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Chapter 13
Mr. Wright walked beside Mabel, keeping pace with her at the back of the group. From her position, Mabel had the fortunate situation of observing each member of their party. Charles led the way toward the pond, Miss Pemberton on his arm, and Mr. Pemberton to Charles’s other side. The men appeared lost in conversation, and Mabel did not miss the look Miss Pemberton sent over her shoulder to her sister—faint irritation in the form of a raised eyebrow.
Miss Sophy followed closely behind them, hanging on Mac’s arm, Mrs. Boucher toddling behind. The older woman had insisted on accompanying the Pemberton sisters but declared the summer heat to be far too strong for such a stroll. Her grumbles could be heard now. Surely the woman would turn around before they left the comfort of keeping the house within their sights.
Mr. Wright cleared his throat, offering his bent elbow for Mabel’s support. She flicked a smile at him but could not leave her attention settled there for long. His dark hair and weathered skin gave him something of a roguish feel, and she didn’t quite feel comfortable around him.
Papa could wish for a union all he desired, but Mabel wouldn’t agree to marry just any man. And unfortunately for Mabel, it was difficult to consider anyone for matrimony when Mac was present. He was the man whom she judged all others against, and her rebellious heart could not imagine any other man measuring up.
But she owed it to Papa to at least give Mr. Wright a fair chance. Surely if she chose against forming a union with Mr. Wright after earnest consideration, Papa wouldn’t press her.
Resting her hand upon his arm, Mabel noted how discomfited she became. It would have been wiser for Papa to allow her to meet Mr. Wright first, to gain something of a relationship with him before announcing his intention to form an understanding between them. For now she felt awkward around the man, as though he was constantly watching and analyzing her every move.
“Have you been in the navy long?” she asked, hoping to keep the conversation light.
“I joined when I was fourteen, ma’am,” he said, a note of pride in his tone. “I moved around a bit, and two years ago I was fortunate to find a position on your father’s ship. He is a good man, and I have been made better for working with him.”
“That is kind of you to say.”
“It is not only kindness.” Mr. Wright slowed his steps, the space between them and Mrs. Boucher ahead stretching wider. “The last few years, Captain Sheffield has been the father I never had. I owe him a great deal.”
“Is that why you have agreed to this scheme?” she asked, emboldened by their relative privacy.
Mr. Wright paused on the trail, the pond just beside them. Raising appreciative brows, he chuckled. “You aren’t one to mince words, are you?”
“I am usually rather circumspect, actually. But this has been a trying few weeks, and I find that it has loosed my tongue.”
“I am not averse to a woman who speaks her mind.” He chuckled, and the sound was warm, soothing her troubled nerves. “To be frank myself, I find it rather more comfortable to be straightforward. I am used to being surrounded by sailors, you understand. None of them beat about any bushes.”
Papa was much the same way. He was never much for polite society—likely the reason he was never troubled by staying away from Devon for long stretches of time.
“Might we start anew?” Mr. Wright asked, his dark eyebrows pulling together, a small crease forming between them. “I should like to be your friend without the threat of a betrothal hanging above our heads.”
Wasn’t this precisely what father wanted? But what did Mabel want? She tried to read Mr. Wright’s deep brown eyes but came up empty. There was no evident malice, nor any particular warmth. He was seemingly genuine, and his request valid.
Mabel nodded. It would not hurt to form a friendship with the man.
A grin spread over Mr. Wright’s lips, his face becoming handsome for the twinkle in his eye.
“Where does your family live?” Mabel asked. If they were going to attempt a friendship, surely she ought to learn about him. She’d been quick to dismiss Mr. Wright in Papa’s study, repelled by the prospect of a stranger imagining he had any right to consider her his potential wife. But perhaps she’d been too hasty.
“London, but I never felt a need to settle near them. I’ve recently purchased an estate in Warwickshire. It is smaller than you are used to, but well maintained.”
Had the man misunderstood her? She would like to become his friend, but speaking of the future, of his house as though Mabel was destined to one day see it, made her pulse race—yet not in a pleasant way.
“Is there any trouble?” Mac called.
Mabel startled, turning her attention to the path ahead. Evidently the party had rounded the bend and moved out of sight behind the small grove of trees that bordered the pond, but Mac stood at the corner in the path, watching her closely. Her cheeks warmed against their better judgment.
“Forgive our delay,” Mr. Wright said, patting Mabel’s hand where it rested on his arm. He tugged her lightly forward.
Mac stood in the center of the walking path, his legs planted firmly, and his hands clasped behind him—the steady footing of a man used to the swaying of ships. She expected him to step aside, but he failed to move as she and Mr. Wright approached.
Pulling on her arm, Mr. Wright came to a stop. “Is anything the matter, sir?” he asked.
Mac held his gaze, and Mabel glanced between them. Both standing tall—though Mac towered higher—chests puffed, unyielding. Like two lead dogs facing off. If Mac intended to assert his position as a long-time friend, he was surely mistaken. The only man with a right to assert any authority over Mabel was her father, and he was not present.
“It isn’t seemly to be found dawdling,” Mac said, his eyes never leaving Mr. Wright’s face.
