CHAPTER EIGHT
“The rustic nature of the country soothes me. The rustic nature of villagers has rather the opposite effect.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her local vicar upon his request for her presence at a village fair.
“On the road?” asked Mrs. Jones dubiously.
“You two met one another on the road?” Mrs. Canfield seconded. “To where, pray tell?”
Sarah readily acknowledged she was a poor liar, and Mr. Dunhill’s churchyard picnic was her trial. Perhaps even her punishment. “I—I was traveling to … er, Bath. Last year. And … Mr. Clyde’s horse had gone lame.”
Speaking of lame, her tale was taking on that character in a dreadful hurry. Where was Colin, she wondered. He was much better at this.
“I don’t recall your takin’ a journey to Bath,” Mrs. Jones said, her brow furrowing. Her expression was reminiscent of the time Sarah and Ann Porter had pilfered an apricot tart from the counter in Mrs. Jones’s shop. Ann had shoved the thing into Sarah’s hands moments before Mrs. Jones returned from the bakehouse, and Sarah had hidden the sticky, delicious treat behind her back. Mrs. Jones had never been easily fooled.
“I—That is, it was a brief trip to—to meet with the headmistress of a school there. Hardly worth mentioning.”
“Hmmph,” opined Mrs. Jones.
“Well, luck was surely with ’im that day to be rescued by you, dear,” said Mrs. Canfield, her eyes sparkling with keen interest. “And to have you tend ’is wounds after bein’ thrown from the very same horse while on ’is way to see ye here in Keddlescombe! Oi might be for sellin’ the horse, but ’ee should marry you proper and quick. Ye’re ’is good luck charm.” She glanced over Sarah’s shoulder and raised her brows. “Mr. Clyde! I was just sayin’ how fortunate you must feel.”
“Indeed I do,” came his smooth voice from behind and then beside Sarah. He was wearing another of her father’s shirts today, along with a tall hat of Papa’s. Colin had paired the borrowed garments with his own riding coat and buff breeches, which she had cleaned and her mother had mended. He appeared rather well put together for a man she’d found nearly dead only days ago.
“Miss Battersby is heaven sent.” He gathered up her gloved hand and laid a kiss upon her knuckles. Her heart kicked and stuttered inside her chest. “My angel of mercy,” he murmured, his eyes capturing hers.
For a moment, she forgot to breathe. He was that good.
They had agreed upon their tale before leaving for church that morning. Hew closely to the truth, he had advised, and change only the details that must be altered. Clearly, he was well experienced in the art of deception. But the story stuck in her throat, heated her cheeks, made her cringe to tell it. Even now, with him gazing at her with naked affection, she felt ashamed of lying to two women who had shown her nothing but kindness. And a twinge of regret that Colin did not, in fact, belong to her. That he would leave without her discovering where these new feelings led.
Presently, his blue eyes appeared as guileless as a newborn lamb. “I daresay I would have been lost without her. Quite literally.” He returned his gaze to the two middle-aged women—one skeptical but softening, the other captivated—and chuckled. “And now, I must steal her away for a moment. I do hope you will forgive me, ladies.”
As he led her through the throng of chatting villagers, she muttered, “This is harder than I supposed.”
Still smiling, Colin tipped his hat to the Millers and slid his hand over hers where it held his arm. He gave her a squeeze. “Only a little while longer, dearest.”
She raised a brow. “Dearest?”
“Sweetheart, then?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Too … sweet, I think.”
His smile warmed her belly, made her heart flit and bob like a cavorting butterfly. “Oddly enough,” he said, “I often think of you in terms of honey. Honey eyes. Honey hair.” Blue eyes lingered on her mouth. “Honey lips.”
Gracious me, where is the air? Her head had taken to spinning, the villagers’ chatter fading around her. All she could see was this man. The one who looked at her and saw not the familiar Miss Battersby, but Sarah. The woman who longed to be kissed.
Perhaps attending the picnic had been a mistake. While Colin Clyde was all too convincing, she remained a dreadful liar, awkward and self-conscious. But, then, nothing could convince Mr. Foote of her unavailability more firmly than being squired about by another man.
“Sarah!” Ann Porter waved them over to the corner of the open green field, just near the edge of the wood. As they approached, Sarah saw her mother standing with Ann, a worried look on her face.
Sarah released Colin’s arm and hurried to Eleanor. “Mama, what is the matter?”
Ann answered, “Mr. Foote cornered her earlier, asking all sorts of questions.”
“If the Hubbards had not come along, I—I don’t know what I might have said. He was rather forceful—”
Grasping her mother’s hand, Sarah gave it a little shake. “Did he hurt you, Mama? Threaten you?”
“No. He simply asked about you and Mr. Clyde. The more he asked, the weaker my answers became. I put him off, but …”
Sarah finished her thought. “You’re worried he will become suspicious.”
“He is already that,” Eleanor scoffed. “I am worried he may learn the truth, which will only increase his leverage over you.”
Colin stiffened. “Where is he?”
Eleanor waved toward one of the longer tables, near the east wall of the church. Sarah twisted around to see Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard conversing somewhat heatedly with Felix Foote. Before she could say a word, Colin was stalking toward the trio, aggressive intent in every line of his body.
“Oh, dear,” Mama sighed. “I hadn’t realized …”
“What? Realized what?” Ann queried.
Sarah watched Colin’s shoulders straighten on his approach, saw Mr. Hubbard’s eyes flare wide with alarm. She could not see Colin’s expression, for his back was to her, but Mrs. Hubbard appeared to be stammering a preemptive protest, and Mr. Hubbard had placed his stooped, wiry frame between Colin and Mr. Foote.
Immediately, Sarah knew she must intervene. She pushed forward through the thinning crowd, pausing just long enough to let the youngest Miller girl chase her sister in front of Sarah and run toward the wood. It was then she heard her mother answer Ann’s question, a dim thread of chatter amid the bells of urgency pealing in her mind.
“I had assumed his motivation to be gratitude or even chivalry,” Mama said to Ann. “Now, I see it is much worse than that.”
Sarah did not waste a moment, seeing Colin inch forward against Mr. Hubbard’s staying hand, his posture daring the viperous, narrow-eyed Felix Foote to take a swing. As she drew closer, hurrying across the shorn grass, she heard Foote say, “I’ve a far sight better claim than you, a stranger come from where, precisely?”
Colin’s voice was surprisingly low and smooth, considering he looked like he wished Foote’s head to fly from his shoulders. “Yet, she has chosen me. She belongs to me.”
He reached past Mr. Hubbard’s shoulder, bumping the brim of his hat along the way, and took a fistful of Foote’s woolen lapel, drawing the other man forward until poor Mr. Hubbard was sandwiched between them, sputtering and struggling to straighten his hat.
“If I find you have forgotten that pertinent fact at any point in the future,” Colin continued softly. “If I discover you have trespassed where you are unwelcome, by word or deed, you will have no more need of claims, for a dead man owns nothing but his grave.” He released Foote with a shove, sending him careening into a long table.
Sarah halted, swaying in place like the bottles on that table. No one had ever defended her in such a way. No one had ever threatened violence in order to protect her. Perhaps he was pretending, playing the role to its fullest. He must be. He was an excellent liar, as she had seen for herself.
All day, as they strolled together through milling villagers, stopped and chatted about their “secret engagement,” he had lied as easily as he would report the weather: Fine day today, sunny and mild, perfect for taking luncheon outside. We fell in love on the road to Bath and have been corresponding ever since. So nonchalant was he when speaking these falsehoods that, occasionally, reality would pause, and she found herself believing. In him. In them. In love.
So, his sudden ferocity where Felix Foote was concerned could have no other explanation. Colin was playacting, and Sarah’s fantasies were nothing but a lot of silliness. She was not Lydia Cresswell, a foolish romantic with an overabundant imagination. She was Sarah Battersby, vicar’s daughter, virtuous neighbor, and responsible instructor of young girls. She was a pragmatist. She could not afford to be anything else.
“Miss Battersby!” Mrs. Hubbard cried, spying her hovering like a ninny.
Sarah gave herself a mental shake and came to stand beside the older woman. Now she was near enough to see that Colin’s fury was quite real and had not dissipated, his jaw flexing, his fists clenched. Additionally, Mr. Foote, who jerked at the hem of his coat and shot both her and Colin a baleful glare, appeared ready to do battle.
“Boys,” Mr. Hubbard said with disgust. “We are on church grounds. Fightin’ has no place here.”
Mrs. Hubbard seconded her husband’s admonition. “Indeed. Ye should behave as gentlemen if ye wish to please a lady. Is that not so, Miss Battersby?”
The trouble was Sarah liked what Colin had done. She liked that he had stood up for her, threatened the despicable Mr. Foote. Which was why she kept her answer to a noncommittal, “Hmm.” Then, looking directly into Mr. Foote’s narrow face, she calmly curled her hand around Colin’s elbow and moved in close, nearly hugging his side. “While I do not condone violence, Mr. Foote, you would do well to heed Mr. Clyde’s advice.”
Foote’s eyes became malevolent slits, his mouth a tight line. The serpent was angry. “This sudden match is so much flimflam. I cannot prove it, but I know it to be true.”
Colin’s voice grew softer rather than louder. “She is mine, you disgusting worm. Get it through your head.”
Foote opened his mouth to retort, but Sarah had had enough. She interjected sharply, “Even if I were not, Mr. Foote, I should never be yours. That is all you need to know.”
The serpent’s chin thrust up and forward. “If, as I suspect, your engagement is a lie, then it won’t be long before your need of a real husband brings you begging at my door.” He shoved away from the table, at last departing their company, but stopped as he brushed past Sarah. “I shall look forward to that day, Miss Battersby,” he murmured through gritted teeth before stalking away.
She did not turn to watch him leave. His words caused chills to crawl along her skin like thousands of spiders. “I do not understand why he is so insistent,” she muttered to herself. “So … fixated upon me, of all women.”
“Don’t you?” said Mr. Hubbard.
Sarah shook her head.
Mrs. Hubbard clucked and gave Sarah a peculiar look. “Of course you do, dear girl.”
“I honestly do not.”
The older woman glanced at her husband, seemingly exasperated, then back at Sarah. “’Tis the same reason we agreed to go along with this”—she waved toward Colin—“flimflam, as ’ee put it. You are quite a favorite in Keddlescombe, Miss Battersby, admired by a great many of us. Mr. Foote may own land, but ’ee is not well liked.”
Mr. Hubbard snorted. “No, indeed. His buttons could use a bit of polishing ’round here, that’s for certain.”
“Miss Battersby will not be polishing any man’s buttons,” Colin snapped. “Least of all that piece of—”
A loud clearing of Mr. Hubbard’s throat halted further description of Felix Foote’s dubious character.
Sarah blinked up at Colin, tilting her head to see past the brim of her bonnet. He was furious, his eyes flashing with outrage. He appeared to be struggling to contain himself.
Why it should matter so much to him, she did not know. This was supposed to be a pretense—it was a pretense—but he was obviously angry, and not merely for show.
Without thinking, she found herself stroking his arm soothingly. She gave him several pats before she felt Mrs. Hubbard’s gaze on her. Sharp questions went unspoken in the old woman’s eyes. Slowly, Sarah withdrew her hand from where it curved around his elbow.
Mr. Hubbard cleared his throat again. “That horse of yers is a calm and easy girl when she’s not distressed about her owner. What did ye say ye call ’er?”
“Matilda.”
“She’s a fair beauty, that one.”
After Sarah’s withdrawal, Colin had cooled noticeably. One might even say he’d taken on a bit of frost. “Yes.”
Mr. Hubbard nodded, sniffed, and braced his hands on his hips. “Still plannin’ to depart today, then?”
A long pause. “Yes.”
Such a simple word, it was. Yes, he was leaving. Yes, this was likely the last she would ever see of him. He was a stranger. She’d only known him a few days. Why did it feel like someone was slowly breathing poison into her lungs?
Again, Mr. Hubbard nodded, letting his eyes drop to his boots. “Well, now, that’s fer the best. Horse like that don’t belong on a farm. Lovely and loyal, but hardly suited to the plow.” He chuckled then gave Colin a hard stare. “Not that she wouldn’t try, mind ye. For the right cause, she’d run ’erself dead. ’Tis how she’s made, ye see. Takes a good man—a wise man—to resist askin’ such a thing.”
Sarah’s eyes darted between the two men. A muscle in Colin’s jaw flexed as his chin elevated. “I may be neither good nor wise, Mr. Hubbard, but I know well what I am capable of offering.” He looked away, then at her, then back to the old farmer. “And what I cannot.”
Appearing satisfied, Mr. Hubbard sniffed, gave a single nod, then held his arm out for his wife. “Come, missus. If we must speak with the Reverend Dunhill before leavin’, I’d as soon be over an’ done with it.”
After bidding farewell, the kindly couple moved away through the dwindling crowd. Sarah, still trying to unravel their coded conversation, asked Colin, “What did you mean by what you can offer?”
“Nothing of import.” His smile was quick and vacant. He held out his arm for her, mimicking Mr. Hubbard. “Come, missus,” he grumbled playfully in a perfectly executed Devonshire burr. “Let us set yer mother’s mind at ease before oi must take me leave.”
She wanted to laugh. She could not.
She wanted this to be real. It was not.
Swallowing hard against the ache in her throat, she faced him, then glanced around to ensure they had privacy before saying quietly, “While I have the chance, I—I must thank you, Mr. Clyde.” She met his eyes. The red around the blue irises was almost gone, leaving them remarkably similar to a clear sky. “I conscripted you into this battle, and you have risen to the challenge with no promise of a reward.” She dropped her gaze to her worn gloves, the leather thin and cracking with age. “If I could repay your kindness, I would.”
“You saved my life, Miss Battersby.” A gentle finger lifted her chin. A pair of warm lips brushed her cheek with the barest touch.
Her eyes closed tightly for a moment. She did not want to say goodbye to this man. She wanted to beg him to stay. Her heart drummed out its demand that she do precisely that. I cannot, she answered that foolish thing. He is leaving and I must let him.
His lips and his hand left her. “Most would judge that a worthless cause, and they would be right.”
When she opened her eyes, he was half-turned away, staring down the valley to the sea. “Perhaps it is time I raised its value to a measure worthy of your efforts,” he murmured. His eyes, distant and pensive, were surrounded by discolored flesh. Strangely, over the past few days, the ugly blue, black, and yellow of his injuries had slipped from her notice.
“Every life is precious,” she said, her voice constricted to a thread. “No matter who you are or what you’ve done.”
He was quiet for a while, simply staring out to sea. At last, he faced her and once again offered his arm. She took it, and they started back across the grass toward her mother. Halfway there, he leaned in close to whisper, “I will miss you, Sarah Battersby. Truly, I will.”
And I will miss you, Colin, her heart whispered back. Fathoms deeper than I should.
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