The Taste of Innocence (37 page)

She bit back an acid comment, then remembered. She raised her brows. “Mr. Sinclair seems…an interesting gentleman.”

From the corner of her eye, she caught Charlie’s slight frown; a minor triumph. At the moment, minor triumphs were all she’d garnered, but it was early days yet.

Resigned to the afternoon being lost to her campaignwise when, after luncheon, Charlie retired to the library to search out some details he and Sinclair intended to study, she retreated to her sitting room.

The day outside was cool. She looked out the windows, then drifted about the room; she wanted to forge ahead with her campaign, but at that moment there was nothing she could sensibly do.

With a frustrated sigh, she sat on the chaise and reached for the basket of mending she’d had fetched from the orphanage. The staff there did all they could, and Twitters helped, occasionally convincing Clary and Gloria to assist, but there was always so much to patch and darn, so many rips to stitch together again.

She was thus employed when she heard a footstep in the corridor. As usual, she’d left the sitting room doors propped wide; she looked up as Mr. Sinclair glanced in. He was obviously on his way to the library, but he stopped, smiled, and entered to greet her.

Smiling, she held out her hand; Charlie using him as a shield wasn’t Sinclair’s fault, and there was nothing to take exception to in his manners or his person. “Good afternoon, sir. Pray excuse me for not rising—I’m temporarily weighed down.”

By the blanket she was darning.

Sinclair bowed over her hand, but as he straightened, his gaze fastened on the blanket; she could almost hear him wondering why the Countess of Meredith was darning at all, much less such an old thing.

“It’s from the orphanage,” she explained. “I help as I can.”

“Ah.” His face cleared. He glanced briefly around, taking in the room. “You’ve made yourself at home here—it suits you.”

“Thank you.”

He looked again at the basket of darning. “I’d heard that you were involved with the orphanage.” He tipped his head at the nearby armchair; intrigued, she waved him to sit.

Gracefully doing so, he continued, “I’ve seen Quilley Farm—it’s visible from my front steps. As you know, I’m thinking of settling in the district. I’ve never lived outside London, and…well, I thought that taking an interest in some endeavor like the orphanage might be a good way to fill some of my hours and build bridges with the local community.”

If he hadn’t added that last phrase, Sarah would have suspected him of bamming her; instead, she saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

He leaned forward attentively. “I wonder if you could tell me something about the place?”

She smiled, and obliged. The words came readily to her lips; she was comfortable describing the institution her godmother had established, having done it so often before.

But she knew better than to enthuse too long. She concluded with, “Given the increasing number of factories in Taunton and the increase in shipping, too, no matter how much we might wish it otherwise there’s likely to be a corresponding increase in the need to care for children left behind in the wake of accidents and tragedies.”

Sinclair had been listening intently. Now he nodded. “I see.” He smiled briefly, confidingly. “I was present when his lordship dismissed the offer for the orphanage on Friday. Now I understand why he said your involvement runs deep, and that you would have no interest in selling.”

Sarah blinked. Ice slid through her veins. “Offer? To buy the orphanage?”

Sinclair’s eyes locked on hers, swiftly—almost disbelievingly—searching. A faint flush rose in his pale cheeks. “I…apologize. I…assumed his lordship would have mentioned the matter.”

Sarah’s features felt stiff. She waved aside his embarrassment. “No need for apologies.”

Sinclair rose. “Nevertheless, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

The tone of his voice—as if he were irritated, but not at her—kept her silent as she looked up at him.

He held her gaze for a second, then his lashes flickered down over his hazel eyes and he bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I really should join Meredith in the library. I daresay he’s expecting me.”

“He is,” Sarah affirmed, her tone not as harsh as it might have been; none of what she felt was Sinclair’s fault.

She could do little about her expression, however; it was stony as she inclined her head. Sinclair turned and left. She watched him disappear down the corridor.

His footsteps faded, then she heard a door close. She sat unmoving for a full minute, then she lifted the blanket in her lap and reapplied herself to the patch she’d been darning.

There was no point even trying to think until her temper cooled.

He should have told her—as even Sinclair, a confirmed bachelor, understood.

An hour and a half later, Sarah strode across the lawn, then swung onto the paved paths of the rose garden. Arms wrapped around herself, she paced. Her jaw remained clenched; a sense of cold that had nothing to do with the weather had sunk to her bones.

How could she engage with him, make headway against his foolish dictate, when he continued to push her away? When he refused to engage with her even on the subjects he should engage with her on, but rather erected a barrier—a wall that increased in breadth, width, and solidity by the day—between them.

At least he’d dismissed the offer; in that, at least, he’d kept faith with her.

Yet keeping faith with her on the subject of their marriage, of their love, was what he was otherwise so adamantly not doing. Refusing to do.

Although her temper had calmed somewhat, she only just managed to suppress a frustrated scream.

She walked briskly, pointlessly, back and forth; rosebushes offering the promise of spring today provided no distraction. Today her mind wasn’t inclined to seek encouraging analogies. Today, she was engrossed in feeling cold.

In feeling unbelievably alone.

She’d grown up with four sisters, and Twitters; she’d rarely spent an hour alone. Yet now, in her new home with her husband in residence, for the first time in her life, she felt loneliness bite.

Sensed its emptiness.

Quelling a shiver, she swung around to pace back toward the house. A faint sound reached her; she looked up.

And saw Sinclair leaving via the terrace, Charlie seeing him off at the library’s French doors. Sinclair hadn’t stayed as long as he usually did. Even from this distance, she detected a certain stiffness in Charlie’s stance, in his nod as he parted from Sinclair. She couldn’t make out his expression, yet it appeared her husband was not best pleased.

Sinclair turned to follow the terrace past her sitting room and on to the stables; Charlie retreated and shut the French doors.

Sinclair strode along, then caught sight of her. Halfway along the terrace, he hesitated, glanced back at the library windows, then walked quickly down the steps and strode her way.

Surprised, she halted and waited. Like Charlie’s, Sinclair’s face was usually unreadable. His expression rarely gave any hint of his thoughts, let alone his feelings, yet she was growing used to dealing with Charlie; she was growing more adept at looking elsewhere for clues.

By the time Sinclair joined her, she was puzzled. He appeared to be bridling an intense irritation. “Lady Meredith. I wanted to inform you that, after my earlier gaffe, I felt compelled to mention my indiscretion to his lordship.”

She raised her brows. She hadn’t expected that.

“While he seemed entirely unconcerned that I’d told you, I…” Sinclair paused, then drew in a breath; his lips thinned even more. “In short, his attitude over his lack of consideration in not having informed you of the offer for the orphanage fell far short of my expectations.”

Abruptly, Sinclair focused on her face. His sharp hazel eyes searched hers; Sarah struggled to place the emotion coloring his eyes, his voice…and was amazed to realize it was concern.

Apparently perfectly genuine concern.

“I realize, my dear, that I have no experience in such matters. I’ve lived my life almost entirely alone.” His tone had softened, but his grim dissatisfaction remained. “I don’t wish to pry, but I can see—appreciate—that matters are a trifle strained between you and…Charlie. Perhaps that’s a normal thing, so soon after your wedding—as to that, I don’t know. Nevertheless, I wish to most sincerely apologize if I have in any way contributed to that strain. Such was not my intention.”

She held his gaze, savored the sincerity in his words, then inclined her head. “Thank you.” She hesitated, then looked past his shoulder at the house. “I…it would be inappropriate to say more, but I most sincerely appreciate your understanding.”

Neither moved; a moment passed, then he said, his tone quieter, more gentle, “He…is a lot like me. In many ways, he strikes me very much as a younger version of myself, with his fascination for finance and investments.”

She glanced at him; he was looking at the library. His lips quirked ruefully. “As I mentioned, I’ve lived all my life alone. Enough to hope, for his sake, that he…comes to his senses.” He looked back and met her eyes. “And realizes what he has in you.”

She was astonished that he had commented on such a personal subject, let alone managed to do so while remaining within the bounds of polite conversation.

Before she could gather her wits to respond, he bowed. “Good-bye, my dear countess. I wish you better tidings. Until next we meet.”

With that, he was gone, striding away across the lawn. Reaching the terrace, he climbed the steps, then headed toward the stables.

Feeling oddly comforted, Sarah wrapped her arms once more about her; turning away from the house, she paced deeper into the garden.

Buoyed by Sinclair’s unexpected championing, she considered going in and bearding Charlie…but if she’d read Sinclair’s disapprobation, Charlie would have, too. His stiffness in farewelling Sinclair suggested he would be in no good mood over that point or, indeed, any point to do with her.

Eyes fixed unseeing on the path, she grimaced. Sinclair might have meant well, but Charlie was Charlie—masculine, arrogant, and likely to turn as inflexible as iron if pushed. It was highly unlikely that prodding him at the moment would advance her cause.

The burden of loneliness that Sinclair’s advent and his unexpected support had lightened slowly sank back onto her shoulders, weighing her down. A shiver too sharp to suppress had her turning around; loneliness wrapping ever tighter about her, she walked back to the house.

She returned via the terrace to her sitting room. She’d just closed the French doors on the dying day when Crisp appeared bearing a taper to light the candles and dispel the gathering gloom.

He also carried his salver, which he proffered. “A note, my lady.”

She lifted the plain folded sheet. “Thank you, Crisp.” She opened it and scanned the lines within, and frowned.

“Is there a problem, ma’am?”

Crisp’s question brought her back to herself. She looked at him. “No…that is, I’m not sure.” She glanced again at the note. “Mrs. Carter at the orphanage writes that there was a strange disturbance last night, but she doesn’t say what.” She contemplated the note, then forced a quick smile. “What ever it is, I’ll learn the details when I go there tomorrow, and as Mrs. Carter hasn’t requested any help, I suspect this is purely to keep me informed.”

“No doubt, ma’am. As is proper.”

It took an instant or two for Crisp’s last sentence to penetrate her distraction. She glanced at him, but with his usual butlerish mien in place, he was circling the room, lighting the candles she’d placed here and there; she couldn’t catch his eye.

He bent to light the lamp on the side table; once he’d adjusted the wick so that it was burning steadily, he turned to her and bowed. Then he straightened and spoke to a spot above her head. “Mrs. Figgs and I…well, we realize that as matters fell out we did not have occasion to receive you in the manner in which a new countess is traditionally welcomed to the Park. And indeed, introducing you to the staff would have been redundant as you were already acquainted with us all. However”—Crisp drew himself up to his full imposing height—“Mrs. Figgs, I, and all the staff wish to assure you of our fondest welcome and our hopes to serve you faithfully for many years to come.”

Sarah had to blink back tears. “Thank you, Crisp.” Her voice soft, she added, “Please assure Mrs. Figgs and the staff that I appreciate their wishes and their willingness to serve me.”

“Indeed, my lady.” Crisp bowed deeply, then turned on his heel and left her.

Sarah dragged in a huge breath, then dropped onto the chaise. A second unexpected declaration of support. She thought back; Crisp had been shooting concerned glances her way for a few days. Figgs, too. They must have detected…how had Sinclair put it? Ah, yes, that matters were a trifle strained between her and Charlie.

She should have guessed that the staff would notice, yet it seemed they, too, had declared for her. That they, too, appreciated what she was offering Charlie, the promise and the power of it.

It seemed the only one who didn’t appreciate that was Charlie.

Her impulse was to take the bull by the horns, but she knew him too well; wisdom insisted no good would be served—not now, not this evening.