Chapter Five
DISDAIN
Kyrah hurried home and climbed quickly beneath the covers, as if the security of her own bed might somehow save her from the feelings Ritcherd had confronted. But as his words echoed over and over through her head, it soon became evident that he’d been absolutely right. You can run, Kyrah, but you will never be free of whatever it is you’re hiding from. She finally managed to force that out of her mind, only to have it replaced with: Maybe if you start being honest with yourself . . .
When hours of darkness passed with the memory of all he’d said only becoming more prominent, Kyrah wrapped her arms over her head and groaned, wondering if she was going mad. Unable to bear the confusion another minute, she turned her mind to prayer. Uttering a desperate plea for strength and guidance, she realized that she couldn’t recall the last time she’d even thought to turn to God. As subtle inklings of peace began to trickle into her, she wondered if her lack of prayer had contributed to the problem.
When morning came, Kyrah knew exactly what she needed to do. And she knew she had to do it before she lost her courage. She scribbled a quick note for Sarah, who was still sleeping, and left the cottage to find the early morning sun blocked by intermittent clouds. Going through the woods near the back of the cottage, Kyrah followed a trail that she had once used frequently. It was a significant walk, but she came out of the trees just behind the gardens of Buckley Manor. She recalled many times through her youth when she had taken this path and sneaked into the house to find Ritcherd when she had needed to talk to him and it couldn’t wait until their usual daily meeting at the crossroad. By following a carefully thought out series of steps, she managed to stay mostly hidden by shrubberies and fences until she came to a little-used side door of the house. Taking a deep breath, she almost hoped that it was locked. But the knob turned easily in her hand, and she slipped inside to be met only by silence. She knew this part of the house was rarely used, and the servants would be busy elsewhere. Quietly she traversed long hallways and narrow staircases that were intended only for the servants to use. She was surprised how easily she found her way, when she’d not come here for so long.
Entering the final stretch of hallway, where Ritcherd’s rooms were, she hesitated, looking both ways to be certain she was alone. For a moment she nearly backed down and turned to leave. But she knew she could never live with herself if she didn’t face this here and now. Taking a deep breath, she knocked softly at his bedroom door, wondering what she would do if he were still asleep—or already gone.
“Yes?” he called immediately with a terse voice.
Kyrah opened the door and peered in to see him sitting at the writing desk, wearing a long dressing gown. His back was to her, and she wondered how to approach him. Her heart was pounding so hard that she found it difficult to even speak.
“What is it?” he snapped, turning toward her.
His countenance changed abruptly and he shot to his feet. “Kyrah,” he muttered as if he’d seen a ghost.
“You should be kinder to the servants,” she scolded and stepped in, closing the door behind her. “What have they done to deserve your disdain?”
“Forgive me,” he said. “I thought . . .”
“I know.” She hardly gave him a chance to continue. “You thought I was just one of the servants. Well,” she leaned against the door, “it could have happened. Your mother actually offered me a job.”
Ritcherd swallowed hard and bit his tongue. She was here and she was talking. He wasn’t about to express his anger over anything right now.
“I bet you didn’t know that, did you,” Kyrah went on. “But she did. She sent a message, kindly expressing her condolences over our change in circumstances—with no mention of my father’s death. She graciously offered me a job in the kitchen, saying she’d be happy to help us out in this way. Now, wouldn’t that have been something? War hero Captain Ritcherd Buchanan comes home to a warm welcome from his community, to find the woman he loves scrubbing pots in his very own kitchen.”
Ritcherd stared with no expression, and she forced herself to keep talking, if only to avoid the agonizing silence. “And I bet you didn’t know that most of our childhood peers have grown up to be more petty and judgmental than they ever were as children. From your perspective, I bet it would be difficult to fully understand how ugly and evil some people become with titles and money at their disposal. And I bet you didn’t know that one of the biggest things these people hold against me is not my change in status, or even the fact that I was once financially well off. No, what these people hate about me is the fact that you associated with me.”
Ritcherd briefly squeezed his eyes shut as a new level of understanding filtered into him.
“I bet you didn’t know any of that,” she repeated, and he shook his head. “But then, I am a betting person—daughter of a foolish gambler, living the life I’ve been deemed to deserve by the mighty and all-powerful aristocracy of north Cornwall.”
When Ritcherd said nothing, Kyrah felt suddenly unsure of how to continue. Needing a few minutes to compose herself, she suggested, “Why don’t you get dressed, and we can talk. I’ll wait in the sitting room.”
Ritcherd nodded. “You won’t run away, will you?”
“No,” she said, moving toward the opposite door, “I’ll be right here.”
Ritcherd stood for a moment, staring at the door she’d just gone through, hardly daring to believe that she was actually here. He prayed silently while he quickly got into his clothes, not wanting to give her time to change her mind.
Kyrah was grateful for a few minutes to gather her thoughts, but she hated being in this house. She would be glad to have this over with for many reasons.
Ritcherd took much longer than she’d expected, and it occurred to her that with his wounded arm, he likely had difficulty fastening buttons and such. He finally came into the room, wearing the typical narrow breeches, high boots, and white shirt. But she’d never seen the brocade waistcoat before. His appearance momentarily took her breath away. In response to his expectant expression, she glanced around and asked, “Will we be disturbed here?”
“No, of course not, but . . .” He hesitated, and their eyes met briefly. “Would you like to go somewhere else?” he asked, and she felt warmed by the evidence that he could still almost second-guess her thoughts.
Kyrah nodded. Ritcherd opened the door and followed her into the hall, attempting to quell the trembling in his stomach. He impulsively reached out a hand toward her, fully expecting her to reject it and walk ahead of him. But she hesitated only a moment before she put her hand into his. Hope surged through him as they walked together down the back stairs and out to the stables. “Or would you rather walk?” he asked as they entered. Kyrah shook her head and he added, “The church?” She nodded.
When Ritcherd had his stallion saddled and ready, he glanced toward her and asked, “Would you prefer your own mount?”
Again she shook her head and he added, “If I hadn’t heard you speaking in my bedroom, I would think—”
“It’s been so long, I’m not sure I can remember how to ride.”
“Sure you can,” he said. Knowing how uncomfortable she had been around him, and his less-than-conventional methods the previous evening, he wanted to give her every opportunity to keep her distance. “Do you want me to get you a—”
“We managed well enough last night,” she said, climbing into the saddle without any help.
Kyrah held her breath as Ritcherd got into the saddle behind her. His nearness, combined with her more recent thoughts, ignited something inside of her that she’d almost believed was dead. She noticed how he took the reins into his left hand, and his right hand rested against his thigh.
Ritcherd hurried the stallion toward the church ruins, not wanting to appear that he was dragging this out—even though he wanted to. Having her so near was almost intoxicating, and he prayed that this was a new beginning for them—not
an end. He dismounted outside the church ruins, and Kyrah slid out of the saddle before he had the reins tied off.
“All right,” he said after they’d ambled inside. “We’re here.” She seemed hesitant, and he feared that her willingness to talk might have lessened with the time it had taken them to get here. After hearing what she’d said already, there was so much he wanted to say in return. But he felt that it was important to allow her to have her say first.
He was beginning to wonder if she’d ever get started again when she said, “Please sit down, Captain Buchanan. There’s something I need to say, and I expect your undivided attention.” Ritcherd sat on one of the stone pews and motioned for her to continue.
Kyrah glanced skyward, as if divine intervention might prevent her from having to do this. She reminded herself that in a few minutes it would be over. She just had to say it and be done with it. She wrung her hands nervously and began to pace, then she forced herself to face Ritcherd and stand still.
“I . . . have three things I need to tell you,” she said, and Ritcherd’s heart quickened a little. She was taking his request of last evening literally. He hoped that was a good sign. “I need . . .” Her hesitance was so pronounced that Ritcherd could almost literally feel the courage she was gathering. He held his breath, as if he could somehow infuse his strength into her. When she squeezed her eyes shut and tears streaked down her face, Ritcherd unconsciously pressed a hand over his mouth to hold back his own emotion. “I need . . .” she repeated, her voice breaking, “your help.”
Kyrah swallowed hard, realizing she’d just gotten past one obstacle. She cleared her throat and forced her eyes open as she went on. “You’re right when you say that there is no place for pride between us, and I apologize for putting it there. You’ve never done anything to hurt me, Ritcherd. Never! The problem here is . . . circumstances. Yours. Mine. But . . . I realized last night that I can’t live this way anymore. These circumstances will destroy me eventually. And I won’t see my mother suffer any longer. I’m willing to lower my pride and ask for your help, not only for her sake, but for mine as well. So . . . later, can we talk about . . . what we could do so that . . .” again her voice broke, “so that I never have to set foot in that house again?”
“Of course,” he said. “It’s not a problem.”
“Thank you,” she said and drew a deep breath. “The second thing I need to tell you is . . . well . . . I feel . . . afraid. More than anything, Ritcherd, I feel afraid.” Where her first confession had come with great emotion, this one came with only a distant, glazed stare. “I feel afraid every time I have to go into town, and I have to pass people on the streets who snub me and look down at me. I feel afraid every time I go into that awful house, that house where I spent much of my childhood. I’m afraid of what he might do to me—if not physically, I fear the way he looks at me, the way he makes me feel. I’m afraid every day that I’m going to lose my mother, too. And I’m afraid that if something else goes wrong, I could end up selling myself on the streets in order to stay alive.”
“I would never let that happen, Kyrah,” he interjected, finding the thought too unbearable to even ponder.
“Well, you weren’t here to do anything about it, and I didn’t even know if you’d ever come home at all . . . or if you’d want anything to do with me. It could have happened, and I’ve had to live with such thoughts for two and a half years.”
Ritcherd swallowed any further comment and settled for saying, “I hear what you’re saying, Kyrah. Go on.”
“But more than anything,” she said, finally turning to look at him, “I’m afraid that you will eventually become fed up with the ridicule and degradation that would come from associating with me. And I would far prefer to keep perfect memories in my heart of what we once shared, than to see it become tainted by the reality of what lies between us.”
It took all of Ritcherd’s self restraint to keep from telling her exactly what he thought about that. He knew his anger was not appropriate—especially now. And he doubted that she would appreciate the language that came to mind in describing such people and circumstances. So he bit his tongue and motioned for her to continue. He could speak his piece when she was finished.
“And finally,” she said, “I want . . .” The tears came again, this time gaining fervor. “I want . . . more than anything, Ritcherd, to be . . . to be a part of your life . . . for the rest of my life.”
Ritcherd heard his breathing become raspy. He pressed a hand over his heart as it quickened. Could it be possible that his deepest hopes would come to pass? He waited for her to go on, not daring to believe it until her point was clarified.
“I love you, Ritcherd,” she murmured through her tears, her hands trembling. “And I know in my heart that my feelings will never change. When I push away all of the fears and the doubts and the ugly realities of life, my feelings are very clear. I want to be with you forever, Ritcherd, but . . .”
When she hesitated too long, Ritcherd’s racing heart came to a dead stop. “But?” he questioned. Still she hesitated, and he jumped to his feet, taking her shoulders into his hands. “But?” he growled, looking into her eyes.
“Your anger won’t solve this problem, Ritcherd,” she growled back. “I have to know beyond any doubt that it will never come between us, that your love and acceptance of me is complete and without condition. I have to know that you won’t one day become disenchanted with me and regret the choices you’re putting before me. I have to know that I’m not just a habit, a convenience, a comfortable extension of the security of your youth. I have to know!”
“You are not the security of my youth, Kyrah. You are the security of my life. You are my heart and soul. I can’t promise you that difficulties won’t come up. I can’t promise you that it will always be easy, or that I’ll always be agreeable. But I can promise you this: I will never, ever forsake you. I will never, ever be ashamed or embarrassed to have you by my side. I will be committed to you as long as there is breath in me. I would sacrifice all that I have to make and keep you happy and safe. And I would do it with joy in my heart.”
He looked into her eyes, wondering what else he could possibly say to convince her. He hated this desperation that had become a constant companion for him. Watching her expression closely, he realized she was searching his eyes for sincerity. He’d seen that look dozens of times in their youth. He held his breath and tightened his grip on her shoulders. When she seemed to come to some kind of conclusion, she sighed and said, “In that case, the answer is yes.”
“Answer?” he repeated, confused. “Was there a question?”
“In a roundabout way, yes, I believe there was.”
“So, the answer is yes, as in . . .”
“As in, I want you to be my brother, my friend . . . and my husband.”
Kyrah held her breath, waiting for a reaction. She heard a one-syllable sound erupt from his mouth, but she couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sob. Perhaps both. Studying his expression, she felt suddenly overflowing with relief and delight. She felt as if a huge burden had been lifted from her shoulders, and somehow she knew that everything would be all right, in spite of her few remaining doubts. She only wished she hadn’t been such a fool in taking so long to make this step. But everything fell perfectly into place when Ritcherd fell to his knees, pressing his hands to her back and his face into the folds of her dress. He sobbed like a lost child come home, while her own tears ran down her face.
Suddenly weak herself, Kyrah went to her knees as well, where they held each other and cried. Ritcherd finally pulled back just enough to touch her face, her hair, her face again, as if he had to reassure himself that she was real. Kyrah eagerly did the same, finally willing to accept that he had truly come home to her at last. Their tears turned to laughter, then to tears again as he pressed her face to his shoulder and held her there as if he could protect her from the harshest storm.
When their emotion finally quieted, Ritcherd put a voice to t
he thoughts that kept hovering in his mind. “Kyrah,” he murmured, touching her face again, “those things you said . . . about the way people look down at you . . . because of me . . . You must know that I . . .”
“Ritcherd,” she interrupted, “it’s no fault of yours or mine. It’s simply a matter of circumstances. But you have to know that it’s there and it’s real. It’s as if I have leprosy and you’re exposing yourself to it, which leaves the entire aristocratic community exposed, as well. And if you choose to marry me, it will not be taken well by most of the people in this community—most especially your mother. It will always be a part of who and what we are, and the only way to stay strong against it is to be strong together. Am I making any sense?”
Ritcherd nodded firmly, freshly amazed at her insight—a quality he’d always loved in her.
“I don’t want you to one day regret bringing me into your life when people look at you askance one too many times.”
“That day will never come, Kyrah. If anything, time will make people forget there was ever any distance between us. We will prove to the world that love is not born of old names and old money.”
“I hope you’re right, Ritcherd. But I wonder if you can accept that you’re going to have to lower yourself to my social level, because I’m not capable of raising myself to yours.”
Ritcherd felt briefly speechless. How could he ever explain to her this gut feeling he had that she was capable of that and so much more? He believed that in her present state of mind, she could never comprehend her own potential. And any effort on his part to convince her would only make her believe that he was trying to turn her into something she wasn’t. He believed that time would prove his theory, but in the meantime, he admitted freely, “I will gladly be at any level, Kyrah, as long as you’re there with me. Maybe we should just . . . move away from here; we could just pack up your mother and find a new place to live, where every person we pass in the streets isn’t aware of every difficulty in our lives.”
Kyrah thought about that a minute. “Perhaps,” she finally said, “but . . . I love it here. The moors, the sea, the old church. They’re like a part of me. If these people force me away from the things I love, then I’ve allowed them to have power over me. But . . . it’s something to consider.”
Ritcherd nodded and embraced her, silently thanking God for bringing this miracle into his life. Tears came to the surface again, and he marveled that they hadn’t run dry. He’d hardly shed a tear in his youth, once Kyrah came into his life. And he’d forced them back time and time again through his years at war. Now he couldn’t stop. But he felt a cleansing with his tears, as if their bathing effect could give him the chance to start his life again from this moment. Looking into Kyrah’s eyes, he knew she felt much the same.
“How is your arm?” she asked quietly for lack of something better to say.
“Not so bad,” he replied, displaying it with mock pride, as if it were humorous to have a battle wound—or rather that was all it was good for.
“I felt strength in that hand when I was being held captive.” She smiled at him.
“Only here,” he said and showed her how he could move his thumb and one finger, despite their being partially numb, which enabled him to do some things with his right hand. He demonstrated how easily he could hold her delicate wrist between them, but told her that the other three fingers were completely numb and useless.
“How did it happen?” she asked him.
“I was shot through the arm,” he stated, “at close range. It’s taken months to be able to use it at all.” He rolled up his sleeve to show her the scar, and she couldn’t help gasping. Just below his elbow, there was a wide depression where the muscle was sunken with matted scars all around it, and a scar on the opposite side of his arm where the ball had come through. It was obvious he’d lost a great deal of skin and muscle, and it must have been doctored quickly on the battlefield; the sight of it was atrocious.
Ritcherd quickly pulled the sleeve back down. “I’m lucky, really. He was aiming to kill me, but I managed to move quickly enough for my arm to take the shot. And I could have easily lost my arm. Many men weren’t so lucky.”
He became briefly distant, and Kyrah wondered what horrible things he’d witnessed during their time apart. She felt a surge of compassion as it became evident that he too had suffered greatly these past few years. She had heard that war aged men quickly, and she could see signs of hardship in Ritcherd’s face. Instinctively she touched his wounded arm, rubbing gently where the sleeve covered his scars. He seemed surprised by the gesture, but smiled warmly.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked tenderly.
“Not really,” he replied, and their eyes met again. “Not anymore.”
“It must have been dreadful for you.” Her gentle voice and intense eyes were almost hypnotic to Ritcherd. But her attention to his wound, which was something he resented, made him uncomfortable. He glanced away, but Kyrah’s hand went down his arm and around his fingers. And he became intrigued by watching her touch him without being able to feel it.
Suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion, he lay back on the grass, guiding Kyrah’s head to his shoulder, where his discomfort gradually melted into perfect peace. While he watched numerous clouds floating overhead, with an occasional hole of sunshine, he was reminded of the countless times in their youth when they had done this very thing. He began to wonder if Kyrah was sleeping, but she lifted her head to look at him.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” she said. He nodded and touched her face, still hardly daring to believe that she was real. “Last night . . . somewhere in the middle of the night . . . I remembered something you’d said and . . . I have to know . . .” Her voice quivered slightly, and he realized she was having difficulty saying whatever she had on her mind. She took a deep breath and said, “How did you know, Ritcherd? How did you know that my father wanted you to take care of us? Did he . . .”
She stopped when Ritcherd abruptly turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut. He wondered how to put words to an experience that was so illogical. How could he explain it when it was so difficult to understand? How could he let her know the full breadth of how this had affected his entire perspective of life—and death?
Kyrah’s heart quickened as she perceived from Ritcherd’s expression that this was difficult for him. She wondered if her father had said something to him before he’d left for the colonies. Could it give them a clue to his reasons for doing what he’d done? She held her breath when he finally turned to look at her, his eyes more intense than she’d ever seen them. His severity took her breath away.
“I think,” he began in a pensive voice, “that deep inside I always believed God existed, that there was more to this life than what we see and feel around us. During my years away, my beliefs became more real. I started praying more, and truly believed my prayers were being heard, but . . .” Kyrah tightened her gaze on him. This was not at all what she’d expected. “But I had an experience that has changed me in that regard. I know now that this life is so much bigger than we could possibly comprehend. You see . . . just yesterday I realized that . . . well, let me go back.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “The first time we went into battle, I came into this wooded area where I realized that I could possibly get a vantage point to see what the enemy was about. I was completely alone, moving through the trees, when I heard a voice say, ‘Get your head down, boy. There’s one coming right at you!’”
Ritcherd felt a shiver run through him at the thought. “That was it. Word for word. Anyway, I immediately ducked and heard a bullet whistle past. I knew I would have been dead if not for that warning. When I turned around, no one was there. Of course, I figured whoever it was had run for it. But looking back, I know that there was no sound there beyond my own breathing. I’ve gone over and over it in my mind, Kyrah. From where I was, it would have been impossible to see whoever was shooting at me. There is no way that someone behind me could have
possibly seen him.”
Kyrah wondered where this was leading, what it had to do with her father, and why it had changed his belief in God. Then the intensity in his eyes deepened as he said, “It sounded like your father’s voice, Kyrah—plain as day.” She held her breath as he continued. “Of course, at the time I disregarded it as ridiculous. I figured there had to be a logical explanation, that someone had a similar voice and a light step. I passed it off. But I remember the date clearly because as I was recording my account of that day, I realized it was your sixteenth birthday.”
Kyrah heard her own breathing become labored as his implication sank in fully. “Just yesterday,” he continued, “I was praying like I never had before, and eventually, well . . . I can’t explain what happened. I just know that when I recalled that incident, I knew beyond any ghost of a doubt . . .” One corner of his mouth twitched upward as he added, “Pardon the pun.” Then his entire countenance sobered, and fresh moisture appeared in his eyes. “I know, Kyrah. My life was saved that day because Stephen needed me to come home and take care of you and your mother. I can’t explain how I know. I can’t describe the way it makes me feel. I only . . . know that it’s true.”
Kyrah studied him for a long moment, his eyes, the air about him, and the message he’d just given her. She finally murmured in a cracking voice, “I think I know what you mean.”
He gave her a serene smile, and she believed she felt closer to him in that moment than she ever had. She stared into his eyes long and hard, then she put her head back on his shoulder, holding tightly to him, wanting this spell hovering around them to never be broken.
A few minutes later, Ritcherd said in a gentle voice, “Kyrah. Tell me what happened. I know it’s . . . hard, but . . . I have to know. I have to hear it from you.”
It took Kyrah several minutes to gather her thoughts and find the fortitude to tell Ritcherd about her father’s misfortune and subsequent suicide. She cried more than she had since the initial news had come more than two and a half years earlier. She hadn’t had the time to cry; or perhaps she’d purposely kept herself too busy to fully feel the grief. But being in Ritcherd’s arms made it suddenly easy to open up her heart and pour out the buried heartache and sorrow.
Ritcherd couldn’t keep from crying himself as he listened to Kyrah’s rendition of all that had gone wrong in his absence. From the intensity of her emotion, he wondered if she’d even allowed herself to feel the reality of her father’s death prior to this day. He could well imagine how easy it would have been for her to hold it all inside in order to keep going for the sake of their survival. He was only glad that he was here now. Inwardly he vowed that Kyrah and her mother would never suffer again, so long as there was breath in him.
Once Kyrah’s emotions were released, she was left thoroughly exhausted and completely drained of strength. By the way Ritcherd lay on his back, staring toward the sky with nothing to say, she knew he felt much the same way. The sun rose high in the sky, but they couldn’t find the motivation to go home. The growling of her stomach reminded Kyrah that she’d not eaten anything today, and she doubted that Ritcherd had either. That, along with a sudden concern for her mother, prompted her to come to her feet and urge Ritcherd to do the same. Without a word between them, they mounted his stallion and rode toward the cottage. But after he took hold of her waist and helped her dismount, he pulled her into his arms and just held her for a seemingly endless moment.
They entered the cottage to hear Sarah call immediately, “Kyrah! Where have you been?” The tone of her voice made it evident that something was wrong. “Have you—”
“What is it?” Kyrah insisted, hurrying into the parlor. “Didn’t you find my note?”
“Of course, but . . . it’s been hours and—”
“Mother, calm down,” Kyrah said, kneeling beside where Sarah sat, her hands trembling, her face more pale than usual. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“Mr. Westman was here,” she said. “He wanted to know why you weren’t working. He made all kinds of threats. He said if you weren’t there by noon he would . . .” Sarah stopped when she noticed Ritcherd entering the room.
With anger barely disguised in his voice, he said, “Kyrah will never be working for him again.”
Sarah glanced at Kyrah as if to verify what he’d said. When she nodded, Sarah sighed with visible relief and reached her hands out toward Ritcherd as if he had saved her from death itself.
“What is it, Sarah?” he asked, sitting close beside her. “What did he say to upset you so badly?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said. Then she smiled. “He’ll just have to find someone else to do the work.”
“Someone else to intimidate and belittle, you mean.”
Kyrah’s words seemed to bring back a degree of Sarah’s anxiety, and Kyrah exchanged a concerned glance with Ritcherd. The glance melted into a heartfelt gaze as she paused to absorb the reality that he was here to share her burdens. The unspoken threat Peter Westman held over her suddenly seemed trite, even before Ritcherd said, “Don’t you ever let him in that door again. I’ll see that the rent on the cottage is paid. There is no reason for either of you to ever have to speak to him again.”
Sarah nodded, but didn’t seem completely convinced. Kyrah said, “I have to talk to him. I have to tell him that I’ve quit.”
“No, you don’t,” Ritcherd said. “I’ll do it.”
“I’m perfectly capable of talking to Peter Westman,” she said.
“I didn’t say you weren’t, but he—”
“Ritcherd,” Kyrah interrupted, “I appreciate your help, more than you could possibly know. But that doesn’t mean you have to take over my life. I’m not a child anymore.” While Ritcherd was attempting to come up with a response, she glanced toward her mother and added, “I’m going to talk to him right now and have it over with. Then I’ll get us some lunch.” She said to Ritcherd, “You will stay for lunch, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’d love to,” he said, realizing the changes in Kyrah would still take some getting used to.
“Fine,” Kyrah said. “I won’t be long.” She hurried to the door and pulled it open to see Peter with his hand lifted to knock.
“So, you finally came back,” he growled. “I don’t think you’ve got time to be roaming the countryside for a leisurely stroll when there’s work to be done.”
Kyrah took a deep breath and steeled herself against his attempts at intimidation. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, ignoring his previous comment. “It will save me the trouble of having to come and find you. I won’t be working for you anymore. You’ll have to hire somebody else.”
Peter’s astonishment was evident. While he was apparently trying to gather his retort, she added, “Was there something else?”
“Only that you’d better be certain about what you’re doing. If you can’t pay the rent, you and your mother will be out on the street. And don’t think that I won’t do it.”
“Oh, I have no doubt you’d do it. But I can assure you that you’ll get your rent. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other things to attend to.”
Peter put his hand on the door and his glare deepened. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to do, Kyrah, but you can’t possibly—”
“Mr. Westman,” she interrupted, “I have said all I have to say. You may leave now.”
“Well, I haven’t said what I have to say,” he retorted in a way that made Kyrah wonder what interest he had in her beyond cheap labor. “You cannot expect me to find help at a moment’s notice and—”
“I believe,” Ritcherd’s voice came from behind Kyrah, startling her as much as it did Peter, “that you’ve been asked to leave.”
Peter glared at Ritcherd, then at Kyrah. Then he smiled. “Oh, I see,” he said more to Ritcherd. “You pay the rent and keep her set up in return for—”
“Kyrah and I are getting married,” Ritcherd interrupted angrily. He wasn’t about to let this imbecile think
anything but the best of her.
Peter raised his brows toward Kyrah, as if to say he was impressed. “Congratulations are in order then,” he said. Then he leaned close to Kyrah and whispered, “Remember what I said. You’re a fool if you think this is how it appears. Whether he puts a ring on your finger or not, he’ll use you and leave you to suffer in the end.” He lifted a finger. “Mark my words.”
“You may leave now,” Ritcherd said, stepping closer. He didn’t know what had been said, but he didn’t like what he saw in Kyrah’s eyes when she turned toward him.
Peter’s final comment was aimed at Ritcherd, with something subtly mocking in his eyes. “I’ll be looking for that rent.”
Once the door was closed, Kyrah leaned against it and sighed. Ritcherd folded his arms and said, “I cannot believe you’ve had to put up with that for two and half years.”
“Neither can I,” she admitted with an edge to her voice that made him realize it would take time to put the affects of all this behind them. But he believed that together they could overcome anything. And they could start now.
“I’ll have my solicitor take care of the rent. There is no reason to ever have to talk to him again.”
“Thank you,” Kyrah said, finding it easier to swallow her pride now that she could feel the relief of having Peter Westman out of her life—once and for all. She took a deep breath, as if she could inhale the freedom Ritcherd had just given her. Then she reached for his hand, saying, “Come along. Let’s find something to eat.”
Ritcherd followed her to a relatively small kitchen with large windows. Just as with the rest of the house, the furnishings were minimal and old. But the feel of the room made him want to just bask in all that it represented. He’d come home. The tidiness and homey touches were evidence of the love and caring these two women had given to make the most of what they had. He could never put into words the value of these surroundings in comparison to the emptiness he felt within the walls of Buckley Manor.
“Have a seat,” Kyrah said, the warmth of her voice adding to his serenity.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she said. “There isn’t much to do, really. I’m afraid we don’t have much to choose from, but it should be adequate. I need to go into town and pick up a few things.” She smiled toward him while she sliced a loaf of dark bread. “Perhaps you could come with me . . . if you’re not too busy.”
“I’d love to,” he said.
He watched her as she set the bread on the table, along with some butter and cheese. She rinsed some fresh radishes and carrots in water that she poured from a bucket. He knew she must have carried the water from the well, and he suspected she had recently dug the vegetables herself as he recalled seeing neat rows of plants on the opposite side of the cottage from the walled garden. He was almost moved to tears at the thought of how hard she’d been working. He wanted to tell her how he respected her for her ability and willingness to work. He wondered how to tell her without hurting her feelings, that while he loathed the thought of her doing servant’s work—and he would see that she never did it again—he loved the way she had been raised by people who weren’t afraid to work. He thought of the endless hours he’d spent in his youth helping Stephen personally renovate and maintain their home, caring for their horses and the grounds surrounding the house. He thought of how he’d never seen his father lift anything beyond a pen or a newspaper. And his mother was only capable of ordering others about. He could never tell Kyrah how he loved her more for the very fact that she could, and would, work to survive—even though he would see that it never came to that. As she set the vegetables on the table, he took hold of her hand, pressing his lips into her palm, inhaling the scent of the earth, the food, and the water still lingering there. He looked up to meet the question in her eyes and simply said, “You have beautiful hands.”
“They’re ghastly,” she said, knowing the hands of an aristocratic lady would be soft and white, with perfectly rounded nails.
Ritcherd shook his head and pressed her knuckles to his lips. “They’re beautiful.”
Kyrah felt so moved by the sincerity in his eyes that she couldn’t resist the impulse to bend over and kiss him. Then she pressed her forehead to his, as if she could somehow draw his presence into her. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“For what?” he asked, reaching up to touch her face.
“For coming home alive . . . for loving me in spite of myself.”
Ritcherd smiled. “My pleasure.”
Kyrah eased away and finished setting out their simple meal before she called Sarah into the kitchen, and the three of them sat together to eat. Sarah offered a simple blessing over their food, including an expression of gratitude for Ritcherd’s safe return.
Only a few minutes into the meal, Ritcherd said, “I have a proposition for you, Sarah.”
“Yes?” she asked expectantly.
“Would you be my mother?” he asked, and Sarah laughed. Kyrah wondered how long it had been since she’d heard her mother laugh. “What I mean is,” he went on, “it’s really good to hear you laugh, and . . . well, my mother never laughs. And I’ve always thought I’d rather have you for a mother, anyway. So I think it’s about time I made my intentions known.” Without warning he moved around the table and went to his knee in front of her, taking both her hands into his. “Please, Sarah. Tell me you’ll be my mother.”
“Just how did you propose to go about that?” Sarah giggled like a child.
“I’m glad you asked me that,” he said as he stood and put his hands on his hips, looking at her pointedly. “What I had in mind was . . .” He glanced around. “Well, I like this little place. Not only is it cozy, but the mood here with you ladies is remarkable. Don’t you agree this place is cozy, Sarah?”
“I agree,” she said easily. “I rather like it myself.”
“Well then, it makes sense that I’ll just move in here when Kyrah and I get married. Then you can be my mother.”
Sarah threw back her head and laughed. Kyrah could hardly believe her eyes as her sickly mother, who rarely had the energy to do more than walk from one room to another, jumped from her chair and threw herself into Ritcherd’s arms. He picked her up off the floor and whirled her around the kitchen while they all laughed. Ritcherd Buchanan was like an angel sent from heaven. He had made Kyrah believe for the first time that her mother could survive without Stephen Payne.
“I take it you like that idea,” Ritcherd smirked as he set her down and held her steady until she got her balance.
“Like it?” she said, pulling Kyrah into her arms and embracing her warmly. “It’s by far the best idea I’ve heard in years.”
Ritcherd embraced them both, then they all sat back down and finished their simple meal. When the table had been cleared, Ritcherd said, “I’m going home to freshen up a bit. I’ll be back to get you within the hour.”
“I’ll be ready,” Kyrah said.
The minute he was gone, she flew into a panic. “Mother, you’ve got to help me . . . quickly.”
“What?” Sarah appeared in the doorway of the spare bedroom, which was mostly used for storing odds and ends. “What is it?” she asked, watching Kyrah rummage through a trunk.
“I’m going into town with Ritcherd Buchanan, and I refuse to go looking like I’ve just been scrubbing floors.”
Kyrah found a dress that she’d only worn once—the day she had told Ritcherd good-bye nearly three years earlier. She had added some length to it soon afterward when she’d hit a sudden growth spurt, then her life had changed and she’d never had occasion to wear it again. Many of her finer clothes had been sold out of necessity, but she had kept this dress for sentimental reasons. With Sarah’s help she quickly fluffed it out then pressed it, grateful that it had simple lines. While Sarah gave it the finishing touches, Kyrah washed up and brushed through her hair, twisting it into the usual knot. She only owned one hat, a wide-brimmed straw that she wore any time she worked ou
tside or went into town. But she dressed it up by adding a silk scarf from the same trunk where the dress had been stored. She pinned the hat into place and tied the scarf behind her head, leaving it to hang down her back in a fashionable manner. She was barely ready to go when Ritcherd knocked at the door. She hugged her mother and went to answer it. All her efforts were worthwhile when she saw the admiration in his eyes.
“I missed you,” he said.
“It’s only been an hour.” She stepped outside and closed the door behind her.
Ritcherd chuckled. “I meant through the last three years, but . . . I must admit the last hour was awfully lonely.”
Kyrah realized now that part of his purpose for returning home was to exchange his stallion for the trap. As he took her hand to help her step in, he commented warmly, “I remember this dress. You wore it . . . the first time I kissed you.”
“The day you left me,” she said as she was seated. Their eyes met as they shared the irony in silence, then he leaned forward to kiss her, as if to complete the bridge from their separation to their reunion.
Ritcherd drove the trap toward town with the reins in his left hand and his right arm around Kyrah’s shoulders. Following Kyrah’s comment on what a beautiful day it was, Ritcherd said, “The next item of business is a formal engagement.” While Kyrah attempted to accept the reality of what he was talking about, he added, “My mother is throwing the biggest party of the year as a welcome home for her only son. You will be my guest of honor. And at that party, my dear, we will announce our engagement.”
Kyrah tried to swallow her apprehension as she glanced away. “Is all of that really necessary?”
“What?” he asked.
“A formal engagement, and—”
“You did say you would marry me, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course, but . . .” She hesitated, wondering how to tell him that the very thought of attending a formal social at Buckley Manor put her stomach in knots.
“But?” he pressed.
“When is this party?” she asked.
“Three or four days; I don’t remember exactly. Does it matter?” When she didn’t answer he added, “Kyrah, we will never work out the differences between us if we can’t talk. You’re obviously not comfortable with this. You need to tell me why.”
“I just . . . feel so . . . unprepared. I’ve never been to any such social in my entire life. I was always too young . . . before. I wouldn’t know how to act. I’ve got nothing to wear. I’d feel so out of place.”
“Kyrah,” he said gently, “you’re not talking like the girl I left three years ago. You are very capable of being a lady. I’ve seen it in you as long as I can remember. Think of all that dancing we did in the old church. It will all come back to you. And as for something to wear, I just figured we’d make a stop at Mrs. Harker’s Boutique while we’re in town.”
Kyrah met his eyes and bit back the protest at the tip of her tongue. Instead she said, “This really means a lot to you, doesn’t it.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But?”
“But not more than you do. If you really don’t want to go, then . . . I’ll make an appearance and . . . we’ll do something else.”
Kyrah sighed but said nothing for several minutes. After mulling it around in her mind, she had to admit, “I suppose if I’m going to marry a Buchanan, I had better get used to it.”
Ritcherd smiled. “Not necessarily,” he said. “All this social stuff isn’t important to me, Kyrah.”
Kyrah smiled back. But as they arrived in town, she immediately felt a new reality settle in. She would be courting—and marrying—Ritcherd Buchanan. She’d told him he would have to lower himself to her social level, and in many ways that was true. People who knew them would see his marriage as a descent on the social ladder. Still, she wanted him to be proud of her, and she had to lower her pride enough to accommodate herself to his lifestyle as much as possible. Glancing down at her three-year-old dress, one of the few things she had to wear that didn’t look like servants’ garb, she wondered what she might wear the next time she went into town with him—and the next. Realistically, she had no way to afford getting new clothes. Her only choice was to ask Ritcherd, but the thought was disconcerting at the very least. Thinking it quickly through, however, she realized that asking him would be far less humiliating in the long run than having him become embarrassed by having her wear the same old dresses over and over. As he halted the trap and tied off the reins, she swallowed her pride and forced herself to just say it.
“Ritcherd. There’s something I need to ask you.”
“I’m listening,” he said, turning toward her. When she glanced down and wrung her hands, Ritcherd knew she was nervous. “What is it?” he pressed when she hesitated.
“Well . . . my wardrobe is extremely limited. I had to sell most of my clothes to . . . well, you know. And I . . . don’t want you to be ashamed of me, so . . .”
“Kyrah,” Ritcherd touched her chin to lift her face to his view, “listen to me, and pay close attention. There is nothing you could ever do that would bring me embarrassment or shame. Nothing! If anything, I feel like it’s the other way around. There are times when I hate being a Buchanan; I hate the reputation that goes along with it, and the way everyone seems to know everything about me, as if my money made me some kind of public paragon. If anyone should feel ashamed, it ought to be you—for having to put up with such nonsense.”
Kyrah’s eyes widened in disbelief as she realized he was serious. Had he always felt that way? She never would have dreamed! And she could never tell him how much hearing such a confession helped assuage her doubts.
“Now,” he continued, “I am absolutely delighted to buy you anything you need or want. If having new clothes will make you happy, or less uncomfortable, then by all means, get them. But don’t do it because you think it will make any difference in how I see you, or how I feel about you.” He smiled and touched her face. “You would look beautiful no matter what, Kyrah. In fact, you look more beautiful now than I’ve ever seen you.”
“I love you, Ritcherd,” she said, touching his face in return.
He laughed and kissed her quickly, oblivious to passersby regarding them oddly. “And I love you,” he said, stepping down and holding out his hand to help her. As she stood beside him he asked, “Was there anything else?”
“No,” she said, smiling.
“Good. I’m going to let you go along to Mrs. Harker’s while I see my solicitor for just a few minutes. I’ll meet you there. Order whatever you like.”
Kyrah smiled. “Don’t be long. I’ll be needing your opinion.”
“I’ll hurry,” he promised, and they went opposite directions.
Kyrah quickly became aware of the typical skeptical glances from those who knew her. But today even that couldn’t dampen her mood. Ritcherd Buchanan loved her, and everything was going to be all right.
Kyrah stepped into Mrs. Harker’s boutique, and the little bell that tinkled above the door reminded her of many previous visits in the years preceding her father’s death. She knew that Mrs. Harker had a thriving business, with a number of seamstresses and assistants, but the shop was extremely quiet today, and she was dismayed to be approached by Mrs. Harker personally. She’d only encountered the woman once or twice on the streets in the past few years, but she had no doubt as to her attitude concerning Kyrah’s circumstances. Even now, her eyes clearly said that she felt Kyrah had no business being there. She was barely polite as she asked, “May I help you?”
Feeling inclined to keep their interaction as minimal as possible, Kyrah simply said, “I’m needing an evening gown for a social later this week.”
“And what social would that be?” she asked, and Kyrah could almost imagine her eliciting fodder for gossip.
“Is that relevant?” Kyrah asked.
Mrs. Harker gave a bristly little smile as she said, “You wouldn’t want to show up in a gown too much like one of the
other young ladies, now would you? The only social I’m aware of in the area this week would be for the Buchanans. Would that be the very same?”
“Yes,” Kyrah said, and there was no mistaking the meaning in Mrs. Harker’s eyes. She might as well have come right out and said: You’re some kind of fool to think that getting a pretty dress and sneaking into that party uninvited is going to do you any good.
Following a minute of insinuating silence, Mrs. Harker finally said, “I’m afraid I don’t have time to make something by then. There have been so many orders for new gowns since the captain returned. I’ve got my seamstresses all extremely busy. It seems there are many young ladies wanting to impress him.”
Kyrah swallowed carefully, reminding herself that nothing this woman said or thought made any difference. She knew Ritcherd loved her. His behavior toward her since his return was stark evidence of that. Still, she couldn’t help thinking of the throng of beautiful young ladies in their expensive gowns and jewelry, flaunting themselves before Ritcherd as if he were some great prize to be contested for. She was nearly ready to thank Mrs. Harker and leave, when she said, “However, if one of my ready-made gowns appeals to you,” she motioned toward a rack of gowns, “I could have it fitted for the social. They are all one of a kind.”
Kyrah glanced at the varied colors of silk, satin, and taffeta, and felt somehow unworthy. But she swallowed her concerns and simply said, “Let’s see what you have, then.”
“That would be fine, but . . . unless you have an established account, I’ll need to know how you’ll be paying for your purchase.”
Kyrah knew her alarm was evident by the obvious disgust on Mrs. Harker’s face. Did she think that Kyrah had come in here intending to get a gown on credit and somehow worm her way out of paying for it? Did she see her as some kind of thief . . . or just the destitute daughter of a reckless gambler? She felt grateful for the anger that quickly covered her distress. With a terse voice she answered, “I believe money is the customary method.”
Mrs. Harker sighed impatiently. “Of course, but . . . I’ll need to have it up front. There’s no point wasting my time or yours if you won’t be able to pay.”
For a moment Kyrah wished she’d never agreed to attend that blasted social. For a moment she wondered what kind of insanity had made her believe she could fit into a world completely foreign to her. For a moment she wanted to just slither out of the shop and never show her face in public. Then the little bell above the door tinkled. Mrs. Harker looked past Kyrah’s shoulder to see who it might be. Her face lit up as she said with a syrupy falseness in her voice, “Captain Buchanan. What a delight this is. I’d heard that you’d returned. We’re all so glad to see you safe and well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harker,” he said. Kyrah kept her back turned to him, hoping to gain control of her anger before he had the opportunity to see any evidence of it in her face.
“That social to celebrate your return is all anybody’s talking about these days,” Mrs. Harker prattled on while Kyrah discreetly moved closer to the rack of ready-made gowns, pretending to browse. “I’ve had many a young lady in here ordering the finest.”
“Is that so?” he said, his tone bored.
“You must be here to get your mother’s gown,” Mrs. Harker said with confidence, apparently picking up on his indifference to the conversation.
“Actually, no,” he said, and Kyrah could tell by the tone of his voice that he’d become aware of her discomfort, even though she’d managed to avoid looking at him. Kyrah momentarily closed her eyes, feeling all over again the countless times he had rescued her from the taunts and criticism of others. A part of her hated it; she hated this feeling of dependence on him. But how could she deny how thoroughly loved and protected he made her feel? How could she not be grateful to have him back in her life, and to know that he still loved her enough to keep protecting her? She reminded herself that his love was all that mattered. She reminded herself, just as he’d said last night, that there was no place for pride in their relationship. She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze just as he asked, “Is there a problem here?” When he talked like that, she could well imagine the military officer. And she was suddenly overflowing with pleasure and gratitude at being the one who had claimed his heart.
She forced back the threat of tears and smiled at him, saying firmly, “Mrs. Harker was just about to help me decide which of these would suit me best. Then she can have one fitted in time.”
Kyrah absorbed his penetrating gaze, knowing that he was trying to read the undertones of what might be taking place. Then he smiled almost imperceptibly, and she knew that he hadn’t lost his ability to read her. With perfect finesse, he turned to Mrs. Harker, who looked somehow alarmed. “As I was saying,” he said, “I’m not here to pick up my mother’s gown. I assume she is capable of taking care of that. I am here, however, to offer an opinion, and of course, to see that anything Miss Payne desires be put on my account. In spite of the short amount of time we have before Miss Payne’s gown will be needed, it’s important that it be just right. After all, this is a special occasion for her.”
Mrs. Harker glanced at Kyrah, then back to Ritcherd, as if she didn’t understand—or perhaps she couldn’t quite believe the implication. Ritcherd took a step toward her and lowered his voice, as if to tell her a secret, even though Kyrah was the only other person in the shop, and she could plainly hear him. “You see, Mrs. Harker, in about twenty years, I intend to pull this gown out and show it to my daughter when I tell her that this is what her mother wore the night we announced our engagement.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Harker said, following a moment of stunned silence. Without further delay she began to bustle around like a mother hen, willing to see to Kyrah’s every wish. She now declared that she could manage to make something to order for her, but Kyrah insisted that there were a few gowns that appealed to her, and she would like to try them on.
Ritcherd sat down and made himself comfortable, stretching out his legs and crossing his booted ankles. His response to the first gown Kyrah tried on was a subtle wrinkle of his nose and a simple, “I don’t think yellow is your color.” The next one provoked a contemplative, “I like you in green, but the style isn’t quite right.”
Kyrah wondered as she slipped into the third one if maybe the problem was her. Perhaps she just wasn’t suited for evening gowns. But when she stepped out of the dressing room, noting that the fit would only need minor adjustments, Ritcherd’s face lit up. “That’s the one,” he said firmly, his eyes glowing with admiration.
Kyrah turned to survey herself in the long mirror and was actually surprised to see that he was right. The gown was a deep turquoise blue with dropped shoulders and a graceful waistline, and though it bagged a little here and there, Mrs. Harker pinned and tucked and assured her that by the day after tomorrow it would be perfect. Just before Kyrah returned to the dressing room to remove it, Ritcherd said, “Mrs. Harker, I would like you to meet the future Mrs. Ritcherd Buchanan.”
Mrs. Harker said nothing, but her expression clearly stated that she thought he was crazy, in spite of her plastered-on smile. Ritcherd just laughed, and Kyrah couldn’t help laughing with him.