Wild, Beautiful, and Free(42)

“Miss Bébinn, will you accompany me down to our little village this morning? I know you have no classes on a Saturday, but I’ve brought some gifts for the children, and I’d like to assess the progress on your cottage.”

“Yes, sir, we may go as soon as you like.”

When I went out to meet Mr. Colchester, I found him seated in one of the horse-drawn carts. The cart was filled with parcels of goods, and he seemed congenial, perhaps even proud of the abundance he obviously intended to bestow on Lower Knoll and its inhabitants.

“Come, Miss Bébinn. I’m eager to play my role of the good provider!”

He held out his hand, which I accepted, and I stepped up to the seat next to him. I positioned myself on the side, as far as possible on the bench away from him.

“No, sit here,” he said. He motioned me to move closer. “I wish to talk, and I won’t be able to hear your small, thin voice over the clopping of my eager horses.”

I obliged him, but there was little reason to do so. He proceeded at a leisurely pace; the horses didn’t make as much noise as they could have. But I didn’t object. I considered it an opportunity to study him, which was only fair since it seemed this was his intention for me.

The sun was not yet too high in the sky and cast a whitish winter light over the brown grasses and bare trees. I wasn’t cold. My coat and gloves were plain but well made. They stood up well against the windless morning. All signs foretold a fine day, with a clear sky once the mist burned away. Everything was still, save for the sound of the horses as we made our way down the winding hill.

Mr. Colchester, as he sat on the bench with the reins in his hands, looked healthier than he had seemed the night before. His skin was no longer flushed from whiskey, and there was a slight smile on his lips. He seemed to appreciate the strange, plain beauty of the morning and the brisk nature of its air. The light fell in such a way that I could still perceive his features under his hat—the swirl of colors that painted his irises, and the fine dark hair now flowing down and pressed against his neck. From the way he held the reins and the encouraging clucks he would give the horses, I sensed a gentleness about him that I wasn’t sure I could trust.

He turned suddenly, caught me looking at him, and laughed. “Am I captivating, Miss Bébinn?” he asked. “Am I that handsome?”

“I wouldn’t say handsome, sir. Striking perhaps. Different.”

His laughter stopped, and his face clouded.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to offend you.”

“Different? Do I stick out sorely in the world? Am I unlike other . . . men?”

I felt as though he’d meant to say white men. I had no reason for such a suspicion, but something about him planted the thought in the back of my mind. I couldn’t place his concern otherwise. Mr. Colchester didn’t seem vain. I sought for the words that might console him.

“Sir, I beg your pardon. I meant that the only white man’s face I’ve had the opportunity to examine so closely was my father’s. You are different from him.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Mr. Colchester, I would rather not.”

“No? I suppose you wish to keep your privacy. But surely you can tell me how differently we look?”

“Looked,” I correct him. “He died several years ago.”

“Yes, you said you had no family. But what did he look like?”

“He had red hair that was darkening to brown with age. You are taller than he. But he was strong, I suppose one would say muscular. He had freckles and—” The words caught in my throat. It had been so long since I thought so specifically about Papa’s face, and he seemed suddenly there, so clearly in my mind.

“You miss him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I envy you your paternal felicity.” He paused and clucked at the horses before he continued. “Not that I wasn’t cared for. Nothing was deficient in that department. In fact, your experience of your father is more unusual than mine, I would think. Men dote on their sons in ways they cannot or perhaps will not with their daughters. But such attention can be a blessing and a curse. Or a ridiculous game of blindman’s buff. It’s as though my father tied my hands, turned me about in circles, pointed me in a direction, then pushed me out into the world. He removed the blindfold but, unfortunately, forgot to unbind my hands. And now what chance do I have?”

“To do what, sir?”

“To break free. To move in the direction that I can see and would most like to go.”

I didn’t know how to respond. How could I when I knew neither what bound him nor where he hoped to proceed? If he had asked such a question last night, I would have put it down to his drunken state. But in the clear, cold sobriety of the winter morning, I couldn’t dismiss his query as utter nonsense. The best course of action seemed to be to remain silent.

“I have puzzled you, Miss Bébinn. Good. While you search for answers in the air, you are not looking at me. It’s just as well. By the by, you are not pretty any more than I am handsome.” He turned and seemed to study me again. “But you are . . . striking.”

“I take after my father.”

“Not even a wince! You say that with such acceptance.”

“I don’t concern myself with what I can’t change, sir. I know who I am. I know what I look like.”