It was apleasant day for a walk, especially in Solomon’s company. They walked arm in arm, and sometimes, since there were few people about, hand in hand. For Constance, it was one of those breathless hours of happiness that made everything else worthwhile. She wanted to think the best of everyone, and so began to wonder if she was wrong about the missing items being thefts. After all, they spanned more than thirty years, and the numbers concerned were hardly high over such a period.
As for the letters, they were undeniable, but they were not so very threatening, were they?
And Solomon was happy, too. She could feel it in his relaxed posture, in the way his arms swung as he walked. What were the odds, she asked herself in wonder, of her finding such a man, such a friend, such a lover? Such a husband…
