He was like a schoolboy. It was unbecoming. He had to take control of himself. Read his Bible. Draw porticos and colonnades until the thought of a woman’s curves no longer plagued his mind.
He splashed water on his face until the guilty expression left his eyes.
Dressed, he ventured to the main room of the cottage. Marianne was frying eggs in a heavy pan and the table was piled with toasted bread and her homemade berry jam.
“Thank you for waking me,” he said in a low voice.
She shrugged. “Unlike you to oversleep.”
“I was up late reading.” Rereading, really, for he’d borrowed Marianne’s copy of Seraphina Arden’s book. Its grim assessment of inequality between the sexes had not lessened his desire for the woman herself, but it had reminded him how penetrating her intelligence was.
Which only made him want her more.
Marianne held out a letter. “This came for you while you were asleep. Delivered by a footman from the Marquess of Pendrake.”
Adam froze. “Pendrake. You must be mistaken.”
She laughed. “I’m not. You should have seen his livery. Prettier than a princess. Adeline was sick with envy.”
Adam tore the letter open.
Mr. Anderson,
I requested your name from Mr. Tregereth after noting the speed of the work you’ve done on his renovation. Lord Pendrake is seeking an architect to build a small temple in the garden here at Alsonair. I wondered if you would be so kind as to meet with me to discuss the matter tomorrow at two o’clock.
Regards,
Jeremiah Lotham, Estate Secretary to the Marquess of Pendrake, Alsonair
Wordlessly, he handed the letter to Marianne.
She read it quickly, then looked at him, her eyes shining with excitement. “Adam! I can’t believe it. You must write to Mayhew and tell him—he’ll fall over.”
He shook his head, scarcely able to believe it himself. “I’ll write back this morning.”
This was exactly what he needed. Something to push wistful distractions out of his head and remind him he had a purpose here that had nothing to do with Seraphina Arden.
“Did you get good news, Papa?” Jasper asked.
Adam’s heart clenched, for Jasper was always so carefully attuned to his moods, quick to absorb his father’s worries like a sponge.
“I did indeed. And I have a mind to celebrate. How would you and Addie like to have luncheon at an inn today? We can taste some Cornish delicacies.”
His children looked up in delighted surprise.
“Yes, Papa,” Jasper said.
“Yes! Yes!” Addie cried.
Marianne beamed at him. He was rarely available to the children during daytime even on Sundays, the demands of his work being what they were. It would be a special treat to have an outing together as a family, and do them all good.
“I’ll come to collect you at midday,” he said.
And he would think of this, when his mind wandered. An outing with his children and his sister. A meeting that could propel his ambitions and help him dig his way out of debt.
Not a woman splashing in the surf.
Chapter Seven
The news that Viscountess Bell has been accused of adultery with the notorious publisher Jack Willow is the latest proof that seditionist tendencies are a corruptive plague that blackens not just the politics but the very moral fiber of the kingdom. If a noble wife and mother can succumb to such moral rot, no one is safe from the depraving influence of rogues like Willow and their thirst for chaos. The scourge must be stopped before the weakest among us—our women and our children and the poor—lose their characters, and the very fabric of society descends into unrest. Lady Bell and Willow should face the harshest punishment. They deserve whatever hell awaits them.
—The London Caller, 1797
* * *
It was difficult to write when one’s mind was filled with bird corpses.
Seraphina did not believe in the superstitions that had ruled her stepmother’s life, with every yowling cat or crescent moon heralding a sign of some misfortune. But the delicate little kingfisher had been an ominous way to begin the day, and then the post had arrived, still without any news of Elinor or word at all from Cornelia. The silence from her friends only added to her sense that darkness was trying to close around her. For the first time, she wondered if it was a mistake to come back here.
She’d hoped that coming to Kestrel Bay would help retrieve the memories she’d pushed back into the recesses of her mind. Remembering what had happened here was crucial to writing with the animating rage she must to fulfill the purpose of her book.
She and her friends had christened themselves the Society of Sirens because, like the sirens of myth, they wanted to avenge themselves against the forces and people who had constrained their lives. The trouble was that she had spent the last sixteen years affecting measured distance to insulate herself from just that kind of anger.
She’d come here for exactly the awakening she’d received this morning. But she’d forgotten that with the anger came despair. Words had always been her shield, but words could not protect her from whoever left dead creatures on her terrace.
Outside, she heard children’s voices. She’d forgotten she’d invited Marianne Anderson to bring her niece and nephew over to look through her old costume box.
Delightful. She needed something light and innocent to becalm her mind. It would steady her for an afternoon of writing.
She heard Tompkins greeting them and found the Andersons in the parlor, where the children were seated politely with their aunt, wearing spotless clothes she suspected were their Sunday finest.
Adeline was visibly bursting with the strain of this display of manners, wriggling in her pretty dress. Sera hid a laugh. The little girl’s fine spirit put her in a brighter mood.
Stay that way, you gorgeous creature, she wanted to tell her. Don’t let the world diminish you.
“Good afternoon, children, Miss Anderson,” she greeted them. “Don’t you look lovely.”
“Papa’s taking us to the village today,” Jasper said.
Sera smiled at the earnest little boy. “Is he? What fun.”
It lifted her mood to think of Mr. Anderson leaving his construction site to accompany his brood for a festive lunch in town.
“We’re going to eat a pie with our hands,” Adeline said, sounding as if she had not quite decided whether she found this idea enticing or revolting.
“Pasties,” Marianne clarified. “The children are very excited to taste a Cornish pasty.”
“Well then, you must build up a good appetite. A pasty is a hearty meal that tastes the best when one is famished.”
“What’s famished?” Adeline asked.
“So hungry you could eat an entire hog,” Sera said.
Adeline shivered. “I don’t want to eat a hog.”
Jasper leaned in to whisper in his sister’s ear. “That’s pork. You like pork. You had rashers for breakfast.”
Sera felt a pang at his sweetness—wanting to correct his sister without embarrassing her. A good boy. Wholesome. Like his father.
The presence of these children was just what she needed. It was comforting to be around people who had no opinion on her moral standing. Who merely looked at her as a woman who could furnish them with playthings.