“When did the solicitor return?” Cecil asked.
“He didn’t,” the innkeeper’s wife whispered, gleeful at the scandal. “He is dead by the roadside, frozen in the snow… or he remains at Mansford Hall—alone with Miss Polly Winters. Hussy!”
Cecil thought of the man he’d seen disembarking from the stage yesterday. Tall and strong, with broad shoulders and gleaming back hair—Cecil himself could not have been further removed from such a description. Short and round, with thinning hair and an unfortunately weak chin, Cecil knew that he was no match for the other man physically. The solicitor was the sort of man to turn a young woman’s head and Cecil—well, he was not. The last thing he needed was for Polly to become enamored of the very man that was in the position to remove her from Mansford Hall. Even worse, he could not afford for that man to become enamored of Polly.
And they were alone together at Mansford Hall. No chaperone.
“Speak of this to no one else,” Cecil snapped. “Hold your tongue and your discretion will be rewarded.”
The innkeeper’s wife smiled and bobbed her head in agreement. But Cecil knew that it was hopeless. Not even death would shut her mouth.
* * *
Polly had beenin the kitchen since long before the dawn. She had not been able to sleep, at least not well. And when she had managed to doze intermittently, she’d been beset by the strangest of dreams. In her dreams, Mr. Hawthorne had not simply wished her pleasant dreams in the corridor as he made his way to her brother’s long-vacant room. Instead, he’d whirled to face her, grabbing her wrists and hauling her against him. In the dream, she’d watched as his face moved ever closer to hers. She’d understood, even in the context of the dream, that he’d meant to kiss her. But she’d woken up before such a thing had actually occurred. Likely because her beleaguered brain could not supply sufficient detail about the act of kissing as she had yet to engage in such a thing.
“Nothing,” she muttered to herself, “Is so frustrating as being stymied by one’s own ignorance.” Frustrated, she punched the dough in front of her with far more force than was necessary.
“I am fairly certain you have beaten it into submission, Miss Winters. May I ask for mercy on its behalf?”
Polly glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Hawthorne standing in the kitchen doorway. He was already dressed, impeccably groomed and not a hair out of place. His appearance only made her incredibly conscious of her own. There were undoubtedly dark circles beneath her eyes and she would be pale from the lack of sleep. Her hair always defied attempts to tame it. She could pin it up in a perfectly neat coiffure but within minutes, strands would be escaping to dance about her face and forever be in her eyes. Her hair had always had a mind of its own.
Feeling more than a little embarrassed, both by her appearance and by memories of her strange dreams, Polly began with an apology. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all,” he answered, “I’m always an early riser.”
Polly wasn’t entirely certain but she thought she saw a flush enter his cheeks as he said the last part. “Oh. I’m making pasties for breakfast. A bit of the duck from last night and a few other ingredients. If you are hungry, of course.”
His brow furrowed in that way she’d noticed the night before and then his lips turned downward in a fierce scowl. It did nothing to make him less attractive. “I have caused more work for you. Your servants cannot get here to aid you today and now you feel as though you must prepare food to feed a guest. In truth, I am quite the interloper in your home and you have no reason whatsoever to welcome me so graciously.”
“Well, I fear I shall be welcoming you for longer than you may have initially imagined,” Polly stated. “The snowstorm continued during the night and the roads are entirely impassable even in daylight. It will be days before you can make it to the village. Even now, it continues to fall in fits and starts”
His expression was inscrutable. “I see. I knew the weather this far north could be somewhat unpredictable, but I was not expecting this.”
“Of course not,” Polly agreed, returning to her work. She began rolling out the dough for the pasties. The filling for them was already in a large bowl. Minced duck, onions, potatoes, a few parsnips, and carrots. All of it was chopped very fine and smothered in a thick sauce that she had made just that morning. Within minutes, she had them in the oven, baking to perfection.
She enjoyed cooking. Normally, working in the kitchen gave her a sense of peacefulness, an inner quiet that she often could not achieve by any other method. Alas, that was not the case with Mr. Oliver Hawthorne in her home. Everything about him unsettled her, left her feeling out of sorts and strangely excited. In his presence, there was a sense of anticipation, not entirely unpleasant, but completely inescapable. “We will simply make the best of it. There is food aplenty. We have more than enough wood for the fire thanks to Hampton and we shall be quite cozy tucked up here together at Mansford Hall.”
He made a slightly strangled sound.
Polly turned to look over her shoulder at him. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, Miss Winters. Not at all. Though, I must address one rather concerning aspect of our current situation… we have no chaperone. You are an unmarried woman, alone, with a man who is not your relation. Your reputation will suffer greatly.”
Polly laughed at that, but it wasn’t a sound of mirth. There was bitterness in it, no matter that she wished she could hide it. “Mr. Hawthorne, I am a spinster who lives miles from town. The only people who ever darken my door are seeking love potions or to have their fortunes told. I have no reputation to suffer. As it stands, if I walk through the village, others turn their head and pretend not to know who I am—even if they paid me hard-earned coin to help them ensnare their heart’s desire.”
* * *
Oliver stoodin the doorway watching her work. He would not have considered himself a sensitive man, not by any stretch of the imagination. For all of his life, he’d been far more comfortable with books than people, unless he was fighting them, of course. And yet, he was deeply aware of her sadness. Of her loneliness. And what was more, it closely echoed his own. He might not be isolated in the country far from others, but he had always been perceived asoddby others. His father and his brother detested his need to work and prove himself. They could not fathom why he would not simply go the way of most second sons and marry an heiress. It had been the source of so many arguments that he was well and truly alienated from his family. Even in a room full of his relatives, he would still feel alone.
“It isn’t easy,” he said softly. “To be so very alone at a time when everyone else is spending it with loved ones. It somehow makes the isolation more painful.”
She paused in the act of peeling apples, likely for some other delectable dessert she had planned. While she did not turn to look at him, she did give an almost imperceptible nod. “It does, indeed, Mr. Hawthorne.”
Realizing that it was a sore subject and one she did not wish to discuss further, Oliver left it alone. “There must be something I can do to be of service, Miss Winters. I am a poor hand in the kitchen, but surely some task can be found for me.”
“We’ve wood enough for the fireplace in the parlor, but we could use some more for the bed chambers. It’s stacked up in a small shed just off the stables,” she answered. “Would you mind bringing more in?”
“I’ll get my coat,” he said.
