“I do not believe you would enjoy such an acquaintance,” she said.
“You may rely upon my discretion not to tell anyone you just said that, ma’am,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. But he continued to look at her, and the smile faded from all but his eyes. “When I spent those years at Penderris Hall with my fellow Survivors, I had six confidants. They understood my thoughts and feelings because they were experiencing similar ones. They knew when to advise, when to laugh at me or cajole, when merely to listen. They knew when to draw close and when to keep their distance. I believe it was only after I had left there that I fully understood how blessed I had been—and still am. I can say anything in the world to those friends, and they can say anything in the world to me without fearing censure and with the sure knowledge that what is said will remain confidential. We all need people to whom we can speak freely. I have my sister too. We have always been close even though she is five years my senior. The older we get, however, the less wide that gap appears.”
Was he telling her that he knew and understood all the things she had not put into words? That he understood her loneliness and sense of isolation? She only partly understood them herself. She had always been lonely and had always denied it, even to herself. To admit it would be to allow self-pity a toehold in her consciousness. And there was something almost shameful about loneliness, as if one must be unlovable as well as unloved.
“I envy you,” she said. “It must be lovely to have close friends.”
Too late she realized what she had admitted. For surely Matthew ought to have been such a friend.
“I am afraid,” she said, “that I must already have committed that dreadful social faux pas of outstaying my welcome. We must have been sitting here for close to an hour. Matilda will be having forty fits. Perhaps forty-four if she ever discovers that Lady Gramley was not here.”
She got to her feet and waited for him to rise too.
“Do you ride?” he asked as they began the slow walk up to the terrace.
“I learned as a girl,” she told him, “though I did not have the chance to ride often. My father owned only the ancient beloved mare that pulled our gig at a speed roughly equivalent to a brisk stroll. Matthew insisted I ride more often after we were married, and I became quite proficient in the saddle, though it was not something that was encouraged when I was at Leyland. I have not ridden since I came to Bramble Hall.”
“There are several horses in the stables here,” he said. “Bea was commenting just yesterday that they are not exercised as often as they ought to be. She was indisposed over much of the winter and has only now been cleared for regular activity. Will you ride with me one day? Perhaps the day after tomorrow?”
“Oh,” she said. “I—”
She was about to decline—for all the usual and obvious reasons. But she remembered the fright and exhilaration of those rare rides in her childhood, and the wonder and joy of riding what she had called a real horse after her marriage.
She was overwhelmed by temptation.
What would Matil—No! She did not care what Matilda would say.
“I shall ask Bea to ride with us, of course,” he added.
“I would like to.”
They spoke simultaneously.
“I shall choose a horse for you, then,” he said, “and have a groom lead it over to Bramble Hall when we come.”
“Thank you.” She turned her head to look at his face in profile. She could tell from the set of his mouth that walking was not easy for him. It was very probably painful too, but he moved at a steady, though slow, pace, and he uttered no complaint.
She wondered what other injuries he had suffered.
She was so glad she had made this visit, she thought a few minutes later as she drove away in the gig, a groom having brought it up to the terrace for her. She was even glad Lady Gramley had not been here, for it was unlikely they would have sat out in the garden in the brightness of the sunshine, feeling the heat of it on their faces and bodies.
And she was glad she had had the courage to agree to ride with Sir Benedict—and Lady Gramley.
She felt really quite restored in spirit.
Perhaps she was coming alive again.
But whatever would Matilda say?
6
“It is quite fascinating to observe how differently various people are affected by their infirmities,” Beatrice said over a late tea. “Some people are an inspiration. They remain smiling and cheerful while suffering the most dreadful afflictions. Others make one feel as though one were being sucked into a black hole with them, poor things.”
“You look exhausted,” Ben said.
“But glad to be back to my parish and community duties at last,” she assured him. “How did you enjoy your ride?”
“Very well indeed,” he said, “for the five minutes it lasted. I was just riding out when I spotted a gig coming along the road in the direction of the house. It looked to me as though the lone occupant was dressed in unrelieved black. So I turned around and came back.”
“Mrs. McKay?” she said. “Without Lady Matilda?”
“The lady has a head cold.”
“And so Mrs. McKay was able to escape alone.” She smiled at him. “You were not so lost to all conduct as to entertain her in here alone, I hope, Ben?”
“We sat outside in the garden for all of an hour,” he told her.
It was a bit surprising, actually, that he had even turned back from his ride, since he might easily have escaped without her seeing him. And he certainly could have stopped her from staying. It had not been her suggestion. But then he was the one who had suggested that she call at Robland. He had felt sorry for her, cooped up in that gloomy manor with the battle-ax.