No one seemed to understand. Jack needed to be…punished for his carelessness. Indifference. Maybe he should investigate to see if hair shirts were still available for purchase. Scourging implements.
Perhaps he should simply ask one of the cottage work crew to hit him on the head with a hammer and be done with it.
He pictured old Fitzmartin clubbing him with a Bible. Jack hoped the fellow couldn’t divine what he and Nicola had been up to last night. He didn’t care for himself, but her reputation would be compromised. As much as he would love to make her his wife…
Wait. What? He was contemplating marriage seriously for the first time in his life. In his bumbling fashion, he’d requested her permission to court her yesterday once Puddling was behind him. But—
Ah. The big but. A three-letter word that had more power than one much longer and more syllabic.
Jack shook his head free of cobwebs. He knew better than to dally with an innocent woman. Last night had been more than fun, but neither of them was ready for more. It would be the height of folly to believe all their problems would disappear with a wedding vow that Nicola couldn’t even utter.
Marriage was for life, and he’d known her less than two weeks. Thirteen days, to be specific, and during some of those they’d had no contact whatsoever, even if she was never far from his mind.
His lost mind, apparently. Could he be getting worse the longer he stayed here?
If he left, he wouldn’t see Nicola.
That seemed a dreadful fate. In fact, he should go see her right now. Apologize for last night. Not that he was sorry—he’d have to be careful choosing his words. She might assume he hadn’t enjoyed himself. Hadn’t treasured her gift to him.
He had treasured it sufficiently to be able to conjure up the scent and taste of her all through the night, which was a kind of scourging in itself. It was unlikely the opportunity would present itself to repeat such a performance. His senses had been so overwhelmed when he got home, he hadn’t even made a foray into the basket she’d packed for him. Jack had hidden it in his room and hoped Mrs. Feather didn’t find it in her usual cleaning frenzy.
Guests were monitored during the day, their every movement noted by prying Puddling eyes. The most innocent of activities were duly noted and reported to the doctor, the vicar, Mrs. Grace, or Mrs. Feather. It was too damned cold to reenact their “chance” meeting in the graveyard.
But the rules had been relaxed for Christmas dinner. Perhaps they could find a way around them again. People went to bed early in Puddling. The five lanes were pitch-black at night, no signs of lamps or candles flickering behind the curtains. It was exhausting work being vigilant against Guest transgressions all day, he supposed.
Jack himself had a ten o’clock curfew and was diligent about extinguishing the lights, even if he was wide awake. Which was most nights. He wished his mind had an “off” switch, but so far one had not been invented. Certainly, liquor and ladies and hashish had been utter failures to cool and quell his scattered thoughts before he checked into Puddling. He’d indulged in none of them in too hedonistic a manner; he’d never been one to abuse good sense. If he couldn’t think clearly, he couldn’t work. Those ice boots were the first good idea he’d had since the accident.
He checked his pocket watch. The crew had been given the day off from working on the new cottage, so the empty hours stretched before him. His soul had already been poked at and found somewhat wanting by Mr. Fitzmartin. Mrs. Feather had disappeared down the ladder into the earthen-floored cellar, and Jack couldn’t imagine what the woman was doing. He’d explored the space himself when he first arrived, its shelves empty of canned goods, very few respectable spiders thriving in such Spartan surroundings.
Jack felt like those empty shelves. What did he have to offer Nicola besides a few moments of delightful dalliance? She deserved more, from someone who was not as hampered as he was.
Bah. The day was overcast, but some fresh air would be better than the close atmosphere of his little cottage. If he happened to stop in at Nicola’s, what was the harm? He had to put that damned bush back in the ground if it wasn’t dead already, and he wanted to, if not apologize, assure her that the evening had very special meaning for him.
He dressed for the outdoors, then shouted down the open trap door that he was going out. Mrs. Feather mumbled up something back, and he left to climb up the lane to Nicola’s.
The sky was leaden, promising more snow. Jack wondered how his mother was faring in Menton. If the Riviera resort town was good enough for Queen Victoria and her entourage as a respite from winter, there was a chance his mother would find it adequate.
He tried to picture his black-clad mama relaxing amongst the palm trees and blue Mediterranean and failed. She took her widowhood nearly as seriously as the monarch, for entirely different reasons. Lady Ryder knew she looked her best in mourning clothes, the more expensive the better. At fifty, her skin was as white and unwrinkled as porcelain, her dark hair only slightly threaded with silver. She was a beautiful woman, even if her tongue was a touch too sharp.
Jack loved his mother…at a distance. He knew she meant well, even if her methods were not always on the up and up. It was a great relief to be in Puddling beyond her reach. No sanctioned communication, no visits, hence no lectures.
What would she think of Nicola? Jack wasn’t ready to find out.
He ambled up the slope, mindful of the icy patches. He had half a mind to write to the Puddling governors complaining about his and Nicola’s safety. The Countess and her dog too, presumably. Since they were meant to walk and walk and walk every day, it was a wonder none of them had broken a leg or worse.
Perhaps he should be thankful for the poor condition of the lanes. That was how he met Nicola, wasn’t it? In a lovely heap on the cobblestones. Bring on the bad weather! Maybe he’d be trapped with her at Stonecrop Cottage in a sudden blizzard. In his delightful imaginary scenario, Mrs. Grace would have to have left for the day, else it would be no fun. There would be plenty of food and frolic on tap, and he could resume his unconventional courtship.
Jack smiled at his foolishness. The entire village would be drafted to dig them out of hibernation posthaste—there would be no opportunity for any more seduction.
He straightened his plaid scarf and rapped on the door, hoping he wouldn’t be turned away.
He was greeted, if you could call it that, by Mrs. Grace. She gave him a look which could have frozen fire.
“You have taken Miss Nicola’s peaches.”
He had, and they were hidden in a trunk at the end of his bed underneath a faded quilted coverlet.
If that’s what she meant. Perhaps the word peaches had a hidden meaning for her, just as the Countess suspected.
Jack wasn’t going to admit to anything.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, my lord. Miss Nicola told me she gave you some, as well as packed up a basket. I keep an eagle-eye on my pantry. It’s one thing to celebrate Christmas, quite another to stray from the Puddling diet the day after.”
“I ate them last night,” Jack fibbed. “Ate everything. Down to the last crumb.” All he needed was Mrs. Grace to get Mrs. Feather to search his belongings. He was looking forward to a ham sandwich later.
She waggled a finger at him. “No more infractions. You still have two weeks left, and you wouldn’t want to be booted out.”
Wouldn’t he? All right, he wouldn’t. The thought of not seeing Nicola sliced his heart in two.
Chapter 17
Jack was here! Nicola felt her skin heat with embarrassment.
And lust. She hadn’t really counted on him to turn up today, giving her more time to process what had occurred last night.
She was a fallen woman.
Or at least a stumbling, tripping one, perhaps not flat on her back, but close to. She had been
very tempted to write to Frannie last night, but by the time the letter reached Scotland, her sister might be on her way home.
And what could she say? Does Albert ever lift up your nightgown and kiss you down there?
Nicola really didn’t want to know. The thought of dull if dependable Albert doing such a thing to Frannie—or anyone—golly, her cheeks became hotter by the second. She’d never be able to look at her brother-in-law the same way again. All the men of her acquaintance would have to be avoided for eternity until she could get her mind around it all.
She smoothed the layers of her skirt and tried to seem engaged in the tiny bootie she was massacring. Some poor infant’s ankles would chafe at the lumps and bumps. She really was no knitter. She pulled at a thread and a row dissolved.
Just exactly what was she good at, besides her musical ability?
Getting slowly seduced, apparently.
“Mr. Jack, miss,” Mrs. Grace said, with very little grace at all.
Nicola looked up from the wooly mess. Should she smile? She wasn’t sure she could make her face work right—her lips felt nearly numb.
“Good morning, Miss Nicola.”
He sounded ordinary, if formal. His heart was probably not pounding wildly in his chest, nor were his hands shaking. She put the needles down before she impaled herself and bloodied the misshapen bootie.
His ridiculous tree sat where they had left it on the piano. She pointed to it and lifted an eyebrow.
“Yes, exactly. I’ve come for my bush, but I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea. With no sugar, of course, Mrs. Grace. I wouldn’t want to get giddy and forget those important rules.”
He was trying to charm the housekeeper, a hopeless task. But he was charming Nicola, and she couldn’t quite see where it would all lead. She’d lain awake for hours contemplating the consequences of their actions. So far, she hadn’t been struck dead for her depravity, which was a good sign, she supposed. Maybe the Almighty had taken the day off for His son’s birth.
Her thoughts were becoming sacrilegious. What on earth was happening to her? She could blame Jack, but was afraid her own virtue was rapidly unravelling like the bootie in her lap.
“Do you have your little notebook?” Jack asked, his tone a touch less jaunty.
She nodded.
“Are you all right? Have you anything you want to say to me? I am here to be flayed alive if you think it necessary.” His voice was barely above a whisper now.
Nicola found her book under a tangled skein of yarn. Don’t be silly. I am fine. And you? Her hands were almost steady.
A look of relief washed over his face. “I am well, thank you. No, um, regrets?”
For what?
“You are torturing me. I just wanted to tell you that this Christmas was…special. The best one of my life, if you want to know the truth. And I thank you from the bottom of my black heart for, um, for…”
Stop now. Mrs. Grace’s hearing is excellent.
His hand covered hers. “You don’t want to talk about it? I mean to make it right, Nicola.”
And how would he do that?
She loosened her hand from his. It wasn’t wrong.
There. She was as wicked as she dared to be. She didn’t write that she hoped it would happen again. That somehow they’d get the chance before he left.
Yes, she was entirely unraveled, down to the hollow core in a ball of yarn.
The rattle of the tea tray brought her back to reality. She sipped and chewed and hung on Jack’s every word. She wondered if he always talked so much between battling back his yawns, or whether her silence was the reason that he filled the void. She thought he’d had as sleepless a night as she had.
Nicola was getting to know a lot about him. Only child, unhappy parents. Too clever for his own good. Attended a slew of schools where his talents brought him more punishment than accolades. Didn’t finish university because he bought his first company with his own capital, investing his pocket money since the age of twelve with the help of a sympathetic uncle. Jack had glossed over any romantic entanglements, for which she was grateful.
Being a woman, she’d achieved considerably less so far. Wasn’t expected to invent anything more compelling than a dinner menu. The American poet William Ross Wallace might have posited that “the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world,” but Nicola wasn’t convinced.
She didn’t want to rule the world, just make some positive contribution. If she had no children, as so many women didn’t, did that mean her life was meaningless? She cast her eye on the baby bootie in disgust, seeing every uneven stitch. No innocent infant should be forced to wear it.
“I’m glad you feel that way. I confess my conscience has bothered me more than a little. I—I value our friendship.”
Nicola felt friendship wasn’t the right term, but let it go. She nodded, wondering if her neck would ache at the end of the day for being agreeable. She was so tired of her limitations, and the more she pressed herself, the quieter she became. Jack seemed to be the key to her talking so far, but she couldn’t burden him and make him stay.
“What are your plans for today? I’ll be back to working on the new cottage tomorrow, but perhaps we can go for a walk together.”
Yes. Let me change my clothes.
That meant woolen stockings and a woolen petticoat. She climbed the narrow stairs to her tidy bedroom. She was as tired of her wardrobe as her life—her mother had helped her pack for a month only. Somehow a month had turned to more, almost three now, and she was not much closer to a cure than when she arrived.
Nicola knew she could ask her mother to send additional items of clothing, but that seemed like an admission that she’d given up. She couldn’t stay here forever, but where would she go?
Goodness, she was blue-deviled. Jack had made every effort to be cheerful over tea, to behave as if last night had not happened.
But it had, and Nicola didn’t know what to do about it. She certainly wasn’t sorry, but what lay ahead for her?
It didn’t take her long to dress for the weather, and soon she was arm in arm with Jack, navigating the slippery streets. They had just passed the Stanchfields’ store when Mrs. Stanchfield braved the elements to call after them, wearing only an apron over her neat navy dress.
“Miss Nicola, there is a package for you, just come from Stroud on the mail coach. A Christmas present, I’ll wager. Better late than never.”
Nicola had already received and opened gifts from her family—the Mayfields were a punctilious bunch.
“Aha!” Jack whispered, a grin splitting his face.
Hm. A mystery that Jack knew about. Nicola recollected the bulky forbidden letters she’s included in her missive home. He’d been up to something.
Mrs. Stanchfield handed over the paper-wrapped parcel. It wasn’t especially heavy or large, and felt like…books?
Jack didn’t know her taste in reading. It was always iffy to buy people books. One never knew if one’s friend had read them already or would never read them unless they were trapped alone on a desert island without absolutely anything else to do.
He snatched it away from her outside the shop and tucked it under his arm. “Something inside is mine. We’re going to have such fun!” He came to an abrupt stop. “You do know how to spell, don’t you?”
She gave him a glare. Of course, she knew how to spell! She’d had an excellent governess, and had attended a prestigious young ladies’ seminary in Bath.
“Don’t give me such a withering look. I’ve been known to mix up the orders of my i’s and e’s, and I’m perfectly bright. Accurate spelling isn’t a guarantee of intelligence, nor does inaccurate spelling make one stupid. Why, I once went to school with a fellow who wrote his letters backwards, and he was much smarter than I was. He has a good secretary now who cleans up his mistakes and you’d never know
how much time he’d spent in the headmaster’s study getting his knuckles rapped with the thickest ruler money could buy. I say! I should start a school for pupils like him! Remind me to write that down somewhere when we get home.”
As if one could start a school just like that. But perhaps Jack could. He evidently had the funds and the enthusiasm for almost anything.
Nicola wondered about the present, though Jack was insistent that they took their numerous daily turns around the five rambling lanes. They finally stopped in front of the new cottage—Primrose—and Jack pulled out a key from his pocket.
“See, they’re trusting me, more fools they. Would you like to see Puddling’s latest prison cell?”
Detached from its neighbors, it stood close to the road, with a tiny side garden. There was a bare wooden fence and gate, and a short path to the back door. Building debris had been tossed everywhere, and Nicola minded her steps.
“The front door’s going to be yellow, of course. They’ll paint if it ever gets warmer. Mine, Heaven help me, is red, and I understand in the spring there are red tulips everywhere, which thank God I’ll never see. Great attention to detail, these Puddlingites. Isn’t stonecrop green? You have a blue door. Someone made a mistake.”
Not true. There had been creeping blue sedum—another word for stonecrop—with touches of pink all over the nooks and crannies of the garden when Nicola had arrived in October. They were buried by snow now, however.
They entered what was to be the cottage’s kitchen, which boasted a large soapstone sink under a window, a row of cabinets, and nothing else. It wasn’t hampered by the usual Puddling low ceilings and lintels, and felt colder inside than out. Shiny rust-red tiles ran the length of it, and paved the hallway to front door. An open trap door in the floor led to a substantial drop to a dirt cellar.
“They’re sending me down there to make shelves tomorrow. Apparently they think I can wield a saw without cutting off an arm. I do hope they’re right. Now, let’s go into the parlor and sit in one of the window ledges and open up this package before we get discovered and thrown out.”
Redeeming Lord Ryder Page 11