A Twist of Fate by Susannah Carleton
Chapter 1
Berkshire, 03 January 1814
Lord David Winterbrook was lost. Not in the wilds
of Africa, nor in the vastness of the Americas. He was lost somewhere
in southeastern Berkshire or southern Oxfordshire, not more than twenty-five
miles from home.
It was laughable really, or would be under other
circumstances. In his current situation, with snow falling merrily and
no habitation in sight, it was lamentable. David had left a friend's home
this morning in high spirits after a two-day visit, but eager to return home
to his daughter. So eager, in fact, that he'd eschewed his comfortable traveling
coach and the post roads in favor of a cross-country ride. He could only
hope he, and little Isabelle, too, would not suffer too much for his folly.
With the unwavering optimism that had carried
him through twenty-six years of life, David told his mount, "There will
be something around the next curve in the road." Then he kicked the roan
gelding into a canter, hastening to assure that he was correct.
There was, indeed, something ahead, although not
the cozy inn for which he'd hoped. Instead, there was a woman, bundled into
a collection of rather shabby but warm-looking clothes, trying to convince
an ancient nag to pull an even older gig from the ditch back onto the road.
David sighed, knowing he was about to get very wet, and very cold. Then,
assuming the road to be icy beneath the rapidly accumulating snow, he slowed
his mount to a walk.
Dismounting several feet away from the woman and
her antiquated conveyance, he tied his horse's reins to a rather thorny
bush. Walking carefully--the road was quite icy--he approached her.
"May I be of assistance, ma'am?"
She either did not hear him or chose to ignore
him, for she made no response. Puzzled, but too much the gentleman to leave
her stranded, he walked closer and spoke again.
"May I assist you, ma'am?"
She turned toward him. David felt a shiver up
his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. One look at her and he
knew, instantly and with absolute surety, that she was the woman he had
been searching for, the lady he would love for the rest of his life.
Three generations of Winterbrooks had recognized
their loves at first sight. David had begun to wonder if his ill-fated
first marriage had doomed him to live without love, and was pleased to know
that was not to be his destiny.
He bowed and introduced himself. "David Winterbrook,
at your service, ma'am."
She stared at him for a long moment as if judging
his intentions. Or his sincerity and strength. "Thank you. I would welcome
your assistance."
Her accent was that of an educated member of the
upper class, but there was something unusual about the tone of her voice.
David put the thought aside for later consideration and turned toward the
gig. And the ditch, which contained about a foot of water. Repressing a
sigh at the imminent ruination of his favorite pair of boots, he climbed
down the bank to inspect the wheels of the gig.
Fortunately, they appeared undamaged. He was also
pleased to note that the vehicle was not heavily laden, containing a box
of what appeared to be foodstuffs: a bag of flour, a tin of tea, a jar
of preserves, and other such items. The lady, apparently, had been to market.
Which meant there must be a town or village nearby. David's spirits lightened
at the thought.
"If you will lead the horse forward, ma'am, I
will push the gig. We will soon have you back on the road again."
When she neither responded nor reached for the
reins, he scrambled up the muddy bank and repeated his instruction, then
climbed back down into the ditch.
A quarter of an hour later, the gig was back on
the road, and David was mud-splattered from head to foot. When she turned
to thank him, the lady--he did not even know her name!--gaped at
him. And not, he was certain, for the same reason he gazed at her face.
"Oh, look at you! Mr. Winterbrook, I am most grateful
to you for your assistance, but I fear you will regret your good deed.
You are muddy from head to toe."
Biting her lip, she subjected him to a long look.
Since her attention was focused on his face, which he knew was not mud-splattered,
he had the feeling that she was judging him in some way, although he could
not imagine why. "I think, sir, that you had best follow me home and allow
me to try to clean your greatcoat and boots before you continue your journey."
"It is kind of you to offer, Mrs….ah, ma'am."
He made the error deliberately, hoping to learn her name.
"Forgive my rag-manners, Mr. Winterbrook. I am
Mrs. Graves."
She was married? Surely fate could not be so
unkind! "I imagine your husband would object to a stranger accompanying
you home."
"I am a widow and, thus, need please only myself.
And it would not please me to have you arrive at your destination covered
in mud when you were kind enough to stop and help me."
"Thank you, Mrs. Graves, but you need not worry
about my appearance. I intend to travel only to the nearest inn, and can
have my coat cleaned there."
She glanced at the sky, then back at him. The
way she stared at him as they spoke was rather disconcerting. "The nearest
inn is more than twelve miles from here--"
"Twelve miles?" He looked at the rapidly
accumulating snow. "Is there no town or village closer?"
"Little Twigham is about six miles from here,
but it is a very small village, scarcely larger than a bump in the road."
"If it is large enough to have a market, surely
it must have an inn. Or even a tavern where a stranded traveler might
find a bed."
The widow shook her head. "There is neither market
nor tavern in Little Twigham."
"Is that not where you did your shopping?" He
pointed at the box in the back of the gig.
"No. The squire's housekeeper was kind enough
to pick up a few things for me Saturday when she went to Tidmarsh."
David could not help but wonder if the squire
was one of her suitors. Not that it mattered. The snow was falling so
heavily that riding twelve miles was impossible. He would have to accept
her offer, and to hope that, once he looked more presentable, he could
beg a night's shelter in a nearby house. Perhaps from the squire himself.
"Mrs. Graves, who are the local landowners? Perhaps
I am acquainted with one or more of them and can request a bed and a meal."
"Squire Patterson owns most of the land hereabouts.
Sir Brian Fifer has an estate not too far from Tidmarsh, but…" She gestured
at the snow.
"How far is it to the squire's home? Would he
give a stranger a bed for the night?"
"Nearly five miles, but I doubt that his charity
would extend to giving a stranger bed and board. Especially not in your
present condition."
Although he thought the squire would be pleased
to host the Marquess of Bellingham's younger son for the night, mud-splattered
or not, David doubted that his horse could travel half that distance in
the rapidly accumulating snow.
"What houses are between here and the squire's?"
"Larkspur Cottage--my home--is about half a mile
away. The only house between my cottage and the squire's home belongs to
one of his tenants. It is about two miles beyond the cottage."
Two and a half miles was not impossible. It would
be a damned difficult journey, but it was not completely beyond the realm
of probability. But once he left her cottage, there would be no fallback
position. And no margin for error.
Mrs. Graves obviously shared his concern. "At
the rate the snow is falling, I wonder if you can make it even that far.
Especially since it is nearly dusk."
"I have no choice but to try, ma'am."
Biting her lip again, she took another long look
at him, the snow on the road, and the sky. "Yes, you do have a choice. And
I think you'd best come with me. My home is not as comfortable or as commodious
as the squire's, but I can offer you a good meal and a warm, dry bed for
the night."
"Thank you, ma'am. It is very kind of you to offer."
Very unusual as well, although it did explain her intense scrutiny. She
had been judging him, and he, it seemed, had passed the
test.
"One good turn deserves another, they say."
He wondered at her attempt to make light of her
offer. Was she already regretting her invitation? He
did not. She was the woman he would love for the rest of his life, and
he welcomed the opportunity to get to know her a bit.
"Can you tie your horse to the back of the gig?
I have never driven on such an icy road, and I fear I will land in the
ditch again."
He did as she bade, then helped her into the gig
and climbed in himself. A few minutes later, she pointed to a gatepost on
the right side of the road. "Turn there."
The drive was mercifully short. David was not
sure what he expected her home to be like--having any expectations at
all seemed rather ludicrous under the circumstances--but he was reasonably
certain the little cottage nestled under the trees was not the proper setting
for the lady. No one came running from the small stable behind the house
to greet them. Nor from the cottage. Just when he would have turned toward
the front door, she said, "Pull up to the stable. The boy who cares for
the horses probably went home when the snow began falling so heavily, so
I will have to unharness the horse."
"I will stable the horse, ma'am, if you will show
me where to find the tack and feed. And where to park the gig."
She turned toward him. "What did you say?"
"I said that I will stable the horse if you show
me where the tack and feed are." David halted the vehicle outside the stable
and jumped down to open the door.
The widow climbed down behind him, then led the
horse inside and parked the gig in what appeared to be its designated
spot on the left side of the aisle. "It is kind of you to offer, sir, but
I am quite capable of caring for the horse."
"I am sure you are, Mrs. Graves, but I could not
call myself a gentleman if I allowed you to do so."
Madeline Graves looked at her unexpected guest
and wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in inviting him to her
home. She had assumed Mr. Winterbrook to be a solicitor or a man of business,
possibly even a merchant. Prosperous to be sure, given the quality of his
clothing and his horse, but a member of the middle class, not the upper
one.
Lynn's experience with so-called gentlemen was
limited to her father, her two older brothers, and her husband, but if
the four of them were representative of the group, there was little to recommend
them. Certainly no gentleman had ever shown her kindness, or gone out of
his way to help her. Neither her relatives nor her late husband would have
offered to assist a stranger. Most would not help the women they knew, unless
there was something in it for them.
But watching him as he efficiently unharnessed
the old mare, then brushed and fed her, Lynn was willing to believe that
Mr. Winterbrook was different from the gentlemen of her acquaintance. Mostly
because the alternative was too horrible to contemplate.
When he finished his self-appointed task, including
cleaning the horse's hooves--something, Lynn ruefully acknowledged, she
would not have thought to do, nor known how to accomplish if she'd remembered--he
picked up the crate from the back of the gig.
"Mr. Winterbrook, you don't have to carry that!"
He smiled down at her. "Yes, ma'am, I do. Unless
you tell me closing the door is more difficult than carrying this box."
"No, it closes easily enough."
Side by side they left the stable and walked toward
the house. Lynn was proud of her home. After her husband's death, she'd
had to sell the house in which they'd lived, and most of their possessions,
to pay his debts. Although she'd feared the gambling vowels would consume
every penny, there had been just enough money to buy the snug little cottage
with its two acres of land. Her only income was her husband's Army pension,
and given his disgraceful conduct, she was fortunate to have that.
But as she opened the back door and motioned Mr.
Winterbrook inside, Lynn was quite conscious of the fact that her little
cottage was probably nothing like his home. She was pleased to note that
he scraped his boots carefully before entering. And as soon as he set the
box on the kitchen table, he moved to the hearth and added a log to the
fire. Really, he was a most unusual gentleman!
Before removing his greatcoat, he helped her remove
her cloak, then her late husband's uniform coat, which she had worn underneath
for warmth.
"Your husband was a soldier?"
"He was." Lynn did not want to discuss Frank with
Mr. Winterbrook. Or with anyone.
Something in her voice must have indicated her
dislike of the topic, for her guest said, in a neutral tone, "My brother
was a major in the Queen's Light Dragoons."
A major in the cavalry! The Winterbrooks must
be quite well to do. "My husband was a lieutenant in the infantry."
Lynn pressed her lips together, determined to say no more about her late,
unlamented husband. "Was your brother older or younger than you?"
"I have only one, ma'am. George is four years
older." Mr. Winterbrook grinned. "He married a lovely girl last June,
and I learned over Christmas that they will present me with a niece or
nephew this summer."
"How wonderful for them. And for you." Lynn loved
children, but despite her fervent prayers, she had never conceived.
She grabbed the kettle from the hearth and moved
to the pump to fill it. As she glanced over her shoulder at her guest, she
saw his lips move, then curl into a smile. Cursing her wretched hearing,
and her brute of a husband for causing her near deafness, she turned around
to face Mr. Winterbrook.
"Forgive me, sir. I could not hear what you said
whilst I was pumping the water."
He took the kettle from her, then crossed to the
fireplace and hung it from one of the pot hooks. As he stood erect, he
smiled again. Lynn's stomach clenched as she realized that he had repeated
his statement and was awaiting her response. Unfortunately, he'd had his
back to her, and because she had not been able to watch his mouth, she had
no idea what he'd said.
With anyone else, she would try to bluff it out--return
the smile and hope it was an appropriate response. That seemed wrong in
this case, but she did it anyway, unwilling to confess her hated weakness
to a stranger. Even a kind, rather handsome one.
Lynn was well aware that she owed Mr. Winterbrook
a debt of gratitude, not only for stopping to help her, but because he
had undoubtedly ruined his greatcoat and his boots getting her gig out of
the ditch. She had, perhaps, compensated somewhat by offering him a night's
shelter, but she knew she was still in his debt.
She would, of course, try to clean his coat and
boots when they dried, but she could do nothing until then. Nothing, that
is, but feed him. Unfortunately, she had little she could serve with his
tea--no scones or macaroons, only bread and butter. Resolving to bake a
cake tomorrow if the weather continued inclement and extended his stay,
she crossed to the dresser for the teapot and cups. After placing them,
and two spoons, on the table, she went to the larder to get the sugar loaf
and the cream pitcher.
When she returned, he was standing beside the
table. Lynn flushed, realizing she had not even offered him a seat. "Please
sit down, Mr. Winterbrook."
He pulled out the chair at the head of the table
and seated her before taking the place she had indicated. Lynn seldom had
guests, nor was she accustomed to conversing with strangers, but as hostess
it was her duty to find a topic of conversation.
The weather would do, she supposed, then remembering
something he had said on the road, she asked, "Am I right in thinking
you are not from this area, sir?"
"In truth, Mrs. Graves, I have no idea where I
am," he confessed, his expression sheepish, "so I cannot accurately answer
your question. How far are we from Reading?"
"You are in eastern Berkshire, sir. Reading is
five or six miles southeast of Tidmarsh."
"I believe you said earlier that Tidmarsh is about
twelve miles from here." It was half statement, half question.
She nodded. "Yes, that is correct."
"I am not the mathematical genius my father and
brother are, but I know the Pythagorean Theorem. If Tidmarsh is five or
six miles northwest of Reading and I live twelve miles north of that city,
then it is less than thirteen miles from Tidmarsh to my home in Oxfordshire.
Nearly twenty-five miles from here."
A moment later he rose, crossed to the hearth
and picked up the kettle, then carried it to the table and began filling
the teapot. Lynn stood, too, reaching to take over the task, but he waved
her back to her seat. After filling the teapot, he turned toward her expectantly,
the kettle still in his hand.
Once again she had no idea what he had said. She
felt the color rising to heat her cheeks. When she should have been watching
the kettle so that she would know when the water was boiling, she had been
watching the movement of his lips to be sure she understood his words. And
when she ought to have been looking at him, she had been staring at the
table and berating herself for not watching the kettle. She stifled a sigh.
"Forgive me, sir. I fear I was woolgathering."
He lifted the kettle. "Should I refill it and
put it back on the hob?"
"No." She would need hot water to wash dishes,
but not until later. "Thank you."
After moving teapot, cups, and saucers so she
could reach them, he walked to the window and looked outside. Lynn cast
her gaze heavenward and prayed he was not speaking. Had she realized all
the problems inherent in attempting conversation with a stranger, she
would have confessed earlier and been done with it.
When she could bear the suspense no longer, she
reached for the teapot and poured the beverage into the cups. "The tea
is ready, Mr. Winterbrook."
At the sound of her voice, he turned from the
window and resumed his seat. To her great relief, his expression was thoughtful,
not the annoyance she feared she would see because his statements or questions
had been ignored.
"Cream and sugar, sir?"
"A little sugar and just a drop of cream, please."
She prepared his tea, then handed him the cup.
"I wish I had scones or cake to offer you, but…"
"But you were not expecting any guests today."
He had the nicest smile of any man Lynn had ever met.
"No, I was not. But I promise you a hearty stew
for supper, with fresh…Oh, the bread!" Hoping it was not burnt, she crossed
to the wall oven.
"It smells delicious."
"Thank you. I put it in the oven before I left
for the squire's, but I completely forgot about it until just now." When
she turned back to the table, he was standing beside his chair. Lynn blushed,
unaccustomed to such gentlemanly courtesies. "Please sit down and drink
your tea."
After one swallow, he set his cup on the table.
"The light is fading fast due to the storm. I am going out to settle the
horses for the night. Do you have any other animals?"
"Mr. Winterbrook, there is no need for you to
care for my animals!"
"I believe we have already had this conversation,
ma'am. I do not doubt your ability to care for them, but I will not sit
idly while you work. And I am much more effective in a stable than a kitchen."
He grinned.
It was impossible to resist that boyish smile.
"I have a milk cow and half a dozen chickens, too."
Waiting for him to admit defeat--he had surely
never milked a cow--she sipped her tea. And nearly choked when he asked,
"Is the barn directly behind the stable?"
"It is."
"Do you have a lantern?"
"Yes." Then, unable to believe this elegantly
clad, self-proclaimed gentleman had ever been next or nigh a cow, she
challenged, "Have you ever milked a cow, sir?"
"Many times, ma'am." After a moment's pause, he
added, "I…ah, manage one of the Marquess of Bellingham's estates. I don't
believe in asking my workers to do anything that I cannot, so I have performed
every farm-related task you can think of--and many that most people never
imagine. Milking is a job I do regularly. Every Sunday, to be precise."
Lynn could not have been more surprised if he'd
said he could fly. "Why on Sundays?"
"My best milkmaid's father is the leader of an
evangelical sect that does not believe in working on the Sabbath. And since
I do not believe it is fair to ask the other women to work harder on Sundays,
I milk then."
"You are a most unusual man, Mr. Winterbrook."
"Is that a good or bad thing?" he asked, smiling.
"My brother has an estate in Dorset, where he breeds and trains horses.
I am not a wagering man, but if I were, I would bet that George, too, has
performed every task he asks his workers to do."
He stood and reached for his greatcoat. "If you
will get the lantern for me, Mrs. Graves, I will go out and settle your
animals for the night."
She gave it to him, along with an extra candle
and a flint. He put both in his coat pocket, then pulled on his gloves.
"Do you have a long rope? Long enough to reach from the stable to the back
door?"
"There is rope in the stable. And some in the
barn, too, I think, although I doubt any of them are that long."
Her expression must have reflected her puzzlement
because he gestured at the window. "The snow is still falling heavily,
and the wind seems to be increasing. We may well have a blizzard by morning.
Since snowdrifts will make the path look even more unfamiliar than it
is, I want to stretch a rope from the cottage to the stable, and another
from the stable to the barn, so I can get there and back safely."
"That is an excellent idea!" Lynn reached in the
drawer for a sharp knife, which she handed to him. "The door at the back
of the stable leads almost straight to the barn. You will probably need
to cut one of the ropes to cover that distance. And tie some together to
reach from the stable to the house."
He donned his hat, then a moment later removed
it. "I would rather not have to chase it around the yard when the wind
blows it off."
Lynn smiled at the image his words conjured. "That
would be an amusing sight."
Pointing at the puddle of water around her chair,
he admonished, "You had best change into dry clothes while I am outside,
so you don't catch a chill. I will knock on the door when I return."
"There is no need for that, sir. I will be changed
long before you finish." Lynn did not want him standing in the cold if
she failed to hear his signal.
His expression was skeptical, but he said nothing
more, merely turned toward the door.
"Please be careful, Mr. Winterbrook."
He smiled over his shoulder at her, then opened
the door and walked outside. Before he had taken more than three steps,
the swirling snow obscured his figure from her view.
From A Twist of Fate by Susannah Carleton, Signet, September
2003, ISBN 0-451-20937-0.
Copyright © 2003 by Susan A. Lantz.
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