Lillian's Light Horseman (21 page)

William followed gratefully with his saddlebag as she led him to a room upstairs then down a long hallway. It was a different room from the one he’d stayed in previously and was farther removed from the rest of the household.

Margaret left him on the threshold of his chamber with instructions to join them on the verandah where they would take dinner.

He quickly removed his shirt, walked over to the washbasin and dunked his head gratefully into the cool, lavender-scented water. Immediately the inexorable ocher-colored dust, trapped within his hair, tinged the water a dull brown. He scrubbed his face, arms and torso then toweled dry with a cotton cloth provided for the purpose before retrieving a clean shirt and trousers from his bag. He instantly felt better and far more civilized. He combed his hair, splashed aftershave tonic onto his neck then gazed into the mirror. He was in need of a shave, his jaw stubbled with two days’ growth, but it couldn’t be helped. He hadn’t had time to shave and he figured the Dawsons wouldn’t mind. At least he’d rid himself of most of the dirt and he no longer smelled like horseflesh and sweat.

He made his way to the verandah and sank gratefully into one of the comfortable wicker chairs. Margaret handed him a tall glass of lemonade, which he drank in a few long gulps, easing the dryness in his throat. She laughed and refilled his glass before taking a seat next to him.

A table covered with a white linen cloth and set with crystal and silver had been established at the far end of the verandah.

“I’ll serve dinner soon. We’re having egg salad to start, followed by lamb pie and for dessert, we have strawberry sponge cake,” Margaret informed him proudly.

He studied her curiously and wondered if she knew that lamb pie was his favorite dish.

“Lamb pie, one of my favorites.”

She smiled shyly and dropped her gaze to her lap. “Yes, I know.”

He didn’t have an opportunity to ask how she knew, as George Dawson joined them. Not that it mattered. It just left him with an odd feeling that people had been talking about him without his knowledge.
What else does Margaret Dawson know about me?

* * * *

“Will we be expecting William today for lunch?” Lillian asked Mrs. Thompson, as she measured out flour for the bread dough.

“No. He left for the Dawson property this morning for a dinner engagement. He’ll stay there overnight,” she replied, packing more wood into the slow-combustion stove. “I expect him back by noon tomorrow.”

Lillian stilled, a fierce jealousy gripping her. The feeling was so unfamiliar and so intense that it physically hurt her chest.

Why didn’t William mention anything? Why would he feel the need to hide his plans from me and why stay overnight?

Mrs. Thompson slammed the oven door closed and continued with her explanation, as if Lillian had spoken her thoughts aloud. “It’s a long ride—four hours—so Mr. Cartwright stays overnight.”

“How often does William visit the Dawson property?” Lillian asked in a voice that she hoped imparted casual inquiry.

“Oh, not very often, perhaps once a month. There was a time when I thought that Mr. Cartwright was interested in the young Miss Dawson.”

A searing pain cut through her as the housekeeper voiced Lillian’s own fears. She glared down at the table pummeling the bread dough in hurt frustration and tried desperately to appear unaffected. She blinked her eyes rapidly in an attempt to halt the tears that threatened to overflow at any moment.

“Lillian, you are kneading the dough, dear, not killing it,” the woman commented good-naturedly.

She looked down to see that the dough was flattened against the table top, where she’d pounded it into pancake-like submission. She took a deep breath, ran her hand through her hair to regain her composure and worked to stop herself from fleeing the kitchen in a sobbing mess.

“Look at that. I was miles away, thinking about the children’s lesson this afternoon,” she lied smoothly.

Mrs. Thompson was no longer paying attention. She busily ticked tasks off a to-do list.

Lillian quickly gathered the dough into a ball and put it into a greased bowl, then she covered everything with a cloth and placed it next to the slow-combustion stove to prove.

“Well, then,” she declared with forced cheerfulness, dusting off her hands. “I’d better see to the children’s lessons.”

She needed to escape the kitchen and Mrs. Thompson’s presence. She needed to be alone to mull over this information, and giving the housekeeper no chance to delay her, she quickly exited the kitchen.

When she reached the sanctuary of her room, she closed her door and leaned against it, letting out a deep sigh of relief at being alone with her thoughts and fears.

She paced to the window, stared out of the glass and contemplated what she’d just learned. It was nothing, she assured herself. William was just attending an innocent dinner at the neighboring property. There was no reason for her to be feeling insecure and jealous.
Why then did William not tell me? Does he have something to hide?

She thought back to all the times that she’d seen William and Margaret Dawson together. She recalled them dancing closely at the Dawsons’ dinner dance where she’d also come across them outside and alone. Then at the picnic races, she’d seen them looking so comfortable together—like the perfect couple. And later at the ball, where they’d danced again and when William had saved the first dance for Margaret.

A cold dread settled in her chest as she mentally reviewed William’s and Margaret’s behavior toward each other. She suspected that Margaret had feelings for William. In fact the young lady made it very obvious, but she wasn’t sure of William’s feelings toward Margaret. He’d never mentioned anything to Lillian, but then, given their circumstances, William would hardly discuss his feelings about someone else. She wondered with a sinking feeling whether William had another agenda. Although what that could be, she had no idea. The fact that William had yet to discuss with her what he wanted, if anything, out of their relationship made her nervous.

Her heart had always belonged to William and she’d given herself physically to him, without restraint or fear, because truthfully, he’d been the only man that she’d ever wanted, even after all these years. She couldn’t imagine being with anyone else and she had hoped William felt the same way. Now she wasn’t so sure. She prayed she was overreacting and that there was no justification to her fears, but the fact remained that William had not told her of his plans and, while she was not his keeper, she had to wonder
why
he hadn’t told her what he was doing. In her experience, acts of omission generally meant that there was something to hide. In this case, she hoped desperately that he would prove her incorrect.

She knew she could have been more forthcoming about her own feelings, that perhaps her shyness and occasional awkwardness did not communicate fully what she felt for him. But she was unused to such intimate situations and, apart from William when they were younger, the only other person she’d been very close to was her aunt and she had definitely never discussed intimate things with her. No, Lillian had been conditioned to abide by conservative values and proper manners and behavior. She was taught that ladies did not express themselves in anything other than polite and correct language and definitely did not wax lyrical about sexual activities and personal feelings. She couldn’t quite resolve why, then, the act of being physically intimate with William was so much easier than discussing her feelings with him. She guessed it was her body’s natural reaction to him. When he was close and when he was making her body feel those delicious sensations, all other considerations fled her mind.

She sighed heavily as her thoughts brought her full circle to her current distress and she resolved that she could do nothing but cast her fears aside for the present and focus on things to keep her mind busy. With that resolution, she tidied her hair and washed her hands and face before she went to find the children to ready them for their lessons.

Chapter Twenty-Four

William sat relaxing after dinner with a whiskey and a cigar while George Dawson outlined his latest plans for his property.

Dinner had been a pleasant affair that had given William the chance to examine any residual attraction that he might have felt for Margaret and he was beyond relieved when all he felt was a friendly attachment. She’d flirted with him, outrageously at times throughout dinner, to the point where William had grown concerned, but when he’d cast a glance at her father, he’d either not observed it or was studiously ignoring it. It was clear to William, however, that Margaret Dawson was throwing all her feminine wiles in his direction and he would have to tread with caution where she was concerned. He felt confident that his behavior thus far toward her had been nothing but courteous and polite, but after her performance earlier that evening, he could no longer ignore the fact that her feelings were obviously stronger. He then decided to take a step back and distance himself from any further unnecessary association with the Dawsons. It was true that he respected George Dawson and valued his acquaintance, but he didn’t want to be responsible for any feelings of ill will that an unrequited attachment might engender.

William took a sip of his whiskey and nodded in agreement while George continued discussing his plans but only listened with half an ear as he resumed his internal musings.

Margaret was young, probably a year or two younger than Lillian, and she would find a nice young man to attach herself to, so he just needed to be clear with her that it wouldn’t be him. He understood that, isolated as they were, it would be easy to fasten one’s affections to someone nearby and available, and he had no doubt that what Margaret felt for him was in the league of a harmless infatuation. Nevertheless, he’d have to nip it in the bud before Margaret got carried away.

George Dawson leaned forward and topped off William’s whiskey before his conversation took a different turn.

“Well, Cartwright, what did you think of dinner? My Margaret is an accomplished cook. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“It was a delicious meal and I complimented her on it.”

“She would make someone a good wife, eh?”

William narrowed his eyes and observed the other man over the rim of his glass. “Yes, I have no doubt she would.”

George grinned widely and took a large swallow of whiskey. “No doubt you must have thought about taking another wife. It must be lonely, a young, virile man like yourself.”

William coughed and tried not to choke on his drink, not fooled for a moment by Dawson’s deceptively casual tone.
Fuck, the man has no shame
. “I have
not
thought about it,” he said irritably and took a long, fortifying mouthful of liquor.

“Ah now, Cartwright, don’t be coy. There must be some young thing who has caught your eye?”

William studied George as he refilled his glass, wondering idly if the man was trying to get him drunk and, coming to the quick conclusion that he was, figured it was an obvious attempt to loosen his tongue.

“You know me, Dawson. Coy is not an adjective that I would ever use to describe myself.”

“Keeping your powder dry, eh?” Dawson said, tapping his nose conspiratorially.

“Not at all. I have no plans to take a wife in the near future.” He wasn’t about to divulge his personal life to George Dawson, even with the considerable amount of whiskey currently floating around in his system. He looked at his watch, conscious that he had an early start and not relishing the prospect of a four-hour ride on little sleep.

“Well, I should turn in,” William announced. “Thank you for your hospitality, Dawson.”

“Not at all. Any time,” he replied jovially. “It’s been good to catch up and I know that Margaret enjoyed the company.”

William nodded politely, shook the man’s hand then made his exit. The whiskey had started to catch up with him and his head was swimming as he made his way upstairs to his room. He undressed quickly and gratefully fell into bed and a deep slumber.

* * * *

He wasn’t sure what woke him. He struggled to sit up and was momentarily dazed by the unfamiliar environment. He peered around the dark room groggily and scratched his head, trying to determine what had disturbed his sleep. The room was in deep shadow, the curtain fluttering from the breeze through the open window. Perhaps it was a noise from outside. He sat, his back resting against the headboard, and shoved a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. He hated being awoken suddenly. It always left him feeling twitchy and off kilter. He knew it was the after-effects of the war. Ever since then, it only took a slight noise or movement to have him rearing up in bed in readiness for quick action. It was getting better, though. At least now he didn’t automatically reach for his rifle and prepare to take cover.

He cursed quietly and lay back down, hoping he’d return to sleep quickly. It was then that a movement by the door caught his eye. He sat up again and shoved the covers aside before leaping out of bed.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. He reached toward where his rifle rested against the wall.

“It’s just me, William,” replied a feminine voice, breathless and hesitant.

“What the fu—?” He recognized the dulcet tones of Margaret Dawson. “Margaret? What the hell are you doing in my room? I could have killed you!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you sneak into people’s rooms in the middle of the night. What do you want?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her explanation. He was very conscious of the fact that he was naked and cursed himself for not having had the foresight to at least sleep in his underclothes. He hoped to God that the room provided enough shadow to conceal his nudity. The last thing he needed was for her to fall into a fit of hysterics. That thought fled his brain rapidly, however, when he heard the strike of a match and saw the following flare as she touched the tip of it to a candlewick.