that was real? Had he liked her, or had their friendship simply been a necessity of his ambitions? She hated that she didn’t know.
“Might I ask why you are walking out here?” Cole said, nodding at the goat’s pen. “I don’t recall this being one of your favorite prospects.”
Daphne tugged on her bonnet’s ribbons. She would be committed after this. “Well, actually, I was looking for you.”
His brow raised. “For me?”
“Yes. I—I needed to talk to you.”
“Oh.” His voice was a mixture of confusion and apprehension. “What about?”
Daphne took a deep breath, picturing how her friend Phoebe used to innocently fib to their teacher Mrs. Vernal that of course she’d had nothing to do with the missing sweets from the kitchen. Forcing a calm expression to her face, Daphne raised her chin to meet Cole’s eyes.
“I wanted to call a truce between us,” she said. “I only have a few weeks at Cheriton, and I would prefer to enjoy them rather than endure them. We were friends once, and I think it would be easier if we returned to that arrangement.”
“Oh.” This time when he said it, his whole expression lifted, along with his shoulders.
“I do not think things shall ever be exactly the same between us,” she cautioned. “I am trying, but…”
“I understand,” he said quickly, stepping forward. “Really, friendship is much more than I’d thought to hope for.”
Daphne tried not to scrutinize him too closely. Had he truly been hoping? She saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes.
“I know our situation is difficult,” he went on. “I never imagined Aunt Hartwell would—”
Daphne flinched, and he stopped. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Perhaps we should avoid that subject.”
She nearly agreed. Would it not be easier to pretend to be his friend if they did not speak of the very reason their friendship had suffered in the first place? But then she paused. If he did by some miracle have some horrible mistake he was hiding, she would never discover it if they only spoke of the weather.
“No,” she said finally. “I shall have to adjust to the idea somehow, painful as it is. And”—she swallowed—“though I hate to admit it, if it could not be me, I concede Aunt Hartwell could have chosen worse than you.”
Cole’s mouth curved upward. “And who is worse than me? A gambler? Or perhaps a highwayman?”
“Not necessarily,” she countered. “A highwayman surely has traveled a great deal. Perhaps he might have some inventive ideas.”
He laughed, and she finally allowed herself a smile. “An excellent point,” he said. “I shall only hope being well-read is enough to make up for that shortcoming in my education.”
“That remains to be seen.” She turned to look over the pen, where the horrible goat had returned to grazing. Cole was well-read. Was that another reason Aunt Hartwell had chosen him? Perhaps Daphne would need to pry open the book her friend Isabel had recommended to her, to show her aunt she was making an effort to educate herself beyond her years at school.
“Would you…” Cole hesitated. “I was planning to visit Mr. Henson, who keeps the goats, and ensure that the new kids are progressing. Would you like to come? If you are interested, that is.”
“Yes, I am interested.” At least she knew she was not lying about this. She had to spend time with Cole for her plan to succeed, and if she were to learn more about the estate in the process, then all the better. She tucked away a small tendril of guilt for deceiving him. This was the only way forward that she could see.
Cole looked as if he were about to offer his arm, but then seemed to think better of it. He gestured ahead of them. “Shall we?”
They started off together, Cole leading his horse as he explained how glad he’d been when Mr. Henson had decided to take on the neglected pens for his goats, and that the animals seemed to be doing well. Daphne listened closely, determined to remember everything he told her. One day she would need to know these things.
She hoped.
Chapter 5
Rain pelted the windows of Cole’s study, and the constant gusting of the wind made it difficult for him to focus on the memorandum book before him. He was working on his least favorite task—reading through the records of the bailiff, park-keeper, etc., and recording an abstract of their notes in his own journal. It was tedious to say the least, but when the weather was as bad as