Page 13 of The Cornish Bride

A rattling as of something falling sounded, and the boy emerged, a little tousle headed as though just roused from sleep. Sam suppressed a snort of laughter. He mustn’t give the boy any hint that he found his behavior amusing.

“I was just in the glass house, a-weedin’,” Jack said, rubbing a hand through his hair and making it stand up more than ever. Small and skinny for his age, which Sam knew to be fourteen, Jack had the look of a boy of eleven or twelve, with not a sign yet of whiskers on his chin or acne on his face. Wide and innocent brown eyes gave his face the look of a Botticelli cherub, which he most certainly was not. His appearance only served to conceal the amount of mischief he could get up to. His mother must be very glad he was off her hands now, as well as for the money Sam paid her for her son’s services.

“Pull the master’s boots off and make it quick,” Mrs. Higgins said, adding her own large hand to his hair and giving it a second ruffling instead of the blow she’d threatened. “Dinner’ll be on the table in a minute and he needs his old shoes to put on. Get a move on, now.”

Jack moved crabwise across the kitchen flagstones to the table, via the stove where the old shoes Sam wore around the house had been put that morning to keep warm. Sam sat down in his highbacked chair in the corner and with a cheeky wink at his employer, Jack went down on one knee and proceeded to heave Sam’s boots off.

“Put ’em where you won’t forget to polish ’em after dinner,” Mrs. Higgins scolded the boy as Sam slipped his stockinged feet into his comfortably worn old shoes. Lovely and warm. That was better.

Mrs. Higgins set the roast beef on the table and dinner began.

After a meal punctuated by Mrs. Higgins rebuking Jack’s table manners, something she’d determined to take in hand with her usual zealousness, Sam retired with his port into his study, the only other room in his house where a fire was kept burning all day. But he had no work to do this evening, and instead, pulled his wing chair up to the fire and settled his feet, minus his old shoes, on the ornate fire surround. Just far enough away from the blaze not to burn his stockings.

He picked up his glass of port, took a sip, and stared into the flames.

Tomorrow would bring the dowager to their aid. Not that she’d be able to do anything, but her presence would provide support for Kit. Much needed support, especially if the worst, God forbid, happened. Sam had done his best for his old friend and employer, but a mother’s help would be better.

He frowned into the flames as he considered what the dowager’s return signaled for him.

Because with the dowager would come Ysella. She’d been gone from Ormonde Abbey now for two months, and Sam had only just been managing to stop thinking about her every five minutes. Part of him had been hoping she’d meet some lord in London and be married there, meaning he’d never have to see her again. But that was only the smallest, most sensible part of him. The rest of him longed to see her lovely face again, to hear her running footsteps and laughter in Ormonde’s corridors, and perhaps ride out with her and Kit around the estate. This part of him couldn’t stop thinking about her. It had been bad enough when she’d been in residence, but now she was gone, his mind refused to abandon the pictures that kept flashing into his head of what she might be doing now. Who she might be meeting, who would be dancing with her, who might be kissing her hand, or even her lips.

And now she would be home again, unmarried, as beautiful and naively charming as ever, only partway through her season. That small sensible part of him boiled with fury, but the rest of him, including his sore heart, soared with anticipation of her arrival.

He’d been half in love with Ysella now for several years. How could anyone who met her fail to be charmed by her? But it had been over the past year, since Morvoren had arrived at Ormonde, that his love had blossomed into hopeless obsession. Not that he could ever do anything about it. He was just the land agent, son of the last land agent whose father had been a simple tenant farmer. Nothing he could do would ever put him on par with his beloved Ysella. All he could do was admire her careless beauty from afar.

She was always kind to him, using him on occasion when she required help with something, such as the time she’d involved him in teaching Morvoren to dance. Kit had partnered Morvoren, and he, Sam, had partnered Ysella. Every moment of those dance sessions had imprinted on Sam’s mind indelibly. The touch of Ysella’s hand in his, the scent of her perfume, the joyful sound of her infectious laughter as Morvoren struggled with the steps. A memory to hold close to his heart and treasure during the long cold nights, of which there had been many. He could but dream.

He refilled his glass and sipped it slowly as the flames of the fire began to die down. He should call Jack to bring in more logs, but why bother? Tiredness crept over him. Tomorrow would bring Ysella, and he should get to bed. Heaving a deep sigh, he pushed himself out of his seat and set down his empty glass. Who knew what the future would bring?