An Unpracticed Heart

Chapter Twelve

The grounds around Ellesferth were indeed a disgrace. Hartley stood outside the stables, downing his fourth cup of water pumped directly from the well by the trough. Despite the chill that stubbornly clung to the morning, he'd doffed his coat some hours before and his shirt was adhered to his torso with a mixture of perspiration and plain filth. Ballard lingered not far away, chatting with one of the stable hands about a corner of the building's roof that still bore the damage from a fallen tree three summers before.

The remains of the tree sat on the ground behind the building, its naked branches reaching halfway across the lawn towards what had once been an admirable rose garden. The roses, however, had become choked with weeds and ivy, while the wall that surrounded it showed evidence of crumbling. At least, what could be seen of the stones beneath the layers of dark green leaves and thorn-ridden vines.

The lanes and pathways needed new gravel, he'd noted. Nearly every fence - both stonework and wood - needed mending, or even replaced in some cases. Collapsed sheds and buildings would have to be cleared out and rebuilt. And the grounds themselves, the lawns, gardens, streams and ponds...

He finished drinking, hung up the cup on its hook, and pumped another handful of water to splash over his face and hair. Not even three hours out from breakfast and his arms already shook with exhaustion, his legs trembling with the desire to sink into a chair and not come out of it again for the remainder of the day. But he needed this. He needed to be outside, sucking in lungfuls of air that weren't fouled with smoke and the miasma of other people's filth. He needed to be away from London, away from all the things that did nothing more than serve to remind him of the mistakes he'd made with his life.

And he needed to be away from Miss Claridge. At least until he knew what to make of this new situation they'd tumbled into.

She certainly was not a missish woman, trembling at his touch or fainting away at the very thought of being in the presence of a member of the opposite sex. But everything about her carriage and mannerisms spoke of someone who had been gently bred, trained for ballrooms and drawing rooms and any other kind of room in which fussily-dressed females drank tea and put themselves forward to snag the attention of whichever single man they'd deemed the greatest catch.

Claridge...

He had repeated the name to himself over and over again, until it had ceased to sound like something belonging to the English language. Perhaps she was right and all of the drinking he'd done over the last... too many years had pickled his wits. It was a name so familiar to him, and yet he could not manage to figure out where or when he'd heard it before.

But despite his faulty memory, the fact remained: He'd gone and entered dangerous territory with her.

They might be stranded in the wilds of Scotland, but that didn't mean they were beyond reach of gossip's sharp claws. Twice now, matters had gone too far. This morning, he'd been foolish enough to kiss her, a temptation that had dogged him since she'd first pushed him back into a chair and taken on the task of rendering him sober. And if he wasn't careful, that kiss would become something capable of a far greater impact on both their lives. In his mind, at least, it already had.

By the time he rejoined Ballard by the stables, a few men were gathering tools in order to dismantle what was left of the fallen tree.

"They'll chop it up, use it for firewood." Ballard had taken off his own hat and coat an hour before, though he appeared to be revelling in the physical activity Ellesferth promised, unlike his cousin. "It's been sitting long enough it's already well enough seasoned. Of course, the stump will have to be dug out at some point."

"The stable is in dire need of a new roof," Hartley added. "Leaks like a sieve, or so the men tell me."

"You might be better served to see everything razed to the ground and built up again, rather than spend years and a large portion of your fortune patching and mending it all into something hardly serviceable." Ballard blinked and looked up at the sky, before sweeping several damp strands of dark hair off his forehead. "I'd say wait for better weather to make a go of it, but I have a funny feeling this is considered a nice day this far north."