Page 9 of Bane Bloom

I might have called him handsome, had he not looked so grumpy.

As the mare pulled the cart around to follow the only road out of the village, I surveyed the other businesses—which were scant. There was a bakery, a smithy, a stable, and a dry goods shop, as well as another inn, called The Fish Inn. I knew from Mr. Sewell that Keswick was the nearest market town, but I suspected there would be farm goods traded in the village as well. In fact, I saw a sign for eggs in the window of the dry goods store. I also noted a postbox next to the door.

“Thomas,” I said in as mild and respectful a tone as I could manage, “if it won’t inconvenience you, I’m thinking perhaps I ought to stop for provisions.”

Mr. Harding had made it clear I would be on my own at the cottage, and I had never before lived without a maid. Though I helped with the cooking sometimes and had skill enough for simple meals, I’d rarely done any shopping beyond occasionally picking up something we’d run out of. But with the cottage a mile away, there would be no quick visits to the shops.

Thomas’s head turned, one chestnut brow lifting as he looked down at me. His eyes had been narrowed before, but the raised brow let me see they were an icy blue. The sudden scrutiny—and striking color—stopped my breath.

“The apothecaries notified me that I was to expect a visitor and make ready,” he said in his gravel voice, “and I have done so.” His northern accent wasn’t as pronounced as Mr. Sewell’s and Annie’s. But then Thomas’s family had come to Buttermere from London.

I waited for him to say more, but his lips—soft and shapely for such a rugged fellow—pressed together, and his eyes went back to the road.

Frustratingly, I felt hot tears gathering. I supposed it was a combination of fatigue from the journey, missing home and Papa, and my companion’s unfriendliness. Not to mention the strange story of my predecessor—and its concealment, for which I was still trying to work out a reasonable explanation.

Was I truly up to this? I had never lived alone, and now that I’d met Thomas, I believed alone was what I’d truly be for the duration of my stay here. I hadn’t really considered the isolation of my commission. On the early part of today’s journey, I had, like Rossetti, even begun to view it as romantic. Indulging in fantasies of golden days by the lake with my sketchbook and box of watercolors. Relishing the idea of being my own mistress.

For the second time since my arrival, I was humbled by my own naivete.

At least I have Annie.

But I didn’t, really. A stranger from London, I couldn’t come here and disrupt people’s lives. Annie had an inn to run and a baby on the way.

Surely I can tolerate my own company for a month.

I sat up straighter and made an attempt at fence-mending. “That was kind of you. I’m sorry if you’ve had to go out of your way. I hope that having me at the house won’t be too much of a bother.”

He acknowledged this with a grunt, and I let out a quiet sigh.

The cart carried us past a smattering of whitewashed stone cottages and out of the village before we branched onto a more primitive road that led into a woodland. The rain had stopped, but mist drifted among the trees—a few big old oaks, but mostly slender birches with white parchment trunks, branches just coming into their spring green.

Best of all were the bluebells. You could find them here and there in London, but nothing like this; they literally carpeted the forest floor, their delicate perfume filling the air after the soaking.

My breath caught as I took them in, and I experienced a strong sense of unreality. As if we’d entered a fairyland. I recalled a few lines of verse from a poetry collection Papa had given me on my last birthday.

There is a silent eloquence

In every wild bluebell

That fills my softened heart with bliss

That words could never tell.

The very layers of freshness and sweetness in the air here were something I had never known—earthy, green, moist, floral. Even in Chelsea, with Battersea Fields just across the Thames, the air was sooty. And the river, carrying waste from humans, horses, and factories—and sometimes worse things—had its own distinctive perfume.

I took the deepest breath I’d ever taken, savoring it before letting it out slowly, not caring if Thomas noticed or what he might think of me.

I’d yet to catch a glimpse of the lake, the rain and fog having set in as Mr. Sewell and I descended into the village. I thought we must be on a level with it now, but the wood seemed to skirt a large formation of rock that blocked the view.

“Can you see the lake from the cottage?” I ventured, determined to engage my companion in any sort of conversation.

The heaviness of the exhalation that followed made me suspect my mere existence was trying his patience. I wondered whether he was the sort of man to have ever noticed a bluebell. Whether he would go out of his way to avoid crushing one beneath his boot. Not bloody likely.

At last he replied, “You might say that.”

What on earth did that mean? I supposed it was a kind of grudging affirmative. One could, in fact, see some portion of the lake from the cottage.

The cart gave a jerk as one wheel rolled over a stone, jostling me against him. I felt my color rising.