Where Dreams Begin(13)

“My mother pours the milk in first,” Bronson remarked, watching her.

“Perhaps you might suggest to her that it is easier to judge the tea by its color when the milk is added last,” Holly murmured. “The nobility tends to disparage people who pour the milk in first, as it is usually done by nannies and servants and…”

“People of my class,” he said wryly.

“Yes.” Holly forced herself to meet his gaze. “There is a saying among the peerage when a woman hasn't sufficient breeding…they say she is rather a ‘milk-in-first’ sort.”

It was presumptuous of her to offer such advice, no matter how helpfully intended, and some would have taken offense. However, Bronson accepted it comfortably. “I'll tell my mother,” he said. “Thank you.”

Relaxing a little, Holly reached for a biscuit. It was delicate, sweet and slightly spongy, a perfect accompaniment to the crisp tea. “The cook is having a good day,” she pronounced after swallowing a bite.

Bronson laughed, the sound quiet and deep, utterly attractive. “Thank God,” he said.

The conversation was easy and companionable after that, although it was strange to Holly, being alone with a man who was neither a relative nor a long-held acquaintance. Any trace of self-consciousness was soon submerged by her fascination with Zachary Bronson. He was an extraordinary man, with an ambition and drive that made all other men she had known seem like weak, passive creatures.

She sipped her tea as she listened to him describe the latest experiments with the steam carriage, or locomotive, in Durham. He talked about feed pumps injecting hot water into boilers, and the steam blasts that were channeled through the smokestack at the top of the vehicle, and various attempts to improve the draft in the furnace to increase power. Someday soon, he claimed, the locomotive would be used not only to carry freight, but livestock and even human passengers, and rail lines would cross through every town of importance in England. Holly was skeptical but fascinated. It was the kind of subject that a gentleman rarely discussed with a lady, as ladies were thought to be far more interested in matters of family, society and religion. But it was refreshing to hear something other than society gossip, and Bronson managed to explain the technical subjects in a way that Holly could easily understand.

Zachary Bronson came from a world so different from her own, a world of businessmen, inventors, entrepreneurs…It was so clear that he would never fit comfortably into a stodgy aristocracy steeped in centuries of tradition. However, it was also clear that he was determined to make a place for himself in first society, and heaven help anyone who tried to deter him.

It must be exhausting to live with him, Holly mused, wondering how his mother and sister dealt with his relentless energy. He had such an active brain and so many interests, and his obvious appetite for life amazed her. One wondered if he ever made time to sleep. She couldn't help comparing him to George, who had loved long, lazy walks, and reading quietly with her beside the hearth on rainy afternoons, and lounging with her in the mornings to watch their baby play. She couldn't imagine Zachary Bronson ever sitting still to watch something as mundane as a child learning to crawl.

Somehow the conversation was gently steered into more personal matters, and Holly found herself describing her life with George's family, and the facts of her widowhood. Usually when she discussed George with someone who had known him, her throat became tight and her eyes misted with tears. However, Bronson had no knowledge of George, and for some reason it was much easier for Holly to discuss her husband with a stranger.

“George was never sick,” she said. “He never had fevers or headaches—he was always fit and healthy. But then one day he began to complain of fatigue, and pains in his joints, and he was unable to eat. The doctor diagnosed it as typhoid fever, which I knew was exceedingly dangerous, but many people live through it. I convinced myself that with good nursing and a great deal of rest, George would recover.” She stared at the empty cup in her saucer and traced her finger around the delicate gilded edge. “Day by day he shrank before my eyes. The fever turned to delirium. In two weeks he was gone.”

“I'm sorry,” Bronson said quietly.

I'm sorry was something people always said. There really wasn't anything else to say. But there was a gleam of warmth in Bronson's black eyes that conveyed genuine sympathy, and she felt that he truly understood the magnitude of her loss.

A long silence extended between them, until Bronson spoke again. “Do you like living with the Taylor family, my lady?”

She smiled faintly. “It's not really a matter of like or dislike. It is the only choice available to me.”

“What of your own family?”

“My parents are still supporting three remaining daughters and trying to find good matches for them. I did not want to add to their burden by returning home with my child. And in abiding with the Taylors, I feel somewhat closer to George.”

Bronson's wide mouth tightened at the last sentence. Glancing at her empty cup and plate, he stood and extended a hand to her. “Come walk with me.”

Startled by his abruptness, Holly obeyed automatically, taking his proffered hand. Her fingers tingled at the warm shock of his touch, and her breath caught in her throat. Pulling her upward, Bronson tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her away from the tea table. He had touched her far too familiarly—not even George's brothers would dare to reach for her bare hand. But it seemed that Mr. Bronson did not know better.