Page 22 of An Amiable Foe
They walked on in silence for a beat before Raife added, “Given the fact that we are so close to the coast, we cannot rule out smuggling.”
It was the last thing that would have occurred to Perry. “You think the cottage might have been used by smugglers in the past?”
He turned the idea over in his mind, frowning as they approached the stone building. “If they had done, they must leave off now, don’t you think? Surely smugglers would not be so bent on their mission as to harm innocent people once they knew the cottage was no longer empty.”
“I suppose anything is possible,” Raife said as they came to the wooden entrance. Perry pulled out the key and fitted it into the lock, then opened the heavy door. Inside, the rooms were dim and absolutely silent. It was impossible to conceive of anyone still being here.
He led the way through the short corridor to the sitting room on the side of the house, which was the only room with any light to speak of. One set of shutters there were indeed thrown open inwards. Jagged pieces of glass on the floor in front of the window reflected the morning sunlight. And there, in the middle of the pieces, was an object that did not seem to belong to the room.
Raife went over and picked it up, examining it from all angles. It was a metal piece, shaped like a tube and with blue engravings on it. Extending from one end was a jagged piece of wood. It appeared to be the head of a cane that had been separated from the rest. Perry took it from Raife and tossed it from hand to hand. It was heavy for what it was.
“Now, look at this. Who could this have come from?”
The shutters in the cottage were built on the inside of the window frames for privacy rather than protection, and Raife went over and pulled the broken shutter open wider.
“It doesn’t seem that this was the work of poachers after all,” he said. “Someone was trying to get in.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
Marianne did not wake until the morning was long past and the sun was bright overhead, despite the fact that she had forgotten to close the bed curtains to keep out the light. Her parents’ bed was comfortable. That Mr. Osborne had replaced the mattress stuffing was evident from its lush comfort and fresh scent, and she wondered why she hadn’t thought of doing that herself years ago. She sat up and tucked the pillows behind her, then leaned against the cold stone wall. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she looked around the room.
It had been many years since Marianne spent any time in this room. At the beginning, right after her parents were discovered lifeless and the household had been turned on its end, Mrs. Malford would come into the room and find her wrapped in one of her mother’s dresses. In those days, the cook got down on her knees with some difficulty and sat with Marianne, rather than trying to distract her from her pain. Eventually, the arrival of Miss Fife, who had a specific idea of what the routine for a ten-year-old should be, had forced Marianne to grow up. She stopped visiting her parents’ bedroom and did no more than clean the room each spring. Her main connection to her parents was downstairs in the living areas, where their presence seemed to pulse still.
She got up from the bed, stretched, and found that she was indeed well-rested. She could not resist the pull to go over to the wardrobe that had once been her parents’ and open it to see what filled it now. When she did, her gaze fell upon the familiar silks and linens that she had forgotten to have brought to the cottage. Her mother’s gowns were still lined up, and it comforted her to know that Mr. Osborne had not removed everything right away. He must do so—that much was sure—but that he was making changes at a thoughtful pace led her to think well of him.
The washstand held a small shaving bowl and brush, and she lifted the brush from it. When she sniffed at its horsehair bristles, she found the scent leftover from the cream surprisingly sweet. Next to that was a shaving blade, and she picked it up and opened it. The handle was made of smooth wood and the blade proved sharp when she tested it. She closed the blade and set it down, thinking of Mr. Osborne being shaved in this very room, the blade skimming over his masculine jaw. It was such an intimate thing to imagine. It made her feel odd, and yet strangely at home.
She crossed over to the edge of the bed so she could pull on her half boots, and lifted her gaze to a worn pair of pantaloons that were thrown over a chair next to the wall. This also poked at something dormant within her. She could not put her finger on exactly what. To observe the intimate habits of a gentleman—something she had never known—from the safety and privacy of a familiar room made her wonder whether one day she might share such intimacy with a husband. She could hardly picture such a thing. It had only ever been her against the world. And as long as she’d had her castle, it had been enough.
Marianne laced up her boots. Now, she had no castle. It was not hers anymore, and she was here only as a guest. At least she had Sarah, and a home at the cottage she could make her own. But it wasn’t the same.
She stood and went to stare at herself in the short glass propped on the table near the washstand. She turned her head to one side and touched the cord of hair that she had hastily plaited and pinned back. Until now, the fact that she did not know how to make elegant hairstyles or requested that Sarah learn had not bothered her. Lowering her eyes, she examined her gown, knowing its gathered bodice was of a different style than what she saw other ladies wearing at church. Their bodices were more fitted than her chemise dresses. This oddity in her dress made her pause—made her doubt. What did Mr. Osborne and his friends see in her, and was it anything good?
She turned aside in impatience. What did she care about how fashionable she was, or how four gentlemen who were all but perfect strangers viewed her?
Going over to the wardrobe, she rummaged through her mother’s things until she found a fichu, which she tucked into her neckline for added warmth, having left her shawl at the cottage. The castle had never been particularly warm, even in the hottest part of August, so she would need to retrieve her shawls from the cottage as soon as she had the chance. It was time to see what the rest of the household was doing.
She lifted the latch and exited into the corridor, turning to look back to where her old room had been just days before. Mr. Wilmot slept there now. She turned and hurried down the stairs.
“Miss, yer up now.” Sarah paused at the foot of the stairs, carrying a bundle of linens, presumably to be washed. The maid hadn’t blinked at their great fright, or the inconvenience of going from one establishment to another, but just done what was needed. Sarah was of great value, both as a servant and a friend.
“I hope you’ve slept some, Sarah. You did not get any more rest than I did last night, and you’re likely to fall asleep at your task if you do not get some now.”
Sarah gave her a weary smile, her apple cheeks pink and her brown curls more mussed than usual, and faced Marianne with the bundle in her arms. “Yer right, miss. But I’m not one as is used to napping. If ye’ll permit, I’ll sleep early tonight.”
Marianne smiled at her, descending the remaining three steps. “I will see to it that your tasks are light this evening. I am not sure what I’m to do now. I suppose I must find Mr. Osborne. Have you seen him?”
Sarah gestured with her chin toward the yellow sitting room. “He’s in yer mader’s apartment, miss. His friends’m in there with him.” When she saw Marianne hesitate, she added, “Miss Fife’s resting in her room should ye need her, although I do think she might’ve truly hurt her ankle. She’s a plaster on it.”
“Thank you, Sarah. I will go see her afterwards.”
Marianne put a foot forward, determined that she would not be put off by a room full of gentlemen in what was once her own home. She opened the door to the sound of laughter, which quieted as soon as she entered the sitting room. All of the gentlemen leapt to their feet.
Mr. Osborne approached her first. “It is good to see you up, Miss Edgewood. Are you well rested?”
She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that his eyes were soft when he looked at her, as though their shared adventure had disposed him more kindly toward her. She sensed a solicitude that was new, and it matched the warmer feelings she had begun to develop toward him.
“I am very well rested. It was kind of you to give me your room. It occurred to me that you have not been able to access it for some hours, and I fear I may have incommoded you.” She allowed herself to look at him fully, and although his neckcloth was neatly tied, his coat appeared to be rumpled.
