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.“It would probably be better if you asked the head gardener to show you around.”Better for whom? Passing through the gate, she turned to stare at him.Following her through, he didn’t meet her eyes.“I know Harris is eager to conduct you over his domain and discuss beds and bulbs and such.You’ll do better without me.”That might be true; the gardens were ultimately her domain, her responsibility, and Harris might well feel confused by his master’s presence, yet…“Meredith—glad I caught you.”Sarah turned as Malcolm Sinclair opened the gate and joined them.He smiled and bowed over her hand, greeting her elegantly and deferentially, then he turned to Charlie.They shook hands, and Sinclair said, “I’ve had some news from London.Drop by sometime and I’ll tell you about it.”Sarah would have sworn the man intended to doff his hat and move on, but Charlie was slow to release his hand.His gaze, she noted, had sharpened on Sinclair’s face, then he glanced briefly at her, his expression as ever unreadable.Then he looked again at Sinclair, his easy smile dawning.“Why not come to lunch? You can tell me then.I’d like to have the opportunity to sound you out about some ideas I’ve had about the prospective Bristol-Taunton connection.”“Well…” Sinclair glanced at Sarah.Charlie looked at her, too, and there was something in his eyes that made her feel this was some test.Summoning her own version of his easy—meaningless—smile, she turned it on Sinclair.“Indeed, Mr.Sinclair, do come.Your presence will enliven the occasion.” She returned her gaze to Charlie’s face.“We’re rather quiet at present.”Sinclair glanced between them, but when Charlie raised an expectant brow at him, he accepted the invitation.Sarah couldn’t fault Sinclair’s manners.Her husband’s manners were another matter entirely.She was not pleased, but an afternoon exploring the extensive gardens with Harris, listening to him expound on the intricacies of shrubberies and arbors, trading views on the colors most appropriate for the flower beds edging the lawns, then enlisting his aid in finding a suitable location for Mr.Quilley, the gnome, had a calming effect.She regained her customary equilibrium, enough for her thoughts to fire her determination rather than her temper.Charlie was being difficult, but she knew what she knew, knew what she wanted, and was resolved to get it—to secure love as the daily as well as nightly basis of their marriage—for both their sakes.Over a quiet dinner and the hour they spent in the drawing room afterward, he reading a novel while she embroidered—the very picture of matrimonial domesticity—she covertly watched him, but could find no clue to his strange attitude in his perennially inscrutable face.She had no idea why he was being difficult, why he shied so completely from letting any hint of his true regard for her show outside their bedchamber, but wisdom suggested that with simple perseverance he would eventually come around.Consequently, after another sultry winter’s night in their chamber during which she found not one thing in his attitude with which to cavil, she forced herself out of bed at a decent hour, hurried herself through washing and donning her riding habit, then rushed downstairs—just in time to run into him, literally, as he left the breakfast parlor.“Oh!” She bounced back.He caught her elbows, steadied her, then released her.She smiled up at him.“I caught you.I wanted to ask if you would ride to the orphanage with me today.Some of the boys have been asking—”“I’m sorry.” He stepped back, his face turning to stone.“I…made plans to ride to Sinclair’s.He has some papers I need to see.”“Oh.” She couldn’t keep her face from falling, could literally feel her happiness draining from her, along with her smile.But she quickly drew breath, tamped down her rising temper, and reminded herself: Persevere.“Well”—she forced herself to brighten—“as Mr.Sinclair’s house is just beyond Crowcombe—Finley House, didn’t he say?—then at least we can ride that far together.”His gaze briefly touched hers, then shifted away.“I have to deal with some letters first.I can’t say how long it’ll be before I’m ready to set out.Your meeting’s at ten, isn’t it?”He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the parlor mantel; she followed his gaze—it was nearly nine o’clock.“You’ll have to hurry as it is.” His voice was devoid of any real emotion.She felt his gaze touch her face, then he stepped away and half bowed.“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”She remained standing in the doorway staring at the clock as his footsteps faded down the long corridor.Charlie hadn’t made any arrangements to visit Malcolm Sinclair, but it was easy enough to manufacture an excuse to go calling.Indeed, given that he was steadily steering their discussions ever deeper into the subject of railway companies and their financing, any excuse for another meeting was welcome; he could push such a discussion only so far at one sitting.He rode into Crowcombe at eleven o’clock, an acceptable time for one gentleman to call on another.Finley House, a classical Georgian gentleman’s house, was set a few paces back from the Watchet road just past Crowcombe.Dismounting before the gate, he walked Storm, reasonably docile after the ride, through and across the narrow stretch of grass separating the house from the wall bordering the road.A tree with solid low-hanging branches provided a useful place to tie the gelding securely, then Charlie paced up the flagstone path to the front steps.The front door and hall were flanked by two good-sized rooms.Charlie listened, wondering if Sinclair had seen him arrive.Hearing no sound in the hallway, he raised his hand and knocked.And waited.He’d considered telling Sinclair of their quest; the man was, after all, a renowned investor in railways, one of those senior investors who, even if he hadn’t been one of those who’d approached the authorities, had been financially harmed by the extortioner [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]