Page 44 of Engaging Sir Isaac

Isaac’s insides twisted. Millie had bothered mentioning him to her maid?

“What is it you expect me to do?” he asked the maid, keeping his voice soft. Her distress was real, and he had no intention of adding to it.

“Maybe—maybe keep a lookout for her, sir? Make sure she stays safe.” The maid blushed terribly then and lowered her eyes. “I know I’ve no right to even speak to you—”

“Have no fear. What is your name?” he asked gently.

“Sarah Morton, sir.”

“Sarah. Your concern for your mistress is a credit to you. I promise, I will do what I can to help, should Miss Wedgewood have need of it.”

The maid’s shoulders drooped as though a burden fell from them. “Thank you, Sir Isaac.” She curtsied and hurried away without another word. Clearly, approaching him had taken a great deal of the maid’s courage. She was a kind-hearted girl. And he would keep his promise.

Isaac took his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, realizing he had hours to spend in the company he had wanted to leave minutes before.

If Esther had been present, she would raise one eyebrow at him imperiously and say, “You cannot resist protecting people.”

It was true. Defending others had always come naturally to him. It was his role in the club his dearest friends had formed in childhood. Silas led. Jacob made peace. Hope stirred them to adventure. Grace plotted their course. And Isaac looked out for all of them, until they grew up, and no one, not even his sister, had need of him anymore.

Millie might need him, and that was enough to make him stay. He meant to spend the whole of the day in Orford, following her about.

* * *

If another man enjoyed hearing the sound of his own voice as much as Mr. Weston, Millie would be most surprised. The man prattled on and on through the meal, sometimes around mouthfuls of food.

Once most of the group finished with the repast, Lady Alderton gave the party leave to explore the ruins or take themselves to the village for an hour, then they were to go to the beach and lighthouses.

Millie simpered up at Mr. Weston, in a way that would suggest she hadn’t a single clever thought in her head. “Mr. Weston, I do hope you will take me about the village and show me the church. I am much inclined to hear what you think of the architecture.”

“Of course, Miss Wedgewood. Have no fear. I will explain the whole of its construction to you.” He was certainly the sort of gentleman who counted upon women being less clever than he, which made Mrs. Vanderby’s desire to blackmail him almost understandable. His condescension grated upon Millie.

But if spending time in his company would allow her to win her mother’s happiness and her father’s pride, she could be a vapid miss more interested in a man’s attention than her own pursuits.

They began their walk as soon as they left the table; during the five minutes it took to arrive on the grounds of Saint Bartholomew’s, walking downhill from the castle, Mr. Weston told her a considerable amount about medieval church’s. Or at least, all of his thoughts about them.

“Considerable waste of funds, if you ask me,” he said when the old graveyard came into sight. “This whole building ought to be torn down. Put something more economical in place. A mill or a workhouse.” He shook his head in some disgust and gestured to the ruins outside the building. “It is not even fit to hold services at present. Entire thing in disrepair.”

The few others who had started to town, walking in groups of twos and threes, went elsewhere. To the bakery, to shops. No one else, it seemed, had any interest in the historic nature of the church.

Millie’s eyes drank in the ruins of what once was an impressive sight. Arches had fallen, the roof of the building had seen better decades, and the whole church had an air of abandonment about it.

“I always find it rather sad when old places are left empty.” Millie stared up at the broken panes of glass. “It is as though the soul has gone out of them.”

Mr. Weston snorted. “Very like a woman, to ascribe things like souls to an inanimate pile of stone. It is not sad. It is impractical.” Despite his disdain, he walked her about on a path along the side of the church, toward the rear of the building.

“Might we go inside?” Millie asked, looking over her shoulder where the entrance lay.

“The whole thing is unstable. Liable to collapse if someone sneezes upon it.” Mr. Weston chuckled at his own wit, and Millie buried her disappointment. He looked down upon her, his fair eyebrows drawing together. “We might get closer to the walls, however. If you wish.”

Somewhat surprised at this small consideration, Millie brightened. He took her to the corner of the church, to inspect the place where the west wall met the southern. She put her hand to the old stone and could not hold back a wistful sigh.

“Think of all these stones have born witness to, Mr. Weston. They have been here since the time of King Henry the Second.”

His hand caught hers, and he drew her around the corner of the wall where they were hidden from the road. Mr. Weston had put on quite a different expression. An intense, knowing look in his eye and a smirk upon his lips startled her. Millie took a step back, bumping into the wall. His arms came up, one on either side of her.

“Now then, Miss Wedgewood. We come to the point.”

Millie sucked in a breath and tightened her hands into fists. She had given her parasol into Sarah’s care, planning to retrieve it before they went to the beach. Now she wished she had it at hand. Her hat pin was out of reach, with how closely Mr. Weston had her trapped.