A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Jack knew enough to read between the lines; James was frequently absentminded, and could go for long periods completely immersed in his researches, oblivious to all about him and crotchety if interrupted.

They drew level with the steps leading up to the front porch. Jack halted. “So…having had her fill of offers of marriage—three attempts, all devastating failures for one reason or another—Clarice retreated here, more or less turning her back on the usual young lady’s romantic dreams.”

James paused beside him; a considering frown on his face, he looked up at the house, somewhere in which the object of their discussion was no doubt busily managing something. “Do you think so?”

Jack glanced at him.

James stared unseeing at the door. “You know, I always saw it as the other way around. That far from turning away from love, Clarice dismissed as well lost a world without it.”

Jack blinked. He considered for a moment, then glanced at the front door. “Perhaps.” Another moment passed, then he stirred. “I’d best get back to the manor.”

James clapped him on the shoulder and they parted. Pensive still, Jack walked off down the drive.

For Clarice, the afternoon flew too swiftly, filled with myriad tasks and duties that had found their way onto her shoulders. Mrs. Swithins, the curate’s mother, called, wanting to discuss—again—the roster for providing flowers to the church. Later, Jed Butler from the inn dropped by to ask her advice on the changes he was thinking of making in the taproom.

It was close to four o’clock, the shadows starting to paint the hollows a misty lilac before, throwing a light shawl over her shoulders, she set out to walk to the manor to check on the young gentleman.

And if Warnefleet was about, to admit her error in thinking him a wastrel, absentee landlord, although how she might have guessed he was…whatever it was he had been, she didn’t know.

She still didn’t know precisely what role he’d played in the late wars, but s

he knew enough of James’s interest in military matters to make an educated guess.

Warnefleet had been a spy of sorts, not simply the type who observes and reports, but an active…operative—was that the word?

From what she’d seen in him, she rather thought it was.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her; the one excuse she would without question accept for any degree of neglect was that of a man serving his country in a dangerous and potentially self-sacrificing way. To her mind, only one duty transcended the one she and her class owed to the people on their estates—the overarching duty to the country itself.

She’d been raised to rule large estates, raised to honor, observe, indeed live by a certain code, one based on the concept of noblesse oblige, but driven from the heart, from a true appreciation of how the many layers of people in the common community of an estate interacted, how they relied on each other, and how important it was for all to be valued, encouraged, ultimately cared for.

Fate might have decreed that she wouldn’t gain the role she’d been bred to hold, that of lady of a castle, through marriage, but circumstances had placed her in much the same role here, in Avening, caring for James and his household on the one hand, on the other overseeing the welfare of the broader community of the village and the surrounding houses and farms.

It was a role she enjoyed, one that gave her what she needed—something to do, a role she filled well, that required her particular skills.

She heard the cry of birds on the wing; halting, she looked up and spotted two swallows swooping and looping high overhead. She watched them for a moment, streaks of blue-black against the soft blue, then resettled her shawl and continued across the field. Despite the situation that had brought her there, she was content enough, as content as she imagined she might be.

Warnefleet. Passing through the rectory gates, she frowned. Was he going to disrupt her peace? Get in her way?

Continuing down the road toward the manor, she considered the likelihood; there was no per se reason he should. He might not be the wastrel care-for-nought she’d thought him, yet he was still just a man, moreover a man without a wife. As things stood, he would no doubt be glad to leave the guidance of the local populace to her.

Mentally nodding, endorsing that conclusion, she turned in at the manor gates and walked briskly up the drive.

She was halfway to the house when the rattle of carriage wheels had her scanning ahead. Dr. Willis appeared in his gig, the horse trotting evenly down the drive. Smiling, she stepped to the verge.

Willis drew his nag to a halt alongside her and lifted his hat. “Lady Clarice. I’ve just left your young man.”

She grinned. “Hardly mine, but he is indeed young.”

“And male.” Willis’s gray eyes twinkled. “But as for his condition…” The animation drained from the doctor’s face, leaving a frown in its wake. “He’s still unconscious. We tried the usual methods to revive him, but none did the trick, so he’s as comfortable as I can make him, and Connimore will keep a close watch on him. I’ve left orders to be sent for the instant there’s any change.”

“What’s the damage?”

Clarice listened as Willis rattled off a list of broken bones and bruises. He and she had met over sickbeds and deathbeds constantly over the past seven years; they’d formed a working partnership.

When he ended his catalog, she nodded. “I’ll make sure you’re kept informed of his condition.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Willis tipped his hat, then gathered his horse’s reins. “It’s a relief to know you’re close by. Warnefleet’s experienced with injuries, too, indeed, he must have a certain sympathy with our patient, but I don’t know him well, and I trust your judgment.”