The gardens themselves were large enough for several mature trees and intricate groupings of hawthorn and holly bushes. Ivy, faded by autumn’s crispness, nearly obscured the drystone walls, and the brambles and branches grew free. She strolled down the brick path, marveling as fresh memories were unearthed with each step. For the first time since her arrival at Hollythorne House, the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease. She retrieved a wooden rattle from the pocket on the front of her apron and handed it to Henry, who waved it and laughed.
She indulged in a deep breath. She could be happy here. Henry could be happy here.
The gate squeaked on its hinges, interrupting her reverie, and she looked up from her musings to see Anthony approaching.
Four years ago, the very thought of being alone with him in a secluded garden would have set her imagination aflame, but time, with its cruel twists and turns, had unwittingly turned so many tides. She barely knew what to make of the feelings churning within. How she wished this painful pull of attraction to him did not exist, but then again, she’d always been drawn to him, from the very first time she saw him on Blight Moor.
He bowed briefly and then spoke as he approached. “Timmons said you needed to speak with me.”
“Yes.” She pivoted, Henry still in her arms. “Tomorrow Sutcliffe must travel to Leeds and will require an escort. I was hoping you could make the arrangements.”
His expression remained stoic. “Of course. But perhaps Timmons or I could see to the errand on Miss Sutcliffe’s behalf.”
She shook her head. She could never bring herself to admit to him that she needed to sell her jewelry to raise money. Her pride would not permit it. “The errand is of a personal nature. Sutcliffe is quite capable.”
“I’ve no doubt she is, but she’d be safer here. She might be recognized and, as a result, followed.”
Charlotte kept her gaze steady. “I’m not in hiding, Mr. Welbourne. In fact, I do not believe I am in danger in the least, and I will conduct myself as such. It is my brother-in-law who fears for our safety. Not me.”
He looked past her, out to the moors. A thick lock of hair escaped his queue and curled roguishly about his face. The scar on his face was sharp and jagged, yet the curve of his jaw was captivating and as strong and defined as it ever was.
“Very well,” he relented. “If you’re insistent. Timmons can escort her.”
She thought of the flush in her maid’s cheeks at the sight of him earlier in the day. “Can Mr. Timmons be trusted? As a gentleman?”
Anthony’s dark brow rose. After not seeing so much as a smile on his face since their arrival at Hollythorne House, she thought she detected a hint of amusement flash in his large eyes before he once again sobered. “I’ve trusted Timmons with my life. I know of no man who is more reliable.”
The weighty statement caught her off guard, and she tensed at the confident nature in his voice—the same tone he had always employed: conviction when he spoke of his intention. Of the commission. Of his opinions. Of his birthright. He’d always acted as if once a decision was made, no other option was possible.
At one time such determined self-assurance was comforting.
Now it was disarming.
Henry dropped the rattle he had been holding and it clattered to the brick path beneath them. Immediately Anthony bent down to retrieve it and extended it to her son. The corner of his mouth lifted at the baby’s enthusiasm.
Anthony used to smile so easily and frequently. His laugh had been contagious. His manner carefree. What had happened to him to bring about such a change?
Regret for speaking to Anthony so coolly up to this point was beginning to take hold. Perhaps he really was trying to assist her, as he said. For so long she’d been around people who would take advantage of every situation that she forgot any other sort existed. When had she become so jaded that she no longer saw kindness when it was extended toward her?
She would be uneasy with him until she addressed her tone earlier in the day. Just because life seemed cruel did not excuse her. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Welbourne.”
His expression did not change. “You owe me nothing, Mrs. Prior.”
“But I do. I spoke tersely toward you earlier, both in the courtyard and in the great hall. You asked me how I felt about your presence here, and I see that you were only being considerate. I have no excuse other than I fear I’m not myself at the moment.”
“You’ve just lost your husband. Explanations are not needed.”
No doubt he assumed she was grieving.
How would he respond if he knew the truth about her marriage?
Again, without warning, Henry launched the rattle, and it fell over the toe of Anthony’s boot. Anthony stooped down to retrieve it, and this time he took a step toward them to return the rattle. With his nearness came his scent of outdoors and an unexpected flutter within her chest.
Henry’s eyes widened at the return of the toy, and he batted it with such intensity that Anthony chuckled. “He looks like you.”
Charlotte sighed and took in the boy’s wispy white hair and vibrant blue eyes. “He looks nothing like me. He looks a Prior through and through.”
“His nose has the same slope. It will look just like yours one day.”
At the personal nature of the statement, she sobered.
It did not matter how much time had passed or what situations they had endured. An unavoidable intimacy would always exist between them. The secrets they had once shared never could be forgotten, and it was taking only a couple of days with him near for it all to come rushing back.
She stepped back, reestablishing an appropriate distance. If she was to be successful, she could not allow these glimpses into her past to affect her son. “I must get Henry inside. He’ll be hungry soon. Good evening, Mr. Welbourne.”
It was rude, she knew, to depart so abruptly, but she was finding it difficult to know how to act. He was a hired watchman, but her heart was determined to remember him quite differently.
Chapter 15
Anthony watched Charlotte carry Henry from the garden to the house.
The fringe of her long, patterned shawl swayed with each step, dragging through the dried russet leaves and rogue branches.
The wind caught locks of her dark chestnut hair in the same manner as he remembered. How natural Charlotte looked with the child in her arms. It was the very sight he’d imagined often in his thoughts—of how he’d dreamed their life would be.
But now, she wasn’t holding his baby. The child was another man’s.
A gentle rain started to fall, the misty sort that ushered in the bone-chilling cold of autumn that would cover the dormant moorland until spring. He sought and found Timmons in the rear garden doing their evening perimeter check.
“Change of plans.” Anthony approached Timmons. “I need you to go on an errand.”
“Good.” Timmons huffed. “This place is a tomb.”
“I thought you liked a Prior assignment?” quipped Anthony.
“Bah. At t’ end of t’ day, one’s pretty much like t’ other, innit? I can’t believe ye lived out ’ere all those years. Does nothing ’appen ’ere?”
Anthony shrugged and lifted his eyes to the south, where just beyond the road the forest rose. He could see why Timmons would think it a droll locale. But Anthony had lived a whole life here. Loved here. Learned here. “It wasn’t terrible.”