The next morning, Roselyn dressed and left the cottage as silently as she could, so as not to awaken Spencer.
As the sun rose, she gathered together the breads and cakes the Heywoods had ordered into two large baskets, and set off across the estate to the manor.
She’d spent much of the night wondering what Francis must be thinking of her. Was he disappointed—or angry? Now she would have to face him and his family, and her stomach churned with tension.
When she reached the doorway to the kitchens, she stopped cold, her head aching with worry and fear. Would they hate her now, think her a fallen woman to be living with a man?
She’d done nothing wrong except exchange a kiss.
But in her heart, she’d begun to long for more than just a kiss from Spencer Thornton.
But such worrying was only delaying the inevitable. She opened up the door—
And found them all sitting at the table solemnly watching her.
Roselyn stood frozen in the doorway, feeling her face drain of color, until Margaret Heywood rose from the table with a warm smile.
Roselyn felt the sting of grateful tears as Margaret took the baskets from her arms and said, “Come, dear, sit with us and tell us everything.”
Charlotte made room on her bench for Roselyn, giving her an encouraging smile. Roselyn could have hugged her. When she glanced at Francis, she saw that although he wore a serious expression, his eyes were kind.
Thomas scratched his head. “So what is the new owner like?”
“Thomas!” Francis said sharply, glancing at Roselyn.
She sighed and looked at her plate, which Margaret filled with porridge and bread.
“Lady Roselyn,” Francis said in a solemn voice, “forgive me for not telling you the truth about Wakesfield’s ownership. When you first arrived, your husband and child were ill and I just didn’t feel—”
“Francis, no!” she interrupted, taking hold of his hand. Her last hope that Spencer’s claim to the estate was a lie faded into ashes. “Do not apologize for trying to spare my feelings. I should apologize to you for the lies I’ve been forced to tell.”
Margaret put an arm around her shoulder. “If you’d told us you’d found a sick man, we could have helped you, dear.”
“I couldn’t,” she whispered, finally glancing at John to face the disappointment that saddened his eyes. “I didn’t know who he was at first, and thought he might be a Spanish sailor. How could I put you in such danger?”
“There is more you’re not telling us,” Francis said.
She hesitated, then whispered, “Yes,” begging him with her eyes to understand. “I promise you’ll know everything the moment I can tell you.”
“Is it about the war?”
She nodded.
“Then tell us what you can. I’d like to know how you found him, how you saved his life.”
She recounted the events of the last fortnight hesitantly, thinking through what she could tell them and what had to be hidden. She painted a picture of two people trapped together by circumstance, distant and polite, with nothing in common and nothing to say to each other.
When she was done, the Heywood family maintained a sober silence as they all began to eat their now-cold food. Roselyn listened to the clink of glass goblets, the clatter of knives and spoons, the lack of conversation. Her own stomach was so twisted that even Margaret’s cooking did not tempt her to eat.
John suddenly rose to his feet, as if he could no longer pretend to eat. “I suppose Thornton plans to court you again.”
His bitter voice was as painful to her as a blow to the stomach.
“I do not know his plans,” she said in a steady voice. At least that was true.
“Then how can we leave you alone with him?” he demanded, bracing his hands on the table and leaning toward her. “Is this just merely a cruel whim on his part, some kind of punishment—”
There was a knock on the door, and Francis motioned for silence as he went to open it.
Spencer stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane. Roselyn paled, which was infinitely better than blushing. What had he overheard?
“Good day, Lord Thornton,” she said.
“Good day, Lady Roselyn.”
For once, he kept that deep, unsettling voice under control. In fact, he sounded…amused.
Francis stepped aside. “Please come in, my lord. This is your home.”
Roselyn saw Spencer glance at her, but she met his gaze calmly, once again the mistress of her emotions. Her entire world might be falling apart, but she was not going to show how much it devastated her.
“Lord Thornton,” she began, coming to her feet. “Allow me to present the Heywood family.” As she made the introductions, she knew with certainty that none would question Spencer’s motives directly, for he was now their lord on whom their way of life depended.
Margaret pulled out the chair at the end of the table. “Come eat with us, my lord. Surely you have not yet broken your fast.”
“Thank you,” he said, settling slowly into the chair, his broken leg out to one side.
Roselyn found herself seated to his left, where she began to force porridge down her throat as if it were just another normal meal.
“Miss Charlotte,” Spencer began.
Roselyn watched the girl’s eyes widen as he put every bit of his bountiful charm into his dazzling smile.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Please forgive me for not properly introducing myself when we met a few days ago. My presence here has…complications.”
“Of course, my lord. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”
Around the table, an uncomfortable silence hovered as Margaret served Spencer, and they all resumed eating. Roselyn couldn’t stop herself from glancing at John, who kept his gaze on his plate. She sensed not only anger in him, but an incredible disappointment. How must her actions look to him, the man who wanted to marry her?
John suddenly set his knife and spoon down, and she held her breath as he raised his gaze to Spencer.
Spencer seemed as if he’d been waiting for such a move. He watched John with interest, but not outright amusement, for which she was grateful.
“My lord,” John said stiffly, “please allow me to prepare the master suite for you.”
Roselyn knew she wasn’t the only one holding her breath, as Spencer turned his narrowed gaze on her. She suddenly thought of how her cottage had been before he’d arrived—the endless silence. But wasn’t that what had drawn her there, the need to live alone, to create a new life for herself?
She thought of hearing no one breathe in the night, of not having his gaze follow her, of no longer waiting for him to touch her.
What kind of fool was she becoming? He would be leaving soon, and she knew better than to trust someone like him. There was only John to depend on.
“Did your father not tell you I wish no one to know I’m here?” Spencer said. “If I take up residence in the manor, everyone will know.”
“Then allow me to prepare one of the cottages—”
“John,” Margaret said with a sharpness Roselyn was unaccustomed to hearing from her. “His Lordship is still injured and cannot be left alone. But thank you for your consideration.”
Roselyn almost gaped at the woman—did Margaret support her staying alone with a man?
“I’ve never been to London,” Thomas suddenly said. “Do tell us what it’s like to live there, my lord.”
Spencer looked about the table, at Roselyn’s strained face, at Francis’s discomfort, at John’s bitterness. What a smart lad Thomas was. He regaled them with tales of living in London—leaving out the bawdier side of life and how he used to enjoy it.
When the women had finished clearing away the meal, Spencer found himself out of things to say. Francis stepped into the silence.
“My lord, would you like me to send word to your family of your safe arrival at Wakesfield?”
Spencer tensed; the last thing he needed was to worry that someone would come after his family for information about him. “No,” he said sternly, meeting the old man’s impassive gaze. “I’ve already explained that no one is to know I’m here. I promise you will receive a complete explanation when I can give it.”
He glanced at Roselyn, hoping she thought he meant only an explanation about the two of them. She gazed at him steadily and he wanted to linger, to make his eyes tell her exactly what he thought when he looked at her.
But not in the midst of the Heywood family.
“My lord,” Margaret said, “please forgive our departure, but ’tis the first market day in Shanklin since before the fleets sailed past. Charlotte and Lady Roselyn and I should be going.”
“The merchants have brought new supplies from the mainland?” Roselyn asked, then smiled when the old woman nodded. “Let me fetch my baskets.”
Spencer sat back in his chair and nodded to the men as they each took their leave to begin the day. The women draped kerchiefs around their shoulders and adjusted their caps.
“My lord,” Roselyn said, and he knew those two words did not sit well on her tongue, “will you be able to return to the cottage by yourself?”
“It will do me good,” he assured her, standing up.
She nodded and turned away, and he found himself watching her hips sway as she walked out the door.
When they were all gone, he limped through the many parlors and halls on the first floor of Wakesfield Manor, not knowing what he was looking for. But it seemed…empty. Just like his home in London.
Though threatening clouds began to build up in the western sky, market day in Shanklin remained a festive affair. Wooden stalls were set up throughout the common, and many farmers had brought their families into the village for the day. The tavern was doing brisk business, and Roselyn received many new orders for her baked goods. She would be spending much time in her bake house.
Would Spencer follow her there again?
She wanted to groan at the ridiculous wanderings of her mind; he had made it quite clear that he was leaving soon. She had failed so far in learning whether he was a spy or not, and was left with only a ridiculous fascination for him.
Stranger still, was the fact that Margaret hadn’t even mentioned Spencer.
When Charlotte wandered off to look at hair ribbons, Roselyn said, “Margaret, I’m not sure I understand your good humor. I would have thought you would be quite…disappointed in me.”
Margaret slid her arm through Roselyn’s and smiled. “My dear child, you saved a man’s life. What is there not to be proud of?”
“But I’ve been lying to you.”
“Did you feel you were doing the right thing?”
Roselyn opened her mouth, though for a moment nothing came out. “Well…yes.”
“Then I will not judge you, my lady.”
Roselyn lowered her voice. “Are you condoning my living in the same cottage with Lord Thornton?”
A tiny frown gathered the wrinkles on Margaret’s forehead. “He is your betrothed, my dear, and I only want you to be happy.”
Roselyn was almost incapable of speech, which was lucky, since Charlotte was walking towards them, her face beaming.
“Mother, did you ever see such lovely colors? Father said I could have two—”
A sudden scream rent the air, and a stab of terror lodged in Roselyn’s chest. A young woman, a farmer’s daughter whose name Roselyn had forgotten, was running toward the common from the beach, tears on her face.
“There’s a dead man down on the rocks!” she cried, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.
There were shocked cries and frightened whispers. The men of the village headed down toward the beach, while the women stood clustered together, counting their family members, praying it was no one they knew.
Roselyn stood back, and resisted the urge to say another prayer—because she knew with grim certainty whose body had returned from the ocean.