Page 19 of If I Loved You
His housekeeper laughed at this, and Zach himself grinned, as he supposed it did rather sound as if he’d only questioned,Now what do I do with her?
“She will be ready for her afternoon nap, I daresay,” suggested Mrs. Conklin, about to reach for the child.
“What does that involve?” Zach inquired, which had his housekeeper dropping her arms again.
A bit taken aback by his query and his interest, Mrs. Conklin had lifted a brow and told him, “Miss Ainsley likes to read to her in the nursery, while rocking. The sweet thing rarely resists—truly, she has the most wonderful temperament. And then she’s put to bed and usually sleeps for more than an hour.”
“Doesn’t sound very difficult,” Zach surmised. And he left the housekeeper, with a sleepy Bethany in his arms still, calling over his shoulder, “Look lively, Mrs. Conklin. I may return for assistance. But if you don’t see me in the next half hour, you may assume I’ve successfully managed to put a toddler in for a nap.”
He did just that.
Inside the nursery, on a small table beside the rocker sat a neat stack of books. Zach picked up the first one and settled into the chair.Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book,according to the frontispiece of the apparently well-loved and well-used tome, is what he employed to lull Bethany to sleep. Her little blonde finger pointed to the pen and ink drawings on the pages while Zach read different rhymes to her, some of which he’d not ever heard before, or recalled. Soon, her hand was still upon the open book in his lap, and Zach rocked a few more minutes to be sure she slept before depositing her into the short bed. He straightened and stared down at her, thinking that she was very dear to him already, and then feeling quite accomplished for the feat he’d just managed.
Of course, it could be argued that their vigorous outing and the excitement of their pursuit had just as much a hand in getting Bethany to sleep, but Zach was willing to share in the glory of the job well done. He set the book down and wondered still where Miss Ainsley had gotten to. He’d been disappointed that she’d had no interest in horseback riding with him, and apparently no interest in learning either. But she’d denied him her company politely, and seemingly without an agenda, that he could find no reason to be sore about it.
Touring the house, was she? Of course, it was possible that she remembered little of her own family’s home, or maybe it had always been the inn, that Benedict House must appear a palace to her with it’s endless passageways and corridors, and more rooms than a household of one hundred could properly utilize.
Poking his head into the library, drawing room, billiards room, and several others offered no sighting of Miss Ainsley. Hehad no specific reason to seek her out, but that he’d been plagued of late with the memory of the sensation of her fingers on his chest. He'd allowed her space for several days, her mumbled apology the morning after having been, he’d been convinced, akin to swallowing sand. Truth be told, it was in her best interests for him to have avoided her as well. He’d relived the moment so many times, had played out so many different endings in his head—none of which saw him actually leaving her that night—that he was certain being in her company before he’d managed to dispel the idea that he was a fool for not having swept her up in his arms and kissed her senseless would have seen him doing just that.
Now was safe. Daylight. Fully Clothed.
She would be safe from his desire, he was sure.
He wouldn’t have guessed that the third floor would have called her attention, being that it housed only rarely used smaller chambers. Zach himself hadn’t ventured upstairs since he was in short pants, but as he’d not found her upon the second floor, he was soon glancing inside different rooms on the top floor.
He almost missed her, even as he’d come upon the slightly ajar door and assumed she must be within, he immediately saw no sign of her and was already turning his shoulders away when he spotted the top of her head. Just the crown of her head, the contrast of her shiny mahogany locks against the linen covering the bed caught his notice. She was sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, he mused.
Curiously, Zach strode around the bed, his footsteps muffled upon the faded rug.
Emma sat with her legs tucked neatly beneath her, scores of papers floating all around her, her head bent as she perused thepaper she held. In her right hand, holding one side of the paper, she held also a length of pink ribbon.
His tall Hessians were surely the first thing she saw as he came around the bed, alerting her to his presence. She gasped and lifted her eyes. Having discerned she was surrounded and engrossed in dozens of letters, he was about to tease her that she seemed to have accumulated an astonishing amount of mail in the short time she’d been here.
But the face she turned up to him—shimmering eyes shuttered by spiky wet lashes, red-stained nose, and sad little turn of her lips—brought a frown instead of a grin. Zach stepped fully in front of her, her gaze following him.
“Miss Ainsley? Dear God, what has happened? Have these letters delivered bad news?”
She nodded, and dropped her chin to her chest, holding out one hand to indicate the mass of correspondence. “Oh, it’s just awful,” she said and wept.
Zach went down onto his haunches, but she did not raise her tear-stained face to him. He thought the letters must be from a man, the script he briefly noticed being neither delicate nor pretty. His lip curled, presuming some undeserving blighter had just broken her heart.
“Now, now, Miss Ainsley,” he soothed awkwardly. “No man is worth this painful weeping —and certainly not one who doesn’t realize how rare a prize—"
Her expression changed, in the midst of his cajoling words, going rather blank so that he stopped speaking. Perhaps, in her mind, some chapwasworth these tears.
But no. An uneasy giggle came next. And then the giggle evolved into a cheery if nervous laugh. She covered her mouthand her laughter with one hand, waving the other which still held a letter, flapping the paper rather jerkily. Above the hand covering her mouth, her watery blue eyes danced with merriment.
Finally, she apprised him, “These aren’t mine.” While Zach returned her gaze blankly, it was another few seconds before she settled her laughter and explained, “I was snooping and came across these old letters in the writing desk.” She pulled the hand away from her face and indicated the small piece of furniture in his periphery.
He blew out a relieved burst of laughter and sat on the floor, beneath the window, putting his back against the wall. She was beautiful when she cried. Honestly, the redness seemed only to highlight the perfect blue of her eyes, making them brighter, more intense, so very animated. And that smile—surely she might ask for stars from the sky or water from a desert, and there would likely be many a man eager to delight her with at least an effort, if this smile be the reward.
“But then why do you cry?” He wondered, even as he was now so entranced by that gorgeous smile.
Her shoulders slumped. She lowered her head again, taking in all the letters covering her skirt and the carpet and the floor. “This man, George Fiske, is writing these notes to a woman named Caralyn—” the blue eyes found his again. “Do you know a Caralyn Withers? Is she of the Lindsey family? A relative? A servant? She must have stayed here or lived here. But something awful must have happened, for she does not give George the love he craves—though he seems to believe she wants to—and then these letters were just left here, scattered. I cannot believe she would have willingly abandoned all this love.”
“Hmm,” Zach said, giving it some thought, still more mesmerized by the shimmering blue of her eyes. “There is no Caralyn in our family, not that I’m aware. And Withers is unfamiliar to me, as well.”
“These were written in 1774.”
