A Lady Most Lovely (17 page)

Tom brought his horse to a stop and took in the view. The land fell away on all sides, breathtaking in its late summer glory. The fields of wheat were turning to delicate golden hues, while the trees were still lush and green. Only the slate-gray clouds marred the perfect landscape, although even they brought a certain wild beauty to the place. Yes, one could certainly sense the presence of God here.

He stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, and spreads them out as a tent to dwell in.

Off in the distance, Moreton Hall stood majestically, an august building of stone, laced here and there with ivy and topped with a slate roof and dozens of chimneys. It presided over a bucolic landscape of green pastures and woodlands, alternating with rows of golden wheat and the fields that lay fallow this year, awaiting their turn to contribute to the harvest.

As Tom’s gaze took all this in, he noticed a solitary figure perched on the wooden steps that straddled a low stone wall. She sat motionless, staring out at the fields, toward the west where the sun would be disappearing soon.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he nudged his horse forward, turning off the road and into the meadow.

S
he was not likely to welcome his arrival, he knew. She might very well be angry that he had followed her all the way up to Lincolnshire. She might consider this an unwanted intrusion. But Tom considered that Sully’s advice was right on the mark—especially today. Tom had his own reasons for being here, to be sure, but he believed God had a hand in it, too.

Margaret turned at his approach. “Mr. Poole,” she said crisply, standing up. “What a surprise.”

Tom stopped several yards away and dismounted. Thunder rolled in the distance, a dim rumble that made Castor toss his head in agitation. “Easy, boy,” he soothed, scratching the horse’s withers. It seemed to calm the creature, although his ears continued to flick back and forth, evidence of his anxiety.

Margaret was even more beautiful today. A fitful breeze tugged at the folds of her walking dress, shaping it to her body’s natural curves and rendering it more alluring than the low-cut dinner gown he’d last seen her in.

“Forgive me for showing up uninvited,” he said. “A man in town told me what happened.”

She took a step back, watching him with a guarded wariness. “Did you come to say
I told you so
? You said it was a bad investment, and you were right.” Her face twisted in pain. “Years of careful breeding and nothing but the best of care—all wiped out in the blink of an eye.” She lifted her chin. “But I will get you the money somehow. I always repay my debts.”

“The money,” he said with deliberate care, “is not why I came to Lincolnshire.”

Something flared in her eyes—that brief show of vulnerability, and Tom wondered if there was perhaps a chance that she was softening toward him. It was gone in a flash, however, replaced by the impenetrable coolness he was coming to know too well. She turned away as though he had not spoken, gesturing toward the gently rolling fields that lay between them and the town. “I’ve just come up here to give it a final look. It will go on sale soon.”

“You can’t mean you plan to sell your estate,” Tom said incredulously.

“Not all of it. The railroad company wants to buy a large tract near town to build a new line. It will make the journey to Lincoln shorter and more efficient.” Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “It will also be noisy and intrusive and eat up the very best of my farmland.”

She began to knead the back of her neck, as though trying to relieve the tension built up there. Tom thought he detected a glimmer of a tear in her eye. He wanted to reach out, to place his hands where hers were and massage away the pain. But such actions were improper in
her world, no matter how badly they might be needed. He would not push past her defenses; he would look for a way to draw her to him. As he stood there, forcing himself to keep his hands at his sides, he felt a few drops of rain hit his face. The storm was very nearly upon them.

Castor snorted and reared up a little. There was another crack of thunder, this time loud and impossible to ignore. A flash of lightning streaked across the sky.

“We need to get you home,” Tom said. “I wouldn’t want you to get soaked. Also, my horse gets nervous in heavy storms.”

Margaret looked up at the gathering clouds. “There’s no time to get back to the main house, and in any case it isn’t safe to cross the field in a lightning storm. However, there is an abandoned cottage not too far from here.” She pointed to a nearby wood.

It was a good plan. Tom nodded. “Come on then.” He mounted his horse, then reached down to offer Margaret a hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked sharply.

“Put your foot in the stirrup and I’ll pull you up. I can control the horse better if I’m riding him, and we’ll get to the cottage faster.”

She hesitated as Castor pranced with agitation.

“He’s restless because the weather is changing,” Tom assured her. “He’ll settle down once the rain arrives. I promise you’ll be safe.” He reached out his hand again. “Please. Trust me.”

Thunder cracked again, and the rain began to fall in earnest. Still looking dubious, Margaret lifted her skirt just enough to enable her foot to reach the stirrup. She extended a hand toward Tom and pushed herself up as
Tom pulled. Once she was on the horse, Tom settled her sideways in front of him, cradling her back with one arm. When he was certain she was secure, they set off.

Margaret wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on tightly and placing her head against his chest. Castor needed little urging, and in no time they were approaching the woods. Margaret kept her head down—a defense against the rain, no doubt—but Tom thought he detected a small sigh escaping from her. He savored her touch. It was heaven to have her so near to him, dependent on him—if only for these few moments. Tom kept the horse moving swiftly, even though he wished this ride might never end. Never before had a woman felt so right in his arms. Surely she belonged nowhere else.

They were soaked by the time they reached the cottage. As soon as Tom brought the horse to a stop, Margaret loosened her grip and slid to the ground, running the last few steps to the cottage door. It opened easily, and in a moment she was inside.

Tom dismounted and led Castor to a small open-sided shed. He tied the horse securely, giving it room to move but not enough leverage to break the ropes. “Easy, boy,” he said, patting the horse once more. “You’ll be fine.” Castor eyed him as if to say he was not at all sure about that. Tom said a quick prayer as he ran across the small yard to the cottage.

Margaret had been observing his actions through a small window. “Will your horse be all right, do you think?” she asked anxiously. “I heard terrible stories about what he was like aboard the ship from Australia.”

“The voyage was rough,” Tom acknowledged. “Horses have a long memory when it comes to bad experiences. But I trust to the Lord to keep him safe.”

Margaret made a small noise that seemed to indicate derision or disbelief, but said nothing. She was hugging herself tightly. Water slid down her face in tiny rivulets and dripped from the hem of her dress. He would gladly have tried to warm her by wrapping his arms around her again. It would have been a delicious feeling, but now that they were here, alone in a cabin, he did not want to appear to press his advantage. He contented himself by gently wiping away the raindrops on her cheek. He felt her shiver, but whether from the cold or his touch, he could not be sure. “We must get you dry,” he murmured, “or you will catch a chill.”

He did a quick survey of the cabin. It was empty except for a large plank table and a bench. But there was also a small stack of firewood. Sending up a silent prayer of thanksgiving, Tom knelt before the hearth and set about arranging a fire.

He could feel her eyes on his back, watching him as he worked. It took him no time at all to arrange the wood; building fires came as naturally to him now as breathing.

“We have no way to light it,” Margaret said.

“Ah, but we do.” Tom pulled a knife and a small piece of flint from his coat pocket, and within a few minutes he had coaxed a nice little blaze. “There you go,” he said, standing back and motioning her to the hearth. “Cozy as you please.”

*

The fire seemed to immediately fill the little cabin with light and warmth. Margaret’s sodden dress clung to her, cold and heavy, and she put out her hands gratefully to catch the heat from the flames. She sent a sidelong glance
at Tom, who remained close by, admiring his handiwork. “Do you always carry fire-starting devices with you?” she asked.

“Had to be self-sufficient in Australia.” He smiled and shrugged. “I suppose some habits are hard to break.”

Something in his smile caught and tugged at her, unaccountably lifting her spirits. He pushed back a lock of hair from his forehead with unconscious grace.
He has no pretense, no guile
, she thought.
In all his actions, he is as he seems.
What would it be like to live that way? A flash of envy raced through her. Embarrassed at this sudden rush of feeling, she turned her gaze back to the flames.

Tom pulled the bench to the hearth. “For you, my lady,” he said with a small bow.

She took a seat at one end of the bench, wondering if he would join her, and half-wishing that he would. Tom began to shrug out of his coat but then paused in mid motion. “May I?” he said deferentially. “I believe I shall dry faster without this on.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak and unable to turn her gaze away as he stripped off his coat and laid it across the table. His damp shirt clung to his broad chest and muscular arms, and suddenly the tiny cottage felt
too
cozy, too intimate. Tom gave the fire a poke with a bit of unused firewood, releasing a fresh burst of flames and heat. He looked around the little room with satisfaction. “I like it here,” he said.

“You do?”

“It’s welcoming and simple. Not like those enormous mansions in London, where a person can get lost between the front door and the parlor.”

It was an apt description, and Margaret couldn’t help but laugh. “I see that wealth hasn’t turned your head.”

“No,” he said. “I hope it never does.”

Watching as Tom set more wood on the fire, Margaret was struck by how he filled this humble space with dignity. The firelight played along his square jaw and strong hands. He certainly was not like any gentleman she’d known, but neither was he merely some rough laborer. He fell into a category she could not define. What sort of a man was it who could survive shipwrecks, love his family tenderly, and profess himself a Christian and yet have no qualms about getting into physical fights when threatened? Could one man truly be all those things? It was a rare mixture, to be sure.

“What happened to the people who lived here?” Tom asked.

His question drew her thoughts back to the troubles at hand. She sighed. “They’re off to the factories, like so many others. It’s just as well the railway company wants to buy it. No one wants to farm the land anymore.”

The rain pounded against the roof. In the far corner of the room, water began to drip from the ceiling and form a tiny pool on the floor. It seemed a metaphor for her life. No matter how hard she tried to shore up against the storms, they had a way of battering through her last defenses. The futility of it echoed in her heart, louder than the deluge on the roof.

She clenched her fists, fighting to keep from showing her bitter frustration. She had learned long ago never to show her true feelings. To bare one’s heart was to give someone else the upper hand, to open oneself to even worse trouble and ultimately to regret it.

Tom came over and sat next to her on the bench, gently loosening her fist with his touch. “Margaret, do not sell your land.”

Warmth radiated from his body, so close to hers, tempting her to draw closer as he kept caressing her hand. His gaze, too, was warm with compassion. But his words had sparked what little pride she had left. She must make her own decisions, and fight her own battles. She drew her hand back. “I don’t see that it is any of your concern.”

“But it
is
my concern. You would be selling the land to repay me. Don’t do it.”

“It is my land,” Margaret said stoutly. “I shall do what I think best.”

“Margaret, listen to me.” He took hold of her shoulders. “If you sell your best farmland, it will only hurt you in the long run. Your gain will be only temporary; you’ll lose the future profits from harvests and rents. In a few years you may find yourself even worse off than you are now. I have a better solution.”

His words, though meant to be kind, only grated her already raw emotions. She shook herself free and stood up. She had to put distance between them. She could not afford to be lured into his way of thinking. He was a man who could always snatch victory from even the most dire of circumstances. Naturally he would assume he could solve her problems. But he was wrong. Perhaps his life had been blessed, but hers had taken a decidedly different tack. One that she must navigate alone. “Oh?” Margaret said scornfully, her heart gripped with pain. “And just what, exactly, would you have me do?”