Stranger in My Arms(6)

Eagerly she reached out and stuffed a bunch of daisies in the corner of Lara’s basket. “If anyone deserves a miracle, milady,” Glenda said merrily, “it’s you.”

They all assumed that she was hopeful about the news, that she wanted Hunter to return. Flushed and uncomfortable, Lara guiltily accepted their good wishes and hurried out of the shop.

She started on a brisk walk along the winding riverbank, passing a small, tidy churchyard and a succession of white-walled cottages.

Her destination was the orphanage; a decaying manor situated on the east side of town. Set back among stockades of pine and oak, the orphanage was a distinctive place built of gritstone and blue brick, with a blue-glazed tile roof.

The method used to make the special frost-resistant tiles was known only to the village potter, who had stumbled across the recipe by accident one day and swore he would someday take it to his grave. Puffing from the exertion of walking a long distance with a heavy basket on her arm, Lara entered the building. Once it had been a fine manor, but after the last occupant’s death, the place had been abandoned and had fallen to ruin. Private donations from the townsfolk had restored the structure until it was suitable to house two dozen children. Further gifts had provided annual salaries for a handful of teachers.

Lara ached with regret when she thought of the fortune she’d once had at her disposal-what she couldn’t have done with such money now! There were many improvements she longed to make to the orphanage. She had even swallowed her pride and gone to Arthur and Janet to ask if he would make a donation for the children’s sake, but she had been coldly rebuffed. The new Earl and Countess of Hawksworth were firm in their belief that the orphans must learn that the world was a harsh place, and they must make their own way in it.

Sighing, Lara entered the building and set the basket just inside the door. Her arm trembled from the strain of carrying its weight. She caught a glimpse of a curly brown head as someone ducked behind a corner. It had to be Charles, she thought, a rebellious eleven-year-old boy who constantly searched for new ways to cause trouble.

“I wish someone would help me carry this basket to the kitchen,” she said aloud, and Charles promptly appeared.

“You carried it this far by yourself,” he observed sullenly.

Lara smiled into his small, freckled, blue-eyed face.

“Don’t be surly, Charles. Help me with the basket, and on the way to the kitchen you can tell me why you aren’t in class this morning.”

“Miss Thornton sent me out of the schoolroom,” he replied, lifting one side of the large basket and eyeing the cheese hungrily. Together they carried it down the hall, their steps softened by the threadbare carpet. “I was making too much noise, and paid no mind to the teacher.”

“Why is that, Charles?”

“I learned my maths before everyone else. Why should I have to sit still and do nothing just because I’m smarter than the rest of ‘em?”

“I see,” Lara replied, reflecting ruefully that it was probably true.

Charles was an intelligent child who needed more attention than the school was able to provide. “I’ll speak to Miss Thornton. In the meantime, you must try to behave yourself.”

They reached the kitchen, where the cook, Mrs. Davies, greeted her with a smile. Mrs. Davies’s round face was rosy from the heat of the stove, where a large kettle of soup was kept warming. Her brown eyes were bright with interest. “Lady Hawksworth, we’ve heard the most astonishing rumor from town “It isn’t true,” Lara interrupted ruefully.

“It’s merely some troubled stranger who has convinced himself-or is trying to convince us-that he is the late earl. If my husband had survived, he would have come home long before now.”

“I suppose,” Mrs. Davies said, seeming disappointed. “It would have made a romantic story, though. If you don’t mind my saying so, milady, you’re too young and pretty to be a widow.”

Lara shook her head and smiled. “I’m quite content with my situation, Mrs. Davies.”

“I want him to stay dead,” Charles announced, causing Mrs. Davies to gasp in horror.

“What a wee devil you are!” the cook exclaimed.

Lara bent until she and the boy were at eye level, and smoothed his unruly hair. “Why do you say that, Charles?”

“If he is the earl, you won’t come here anymore.

He’ll make you stay at home and do his bidding.”

“Charles, that’s not true,” Lara replied gravely.

“But there’s no reason to argue the point. The earl is gone-and people don’t come back from the dead.”

Dust from the road coated Lara’s skirts as she returned to the Hawksworth estate, passing tenant farms bordered with wattle-and-daub fences made of woven branches and mud. Sunlight glittered on the water that spilled lavishly beneath the bridge of the damned. As Lara neared the stone cottage, she heard her name called. She stopped in surprise at the sight of her former abigail, Naomi, running from the Hall with her skirts lifted to keep from tripping.

“Naomi, you mustn’t run like that,” Lara exclaimed. “You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

The plump lady’s maid gasped with exertion and feverish excitement.

“Lady Hawksworth,” she exclaimed, struggling to catch her breath. “Oh, milady … Mr. Young sent me to tell you… he’s here… at the castle… they’re all here, and… you must come at once.”