After a few seconds’ consideration, Breckenridge rose, nodded a farewell to Richard, who smiled, but wisely said nothing, then Breckenridge left the hall and headed for the manor’s front door.
He circled around through the herb garden; he was standing concealed in the shadows cast by one of the irregular corners of the manor when Marcus ran out of the back door, followed by a skipping Lucilla. Heather brought up the rear, a basket on her arm.
The basket didn’t appear to be that heavy. Breckenridge reluctantly rejected using its weight and his offer to carry it as his excuse for joining the expedition. Given the situation between him and Heather, he knew well enough that this was the wrong time to push her — to press his company on her — but equally he wasn’t able to simply stand by and watch her walk out effectively unescorted.
She might be perfectly safe, but his inner male wasn’t about to risk it.
Once the threesome were far enough ahead, he set out in their wake, walking slowly, hands in his pockets, and making good use of any available cover.
Heather reached the Mitchells’ farmhouse after half an hour of pleasant rambling along the winding river, then up a sloping path through a stand of trees to the small, south-facing plateau on which the farmhouse sat.
The sun bathed the front of the whitewashed building, glinting off the windows flanking the green-painted door. One of the windows was open a crack; as Heather approached, she could hear the baby fretting.
She paused before the door, hesitated, but then raised her hand and rapped.
A pale face appeared briefly in the window, saw her, saw Lucilla and Marcus running up from where they’d dallied among the trees, and abruptly disappeared.
Half a minute later, the door opened to reveal a harried-looking young woman smoothing down her skirts. “Yes?”
Heather smiled. “Megan Mitchell?”
The woman bobbed. “Aye, miss.”
“I’ve brought you some things from the manor.” Heather indicated the basket on her arm. Megan Mitchell was, she judged, younger than she.
The young mother’s gaze fell to the basket. “From the Lady?”
“Yes. She thought you might find these things useful.” Heather saw the relief in Megan’s face as she spied the loaf of bread in the basket. “Might I come in?” Heather glanced back at Lucilla and Marcus, now playing a boisterous game of tag on the swath of grass before the farmhouse. “And if the baby — Callum, isn’t it? — is crochety, perhaps we’d best leave those two outside.” Turning back to Megan, Heather let her smile turn understanding. “Meanwhile, perhaps I can help you — at least hold Callum while you get some chores done.”
Megan all but sagged with relief. “Thank you, miss, that would be most kind. But I wouldn’t want to impose—”
“You won’t be. I’m happy to help.” Stepping over the threshold as Megan stepped back, Heather took in the almost painfully neat space, kitchen and sitting room rolled into one. Despite the austerity, there were small touches of warmth here and there, most to do with the baby, grumbling and grouching and waving his tiny fists in the bassinet set in the sunshine before one window.
“Here.” She handed over the basket. “You take care of that, and I’ll make Callum’s acquaintance.”
Megan took the basket and set it down on the table. Heather felt her watchful gaze as she went to the bassinet, leaned over to coo, then play with Callum’s batting fists.
The baby’s eyes were wide, just coming into a definite blue. A tuft of fluffy brownish hair decorated his pink crown; with his button nose, round face, and pink cheeks, he looked very like a doll come to life.
“I’ve helped my sisters-in-law, cousins, and my cousins’ wives with their babies.” Heather spoke without looking at Megan, as, acquaintance made, she carefully lifted Callum into her arms. “Between them, they’ve had quite a few, and I can assure you most were far more fractious than this sweet boy.”
Callum looked into her face as if fascinated by the different cadence of her voice.
Megan watched, but then, reassured by Heather’s confident handling of little Callum, relaxed and gave her attention to the basket. She unpacked it, briskly setting the various items about the kitchen. “Please do thank the Lady — and I ’spect Cook — for the loaf. Helps if I don’t have to bake.”
“I will.” Heather rocked Callum in her arms. He’d settled like a lamb, still staring up at her, possibly at the curls that fell from the knot on the top of her head.
Some minutes later, “Hmm. . miss, do you know what this’s for?”
Heather turned to see Megan holding up a bottle of what looked to be medicine. Still gently rocking and jiggling Callum, Heather walked over. The bottle contained a pale syrup. “Can you open it for me?”
When Megan obliged, Heather touched a finger to the rim of the bottle, then tasted. “Ah, yes. Dill essence in syrup.” She smiled. “Catriona — the Lady — is looking ahead. It’s for when the colic sets in.” Realizing from Megan’s mystified expression that she didn’t know of the joys awaiting her, Heather explained.
Megan looked at the bottle with new respect. “She’s a wonder, the Lady. Do please give her my most humble thanks.”
Heather inclined her head, then wandered back to the shaft of sunlight. Looking down at Callum, still wide awake, but utterly quiet, she said, “He seems quite settled.”
“Aye — he likes to move a little, just as you’re doing.” Megan set the empty basket down by the door. Then hesitated.
Without looking up, Heather murmured, “If you’d like to attend to any chores, I’m happy to keep him amused.”
“If you’re sure. .?”
Heather smiled. “Yes. Will we be out of your way here?”
“Oh, aye. It’s the washing I need to finish, and if I can get the pot on, that will be a blessing.”
Swaying slightly, Heather stood in the sunshine before the window, rocked Callum in her arms. . and thought of how she might feel if the baby were her own.
Of course, if she followed that thought to its logical conclusion, the baby would have dark hair and hazel eyes. She couldn’t imagine having any other man’s child, which, she suspected, said quite a lot. Breckenridge had mentioned wanting children, and she’d immediately seen herself rocking his son. She’d wanted that dream, but it was only a part of the wider whole.
Of all they — he and she — might have, if only. .
If only he loved her enough to tell her so.
During the night, in between her fitful bouts of sleep, she’d revisited her decision, as one did in the dead of night when one tried to find a way through a shifting maze, questioning at every turn. She’d wondered if, perhaps, she could manage without him declaring he loved her.
Pointless to pretend she didn’t care for him, that she wasn’t, indeed, in love with him. If she hadn’t been, she would never have been wasting so many hours thinking and obsessing about him and his inscrutable ways.
So could she agree to marrying him without knowing, without being certain, that he loved her in return?
No matter how she’d twisted and turned, the answer had remained the same.
Because she loved him, she couldn’t risk marrying him without the assurance.
Because without that assurance, she would live in constant fear, never feeling safe in her love, never certain that he wouldn’t break her heart by turning to other ladies.
She was neither blind nor witless. She knew his reputation had been wellearned.
But other rakes had changed; she knew of several who had become pattern-cards of virtue after they had wed.
But they’d all been in love; head over heels, undeniably in love.
Only love was a guarantee that he would be hers for ever more.
And she was who she was; she needed ever more.
So no, she needed to hear his love declared. . or at least communicated in some unequivocal way. Even if he never said the words, as long as she knew.
Words were only words, after all, easy to say, easy to forget.
Actions spoke louder. .
Were there any actions, any undeniable clues that he did indeed love her despite his refusal to say the fateful words?