Deciding to be completely forthcoming, Polly shook her head. “No, Mr. Hawthorne. Because Cecil thinks I am his by right. His goal in claiming Mansford Hall is simply to take away my security and thereby make me more amenable to the offers he has made in the past.”
“He wishes to marry you?”
Polly shook her head once more. “No, Mr. Hawthorne. The offers Cecil has made to me over the years have never involved marriage… only the marital act. Perhaps, if I am homeless, or on the brink of it, he thinks I will feel compelled to accept at long last.”
His frown depended. “Miss Winters, my understanding is that Mr. Winters-Beaton is quite affluent. To be perfectly frank, to hire the firm by which I am employed, he would have to be. And not to be insulting, as Mansford Hall is a lovely home, but it is a modest one. The land that accompanies it is not so substantial that he would be able to profit from it. While you are an incredibly lovely woman, this is a great deal of expense and effort to undertake for such a… ”
Polly watched him struggle with the word. “Foolish pursuit?”
“Yes!” He seized.
It was more than just bedding her. But Polly knew he was not ready for such an explanation. How could she tell him that she possessed the gift of foresight? That any man to whom she gave herself, who risked having a child with her, might well see his own children suffer that same cursed gift? It was the curse of the women in her family to choose poorly. Many had been abandoned by their husbands or rejected by lovers when the truth of their gift was exposed. It was the reason lovers and husbands had to be so carefully selected.
Recalling all that she had seen in her dreams, in the tea leaves, in the cards—Polly knew what she would have to do. There would be no going back. If she told him, if she was honest with him about everything, that flare of interest she had seen in his gaze would disappear forever. After all, it had happened one too many times in her life. Every man who had ever discovered anything about her unique abilities had subsequently rebuffed her—except for Cecil, of course, who craved her gift for his own greedy purpose. “There are more ways than one to profit, Mr. Hawthorne… What Cecil truly craves is power and wealth gives him that. He thinks I am key to attaining it—along with Mansford Hall’s proximity to an ancient stone circle.”
If Cecil were to exploit her abilities, what he would do could upset the very balance of everything. He had already used his own limited abilities for substantial personal gain, an act that defied every rule she understood about their gifts and their purpose.
“And what sort of aid would you be able to provide him in attaining wealth and power, Miss Winters? I dare not ask what he thinks this stone circle will do for him.”
“The stone circle is not the only connection to the magical world. My gift is of a somewhat mystical nature, Mr. Hawthorne,” she said.
“Miss Winters, I do not know what sort of gift you speak of, but I am a rational man… I do not believe in spirits, magic, or superstition.” His tone was placating, mollifying the hysterical woman.
“Then believe in this, Mr. Hawthorne. My brother is not dead. He is not dead and he will be home by Christmas. I know it,” she stated firmly.
“How do you know that?” he asked softly, a note of sympathy in his voice.
Polly shook her head. He would never believe her. He was too rational. Too grounded in the mundane realities of the world to understand what she would have to say. “Do not ask questions to which you do not truly wish to know the answer, Mr. Hawthorne. Suffice to say, I just know.”
“Christmas Day is less than a week away, Miss Winters. There has been no word. No indication that your brother lives. I understand this must be very difficult for you,” he began patiently but halted when she raised her hand.
“Do not patronize me, Mr. Hawthorne. I am well aware that you think me foolish and superstitious, but let us at least indulge the pretense of respecting one another’s point of view, shall we? I am to assume you were going to provide some measure of time for me to vacate the premises?” she demanded.
Mr. Hawthorne looked away from her then, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “I asked my employer to beg for at least a month from Mr. Winters-Beaton, but he refused. The most we could get him to agree to was the first of the year. Do you have a place to go, Miss Winters?” he asked gently.
It was the sincere concern that she heard in his voice that softened Polly’s temper. She sighed heavily, once again reminding herself that none of what was happening was his fault. “I do, Mr. Hawthorne, but it will not come to that. My brother will return. If you remain here in the village or even in Newcastle, you will see for yourself. Though I assume you must have a family of your own that requires your presence for this most joyous of holidays.”
“No,” he shook his head. Then flustered, he continued, “I mean, yes. Yes, I have family, but no, they do not require my presence. I can remain in the village or at least in Newcastle until the day after Christmas. If your brother is not returned by then, I will have to return to London. But I will make the necessary arrangements for you to have lodging and intervene with The East India Company to secure some sort of provision for you.”
“That is not necessary, Mr. Hawthorne. I have friends who have promised that I may stay with them as long as I need to, and I do have funds of my own. Claymore has been very good about setting aside a tidy sum for me over the years.” Somewhat smugly, she continued, “And my superstitions, silly as they may seem to you, can be quite profitable.”
“Oh. I see,” he said.
Polly had the strangest sense that he was somewhat disappointed that she did not require rescuing. “You will stay for dinner, Mr. Hawthorne. We are having roast duck in a truffle sauce. It’s quite delicious.”
He blinked in surprise. “Oh, well… that is, I had not thought… but….” He finally stopped then, drew in a deep breath, and continued in a much more direct manner. “Thank you, Miss Winters. I would be delighted.”
THREE
The duck had been truly delicious. Served with roasted, seasoned parsnips, freshly baked bread, and creamy, herbed butter, it was one of the finest meals he had enjoyed in some time. The conversation, however, had been stilted. Whatever temporary idiocy had seized him earlier, rendering him unable to string a coherent thought together, had finally abated. But they were at quite an impasse given Miss Winters’ somewhat unusual beliefs and his utter skepticism. It wasn’t simply her beliefs that he questioned. He was not a man of strong faith. He attended church when he was required to do so but had little belief in much of anything that was not based in logic and reason. If he could not see it, touch it, and test it for himself, it did not exist.
Strangely, Oliver envied her those beliefs. There was something about being so certain of the world, even without proof, that spoke to the emptiness inside him. Always at odds with his family, a younger son who never quite fit into their world, that lack of ability to blindly accept whatever was told to him had set him apart even more.
“You and your brother were very close?” he asked.
“We are very close,” she replied, a gentle correction. “Even though he is often far from home, Claymore and I have always been there for one another. After our parents died, he took care of me. We were constantly being passed from one relative to another,” she smiled in a self-deprecating manner. “Normally because of me.”
“Were you so terribly behaved, then?” He raised his glass and sipped his wine. It was homemade, something she and the servant she’d called Mavis had concocted, but it was still very good.
