Even in this mundane task, Hollythorne House’s silence struck her the most.
For the past three years she’d spent nearly every day next to the hustling Leeds streets, where carts and wagons crunched the cobbles at every hour, and harried people shouted and called to one another. It was not only city life that produced a constant hum, for within Wolden House existed an army of servants, always moving. Always watching. The ever-present throb of activity—not to mention the lack of solitude—had become the backdrop to her life. But here, in a house that embodied isolation, she noticed the absence of both. Indeed, at the moment the only sound that met her ears was the house itself as it groaned and danced with the moorland gusts.
The previous day’s exhaustion had given way to a night of sleep, for not only her but Henry and Sutcliffe as well. The satisfaction of waking up in her childhood home quickly gave way to realization of the work that was before them.
After her mother’s death, Charlotte had helped her father manage the household, but at the time the loyal servants had been with Hollythorne House for so long that the daily routines were effortless. Then when she moved to Wolden House, Roland had been determined and single-minded, and as such he’d left no decision to her. Her clothing, her jewelry, even her daily routine had been subject to his whim.
Now, the knowledge that every decision moving forward was hers to make was invigorating. It was not the time for timidity. The sooner she could prove to Silas that Hollythorne House was an appropriate home for Henry, the sooner they all might have peace.
She returned her attention to the rag in her hand, submerged it in the soapy water, and faced the smudged windows. Roland would have considered this sort of work beneath her and would have been furious to see her engaged in such a task. None of the rules from the past applied now, for she had only two options: wait until her threadbare staff could get to cleaning or do it herself.
Once satisfied the pane was as clean as it could be, she moved to the one directly next to it, trying not to notice how many panes remained. Not only did the windows require cleaning but the furniture needed to be uncovered and dusted. Floors wanted sweeping. There was even a part of the roof that would require repairs. The longer she was at Hollythorne House, the more detailed the list of necessary tasks grew. And that was only the house itself. As owner of Hollythorne House she was now responsible for the tenants and the farmland to the east and south. She could only imagine how her duties would increase after she met with Mr. Greenwood, the steward.
After an hour of working, she wiped her hair from her brow and paused to assess her progress. Through the glass she noticed a figure emerging from the edge of the front stables and crossing into the courtyard.
She studied Anthony Welbourne at this safe distance, unobserved. His presence was not as jarring as it had been the previous day. She was by no means used to being around him again, but she was accepting it. Gone was any semblance of the gangly young man she’d so ardently adored. Before her now was a much more rugged man. His gait exuded a confidence that could only be attributed to experience—of what kind she was not exactly sure. His hair, which had always been cut short, was longer and gathered in a queue at the base of his neck. Even the curl of it conveyed a newfound rebellion.
Every time she’d heard news of the war with the United States, she wondered about him. The reports were highly publicized, gruesome, and bloody, and even if the stories had been only partly true, she could only guess as to what he’d endured.
In a sudden pivot Anthony changed direction and headed toward the house. He lifted his gaze to the window where she was standing, and their eyes met for a fleeting second.
She withdrew immediately. Heat rushed to her face.
She’d been caught staring at him from a window.
He approached the main door, and it was clear there would be no avoiding him once he stepped across the porch and through to the screens passage.
She snatched off the rag covering her hair and swiped dirt away from the apron. In truth, she shouldn’t care that she was pale and her hair hung in her eyes. She had to remember the current state of things. He was a thief-taker—dark and enigmatic. She was a widow and a mother intent on independence and autonomy.
Now, more than ever, she had to be on her guard. Just because romantic feelings had existed between them at one point was no reason why there should be any question of it now. She had a reputation to protect and a child to raise, not to mention she was reinventing her entire existence. And as lovely as her memories of her time with Anthony were, recent events compelled her never to enter back into a romantic attachment of any sort. That chapter of her life was closed—it was a prison to which she refused to return.
The door to the porch scraped open, and then heavy boots fell on the stone floor. The door creaked closed once again, and Anthony appeared in one of the arches separating the screens passage from the great hall.
She’d anticipated the sight that would meet her as he entered the hall, but even so, her breath caught. Deep-blue eyes met hers, as she’d expected, but it was the start of a beard on his chin and jaw that altered his appearance the most. It covered the boyish ruddiness and garnered a more mysterious, if not roguish, appearance. Gone was the gentleness in his expression and the easy smile she remembered so well.
His scar ran from his ear down his jaw and disappeared into his neckcloth. The sight tightened her stomach. She had cared about him. Very deeply. The thought of him wounded—and having endured the injury that put such a scar there—ached.
He did not speak for several seconds, as if he was accustomed to the fact that people would notice the scar, and gave her a moment to digest it.
“Mrs. Prior,” he greeted casually, swiping his hat from his head and stepping farther into the great hall. “Where is the boy?”
“Henry’s with my maid, sleeping, while she settles things upstairs. Is there something you need?”
He looked over his shoulder before refocusing on her. “I think you and I should talk.”
Nerves burned through her, each breath firing memories of this man. Of their affection for each other and the sadness of separating from him.
But she had to push that aside. Because, of course, he was right.
If this arrangement was to be successful, they could not carry on as if nothing had transpired between them. Under any other circumstance, she’d refuse to let her guard down or engage any genuine emotion. It was a strategy she’d perfected when married. Such tactics would be insufficient now, for she’d had no respect for her husband. But Anthony was different—he’d once held the key to her heart.
She nodded. “Very well.”
His voice was as steady and cool as it had been when they were discussing the grounds the previous day. “I hope my presence here is not an intrusion, given our past acquaintance. I was unaware that you were Mrs. Prior until the day of the assignment. If you would rather I not be here, I will request a reassignment.”
Silence—along with its crushing expectation for her response—once again reclaimed the room.
How like him the question was. Blunt and succinct. He’d always been a direct person—and certain about his plans. His opinions. His intentions.
She shook her head. “What I think or want in this particular situation does not matter, Mr. Welbourne. This arrangement is my brother-in-law’s doing. Not mine.”