Now, as they halted to view the uncultivated slopes of Longledge Hill, Mirabel knew he wouldn’t drink in its beauty as she did, or take any more note of it than he’d done any other sight she’d indicated. He’d give it a careless glance, paste a politely indifferent expression on his face, and wait for her to finish talking.
He didn’t even remark on how clean and fresh the air was. Why should he? Inhaling the coal smoke–laden air of London for most of his life had killed his sense of smell. Living there had deadened his other senses as well. He was deaf, dumb, and blind to rural life’s beauties and joys.
She’d wasted her time. She’d been a fool to hope he’d understand what she was trying to protect.
A low rumble of a voice cut through the haze of frustration and resentment thickening in her head.
“If your bailiff is incompetent, Miss Oldridge, why do you not find another? Do you keep him out of sentiment? It cannot be for his skill, if he wants so much managing.”
Her gaze swiveled sharply to him.
Her astonishment must have shown, because he smiled and added, “Did you think I wasn’t attending?”
It was a small, crooked smile, and it made her heart go a little crooked, too, and beat erratically.
As though sensing Mirabel’s agitation, her mare Sophy edged away from Mr. Carsington’s gelding.
“I thought you had gone to sleep,” Mirabel said.
“I was thinking,” he said.
“Remarkable,” she said. “That never occurred to me.”
“I admit it is unusual,” he said. “Those who know me will say I’m inclined to act first and think later. But I’m trying to mend my ways.”
“I was unaware you had ways in want of mending,” she said. “I’d thought all the Carsingtons were paragons.”
“The paragons are my two older brothers.”
“But you are the famous hero.”
His mouth twisted. “I merely contrived not to disgrace myself during the short time in which I fought.”
“You are far too modest. You risked your own life several times, to save others.”
He gave a short laugh. “That’s what men who don’t think do. We plunge in without considering the consequences. It hardly seems right to call sheer recklessness ‘heroic.’ However, considering my complete lack of experience; I will take credit for not getting in anybody’s way or killing any of my compatriots by accident.”
Mirabel wondered why he was so deeply uncomfortable about any mention of his wartime experience. Though he kept his voice light, she’d caught the bitter undertone. She studied his face, but he was on guard now, and his strongly sculpted features told her nothing.
“You’re impulsive, you mean,” she said. “That is the fault you are trying to mend.”
“If only that were the sum total of my faults,” he said. “I fear I’m not one of the Carsington paragons, and not likely to become one.”
“I hope you do not,” she said. “You are trouble enough as it is, even in your desperately flawed state.”
He was a greater trouble than Mirabel was prepared for.
This day’s journey was futile. He’d never see what she’d achieved or have any inkling of what she’d sacrificed to achieve it. He wouldn’t understand why she’d bothered. She didn’t know how to explain about her bailiff, why she supervised him so closely. She was not about to delve into ancient history or explain an anxiety even she wasn’t sure was completely rational. Those were private matters, and he was a stranger, a London-bred stranger.
He was incapable of seeing the value of a place like Longledge Hill, and so could never comprehend the harm his canal would do.
But this wasn’t the worst of her troubles.
While he’d looked and seen nothing, Mirabel had caught a glimpse of the man behind the flawlessly groomed exterior.
The glimpse made her want to know more.
She knew this was a bad sign, and ordered herself not to probe further.
“Have you seen enough of Longledge Hill?” she said. “We can turn back any time you like.”
“I doubt I’ve seen enough,” he said.
“Very well.” Mirabel gave Sophy leave to walk on. The gelding and his rider promptly followed suit, and her groom Jock trailed behind at a discreet distance.
ALISTAIR meanwhile was regretting his recent impulse. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t challenged Miss Oldridge to take him on this tour. She was muddling him horribly, and this time it wasn’t completely the fault of her clothes, though they were maddening enough.
Her slate blue riding dress was five years out of date, her round cork hat was losing its trimming—which didn’t match the dress—and her green boots clashed with everything.
The ridiculous rig was all the more vexing because she was a skilled and elegant horsewoman. Though he knew any number of women who rode well, he greatly doubted any of them—except perhaps his mother—would attempt this ancient packhorse trail, which was growing narrower, steeper, more rutted and obstacle-fraught by the minute. Miss Oldridge, on a high-strung mare named Sophy, rode with fluid ease.
Alistair’s own mount was a powerful gelding of far less volatile temperament.
Normally, he would have preferred an animal not quite so tame. At present, however, he had strong reason to doubt his judgment.
It was true he was impulsive and reckless—but only with his own life and limb. He was never so cavalier with others’ lives, including those of dumb animals.
The other night, when he’d ridden back to the hotel in the icy rain, was a glaring exception. He hadn’t yet forgiven himself for the chance he’d taken with Mr. Wilkerson’s horse. If she’d been a fraction less sturdy and surefooted, she could have been seriously injured. Alistair had rather not contemplate the suffering the animal might have endured or the only way to end it.
With this folly in mind, he’d taken Miss Oldridge’s advice and borrowed for the tour one of her horses, because they were more accustomed to the local terrain.
“It is not much farther now,” she called back to him as they entered a wooded part of the hill. “We come to an outlook a short way ahead. We can pause there for a while, then begin the journey back.”
“We’re not going to the top?”
She halted, and he did likewise, careful to keep a distance from her skittish mare.
“We’re nearing the end of the old packhorse trail,” she said. “Farther up, the way becomes too steep and rocky for the horses to manage safely.”
“You’ve never been up there, then?”
“On foot,” she said.
“We can dismount,” Alistair said. “Your groom can look after the horses.”
She glanced at his bad leg.
He set his jaw and waited.
“The ground will be slippery after so much rain,” she said.
His mind flashed an image: shadowy figures scrambling for footing on ground slippery with blood.
He wasn’t sure whether it was real or his mind playing tricks. Either way, he couldn’t speak of it. One did not speak of such things, especially to women.
“You’ve made the climb wearing layers of skirts and petticoats,” he said. “My leg will not hinder me a fraction as much.”
“That does not mean you ought to punish it,” she said. “Pray recollect, you are unfamiliar with the terrain, you are not a countryman—”
“No, I’m a soft, decadent Londoner, is that it?”
“I’m not blind,” she said. “I can see you are not soft. Except perhaps for your vanity. Yours is amazingly sensitive, I note.”
“I’ve been trampled by cavalry and survived,” he said. “I believe I can climb a hill and live.”
“Mr. Carsington, even Captain Hughes, who can still climb a mast and run along those whatever they are—yards, I believe he calls them—even he would think twice before undertaking the upper slope at this time of year.”
“If I were as old as Captain Hughes, I should keep away altogether
.”
“It is a pity you are not old enough to have some sense,” she said.
“If an elderly gentleman like the captain can manage the hill in summer, I reckon I can manage it on a balmy spring day.”
“Elderly?” She stared at him for a moment, then said, as patiently as to a child, “It is February. And while the day did begin mildly enough, the wind has picked up.” She looked up. “Also, it looks like rain.”
Alistair looked up as well. The scattered clouds had grown and spread, but they were pale and unthreatening, with large patches of blue between. “Not for hours,” he said. “I shall be snug in my hotel long before the weather turns. Tell me the truth, Miss Oldridge. If you were on your own this day, would you stop halfway, or continue?”
“I’ve lived here my whole life,” she said. “I played here as a child. Obviously my case is altogether different from yours. Common sense should tell you to heed those with greater experience.” She let out a huff of impatience. “I do not understand why a gentleman of your intelligence would allow his pride and vanity to dictate to his common sense—but I can see it is no use arguing.”
She hardly raised her voice, but her tone was sharp, and her mare, growing uneasy, started backing off the path.
Alistair wished she had chosen a less temperamental mount for this journey. Sophy had a look in her eye he didn’t like. If she bolted—
“I beg you to attend to your mare,” he said, his calm voice belying the alarm twisting his gut.
But before he finished speaking, she had the horse quieted and guided her on. She made it all seem as effortless as if she were promenading along Hyde Park’s Rotten Row, rather than a narrow trail through a steeply angled landscape of rock and timber.
Still, the terrain wanted his full attention. To avoid distracting her again, Alistair held his tongue until they reached the outlook.
There, to his relief, she dismounted and let the groom take charge of her horse. Alistair did likewise.
The site was not the narrow ledge he’d pictured but a broad, rough terrace in the hillside. A handful of boulders adorned a thin carpet of brown, unidentifiable vegetation. One forlorn shrub grew out of a crack near the outer edge.
From this vantage point he looked out over the moors while his guide explained the difference between black and white lands. The black referred to the blackish-brown heath covering the ground, making it look like a landscape in Hell. The white lands had more green vegetation—some parts had even been limed and reclaimed—though at this time of year it was hard to tell the difference.
“You must know this isn’t nature’s work,” he said. “The moorlands were once forests. Then the great monasteries went into the wool business. No new trees grew to replace those cut down, because the sheep ate everything: the saplings, then the grasses that took the place of the trees, and eventually, all the grass. The sweet soil washed away and left your picturesque moorland, where only matgrass and heath can grow.”
“You think it’s ugly,” she said, turning away from him toward the bleak landscape beyond and below.
Surprised by the despairing note in her voice, Alistair moved nearer.
Since her round riding hat was small, with only the narrowest brim, he had no trouble seeing her face. The profile view revealed red-gold curls dancing wildly in the wind and a creamy countenance the air and exercise had tinged pink. No tear trickled from the too-blue eye and along the straight nose, and the soft, pink lips didn’t tremble.
Her chin jutted out a bit, but that seemed to be her usual way, looking defiant or stubborn or in general uninterested in trying to please anybody.
All the same, she struck him at this moment as young, far younger than her years…and lost.
Alistair told himself his romantic imagination was at work and overdoing it. She was one and thirty years old and had for a decade managed a large estate and handled all her father’s affairs. Even Alistair could see she’d done this successfully. The estate, clearly, was thriving.
Furthermore, according to Crewe, her neighbors generally agreed that she had a good head for business. Alistair understood how great a compliment this was and how very clever, strong-willed, and confident she must be to have earned it. Men usually resented women encroaching on their turf and would go out of their way to create difficulties for them.
In Longledge, however, most of the men—of both high and low degree—respected Miss Oldridge’s judgment and admired what she had done with her father’s property. She even had the power to sway opinions, as he’d discovered last night when he’d eavesdropped on her impassioned speech to Captain Hughes. The words had moved Alistair then, and troubled him yet.
Still, capable and strong-willed though she was, Alistair couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was lost, or vulnerable, or needful of something. He didn’t know what it was, but he sensed he’d somehow hurt or disappointed her, and this at least he must try to remedy.
He must do so, not because she was a damsel in distress, he told himself, but because he needed her on his side. She had influence with the landowners. His motives were purely businesslike and practical.
“To prepare for this mission,” he said, “I perused, among other volumes, Mr. John Farey’s General View of the Agriculture and Minerals of Derbyshire. Mr. Farey calls the moorlands ‘disgusting’ and the plants growing here ‘noxious and useless.’ While I will admit it is not the prettiest sight I have ever seen, I shouldn’t call it ugly or disgusting. Dramatic would be my word.”
She looked at him full on, the great blue eyes wary. “You are humoring me.”
“Miss Oldridge, the labor of humoring you far exceeds the bounds of my patience,” he said. “When I am with you, I can barely remember my manners.”
She smiled then, and his heart warmed as though it basked in summer sunshine. His brain, unfortunately, warmed as well, and commenced melting. He doubted he’d ever encountered a weapon more deadly than that smile.
“Your manners are otherwise very beautiful,” she said. “Several parties last night remarked that you belonged in the diplomatic corps.”
“How much more agreeable it would be for you,” he said, “were I spending this day with the Tsar in St. Petersburg.”
“I was thinking of someplace warmer,” she said.
“Hades?”
She laughed, and the light sound had the same whispery quality as her speaking voice. “I was thinking of Calcutta or Bombay.”
“Of course. There I might die of any number of contagions, if the heatstroke didn’t kill me first.”
“I don’t wish you dead,” she said. “I wish you well and thriving—elsewhere.”
“You could nudge me over the ledge,” he said, “if your groom happened to look away for a moment. It would confirm my valet’s Foreboding, and my father’s prediction of my coming to no good end. And everyone would be happy.”
Her smile faded. “Why would your father predict such a thing? You cannot be so desperately flawed as all that.”
“My sire finds me expensive and troublesome to keep,” he said. “I am, actually.”
She studied him for a moment, her blue gaze traveling the full length from the crown of his sleek hat to the toes of his top boots. “I can believe you are expensive.”
Alistair told himself she could discern no fault with his attire. No one ever could. All the same, he felt himself flushing under her scrutiny, which vexed him.
He became aware of dirt on his well-buffed boots, and thought the hem of his overcoat wasn’t quite straight. He was not sure his coats ever hung precisely as they should, because of his leg. The curst leg spoilt everything. He was sure it had become shorter than the right one, no matter what his tailor claimed. He wished he’d worn a riding coat, so the disparity would be less evident.
He found her looking at him questioningly. “It isn’t only my clothes,” he said.
“No, certainly not,” she said. “There are the expensive ballet dancers.”
“Yes,
that sort of thing. And the lawsuits. And the sponging houses. And—Oh, the list is immensely long.”
“Lawsuits,” she repeated. “Sponging houses. Well, well. You grow more complicated by the moment.”
“But I am mending my ways,” Alistair said. “The canal is completely respectable.”
“Yet your valet has forebodings, you said.”
“Not about the canal. About me. Crewe often has them. He believes his dreams predict the future.”
Alistair told her about the cliff dream, and the odd light, and how Crewe had had the same dream before Waterloo.
When he was done, she said, “If you do happen to fall, you may well break your neck. Drowning, on the other hand, would be difficult. The largest body of water nearby is the Briar Brook, which isn’t deep enough.”
“Then it should be safe enough for me to continue up the hillside with you,” he said.
“You mean dangerous enough. If it were safe, you would be as bored with the prospect as you have been with everything else.”
“You thought I was bored?” It was his turn to smile. “Well, then, perhaps you’re not as clever as I’d supposed.”
Six
MR. Carsington’s golden eyes danced, and the smile—the complete article, not a crooked bit of one—was devastating.
Mirabel quickly looked away and started up the path while mentally flagellating herself.
She should not have let the conversation become personal.
She had thought him possessed of the unshakable aristocratic self-assurance she’d encountered so often in London and found as unfathomable as her father did the mating habits of lichen. But Mr. Carsington had a chink in his armor. He wasn’t as sure of himself as it seemed.
This wasn’t the only way she’d mistaken him. His discomfort with mention of his wartime heroics wasn’t the usual becoming modesty, false or otherwise. He was truly uneasy, and she found herself wondering what troubled him so much about it, and wishing he’d tell her so that she could set him right.
She’d found out, too, that for all his vanity about his appearance, he was far from happy with himself.