“While other men of privilege will be dependent on their inheritances, your son will be self-reliant. No matter what life throws his way, he will always have the benefit of a useful education.”
“Precisely.” Mr. Dale stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.
The pose accentuated the snug fit of his breeches and alerted Wilhelmina to the firm contours of his thighs. She sucked in a breath and dragged her gaze away from his legs only to find herself snared by the gleam in Mr. Dale’s eyes. The blasted man knew she’d been admiring his physique.
Damn him.
“Now that you know the reason behind my scruffy appearance,” he said while she fought the oncoming flush to her cheeks, “perhaps you’d care to share yours?”
She took a deep breath and willed the unpleasant self-awareness she suddenly experienced to subside. Eyeing him, she dared to ask, “Does this mean we’ve agreed to a temporary truce?”
He dipped his head in agreement. “If you like. I think we can both agree that our journey will hasten along with greater ease if we talk.”
“Very well.” She would not trust him completely, but she would allow herself to engage in a bit of companionable conversation. “Cynthia and I arrived in Renwick with our maid, Betsy, the day before yesterday to find the house in dire need of cleaning. Yesterday, I managed the animals with the aid of my caretakers while Betsy mopped all the floors and gave the kitchen a good scrub. Cynthia helped her until I asked her to go and purchase a few supplies.”
“During which she happened to cross paths with Michael.”
“Again, I’m sorry for that. I—”
“A truce, Mrs. Lawson. Remember?”
“Right. Well. The reason I looked as I did was because I’d been mucking out stalls and milking cows.”
A frown creased his brow. “Could you not hire additional help?”
Deciding to avoid the subject of her tight budget, she said, “Much like you, Mr. Dale, I see nothing wrong with pitching in when there’s work to be done.”
He seemed to mull that over for a moment before he said, “Tell me about your family, Mrs. Lawson. If memory serves, you come from Cornwall?”
“Yes. I grew up in a smallish town by the name of Wadefield.”
“And your parents?”
“My father was a soldier. He fought in the American War of Independence. During his time in America, he developed a taste for travel and exploration. So when he returned home he quickly left again for other parts of the world.”
“Did you and your mother ever go with him?”
“No. He always went with his best friend. I think they were both restless after the war. Fitting back into everyday life was a challenge, or so my mother told me later. I was very young at the time.” She took a deep breath before adding, “He died when I was ten. The ship he was on went down in a storm. No one survived.”
“I’m sorry.”
A nod conveyed her appreciation. “It was devastating. Even though he was largely absent from my childhood, he was still my father. I loved him.”
Curiosity danced in his eyes. “What’s your fondest memory of him?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “During his last visit he built a bonfire in our garden. I remember the three of us sitting around it and listening to him tell stories of all the marvelous places he’d seen. We stayed up until the early hours of the morning – until my eyes grew heavy and I fell asleep. When I woke later in the day, he was gone.”
“My apologies if this is an impolite question to ask, but how could he afford to support you and your mother while being away as much as he was? I mean, a soldier’s salary isn’t much and after the war he’d have had to find some other work, surely.”
“My mother was an heiress in her own right,” Wilhelmina confessed. “Not that she was especially wealthy, but she had enough for us to enjoy a comfortable life and to sponsor Papa’s adventures. When she passed, she left the remainder of her inheritance to me, her only child.”
“And yet, you do not strike me as particularly well off.”
Wilhelmina bristled. “Forgive me, Mr. Dale, but do you often make a habit of quizzing people you barely know about their financial situation?”
He started slightly. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lawson. How inconsiderate of me.”
She crossed her arms. “Perhaps we can speak of something less personal. Like the weather?”
“Heaven forbid,” he muttered. “I’d rather perish from boredom.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” she told him in a lighter tone, “Considering my reputation, I’d likely be charged with your murder.”
He grinned. “Do you honestly think so?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I am despised, Mr. Dale.”
“Would this be the wrong time to remind you that you only have yourself to blame?”
When she didn’t respond, he said nothing further. It was as if the mention of her disgrace had ruined the mood. A weight had once again lodged itself in Wilhelmina’s breast. She had no desire to argue or give explanations in her defense. In fact, she very much feared she’d reveal too much of the truth if she did talk about her divorce. So she picked up her parcel of food, turned her gaze away from Mr. Dale, and focused on eating so she wouldn’t have to speak.
It was six o’clock in the evening by the time they stopped for the night. James climbed out of the carriage and turned to offer Mrs. Lawson his hand. The lady had not said much of anything to him during the course of the last few hours. For the most part, she’d slept – or pretended to do so.
Of course it was all his fault. By reminding her of her wrongdoing, he’d prompted her to retreat. And he’d regretted it ever since because he’d actually enjoyed the conversation they’d shared up until that point. He’d found himself missing it during the dull stretch of time that had followed.
The touch of her hand sent a shock of awareness through him. Unprepared, he sucked in a breath and held it while she stepped down from the carriage. One booted foot came into view, above it a flash of ankle, before Mrs. Lawson’s long skirt fell into place with a swish.
Strangely unsteady, James went to collect their bags from the boot. Clasping one in each hand, he led the way inside the inn while Mrs. Lawson followed.
“I’d like to book two rooms for the night along with a spot in the loft for my coachman,” he told a large burly fellow who’d introduced himself as Mr. Oaks, the innkeeper.
Mr. Oaks stared at James before shifting his gaze to Mrs. Lawson. “Does your ’usband’s snoring bother you or something?”
“He’s not my husband,” she informed the man in a clipped, no-nonsense manner. “He’s my brother. And yes, his snoring does tend to keep me awake.”
James glared at her while Mr. Oaks chuckled. “Right then. I’ll give you numbers three and five.”
James took the keys the innkeeper gave him. “Any chance you’ve seen a young couple come through here on horseback earlier?”
Mr. Oaks scratched his head. “Blonde woman and dark haired gent in their early twenties?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Lawson said. She snapped her mouth shut when Mr. Oaks gave her a curious look.