Sir Benedict Harper was riding around the corner of the house at Robland Park as Samantha drew the gig to a halt before the front doors. He looked splendidly virile on horseback, she could not help but notice, his disability not at all apparent. She could have wished, though, that she had come earlier or that he had extended his ride longer.
He reined in his horse beside her and swept off his hat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. McKay,” he said. “You are making the most of this welcome break in the weather too, are you? So is Beatrice, I am afraid. She is out on a round of sick visiting with the vicar’s wife.”
“Oh.” How very unfortunate, and what an anticlimax after all the fuss that had preceded her coming here. “Well, no matter. At least I have had an outing. I would have had no excuse for it if I had known Lady Gramley was from home.”
“There is no need for you to go away,” he told her. “If you will give me a few minutes to stable my horse, I will join you. A groom is already on his way to see to your gig. Do go inside. No, I beg your pardon. That would not do, would it?”
He looked about him.
Samantha ought to announce her intention of leaving immediately. Matilda would be horrified if she stayed, and on this occasion her sister-in-law might be justified. Besides, she had no wish for another conversation alone with the gentleman. On the other hand, she desperately wanted to prolong her outing for at least a little while.
“Why do you not stroll among the flowers here?” he suggested. “There is even a seat over there.”
He put his hat back on, touched his whip to the brim, and rode away before she could answer him. She hesitated for only a moment before getting down from the gig and leaving it in the care of the groom.
Matilda would say this served her right, coming to call and finding Lady Gramley from home. Matilda would certainly believe that she ought to drive away without further ado now that she had made the discovery.
Oh, stuff Matilda McKay and her father, the Earl of Heathmoor, too. Samantha was mortally sick of measuring her every move by what they would think. She could perfectly understand why Matthew had left home as soon as he was old enough and had never gone back there to live. Even when he had come home from the Peninsula, dreadfully wounded and expected to die at any moment, he had begged to be taken somewhere other than Leyland. His father had sent them here, to one of his smaller properties, the one most remote from Kent.
Sir Benedict Harper looked at his best on horseback. He looked at his worst when walking, she thought as he came from the stables a few minutes later to join her. He walked with the aid of his canes, though he did not use them as crutches. He really was walking, slowly and painstakingly, and looking rather ungainly as he did so. It would be far easier, surely, and more graceful to use crutches—except that one needed one sound leg for crutches, did one not?
She could not help feeling a reluctant admiration for a man who clearly ought not to be walking but was. Matthew had never made any effort to overcome any of his disabilities or even to control his peevishness. Perhaps this man really would dance.
She went to meet him.
“Come and sit in the garden,” he said.
“Oh, look,” she said, tipping back her head. “The sun has come out. It would be a great pity to miss all its brightness by being cooped up indoors. Perhaps I am fortunate after all that Lady Gramley is from home. There has been so little sunshine lately.”
And she would have missed it even if there had been. She could perfectly understand how a prisoner must feel, incarcerated in a dungeon year after year. Impulsively, she tossed her heavy veil back over the brim of her bonnet and was rewarded with bright sunlight and warm, delicious air.
“Lady Matilda did not wish to accompany you?” he asked.
“She has the most dreadful head cold,” she said. “I do hope I am not carrying the infection here with me. She was huddled beside the fire in the sitting room when I left. She would not have come anyway, though. She considers such social calls improper while we are in deep mourning.”
They had reached the flower garden and were soon seated side by side on the wrought iron seat she had seen earlier. He propped his canes beside it.
“Your husband was an officer,” he said. “He died of wounds sustained in the wars, did he?”
“Most of them healed,” she told him, “though some of them left him scarred. He lived in a darkened room because of them and would not see anyone except his valet and me. He had always been proud of his good looks. His worst injury, though, was a bullet lodged somewhere inside his chest, close to his heart. It could not be removed without killing him. It affected his lungs as well as his heart and made it progressively more difficult for him to breathe. There was never any hope of his making a full recovery.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “You have had a difficult time of it.”
“Those words for better or for worse are no idle addition to the marriage service,” she said. “Some of us are called upon to live up to what we have promised. Yes, I have had a difficult time of it. So have thousands of other women, wives and mothers and sisters. And for their men, life has been no easy matter either. Some of them die, as Matthew did. Some live on with permanent disabilities and pain. You must have had a difficult time of it too.”
“Even though only my legs were affected?”
She turned her head sharply in his direction. It was unkind of him to remind her of that foolish assumption.
“That was shortsighted of me,” she said. “You did admit there was more than that. Much more?”