She’d taken hers to their own kitchen table, which was smaller than the one at the Tremaynes’, and less used too. But it was comfortable, and there would be fewer distractions here. Fewer people chattering over whatever they’d just read and exchanging opinions on what it might mean. She’d gather their notes on what each story was about in the morning and start making a catalogue of what was to be found, but for now, a dose of solitude was just what she needed.
Their little cottage was quiet, and she relaxed into the hard wooden chair. She’d shed her governess dresses with their tight sleeves and stiff collars right away, as she always did when she came home. Now she even undid the top button of her loose blouse so the relaxation would feel complete.
She had a small notepad beside her stack, and a pencil, much like the ones she’d made certain everyone else had too. She’d given them all strict instructions on what to include in their notetaking, amid the grins and chuckles and whispers about a governess clearly missing her charges.
She’d assured them they were all a sorry substitute for her sweet little girls, which had made them laugh all the more, as she’d intended. Get them smiling and settled and then leave them to their devices, that had been her plan. So that she could do her own reading alone.
Funny, that—she was so often lonely at Cliffenwell, especially after the girls were abed, when it was nothing but quiet. She’d had no one to talk to, no real friends there. Sometimes the ache had been palpable, and her room had felt as hollow and echoing as a dungeon.
Now she craved that peace and solitude like Lord Telford did his chocolate drops. She’d scarcely had a waking hour of it since she got home, as crammed as the Tremayne house was.
Her eyes focused upon the page before her. She’d learned straight off that Morgan had done a bang-up job of choosing titles for each piece that perfectly captured the essence, so she got off easy on her own notetaking.
Dear Morgan. He’d been the closest to Senara in age, only four years her junior. And when he was a small lad, he’d been just like any other. Boisterous and full of energy, constantly into mischief. Mam had frequently given her the task of watching over him, or at least following him about. They’d explored the garden together, and much of the neighborhood besides.
Then, when he was five, he got ill. And it was like . . . it was like he never got over it. One thing after another, every flu or cold or ague to go round found him and knocked him down. Constant infections. Incessant aches and pains. The poor child went from a healthy, happy boy ready to start school to an invalid.
But there’d been a change in his spirit too. A deepening. His infirmities had shaped him not into a bitter person who demanded sympathy, but into a young man determined to find every drop of joy that life could offer him. To love his family fiercely in whatever time God allotted him. To do anything in his power—absolutely anything—to make those in his world happy.
She jotted his title for this page down on her pad and started reading. More history than imagination, this one, about an old hermitage on one of the smaller islands and the monk who’d lived there.
One of the other chairs at the table scraped its way out, and then Ainsley dropped into view.
So much for solitude. But then, she’d not had much opportunity to speak with him without others about. She wouldn’t complain about it now. Perhaps she’d even find a way to bring Rory up and see if Ainsley would let slip anything he may have said about her. And even if not, she’d been enjoying getting to know him. He was a wonderful man, the sort you couldn’t help but like. He and Rory must be good friends as well as cousins—he was just the sort of steadying influence that would complement Rory’s passionate personality.
She made a show of glancing at the old clock. “Don’t tell me his lordship is abed already. With all this reading to do?”
His chuckle was both amused and indulgent. “Quite the opposite. He plans to stay up all night, so he told me I may as well go wherever I liked to do my assigned reading.”
She breathed a laugh. “So long as you do your assigned reading.”
“It’s like being at school again.” He situated his stack on the table too. Neat and orderly, as she’d come to expect of anything he touched. “Really, I think he just hoped I wouldn’t see the fresh ink stain on his new summer jacket.”
“A little bicarb and water will take it right out.”
“And a little care would have kept him from getting it to begin with.” But he said the words without any heat. Or, clearly, any expectation that such care was on the horizon. “How did you keep your charges in order, Miss Dawe? I could use some help.”
She laughed and got up to fetch them some lemonade. “I’m not certain the techniques I used for a trio of lasses would be so very helpful on your grown marquess.”
“Sometimes I don’t think they’re so dissimilar. Good hearts, fine intentions, but an utter lack of common sense.”
She set two tall glasses on the table and pulled the pitcher from the icebox. “I don’t know. He seemed rather practical-minded when it came to ensuring safety for the Scofield servants.”
Ainsley still hadn’t so much as moved his pages. His attention was on her, steady and even. It could have felt demanding. Unsettling. But it didn’t. She put the pitcher away again.
“And he meant every word,” he said. “All two hundred of their domestics could arrive in a parade asking for sanctuary, and he’d just start a new building project to house them all and welcome them aboard.”
That was pride in his tone—unmistakable, almost paternal. Or fraternal, anyway. A far cry from the resentment that always underscored Rory’s tone when he mentioned his employer. She’d never thought much about his unhappiness in his position before, but these last two weeks, she’d had far too much time to consider where that dissatisfaction could have led him. It had begun bothering her more than she cared to admit. A few times she had nearly mentioned it to Ainsley, but then she’d stopped herself. Perhaps because she didn’t want to plant any suspicions of his cousin in him.
Perhaps because she feared what he might say. For now, she forced her mind back to him and Lord Sheridan. “He must be either loaded or completely irresponsible.” She handed him one of the glasses.
He took it with a nod. “He spends widely, but not wildly. On anything, but with care. Anytime he sees a craftsman or artisan or student with a genuine passion and skill, he finds a way to contribute.”
She held up her own glass. “A toast, then. May there be a thousand more just like him in the world.”
Ainsley clinked his glass to hers, but before he could push any words through his parted lips, the kitchen door quaked under a hard fist.
Senara started, sloshing a bit of her lemonade from the glass, and spun toward the door. She could make out nothing but a masculine silhouette against the glass.
“One of your father’s friends, I imagine. I’ll step out—they tend to clam up when they see any of us incomers, as they call us.” Sounding cheerful about his self-banishment, Ainsley strode quickly for the stairs and vanished up them.
Conscientious of him, to be sure—and accurate too. The islanders had a healthy respect for holiday-goers and the pounds sterling they brought, but they never wanted to air local business in front of them.