doing. As he suspected, the woman who had rented the cottage did not go by the name of Reynaud, but another name altogether: Smith. The tenancy agreement was odd to say the least and his uncle had ensured that Mrs Smith could never be thrown out of the cottage. According to his estate manager, the quarterly rent was always paid on time from a London bank. His Uncle John had overseen the details personally.
Kit bent down and patted Onyx’s neck. The horse blew out his breath.
‘Who is she, Onyx? And why did my uncle let the house to her in that fashion? What was she to him? A mistress? A former love?’
Onyx pawed the ground and tossed his head.
It would be easy to turn the horse’s head towards the cottage and visit. He just couldn’t shake the suspicion that this woman might be his mother—hidden away from her shame by his kindly uncle for all these years. He wasn’t at all sure what he felt, but as he watched the door a bent figure came out. Nothing. She was too far away. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure his mother’s features. They were a blur, an impression really. He recalled a scent of night jasmine, but nothing real and substantial.
A great part of him wanted to know the truth. He deserved to know what his uncle wanted hidden. Had his uncle defied his father?
Silently he willed her to look up and acknowledge him. Take it out of his hands. He’d go down if she so much as waved.
The woman stretched and went back into the house without looking towards him.
Kit curled his hands about the reins. Did he truly want to know who the woman was? How would he cope if it really was his mother?
She knew where he was. He refused to beg. He was not going back to that little boy on the stairs, silently pleading with his mother to turn around and stay, not to leave him. He had left the past behind him.
To hell with his rules. He needed Hattie. He needed her to make the past vanish. His life was about the here and now and the past was kept in a little place marked Do Not Open.
Kit spurred his horse towards the Dower House and Hattie. Solace.
Hattie put her hands on her back and stretched. The scent of strawberries perfumed the still room. There was something supremely satisfying about making jams and preserves. And the entire process kept her mind off Kit and the fact that neither had arranged for the next meeting.
She carefully poured a bit of the bubbling liquid onto a cool plate.
‘Mrs Hampstead said I would find you out here, but she neglected to say how delightful you’d look in your apron and mob cap.’
Hattie jumped and the plate crashed down on to the flagstones. ‘Kit!’
She spun around and there he stood, dressed in riding gear. His highly polished black boots contrasted with the tight-fitting tan breeches. His top hat was rakishly tilted on his head. His grey eyes sparkled.
‘I came to see if you’d like to go for a ride with me, but if you are busy …’
‘I am making strawberry jam. It won’t take long, but it has restored my mood. Stephanie was here earlier …’ Hattie found she couldn’t frame the words. To explain about her disappointment would mean having to explain why and that she had started to make castles in the clouds. She clenched her fist around the spoon. When she next saw him, she had wanted to be properly dressed, not in her oldest gown with a voluminous apron tied about her waist and the awful mob cap. How could he think she looked delightful? She looked a fright.
‘I’ve never seen anyone make jam before.’ He stepped into the small room, filling it. ‘It is fascinating. You have a bit of jam on your cheek.’
Hattie gave a light laugh and scrubbed with her hand. ‘All gone now. I’m a messy cook.’
‘Is jam-making a messy occupation?’
He was exaggerating. How could anyone not have seen jam being made before? The preservation of food happened in all sorts of houses and it was the responsibility of the lady of the house. It was criminal to allow produce to go to waste. Stephanie might not enjoy the process, but she did lend a hand when called upon, particularly when it was the wines or other types of alcohol. ‘You must have had a deprived childhood.’
His mouth turned down and the light faded from his eyes. ‘An unusual one.’
‘Surely your mother …’
‘My mother was not part of my life after my fourth birthday.’ His tone indicated the subject was closed.
‘An aunt or another relative, then?’ She gave a little shrug and moved the steaming pan off the stove to show she wasn’t hurt by his refusal to talk about his childhood. Was his mother dead or had she just left? Hattie hastily bit back the question. Some day she’d question Mrs Reynaud, who knew of the family and their history if he never confided in her, as she was curious. But not now as that would be like spying. Silently she willed him to tell her.
‘No, no one like that. My father’s taste ran to other sorts of women.’
‘A pity.’
With a practised eye, she began to pour the gleaming red liquid into the jars. Over the years she’d discovered Livvy and Portia were more likely to tell her secrets if she appeared to be doing something else.
‘My father disliked having women in the house.’
That simple statement combined with the jumping-jack explained so much. Her heart bled for the little boy who was never scooped up or petted or given treats. ‘How awkward.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘My father enjoyed being awkward and contrary. It was his favourite sport. He liked it even better than the horses.’
‘And you are nothing like that,’ she teased. ‘You never force anyone to anything they wish to avoid like waltzing.’
‘Waltzing with you was an unexpected pleasure.’ The grey in his eyes deepened. ‘I’ve discovered many pleasures with you.’
‘Very charmingly put.’
‘I try my best to be charming. I learnt from his example that it is easier to get your way when you are.’
‘I shall remember that.’ Hattie concentrated on the liquid. He hadn’t liked his father and his mother had gone from the household by the time he was four. He would have used the word—dead. She wasn’t sure why that was important, but she knew it was. She had to wonder if Mrs Reynaud knew anything or indeed if she would be willing to confide. All Hattie knew was she had to try. She wanted to unlock his secrets, but she also knew that if she pressed too hard, he’d turn away from her.
‘Did it take you long to learn how to make jam?’
‘Preserving is easy to do once you know how,’ she said, allowing him to change the subject. ‘There is something satisfying about seeing rows of jars and bottles. I can’t cook, but I can preserve.’
‘Why do you do it?’
‘And not leave it to the servants?’ Hattie leant back against the small wooden table. He appeared genuinely interested. ‘I like to do it. I find it leaves me free to think as I work.’
