Page 44 of The Marquess’s Masked Archer

Her heart ached for Miles, but there was nothing she could do about his abrupt departure and lack of communication. What would it hurt to open herself up to other possibilities, ones that were less likely to cause her more of this kind of heartache?

Despite the confusion threatening to overcome her, Sylvie placed her hand in his and allowed Mr. Kinsey to escort her to the bench.

Miles would never have expected to enjoy being back in England, but his time at the estate could only be described as pleasant. Once his mother’s health began to improve and he didn’t worry about her so much, Miles spent more time outside, refreshing his knowledge of the workings of the estate and reacquainting himself with his home. And it had been wonderful.

He enjoyed the experience so much that he found himself considering his mother’s request to return permanently.

Of course, if he decided on that course of action, he would return to Ohio for a time, to fulfill his obligations to Ohio State by completing the work he’d agreed to do at the laboratory. But the longer he was home without a reply from Sylvie, the more Miles wondered if he would need the distraction of returning to the estate, need an escape from all the corners of Put-In-Bay and Cedar Point that would remind him of her. He’d begun steeling his heart against the possibility that his complicated plans had misfired and ended up pushing Sylvie away rather than convincing her he was the right choice.

If he contemplated it too long, Miles would end up in an agonized mess on the floor. He’d already spent too many sleepless nights wishing he’d done everything differently. So once Mother began recovering, he made every effort to keep busy. On his second Tuesday there, Miles decided it was time to visit the village again. If he was going to think about taking over the responsibilities for the estate, that would include the concerns of the citizens of Wentworth. Plus, he could check for any letters at the post office while he was there. Just in case.

He headed north on the road into the village, walking rather than bothering the young groom to get the carriage. He appreciated the opportunity to take in as many details as possible regarding the condition of the area. When he neared the first small house on the outskirts of the village, a woman and several children were outside, working together to tend to a garden in front of the house. He waved and called out, “Good afternoon.”

The woman straightened with a smile, but it faded as soon as she took a good look at him. She gathered her children and rushed them into the cottage with several wary backward glances at Miles.

His heart plummeted. But he attempted to convince himself that it must be something other than the reputation he’d had in the village before. He was different now, a grown man instead of a gangly youth. Surely, most people in the village wouldn’t know him by sight or repute. Perhaps the woman was late for something and had to hurry her children along. It couldn’t have anything specific to do with Miles.

But as he made his way into town, it became more and more evident that he was lying to himself. Time and again, people stopped what they were doing to stare at him, or whisper to those they were with while eyeing him with suspicion. He entered the general store, which also housed the post office, only to find that it emptied before he’d gone more than a few paces past the counter.

Still, he had to try to make amends, though he’d done nothing wrong in the first place. Selecting a lovely porcelain vase his mother might enjoy, Miles approached the counter and addressed the merchant, who stood with his arms crossed. “Good afternoon. I’d like to purchase this, please. And if you could also give me any post for Woodhouse, I’ll take it with me and save your carrier the trip.”

The portly, bald man gave Miles a hard stare. But Miles didn’t back down. Finally, the merchant hmphed and lumbered into the back room, presumably to get the post. He returned before too long and tossed a stack of several letters on the counter, then quoted a significant price for the vase in a gruff voice.

Miles drew back. “That’s rather a lot for a vase, isn’t it? Not that your products aren’t valuable, but that seems a bit high.”

The man’s expression turned even colder somehow. “If you don’t like it, you can leave. I don’t need the money of a murderer.”

The words hit Miles with force, as if they’d been accompanied by an actual slap to his cheek. Swallowing hard, he grabbed the letters and vase, dropping a pile of coins from his pocket onto the counter. “You can have it, anyway.”

Then he marched out of the store and back through town, holding his head high but refusing to look at anyone. It all felt far too similar to the last few times he’d visited the village before leaving to attend Cornell. The whispers and stares wouldn’t leave him alone, no matter how hard he fought to ignore them.

By the time he reached the estate, Miles had broken into a jog that left him breathless, as much from the tight clench in his chest as the physical exertion. How could he have imagined it would be as easy as simply walking back into Wentworth for all to be forgotten? He might have hated the way people treated him in America when they discovered he was nobility, but that wasn’t anywhere near as awful as the angry judgment emanating from the villagers in Wentworth.

Miles passed the rest of the afternoon wandering around the fields. His mother and Mr. Brown would need help as the years went on. But he wasn’t wanted by anyone in England outside of the family’s estate. Could he live the rest of his life knowing what they all thought of him, what they said behind his back? Would time dim the memory of the accusations for them if he proved his worthiness through consistent good behavior? But it might take years—decades, even—to regain their trust. Or he might never. People tended to hold onto opinions they had formulated, whether those ideas were reasonable or not.

Miles tried to pray. But the same feeling of abandonment that had enveloped him after the accusations returned. Had God sent him back here just to have him experience the rejection of his neighbors all over again? And what of Sylvie? None of the letters he’d picked up were from her. Did her lack of response mean she was angry he’d hidden his role as her secret admirer? Or did she not return the feelings he’d hinted at in his last letter? Why would God put her in his path only to let her reject him?

He’d written at least five more letters to her since arriving, all of which ended up crumpled into a ball and thrown into the fireplace. If she wasn’t interested in responding, he didn’t want to push himself on her. He’d laid out everything in that letter, as clearly as possible. She must have a reason for not answering.

But the very idea of her rejecting his heartfelt admissions was enough to bring unwanted dampness to his eyes and a terrible ache to his chest. Where was God in this turmoil?

That evening, Miles went to his mother’s rooms to dine with her, only to be told by a maid that she was waiting for him in the dining room. That was a significant improvement. Miles hurried to the dining room to see for himself if she was well enough to be up and about. Inside the room with its pale-blue walls, coffered ceiling, and tall windows, Miles found her sitting to the right of the head of the table. Healthy color tinged her cheeks, and her eyes didn’t look tired at all. “Mother, I’m so glad you’re feeling up to leaving your rooms today.”

She tilted her head to receive the kiss he dropped on her cheek. “And the walk down here didn’t wear me out in the least either. I do believe I’m nearly back on my feet.”

Miles slid into the chair at the head of the table, where another place setting had been laid out by the staff. As food was brought out and they filled their plates, his mother glanced sideways at him. “I heard you went into the village today. Anxious to get the post?”

There was no point in hiding it. “I was. But the villagers were far from welcoming, and I didn’t receive what I was hoping for.”

“A letter from your Sylvie.”

It was a fact, not a question, and Miles appreciated the candidness. “Yes.” He leaned toward his mother, wishing he didn’t sound so desperate. “From the perspective of a woman, what would keep her from replying? Could I have somehow offended her so badly that she wouldn’t give me even the courtesy of a rejection?”

Mother chewed and swallowed a bite of fish before responding. “I quite doubt that. Any young lady who is as courageous and kind as you describe this Sylvie to be would understand if given a genuine, honest explanation. You’ll need to speak with her immediately when you return and learn what caused the lack of communication.”

“When I return? I thought you were praying I would stay here.”

Guilt struck Miles in the chest when her eyes filled with moisture. He reached out toward her, but she waved off his concern. “No, it’s not your fault. I’m emotional because I said the wrong thing when we spoke before. I’ve worried you would never experience the love your father and I did. I believed your chances at finding it might be better here, where you have more in common with people.”