As You Wish (11 page)

“And did
you
learn honesty from it, Miss Cantrell?” David cut into their prattle, watching for her reaction.

A muscle in her cheek twitched, but she smiled and met his gaze.  “In the story, Washington is a boy and confronted by his father about whether he chopped down a certain cherry tree he shouldn’t have.  He replies, ‘I cannot tell a lie’ and admits he did.  If someone confronted me with a similar charge, then yes, I’d answer just as honestly.”

“But you won’t reveal anything beyond what you are asked.”

For an instant, her eyebrows tilted with apparent regret.  He got the impression she wanted to confide her story but could not.  But why not?  Because she served as a spy for France?  Or because she feared someone from her past?  A stab of compassion prevented him from probing further.  Besides, he reasoned, such questions ought to wait until they spoke in private.  The mere fact that she kept personal information to herself did not warrant alarming the whole household.

Solebury leaned back in his chair, clearly free of any unusual curiosity.  “Unfortunately, the current crop of English royals are unlikely to inspire moral tales in our people.  I don’t suppose you, being an American, think much of our monarchy, do you, Miss Cantrell?”

“I have to admit I’m glad
we
don’t have one.”  Other women would have answered lightly, but she spoke seriously, obviously weighing her words.  “There’s no question that equality is a worthy ideal.  No offense intended, but I can’t support making birth the determining factor in choosing who leads the world and who get trampled on.”

David bristled, ever conscious of his own birth, but all her attention appeared to rest with Solebury.

“No offense taken.”  The marquess dabbed a napkin to his lips.  “After all that has happened in France, one wonders how much longer the English nobility can continue.”

She smiled.  “I’d bet anything the system lasts at least another two hundred years.”

“You sound so confident,” David noted.  He had never met a woman who spoke on political issues with such assurance.

“I wish I felt the same,” Solebury said, “but even if the nobility endures, I fear my title shan’t.  I expect the estate will be run to the ground within a decade of my demise, with the way my son squanders money.”

Leah’s gaze traveled to David.

“Not I,” he scoffed.  “The heir.”

She studied him for a long moment, her forehead furrowing.  At last, he grew so uncomfortable, he threw down his napkin and stood to leave the room.

“You’re finished?” she asked, abandoning her frown and rising.  “If so, I think we should go.  The sooner we deliver the baskets, the better Lady Solebury will rest.  Are you ready?”

He looked into her expectant eyes, ruing his decision to accompany her.  Every second he spent with her felt like a struggle . . . against losing his wits in her beauty, against losing his dignity in her scrutiny.

But he could hardly allow her to her go alone, free to glean intelligence for the French . . . or to leap into the spring again, if her objective lay there.  He grimaced.  “Let’s go.”

When they emerged from the house, they found Solebury’s barouche packed with nearly a dozen baskets.  The sun shone bright and warm, so they elected to ride outside on the box.  At the last minute, a groom warned them not to visit one of the houses, due to a case of smallpox.  Then they set off.

David fixed his attention straight ahead as he directed the horses up the drive.  He knew he should take the opportunity to question Leah more thoroughly now that he had her alone, but first he needed to gather his thoughts.  His ill-judged attempt at speaking French to her had proved the folly of rushing an endeavor as serious as interrogation.

“You know, you shouldn’t let your birth bother you so much,” she said suddenly, shattering his thoughts.  “I know it’s none of my business, but you’d feel much better if you could let go of your bitterness.”

He stared at her.  In his entire adult experience, no one had ever dared broach the subject of his birth with him.  But Leah Cantrell always managed to fall beyond the pale.

“You are right in one respect,” he said finally, turning away from her to urge the horses into a trot.  “You have no concern in the matter.  Next time, confine your advice to matters you understand.”

“But I do understand, in a way.  You see, I was conceived out of wedlock, too.”

He shot another look at her.

She met his gaze calmly, as though her statement had been no more outrageous than a remark about the weather.  “Of course, my experience has been a lot different from yours.  My parents did marry before I was born--only six months before, though.”

He could think of no response.  Would a time ever come when this woman could no longer shock him?  Might shocking him even be her intention?  Or did she mean to win him over by confiding some wild, contrived tale designed to gain his sympathy?

“Unfortunately, my father has always resented the marriage--and me--for being foisted on him.”  She looked down at her lap, fiddling with her well manicured fingernails.  “He doesn’t come out and say so, of course, but sometimes his resentment shows.  He did nothing to help me get through college, for example--actually impeded my progress in some ways.  And I really think it was because
I
cut
his
education short, just by existing.”

“What do you mean ‘get you through college’?” he asked.  “What sort of college could you have attended?”

She hesitated.  “I went to . . . school.  You must realize our education system is different from yours.  I probably am more educated than most women you know, but that’s beside the point.  What I’m saying is, at least your father doesn’t resent you.  You know, fathers are never perfect anyway.  Down deep, I know my father loves me, and I’m sure Lord Solebury loves you.  I can see it in the way he looks at you.  Have you noticed that he watches you all the time?”

Did Solebury truly pay him inordinate attention?  David shrugged off the reflection and guided the horses down a dirt lane.  “This is the Browns’ cottage.  Our first stop.”

He jumped off the box and retrieved one of the baskets from inside the barouche.  By the time he circled the vehicle to help Leah, she had already climbed down on her own.

“
This
is where they live?” she asked, gaping at the cottage.

He glanced at the tiny shack, which appeared ordinary in every way, except, perhaps, that the roof had been thatched more recently than most tenants’ homes.  “Yes.”

A woman came to the door, a babe in her arms and two smaller children at her apron strings.

“Mrs. Brown?”  Leah stepped forward and offered her hand, an unexpected courtesy that David respected.  “I’m Leah Cantrell.  I’ve offered to deliver Lady Solebury’s food baskets for her today, so she can have some time to rest.”

“Goodness, I hope her ladyship is well.”  The woman curtsied to Leah’s outstretched hand.  “The babe ain’t comin’ yet, is it?”

“No, not yet.”  Leah hunched down to smile at Mrs. Brown’s youngest, who gurgled in return.  “She’s precious.  She
is
a girl, right?”

David looked on with interest.  Whatever doubts he held about Leah, he had none about her professed belief in equality.  He liked the easy familiarity she showed to this poor family--to him, for that matter.  She had known about his birth from their first meeting and never demonstrated a hint of disdain.  Even if she had told the truth about her parents, she had still been born legitimately.  He had not.

“Yes, she’s a girl, ma’am.  A handful, though.”  Mrs. Brown recounted some of the troubles she had caring for her other children with her newborn crying whenever set down.

David listened to Leah express her sympathy with a complete lack of reserve.  His admiration heightened as she turned to tying shoelaces, wiping noses and prodding the older children to the well, where she helped them wash their hands and faces before sitting them down to a luncheon of bread and cheese.

When they returned to the barouche, he told her, “You certainly exceeded your duty to the Browns.  One does not often see an elegant young lady tending the rather inelegant needs of poor children.”

“They’re no different from any other children,” she said with a dismissing wave of her hand.  “And ten minutes of my time is nothing compared to the lifetime that woman will spend running after those kids.”

He shook his head.  “Your views are so unusual.  American society must be rather more extraordinary than I imagined.”

“I do come from a different world.  Not that the society I’m from doesn’t have some major wrinkles in need of ironing out, but I hope the wrongs are slowly being righted.  And I think you personally might find some advantages there.”

As he stopped in front of the next cottage on their route, he assumed she meant his birth would be better accepted in her country, and he supposed she had a point.  In a land where titles meant nothing, missing out on one would have little consequence.  He would still be illegitimate, of course, but with his family thousands of miles away, who would know or care?

Over the course of the next few stops they made, the idea of emigrating to America began to take root in his mind.  As he watched Leah chat openly with tenants, he found himself intrigued by the concept of a land where all were regarded equal.  He wondered why he had never before considered that he might find greater acceptance overseas.

Furthermore, if Leah represented the typical American, he had to admire the self-reliance of the people.  He stood amazed at cottage after cottage as she voiced strong, sensible opinions.  At one sickbed, she forcefully discouraged the practice of bloodletting--a view he shared, after witnessing many soldiers die from the procedure.  At another house, she prescribed oranges, lemons or limes for prevention of scurvy, an idea new to him, but somehow one he trusted when expressed so confidently.  At another stop, she penned a letter in crisp handwriting, more lucid than any he had ever before seen, for an illiterate woman with a brother fighting on the Continent.

By the time he brought the last two baskets up on the box of the barouche, his mind whirled.  He made an effort to concentrate on the task at hand, consulting a list that Phoebe had given him.  “We seem to be finished.  The only house left is the Banfields, and they are the family with smallpox.  The other basket must be a spare.”

“There’s a note on the handle.”  Leah plucked off a folded paper and opened the message.  She grinned and said, “This one is for you and me.  Lady Solebury urges us to picnic at the grove beyond Oxhead Stone.  Do you know where she means?”

“Yes, she refers to a secluded creekside clearing that is a favorite of the marquess’s.”  David’s stomach rumbled at the thought of eating, and he privately commended Phoebe for providing extra food.  “The creek is not far past the Banfields.  Would you like to stop?”

“I’d love to.”  She sighed and looked up at the clear blue sky.  “The weather is perfect.  But about the Banfields–I can still deliver their basket.  I’ve been exposed to smallpox before, and I can’t catch the disease.”

This show of courage topped all the other strengths she had demonstrated already.  Naturally, he could not agree to her suggestion.  “Your courage is commendable, Leah, but just because you escaped infection once does not prove you immune.  This time, you could be less fortunate.”

“Actually, in a way, I
have
been infected.”  She lifted one of the short, puffy sleeves of her dress and revealed a starlike scar on her upper arm.  “This is a pock mark.”

“That cannot be,” he said, affording the scar a mere glance.  “Survivors of smallpox are always severely disfigured.”

“This is the only mark I have, but I know I am immune.”

He looked at her with skepticism.  Surely, she did not believe that single mark represented survival of smallpox.  Did she have a death wish?  His mind flew back to the suicide theory.

“I cannot allow you to risk your life,” he said.  “If you won’t think of yourself, think of Phoebe and the baby.  If you fell ill, you could infect them.  In any case, I recall that one of Solebury’s grooms has had the disease.  He can deliver the basket.”

“Okay,” she said.  He recognized the strange term as a concession.  “That would probably be best.”

They rode past the Banfields and on to the grove.  After they had spread out a cloth they found in the basket, they pulled out the picnic fare.  Phoebe had supplied fresh-baked breads, cheeses, fruits and wine.  They attacked the feast, eventually settling back to enjoy the peacefulness of nature.  To David’s astonishment, Leah had no scruples in stretching out on the ground like a young lad might.  Her resemblance to a boy ended with the curves accentuated by such a posture.

He wrenched his gaze from the rise of her hips, reminding himself that he had pertinent questions for her.  Still, he could not seem to think about espionage.  Instead, his mind kept returning to the admiration he had felt for her all morning.

“You were marvelous today.”  His own words sounded alien in his ears.  He had sometimes commended soldiers on their conduct but never a woman.  “Are all Americans so self-reliant?”

“You’d consider me self-reliant?”  She propped herself up on one elbow, her raised eyebrows registering wonder.

“Decidedly,” he told her, surprised by her surprise.  “You are confident in your opinions--and rightly so, for your judgment is very sound.  To speak as frankly as you do, you are by far the most self-assured woman I know.”

“Are you serious?”  A smile alighted on her lips.  “I’ve always considered myself meek.  But, you know what, I’m resolved to live up to the strength you give me credit for.  The events of the last few days have made me take a look at several areas of my life that I’ve left stagnant for too long.  If I ever get back to  . . . back home, there are some major changes I plan to make.”

“You aren’t certain you will return?” he asked with a sinking in his gut.  Surely, he hadn’t been thinking he might visit her in America--had he?  He must have simply hoped she would share his new enthusiasm for her country.

“No.”  She sighed and mustered a smile.  “But if I don’t return, my life is already changed, isn’t it?”