The road curved around, and then she could see even farther along the coastline, where the cliffs fell away and little bays were etched into their rugged faces. She had a brief glimpse of a small fishing village, huddled between the land and a s
tone-walled harbor, before the road wound inland again and was gone.
“Marcus, it is wonderful!”
He was pleased by her reaction, although he cautioned her with, “Not so attractive on a stormy winter’s day, with the sea crashing in and the rain blowing sideways. But then again, wild weather has its own kind of beauty.”
“Is that where we’re going? That little village?”
“Yes. It’s called St. Tristan.”
Portia very much wanted to ask him more about his childhood. She already knew he lived at Worthorne Manor, but how did he come to know St. Tristan? But she bit her tongue. It was probably not wise to show too much interest, to dig too deeply. She didn’t want him to discover that she had once been mousy little Portia Stroud, the vicar’s daughter. She’d left that part of her life far behind, and Marcus was the last person she wanted to rediscover it.
Lady Ellerslie was how he saw her—a famous public figure, someone of stature. Besides, she reminded herself, this was a temporary affair between him and her. The less they knew about each other, the easier it would be to say good-bye.
Chapter 11
The village of St. Tristan was every bit as picturesque as it looked from the cliff tops. And, after Zac set them down and trundled off in the carriage, with Hettie peering back anxiously, Portia and Marcus were finally alone to explore it together.
“Shall we?” he said, giving her his arm.
Along the waterfront, the people of St. Tristan went about their daily tasks, which seemed to consist of fishing and everything that revolved around it. There were nets to mend and boats to patch and the fish to clean. Marcus explained that a catch had just come in, and the part of it they could not sell to market, they would use themselves, often salting it or smoking it for the winter.
Although Portia received a few curious glances, and Marcus a number of smiles and waves, no one interfered with them or appeared to care what they were doing there. For Portia not to be instantly recognized as the Widow of the Nation’s Hero was so unusual that at first she didn’t know how to react, but in time she began to relax and feel just like any other woman. It was similar to when she wore her veil; that heady sense of liberation.
They lingered to gaze at the boats bobbing at their moorings within the sheltered wall of the harbor. So small, some of them, and the fishermen so brave to set out to sea in such a craft. It must be a precarious life, she thought. Was that why the people went about their business with such seriousness? The boats and the nets they mended might mean the difference between living or dying.
With her hand resting in the crook of his arm, Portia was very much aware of Marcus at her side. One of the fisherwomen, expertly wielding her knife over the catch, looked up at his tall, handsome figure and gave him a little smile, as if she liked the look of him.
“Have you ever sailed?” Portia said, drawing his attention back to her, and feeling pleased when he turned instantly.
“I’ve swum and sailed,” he replied easily.
“You can swim?”
“I learned in the lake at Worthorne Manor—my brother’s estate. All the Worthornes swim like fish.”
It was her chance to ask more about Worthorne Manor, to prevaricate and pretend she didn’t know it very well, but she shied away. This wasn’t a day to be serious. As they walked and talked and smiled at each other, she let herself enjoy the simple pleasure of being in his company without having to hide or pretend. The sense of lightness she had discovered while standing at Little Tunley station began to build, until she thought she might actually float, with only Marcus’s arm to anchor her to the earth.
What was this feeling?
It took her a moment to recognize it. Happiness. She was feeling happy.
Portia’s appreciation of the simplicity of St. Tristan was not lost on Marcus. Just before she arrived, he’d had a moment—very uncharacteristic for him—when he began asking himself questions like: What if she hates it? A woman like Portia Ellerslie, used to a life with the wealthy and famous, a woman who breathes luxury, might laugh in his face when she saw what he had planned for her.
But the moment he saw her standing outside the station, like a vision with a parasol, his doubts vanished.
He glanced at her now. She glowed with joy. The chance to escape the life she led, even briefly, had lifted her spirits. What did that say about her current existence?
But he did not lecture or pry. Their conversation remained polite and meaningless, skimming over the top of deeper matters, and he kept it that way. She had not asked him any questions about himself, and he returned the favor. Neither of them mentioned what might happen next, or even whether there would be a next. For now it was enough that they were here, together.
Which was strange, Marcus thought, considering that at the beginning of this affair he wanted her naked body in his bed and nothing more. When had his ambition changed?
“Are you hungry? Hettie has the picnic. Where is Hettie?” She turned about, searching for the carriage.
“Zac took her to prepare our luncheon. He’ll be back in a moment to collect us and take us there.”
The sunshine was in Portia’s smile. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”