“It is progressing,” a cool, velvet voice said, and its owner stepped into sight from beside the house, a basket of what looked like weeds over one arm, a small trowel in her other hand. Presumably weeds grew in February, even if flowers did not.
She was wearing the gray cloak and bonnet again, though the cloak had been pushed back over her shoulders to reveal a plain blue dress. Plain suited her. He had discovered yesterday that she had an excellent figure. It was not voluptuous, but there were curves in all the right places, and everything was in perfect proportion to her height. She had long legs, which he might have considered interesting if she had held any sexual appeal for him. He had never fancied the idea of making love to marble. It sounded chilly.
Her hair too was more appealing without the bonnet. It was thick and shiny and smooth and simply styled. He guessed that it was straight—and long. But he did not entertain any fantasies of running his fingers through it.
“It would proceed much faster if there were more men up there,” he said. “Or if the two of them worked in tandem rather than one at a time. I will have a word with Ratchett. That roof needs to be on before the weather produces something nasty.”
“You will do no such thing,” she told him, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead. “My cottage has nothing to do with Mr. Ratchett. Or you.”
He looked deliberately about him as he clasped his hands behind his back. The dog, he noticed, was still with him, and was now sitting at his feet like a faithful hound.
“Is this or is it not my land?” he asked her. He looked at the building. “And my house? Are not repairs to my property my concern and my expense? Is Ratchett or is he not my steward?”
That last point, actually, might be questionable.
“By law,” she said, “it is yours, of course. In reality it is mine. I am entitled to live here as the daughter-in-law of the late earl and the widow of his only son. Its upkeep is my responsibility and my expense.”
He looked steadily at her, and she looked steadily back.
An impasse.
Were not such arguments usually the reverse of this one? Ought they not to be scrapping over who should not pay for the repairs?
“We will see,” he said.
“Yes, we will,” she agreed.
They certainly were rubbing each other the wrong way. He was quite unaccustomed to having adversarial relationships with women. Or with anyone, in fact. He was usually the most amiable of mortals. Perhaps she resented the fact that he had inherited from her father-in-law. She must have married the late Dicky in the full expectation that she would be Lady Hardford of Hardford Hall one day. It must be a nasty comedown to be a dependent widow instead, with only the less illustrious courtesy title to call her own, and to be living in a modest house in one obscure corner of the park.
“Back to work,” he said, raising his eyes to the roof, where the two men were gawking downward, interested spectators of the altercation going on below. “Lady Barclay, can I persuade you to abandon your weeding in order to walk with me?”
Perhaps they could take a step back and start over again. He regretted the way he had greeted her yesterday—and who the devil might you be? It was not surprising that she resented him, especially when her husband ought to have owned the property he himself had ignored for all of two years. But what could she expect when the man had abandoned her in order to go dashing off to Portugal and Spain to play at war?
She considered his offer, looking at him the whole while. Then she pulled off her gloves, which apparently had been donned for her gardening, set them on top of the weeds in her basket with the trowel, set the basket beside the front steps of the house, and pulled her cloak back over her shoulders. Another pair of gloves appeared from a pocket.
“Yes,” she said.
“You must resent me,” he told her as they set off east along the cliff path, which, he realized too late, was uncomfortably close to the edge of the cliffs themselves, cut off from the park by the thick hedge of gorse bushes. And, being a gentleman, he was forced to walk on the outside.
“Must I?”
“You expected your husband to be in my place,” he said. “You expected to be the countess.”
“If I did,” she said, “I have had plenty of time in which to adjust my expectations. My husband has been dead for longer than eight years.”
“Eight?” he said. “Yet you have not remarried?”
“And you have not married?” she asked in return. At first it seemed like a non sequitur, but then he understood the point she was making.
“It is surely different for a woman,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. “Because a woman cannot function in life without a man to protect her and order her life for her?”
“Is that what your husband did?” he asked. “Order your life? Did he leave you to go off to war and order you to stay behind, playing the part of patient, dutiful wife while you awaited his return?”
“Dicky was my friend,” she told him. “My dearest friend. We were equal companions. He did not leave me behind when he went to war. He took me with him. No, correction. I went with him. I was with him to the end.”
“Ah, a woman who followed the drum,” he said, turning his head to look at her. Yes, he could imagine it. This was a woman who would not wilt under harsh conditions or flinch in the face of danger. “Admirable. He died in battle, did he?”
She was staring straight ahead, her chin raised. Gulls were screeching about somewhere below the level of his feet. He found it a mite disturbing.