“I’ve seen him. We met by happenstance on one of my walks.”
“Good,” Mrs. Mortensen said as if that news had made everything right in the world. “No man deserves to have a bit of happiness more than Mr. David. And seeing you would bring him more than a bit of happiness, I should think.”
If Mrs. Mortensen knew I’d seen him three times already and on the second occasion, he’d felt compelled to become my fiancé, wouldshe have different words for me? Or maybe she wouldn’t. She seemed a little too eager for the two of us to meet again.
“It was very good to see him,” I said noncommittally. “I was very impressed with the man he’s become.”
Mrs. Mortensen’s smile made her eyes twinkle. “As you should be. I’m certain you turned his head as well.”
I waved my hands while shaking my head. “Oh, no. Don’t go getting any ideas. I’m much too old and much too poor for a man in David’s position.”
Mrs. Mortensen’s lips quirked at my use of David’s Christian name. I needed to be more careful. “I think the two of us have very different ideas of being poor, Miss Atwood. Your family seemed quite well off to me.”
“We’ve come upon some hard times since my father passed away.”
Mrs. Mortensen’s cheerfulness melted away. “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“We will be all right. I will be coming into some funds in just over a year, but I don’t think Mr. Tate”—I made certain to use his formal address this time— “would consider me interesting at all, in the way you were implying.”
Mrs. Mortensen shrugged. “If you say so. He hasn’t forgotten about you, that’s for certain.”
The morning passed away quickly as we visited. I asked about several other tenant farmers I’d known when I was here last, and all of them had either moved away not long after I’d left or were faring much better.
Thanks to David.
The oldest of Mrs. Mortensen’s children had married and moved to a farm two counties away. He’d been fifteen when I left—not much older than David, though he’d looked several years older thanDavid at the time. They rarely saw him, but they were happy that he’d settled.
When I stood to leave, Mrs. Mortensen asked if I wanted Maren to walk me back to the cottage.
“I’m actually on my way to Tate Hall to visit with Miss Tate.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Mortensen replied, her face so still it must have been steadied on purpose.
I didn’t know why I was comfortable with Mama and the Prestons thinking I was engaged to David, but for some reason, I couldn’t bear the thought of the Mortensen family believing it as well. They had known both of us when we were young and had far too high an opinion of me. It was one thing to break off an engagement to a man people thought I didn’t deserve, but it would be quite a different story if word got back to Mrs. Mortensen. She saw no disparity in our stations or age and, if anything, saw something positive in our temperaments.
It would break her heart for all the right reasons when the two of us went our separate ways. I was much more prepared to deal with Mama’s frustrations, which would be more about security and our position in life, both of which David and I would hopefully have an answer for when the time came.
I wrapped Mrs. Mortensen in an embrace to avoid any more confusion on my part. I’d spent the better part of two days reminding myself my relationship with David was not a real relationship. No one except Mr. Green had wanted to pursue me in the past six years, and that hadn’t changed overnight simply because I’d managed to get engaged. I didn’t need Mrs. Mortensen’s kind opinion of me putting false hopes in my head. Especially not moments before I had a mile of walking and thinking to do on my way to David’s home.
W
Chapter 8
“Anna has returned. I feel like any sentence that brings this much joy should be written again: Anna has returned.”
—David Tate, 1850, Age 23
When we’d lived at the cottage before, my walks and visits to some of Lord Murphy’s tenant farmers had brought me in view of Tate Hall, with its massive columns and gray stone blocks, but I’d never been inside. I’d never even been down the long lane leading to it. Eight years ago, this house represented pain and suffering and a disinterest in helping those in need.
Now that I stood waiting in front of the oversized and intricately carved wooden door, I didn’t know what to think. I rubbed my hand down the green wool fabric of my coat.
When an efficient butler opened the door, I was ushered into the house and shown only slight curiosity on his part. He led me through the large entry hall at a brisk pace, not giving me a chance to gawk at the pillars in each corner or the blond-colored marble on the floor. He opened the door to a drawing room, and I immediately paused to take it in. The room was almost as big as the whole of the first floor of the Prestons’ cottage, and instead of being rectangular or square, it was octagonal, with floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite walls that perfectly framed the green lawn and flowering trees of the backgardens. Pink velvet papers with delicate floral designs covered the rest of the walls.
Julia sat on an ornate cream-and-gold sofa in front of the middle two windows when she saw me enter, she stood to greet me with a smile. Before I reached her, the door opened again behind me, and David strode in.
He had a bundle of papers in his left hand, and he caught up to me with long strides. “Welcome to our home,” he said, taking my hand and placing a soft kiss at my knuckles. “It is a pleasure to have you here.”
His gallantry felt out of place, and I pushed down a blush. When he acted this way, the boy David seemed a distant memory, someone so different from this charismatic and well-dressed man welcoming me into the grandest estate in the county.
