Chapter Twenty

Graham tripped over an uneven spot of ground but caught himself before he sprawled across the damp grass. That’s what he got for looking at the sky instead of his feet, but he’d missed looking at the stars. During his travels, the stars had fascinated him.

He’d spent a great deal of time in the country as a boy, and the stars were probably as beautiful from his father’s estate in Staffordshire as they were here, but he’d been too young then to appreciate them.

It wasn’t until he’d been on a ship in the middle of the ocean that he’d learned to truly appreciate the majesty of the night sky.

A majesty that had been lost to him when he’d returned to London.

“If you keep in that direction you’ll run into the wall.”

The soft voice was more than enough inducement to pull his gaze from the stars and bring his feet to a halt. A glance revealed that he had been about ten paces from running into the wall, missing the entrance to the garden by a good six feet. “Lucky for me you came along, then.”

“Hmm.” She kept her slow pace until she’d drawn even with him, stopping at a conversable distance but keeping more than an arm’s length of space between them. “Trouble sleeping?”

He laughed. “Believe it or not, I’m not quite accustomed to country hours.”

She looked at him quizzically. “You’re blaming the hours and not the conditions?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve found a pallet on the floor for the night.” He shrugged as if he slept in such minimal conditions on a regular basis. He hadn’t. It had only happened twice that he could remember, and he hadn’t slept well either time, but he wasn’t about to mention that. A glance at her revealed that she didn’t believe his nonchalance for a moment.

He cleared his throat and rubbed a hand along the back of his neck. Every muscle in his body was sore from two nights on the kitchen floor, and after the amount of exercise he’d gotten today chasing the children around the glen, he was afraid another night would have him hurting to the point of being unable to move. “I might have been thinking that the straw in the stable might be a little more comfortable.”

An adorable wrinkle appeared across the bridge of her nose. “And considerably smellier.”

He was finally getting the opportunity to have a truly private conversation with this woman, one where she’d come to him instead of trying to run away, and they were discussing the odors of a barn? Surely he could do better than that.

“I was just admiring your view of the stars. I haven’t seen such a clear prospect since I was on a ship in the middle of the ocean.”

“We’re surrounded by heavy woods on all sides.” Her head tilted back to admire the view. It exposed the long, elegant line of her throat, and Graham jerked his gaze back to the stars with an uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

He coughed to ease the constriction. “That would give you an unpolluted view.”

Silence fell as they both looked at the sky, lost in their own thoughts. She could stay lost in her thoughts if she wished, but more than anything Graham wanted to be right there with her.

“You can’t see the stars in London,” he said gently.

When her only response was a broken sigh, he pressed on. “Do you miss the city?”

One shoulder lifted. “Not the city itself so much as—”

She cut off the words abruptly and sank her teeth into her bottom lip. Graham ached to know what she’d been about to say. What did she miss? What did she once have that she no longer did? There was a lot that Graham could give her. Maybe not right this moment because he had little more than a horse and the clothes on his back, but he could return, bring her back the ingredients for white soup or whatever else she missed.

He kept his voice soft as he slid a half step closer. “What do you miss?”

She dropped her eyes from the sky to meet his gaze. The darkness enveloped them until there was nothing else in the world but starlight and the sound of the occasional breeze through the distant trees. Did she feel it? This sense of joining? He’d felt it somewhat in the ballroom, and now it was significantly stronger.

Mystical soul mates and love connections forged through a single glance weren’t anything Graham believed in, but he could recognize attraction. And for the first time in his life that attraction was growing the more he got to know the woman in question, instead of waning, suffocated by sheer boredom as the woman turned out to be exactly the same as everyone else.

If that wasn’t the beginning of love, what was it? His father had once told him that love was difficult to explain but easy to recognize. Graham wasn’t sure that he believed it was easy to recognize—there were too many poets who made a living off the reverse—but he could certainly agree that it was hard to explain. He couldn’t explain what he was feeling right now even if he wanted to, and he didn’t even think he’d truly fallen in love yet.

Still, he felt a pull to her, a craving to know her, and her past was somehow mixed up in her present.

“Just one thing you miss,” he whispered. “One thing you can’t find in the beauty of God’s countryside.”

One side of her mouth lifted in what should have been a smile but somehow ended up looking sad. “I miss dancing.”

As soon as the words had crossed her lips, he saw her wince, felt her pull away and tighten her muscles even though her feet didn’t move.

“We danced last night,” he murmured.

Her laugh was brief, little more than an amused exhale, and she shifted her feet until they pointed back toward the house. “That wasn’t dancing. That was chaos.”

Desperate to keep her out in the moonlight, Graham placed his hands on his hips and gazed out at the trees surrounding the estate. “Well, given your penchant for dancing with plant life, you have only to step out of your house and find any number of suitable partners.”

A short giggle was the reward for his lighthearted comment. When he turned back to her, the sadness still remained on her face but some of the wrinkles had eased from the corners of her eyes. “I’m afraid they’re all a bit too tall.”

“Ah, yes, the trees would be.” Graham made a point of nodding his head in consideration. “The rosebushes are no doubt too thorny and the vines are simply too clingy. All hands, you know.”

The giggle that escaped this time was a bit longer, a touch more solid. It made Graham feel like he’d been honored by the Prince himself.

“Have you tried the juniper? I believe I saw some along the wall of the barn. Actually, I’ve no idea if those shrubs are junipers. That’s just the only type of shrub I know the name of.”

A full laugh, though short, escaped her, and Kit’s lips curved into a genuine smile. “They’re sweetbriars, I’m afraid, and they’re rather prone to ripping skirts.”

Graham sighed, exaggerating the rise and fall of his shoulders. “I suppose there’s nothing for it, then.” He swept into a bow worthy of a sixteenth-century courtier. “May I have this dance? A proper one this time, without the children underfoot.”

“There’s no music.” Kit’s words were quiet, as if she’d used too much breath to say them and the words hadn’t quite known how to form around so much air.

“I’ll hum.”

He waited, arm extended, until the leg he was bracing most of his weight on threatened to tremble. But then she slowly, ever so slowly, reached out.

His breath stalled in his chest as her slight fingers slid against his. Never would she have accepted his invitation during the day. It was the magic of the night, the beauty of the stars, and the quiet of the hour that allowed him to slip past her defenses.

That or the fact that in another day or two he’d be out of her life. Or so she thought.

Whatever had allowed her to lower her defenses, he’d take it. Without qualm or complaint.

A simple tune vibrated through his chest as he started to hum. In one movement he straightened and pulled her into his arms.

She squealed. “I don’t know how to waltz.”

It startled him for a moment, the idea that a woman wouldn’t know how to waltz, but then it had been many years since she’d moved through society. The last time she’d graced a dance floor, waltzing wouldn’t have been considered even remotely proper. “Just hold on to me,” he said. “I’ll guide you.”

Her waist was warm beneath his hand as he pulled her into the proper position. The music paused as he forced himself to swallow so he didn’t choke on his own tongue. Then he began to hum again and guided her in a gentle arc across the lawn and into the walled garden.

Here the starlight glimmered over the crushed rock paths and reflected off the shiny leaves of the plants until the area sparkled like a fine ballroom. Still he hummed, though he’d no idea of the tune anymore and was fairly certain he was simply making it up. As he hummed, he guided her, relishing the feel of her in his arms, which he’d wanted since that very first night, but enjoying even more the look of childlike excitement on her face.

They danced until they were dizzy, until they could no longer ignore the prick of rocks under the soles of their shoes, until their breath sawed in their lungs and made it difficult for him to continue humming. He stumbled to a halt, pulling her a bit closer so she wouldn’t fall from the unexpected cessation of movement. Her breathing was still rapid and her eyes shone with something he couldn’t name, but he knew he wanted to make that look appear on her face again and again.

With a start, he realized he might be seeing happiness. Pure, untainted happiness. Dancing was something she didn’t associate with whatever mess was in her life now. He’d been able to give her a little piece of the life she’d had . . . well, before. He still didn’t know what had happened to make her leave London, but he was one step closer.

“It’s late,” she rasped through her calming breathing. “I should go. The children will be up early.”

She pulled from his arms, and he immediately felt chilled, as if her delightful presence had been replaced by a block of ice in his hands.

“There are more blankets in the library. In a chest near the window. If you need more for your pallet.” She backed two more steps away before turning and fleeing toward the house.

It was a long time before Graham followed.

The house was quiet when Graham rose the next morning. He groaned as he crawled up from his pallet. As predicted, his body was protesting his current conditions rather violently. Every part of him ached.

At least he’d had the sense to move his pallet into the dry goods storage room so that the sun’s first rays didn’t sear his eyes as soon as he opened them.

Stumbling into the kitchen, he found a note next to a glass jar. The note contained clear instructions for making himself a cup of willow bark tea. He was fairly certain the note had been written by Jess, since next to the line that told him hot water was in a kettle by the smoldering fire were the words Do try not to burn yourself. We’re out of plasters.

Since he was alone, he didn’t try to stop the groans as he went about fixing the tea according to the instructions. He remembered taking willow bark tea before when he’d had a headache or other pains. Hopefully, a cup or two of this and he’d be able to move without sounding like a carriage on gravel roads.

He should probably ride out to check the bridge today. Even if the water hadn’t receded completely down to normal levels, it was likely crossable. But after last night, he really didn’t want to leave. Not yet. And if he checked the bridge and found it passable, he had no excuse to stay.

No solution had come to mind by the time he was staring into the bottom of his second cup of tea. No noise had come his way either. Where was everyone?

The tea was still working its magic, but he wasn’t going to wait around for it to finish. He could possibly find enough excuses to stay at the house today, but there’d be none tomorrow. And he wasn’t going to waste his day sitting alone in the kitchen. So he pulled himself up the stairs, gritting his teeth against the urge to complain about the movement.

The main floor was quiet as well. On the first floor, though, he heard . . . singing?

He paused at the bottom of the stairs. He’d never been to the upper floors. Of all his different tasks, none of them had involved climbing these stairs.

But, as was becoming increasingly common for him, curiosity won out and he gritted his teeth to climb another flight.

At the top of the stairs, he found himself in a square upper gallery with three doors exiting from it. He poked his head in the first one and found a room lined with small beds in the style normally found in servants’ chambers. Six narrow beds, three sticking out from each wall, practically filled the room.

An open door beyond the beds showed another two beds and a wardrobe.

As interesting as the room was, though, the sounds weren’t coming from there.

Across the gallery, another door stood open, revealing another room full of beds, but on the third wall, a set of double doors stood closed, muffling the singing. Graham moved toward them slowly, making out words as he got closer.

“Other refuge have I none, hangs my helpless soul on Thee.”

He opened the door quietly and slid into a room as large and square as the main hall below but not as tall. Rows of wooden benches faced an elaborate set of statues and carvings situated in front of a wooden table draped in embroidered cloth.

A chapel. That was actually being used.

Graham slid into the room and eased the door shut.

“Leave, ah! Leave me not alone, still support and comfort me.”

He sat in the back, slumping down to avoid as much notice as possible while the children and women sang. Was it Sunday? He didn’t think so, but he’d rather lost track of reality as one day blended into the next in this little bubble in the forest. But there was apparently a service going on this morning, so he could pretend it was Sunday, which would provide him all the excuse he needed not to leave.

The delay of his impending departure allowed him to fully appreciate the scene in front of him. Everyone was crowded into the first two rows of benches while Daphne faced them in a straight-backed wooden chair, looking down at a small brown book.

Sitting up a little higher, he saw several similar books scattered among the children.

Hearing them sing about Jesus with such emotion and passion made him wonder if he’d been missing something in all the years he’d sat in the pews of ornate churches and listened to the most esteemed preachers and rectors. He’d heard similar singing when he’d gone through Africa, but never could he recall hearing such a sound in England. It was beautiful.

As the song finished, he sought out Kit among the children and found her sitting at the far end of the second row, staring straight back at him, a look of worry on her face.

Did she think he was going to stop them? Call it blasphemous that they were essentially holding a church service in their own home?

He wasn’t. He might think it strange, but what about this visit hadn’t been strange?

His limits were tested, though, when Daphne set the songbook aside and opened a Bible to begin teaching the story of Ruth.

Graham had attended church for as long as he could remember, had been told the importance of faith and God since he’d been born, but never had he sat and listened to a woman teach.

But as Daphne told the story of a woman who left everything behind to care for and support her mother-in-law, Graham was enthralled. He’d heard the story before, had even read it for himself at some point, but hearing it from the lips of a woman who actually had left her own life behind to care for these children brought new meaning to the words.

Geoffrey slid out of the pew and toddled in Daphne’s direction. Without missing a word, she moved the Bible to one leg and scooped the child up onto the other one.

“Mama Daffy,” the little boy said, head tilted up so his brown curls tumbled back off his face. “Are you my kinsman deemer?”

Daphne laughed and explained to the child that a kinsman redeemer was something they did a long time ago, but now it was the job of all God’s people to care for one another. “And that is why I am here to care for you.”

Graham looked at Kit in time to see her reach up and wipe her cheek.

It was obvious now why the children sprinkled Bible stories into their conversations, why they found it so easy to talk of subjects he’d once thought reserved for church.

Even Kit had made mention of God’s provision with ease. But now she looked like she’d rather be anywhere but here, listening to a story of sacrifice and redemption.

Soon Daphne was asking Benedict to pray and the children ran off to their respective jobs, charging out of the chapel with the same enthusiasm he’d seen them use with everything else.

None of them left the room faster than Kit did, though.

She was scared—that much was obvious—but of what he didn’t know. And he was running out of time to find out.