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Chapter 14
The following afternoon, Marta sat upright in the garden beneath a sunbeam, contemplating Ewan’s words from the previous evening. She hadn’t had the strength or the intellect to respond; rather, she’d felt them like a warm embrace, albeit a confusing one. She felt once more that Ewan held within him a feast of secrets, ones he would never confidently tip outward for anyone else to see.
As she sat, she spotted two men on horseback. The horses swept over the crest of the moors, with their riders latched tightly to the reins and their hair whipping wildly in the wind. Marta rose and squinted to spot them: Ewan on the slower horse and Baldwin himself on the faster one. Baldwin’s chin was high, his eyes alert as he cantered closer and closer. Again, her heart leapt into her throat at the sight of him. She felt that due to his stoic nature, the world gave him a disservice, perceiving him to be much less to look at than he truly was.
Of course, Marta had never been on the vain side. Looks were far from her dearest interest.
There was just something special about Baldwin.
But it wasn’t as though she would ever speak these words aloud. Not to Ewan. Not to anyone.
When the men reached the gardens, their legs found the ground. Ewan called out to Baldwin, “Quite a race, hey?”
“Was it? I thought it was more of a light romp,” Baldwin said, teasing him.
“Ah! And yet again, you belittle me, dear Baldwin. I can’t imagine what my self-esteem would be if I’d never met you.”
“Altogether too confident, I’m sure,” Baldwin said.
That moment, Baldwin’s dark eyes found Marta’s through the little rusty garden gate. He stopped walking for a moment, as though he’d been struck with something. Then, he turned towards Ewan and said, “Shall we take our tea in the garden with Marta?”
Marta’s heart busied itself, seeming to wish to dance its way out of her throat and onto the ground at her feet. She couldn’t hear what Ewan said. Minutes later, however, the men appeared once more in the garden, announcing that they’d called for tea and would join her if it wouldn’t perturb her too greatly.
Ewan looked a bit annoyed at the idea, although Marta couldn’t comprehend why. To her, things had seemed strange between them since the previous evening. Perhaps Ewan felt that he’d been altogether too “open” about his feelings; that he’d given her too much of himself.
“How was your ride?” Marta asked as the three of them settled around a little garden table.
One of the maids arrived with a tray, a teapot, and a platter of shortbread. The brown, piping hot liquid churned in a perfect semi-circle, out of the pot, and into each of their little china cups. It was such a ritual, far different than what they performed in Austria. Marta knew that rather soon, she would no longer perceive this as anything bizarre. It would just be her life, any everyday event.
“It was quite good to get out across the moors again,” Baldwin said. His eyes cut towards Ewan, as though he hunted for agreement.
Ewan stared into his teacup, unwilling, or unable to answer.
“Ewan arrived at my estate rather early this morning. I had a bit of work to do…”
“As he always does,” Ewan asserted.
“Yes. As I always do,” Baldwin affirmed. “But then, I was able to step out. And I’m so grateful to myself that I did. I feel it. The cobwebs in my head have cleared if only just the tiniest bit.”
“Nothing so frivolous as our lives, hmm, Marta?” Ewan said. Again, his eyes sparkled conspiratorially.
Baldwin arched his brow. “What have you been up to, then?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Marta and I attended the first ball of the season last evening,” Ewan continued. His words were strangely hard-edged, as though he used them to attack.
And assuredly, Baldwin’s ears seemed to perk up, like those of a dog literally. Marta shifted in her seat and tapped her china cup back into its saucer.
“Oh. The event at Baxter Peterson’s,” Baldwin said. He seemed to collect the news in his brain, rolling it around to perceive its weight. “And how was that?”
“Atrocious, as usual,” Ewan said. His grin widened. “Although, of course, the entire party couldn’t stop its wild conversation about Marta Schnitzler.”
Marta dropped her eyes. What was this strange and menacing tone with which Ewan spoke?
“I imagine so,” Baldwin said. “You’ve given them only just a taste. And now they can hardly get enough. Like scavengers.”
“But I don’t imagine she’ll be on the market for long,” Ewan continued.
Baldwin’s cheeks flashed red. “Already a suitor?”
