Page 48 of Mending the Baron's Sins
“She does.” Colm finished the salve and placed it on a shelf nearby. “There, I shall call for your breakfast now, if you like.”
“Thank you.” Horace sat wringing his hands together uncertainly, a hatred forming for this man, Mr. Frederick Baker, though he had never once met him, or even heard the name.
It made his mind all the more determined than before. He would not hurt her, as this Mr. Baker had done. He would ensure that any association she had with him was for the better, and that he didn’t make her life worse.
I’ll simply have to push her away, push her into a better life. I’ll stop thinking about her, and this desire will be at an end.
There was only one problem. When Orla entered the room to give him his breakfast, accompanied by Colm so neither one of them could talk openly, he looked at her, knowing for certain, that it was not just desire he felt for Orla.
There was another feeling there too, an admiration and affection for her spirit.
What do I do about that feeling?
***
“Two outings in two days? You are feeling better.” Orla’s words made him smile as Horace stepped away from the gig carriage. Orla followed behind him, but George remained behind at the coach, promising to take care of the horses.
There was a little light snow on the ground today and Horace walked across it uncertainly. When he felt Orla reaching toward him, to steady him, he reluctantly moved back from her.
“We should not,” he whispered, and gently jerked a thumb in George’s direction. She nodded and walked on at his side.
They stayed silent for a minute or more as they walked up to the church. Horace kept his eyes fixed upon the churchyard in particular, the graves that were dusted with snow and the stones frosted over.
“It’s been too long since I’ve been here,” he confessed to Orla in a whisper, longing to confide in her. He supposed that even knowing he was going to pull back from her, to keep her safe from his own desires, he could still be honest with her. He could still talk to her.
“When were you last here?” she asked, walking along at his side, though she kept about a foot of air between them now.
“Too many years ago, when I last had strength to make the journey.”
“And who is here? Who is it we are coming to see?”
“My father,” he explained with a sad sort of smile. They entered the churchyard, and he held the gate open for her, before they walked on. He didn’t bother with the path, but hurried across the open snow, crunching the ice with his boots as he moved toward the grave. At the top of the hill, just behind the church, the cross came into view that stood atop his father’s gravestone.
The lettering was difficult to decipher. Horace reached out and rubbed the frost as best as he could from the words, revealing his father’s name.Isaac Coates, Baron De Rees.
“He was a good man,” Horace said quietly as he pulled the single white flower from his buttonhole and placed it on the snow in front of the grave. “He was quite like me, really. He loved a good party too, until the days when he fell sick.”
“What was wrong with him?” she asked, gently.
“Consumption.” Horace sighed. “It took many people that year. I remember him vividly.” Orla moved to stand beside him, and he turned his head toward her, wishing to tell her more. “He was the best of men. He did what he thought was best for his men and for his employees.
I remember once asking why he didn’t make changes in order to make better profits. He said to me, ‘since when did profits alone make a man happy?’ I just laughed at him at the time.” He shook his head. “He must have thought me such a fool. He wasn’t wrong.”
Silence fell between them for a minute. A bird tweeted in the distance and a robin landed on the snow nearby. It pecked at some flies trying to escape the ice, then flew off again.
“I wish to be more like my father,” Horace declared after the bird had left.
“You should be yourself,” Orla said determinedly as she looked at him. That same burning admiration shone now in his gut for her as he slowly shook his head.
“You would not have liked the man I used to be, Orla. Trust me. I do not even like that man now.” He nodded at the grave. “I am a little more like him these days, but I will push that further. As part of that, comes this fresh promise to you.”
“You owe me no promises.” She took a step back in the snow. The sight of that distance pained him, though he did not refer to it.
“I will not be a blemish on your life. I will not cause you any hurt. I am quite determined, Orla.” He assured her with a firm nod. “I will not be like Mr. Baker, making your life worse for his own selfish wants.”
She blinked, then stepped forward again. He wanted to plead not to come too close, for it was dangerous to tease his longing for her.
“You know of him? How? Oh.” She closed her eyes, answering her own question. “My uncle told you.”
