The Heart Does Whisper (Echoes of Pemberley Book 2)

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  When the visit finally came to a close, Mrs. Tully stood and escorted Toby out of the room. Sean looked at Mr. Hill and saw the man eyeing him—somewhat dubiously.

  He finally asked, “Were it you Toby’s been talkin’ to?”

  “I’ve heard him speak, yes, but only a rare few times,” Sean replied.

  “When do you ’spect he’ll start talkin’ again?”

  It certainly wasn’t an unusual question, especially for a man trying to get custody of a mute child, but Sean caught a hint of trepidation in the man’s tone. Maybe Mr. Hill wouldn’t consider taking Toby if there were no guarantees that the child would fully recover his speech. “I couldn’t say, Mr. Hill. The truth is, Toby might never speak again, or he could start chattering away this afternoon. He has no medical condition that keeps him from speaking. Toby just chooses not to.”

  Mr. Hill nodded as he fidgeted nervously with his hat, repetitively twisting and releasing it.

  “You all right, sir?” Sean asked.

  “Yeah, I just need a smoke.” Mr. Hill started for the door then turned back as if he’d forgotten to say something. He looked at Sean oddly again then said, “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. They gave me leave to see the boy weekly, but there’s plowing to be done.”

  “Two weeks then.” Sean gave the man a curt, parting nod and went back to his office.

  The hour in the small conference room had unsettled Sean anew about Toby Patterson. His gut nettled him that something wasn’t right, and he wished once again that he could speak with Toby’s father. Unfortunately, when Sean had approached Dr. Middleton about going to the state penitentiary, he was promptly reminded that he was training to be a principal—not an investigator. His neck flushed as he recalled the rebuke, but Dr. Middleton was right…Sean had no desire to be a detective. And try as he might, he couldn’t fix every bad situation that crossed his path.

  ***

  Sean turned off the engine and watched the headlights fade, throwing the alleyway into a grey darkness. He sighed, not yet ready to go inside. He needed a beer.

  A chill went through him as he walked to the end of the alley, but it didn’t discourage his mission. His wife deserved all of him when he came in the back door, and Sean couldn’t give that to her right now. As he waited at the cross street, he turned up his collar and buttoned his jacket to the cool night then, when the traffic cleared, stepped down off the curb and headed for the nearest bar.

  The soft murmur of the patrons was soothing to Sean as he took the last few swallows of his Guinness and watched the sports highlights on the television above the bartender’s head. It was getting on past suppertime, and Catie would be getting worried. He reached into his pocket for a fiver to pay his tab when a familiar voice spoke from behind him.

  “Well hel-lo, Sean Kelly,” Delia Reynolds drawled as she sat her Manhattan down on the bar beside him. “Mind if I join you?”

  Managing to paste on a believable smile, Sean turned to her. “Evenin’, Delia. You may, but I’m for home soon.” With his foot, Sean pushed the bar stool out. Not very gentlemanly, he knew.

  Delia didn’t seem to mind, however. Smiling, she eased her backside onto the stool, brushing his leg with her foot in the process. Then, her foot slid deliberately down the length of Sean’s calf, and his back went ramrod straight.

  “Do you come here often?” she asked casually.

  Sure the caress was accidental, Sean eyed his empty glass. “Only when I’m in need of a measure of vitamin G.”

  Staring at him, Delia sipped down the last of her drink with overly puckered red, glistening lips then pouted. “We both seem to have run dry.”

  Perceptively, Sean cut his eyes at her. Not only was the caress not accidental, but apparently, Delia Reynolds wasn’t satisfied carving only one notch in her headboard representing the Kelly clan. Thank God, Sean thought, his three youngest brothers were safely six thousand miles away. He let his gaze travel down to a pair of knees that stuck out from a skirt that was an impractical garment for the weather, to say the least. His eyes came back up and met hers. “Allow me,” he said, lifting her empty glass to the bartender. The pouty lips instantly curled upwards.

  With two fresh drinks, Sean and Delia exchanged polite conversation for another quarter hour. Then Sean got up and threw a twenty down on the bar. It was more than he’d planned on spending, which irritated him. “I must be off, Delia. Catie’s expecting me.”

  Delia glanced over her shoulder to the window. “Oh my, it’s gotten so dark out. Would you be kind and walk a girl home? I’m just down Jones Street—on your way.”

  Sean looked out the window, too, and grimaced. Catie was most likely going to have a few choice words for him “Sure,” he said, lifting Delia’s coat so that she could slide her arms into it. The fur collar smelled of a spicy, musky perfume. So sensual Sean had to fight the urge to bring it closer and breathe in its aroma.

  The journey home was a slow one as Delia strolled at a rather unhurried pace. His mind on Catie, Sean could almost hear the seconds ticking off on his watch. He felt like a lad again late for tea, fearing he’d be sent to bed hungry as a consequence.

  Delia began to walk closer as she complained about the chilly night with a poorly played shiver, which wriggled through her whole body. “I believe I’ll have to slip into a steamy, hot bath when I get home just to thaw.” Her words streamed together and flowed like melted silver. Southern women had a real gift for making even the simplest of statements sound fleshy and lustful. Delia Reynolds was extra gifted.

  “Aye, it is brisk,” Sean agreed, stuffing his hands inside his pockets.

  From behind them, a horse approached, and they automatically turned to the rhythmic sound of the clapping hooves. As the carriage passed, Sean smiled at the two passengers, who kissed shamelessly as the driver rattled off a rote history lesson about the city. When the horse stopped at the crossroad, a car with tinted windows and booming music sped around the carriage and peeled off through the intersection.

  “Buck eejit,” was all Sean was able to get out before the squealing tires spooked the horse. Braying anxiously, the animal reared back enough to jostle the carriage. Sean rushed over and grabbed hold of the bridle just as the animal reared again. In the commotion, the driver dropped the reins, and the female passenger let out a shrill, freighted cry, making the horse take off at a fast trot, dragging Sean with it. “Halt!” he yelled firmly, applying as much pressure as he could on the bit from his position. The old adage, “You can’t always make a horse stop, but you can sure make him wish he had,” racing through his mind. “Halt, boy!” He tried again in a more level tone, tightening on the bit a little more to prove he meant business. “Whoa now!”

  Thankfully, the horse slowed to a walk, allowing Sean to get a more secure hold. “Easy, buachaill,” he crooned, slipping into Gaelic, the language his father used with any and all beasts. “Buachaill maith, buachaill maith, good boy.”

  Calmed by Sean’s low, sure voice, the animal’s complaining neighs began to quiet, and he soon came to a full halt, snuffling and showing no ill effects from his adventure. With no small amount of haste, the terrified female passenger disembarked the carriage, her husband following. “We’ll walk from here,” the man said. Then, along with the driver, he thanked Sean profusely as the handful of spectators, who had watched the scene unfold from the sidewalk, started to clap.

  Laughing, Sean gave a slight bow to the applause and then handed back the reins. “He’ll be fine now,” he assured the reluctant driver. “Just go directly back to the stable. The ole boy will be all the gladder for it, to be sure.”

  As the carriage pulled off, Sean examined and rubbed his stinging hands, completely forgetting Delia Reynolds until her voice came warm on his cheek.

  “My, my, Sean Kelly, I didn’t realize how truly safe I was. Hero, horse whisperer — anything else I should know?”

  “It’s getting late, Delia,” Sean replied shortly. “Let’s get you home.”
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  Sighing daintily, she gestured to the next block. “I’m just a ways more.”

  Walking at a slightly faster clip, they passed several brightly lit windows in the long row of houses that lined Jones Street. “This would be me.” Delia finally stopped in front of a painted brick townhouse with a flickering gas lamp beside the front door that threw off a welcoming light. “Would you like to come in? I’m sure I can find something to warm you after our walk.”

  Sean stared at her for a moment. Her smile was a teasing one, and her eyes petitioned him to say yes. He leaned close to her and noted that she smelled a mixture of the musty perfume and the cool night air. He closed his eyes and thought of Gabriel. No two ways about it, Delia Reynolds was a difficult woman to turn down. “Delia darlin’,” he rasped lowly in her ear, “I wouldn’t come in if you paid me.”

  As Sean’s words settled over her and took root, he saw her demeanor rapidly change. In a flash, Delia’s feigned coyness was replaced by a haughty contempt. The latter, Sean thought, seemed more natural to the realtor.

  “I believe you have mistaken me, Mr. Kelly,” she snapped, offended. “I was merely offering you a cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you kindly, Miss Reynolds, but me wife’s coffee suits me fine and always will.” Sean gave her a slow half-smile and a nod. “Good night, then.”

  Although Sean didn’t turn back, he imagined Delia’s front door was lying in the middle of Jones Street for all the force with which she slammed it. On the upside, Gabriel’s transgression had lessened greatly in Sean’s mind. Delia Reynolds was a temptress and hellcat of the first order, and Gabriel Kelly of Ballygreystone, Co. Down, N. Ireland, had been way out of his element in her clutches.

  From the street, Sean looked up and saw his wife peering down from the bay window in the front parlor. She must have spotted him too, for the curtains closed with a swift jerk. He laughed softly to himself. Yeah…he was in for it.

  “Where’s me darlin’ girl?” he called out lightheartedly as he came in the house.

  There was no answer.

  Figuring it best to get it over with, Sean removed his jacket and went into the parlor. Catie was sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, reading. He eased down beside her and looked over the binding. “Hey, you,” he said, quoting her.

  She looked up at him then. “I usually say that.”

  “I know.” Sean smiled. “But you didn’t. What ’cha reading there, lass?”

  “A book.”

  Sean crooked his head to the read the title, which was upside down. “The History of Georgia.” He took the book from her hands, righted it, and handed it back to her. “There, then,” he said, grinning. “I think you’ll find it a wee bit more interestin’ now.”

  The book slammed shut. “You missed dinner.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.” He leaned in for a kiss but met with her hand.

  “You think you can saunter in here at this hour, say I’m sorry, and get a kiss?”

  “Saunter?” he questioned humorously. “Did I saunter?”

  Catie glowered at him and continued with her speech. “With your — ‘Where’s me darlin’ gerrrl?’—and your eyes glazed with Guinness.”

  Why was it, he wondered, that she always poked fun at his accent when she was in a huff about something. Sean put his shoulders back and pointed to his eyes. “I’m an Irishman, woman. It would take more than two beers to glaze these eyes.”

  “Yes, Sean, I’m married to an Irishman. But I’m not going to be content playing second fiddle to a pub stool and a pint of stout!”

  He considered her for a moment. Catie hadn’t yet removed her make-up, but she’d already pulled back her hair, twirling the curly strands into a loose bun. It was routine, something she did each evening as they readied for bed. Then and there, Sean vowed no man or woman would ever breach the love that he and Catie shared. God help him, he would kill to protect his marriage. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are when you’re angry, Mrs. Kelly?”

  “Every time you’ve stepped in it big time, Mr. Kelly,” she replied flatly.

  “Really?” He cocked an incredulous brow at her.

  “Really.”

  Sean raked a hand through his hair. “Catie, listen love, I had a bloody trying day at work, so I walked to the bar to have a beer, and, long story short, I was dragged half a block by a runaway carriage. Now, are you going to stay mad at me all night, or are you going to accept my apology and forgive me?”

  She blinked a few times. “You were dragged by a runaway carriage?”

  “Aye,” he said softly, opening his palms to her. “See me hands.”

  “Sean, are you hurt?” she exclaimed.

  “I’ll live. It was naught but a spooked horse.”

  Lightly, Catie ran her fingers over the beginnings of a blister. “You’re going to have a blister,” she said, sounding concerned.

  “Don’t fret over it, cailín. I’ve had me fair share of them before.”

  Catie couldn’t help smiling as she brought his hand to her mouth and kissed it. “Promise me that, in the future, you’ll telephone if you’re going to be late.”

  Sean nodded. “Sorry, again.”

  “Forgiven.” She pushed back the blanket. “Shall I heat up your supper? Etta put it all away, swearing you’d never taste another morsel of food as long as she was taking a breath, but that was before we knew about the being dragged by a carriage business.”

  Sean laughed as he scooped her off the sofa and cradled her in his arms. “What I want, Mrs. Kelly, is to take me wife upstairs and make love to her.” He leaned down and kissed her. “I want to make love to her passionately.” He kissed her again. “And slowly.” He kissed her again. “And until she has come to such rapture, she’s crying my praises so loud the neighbors hear her.” Sean kissed her once more, slow and meaning it. “Aye?”

  “Aye,” Catie croaked in reply.

  He smiled at her, that damned wicked gypsy grin that made her stomach flutter, then switched off the porch light with his shoulder, carried her upstairs, and made good on his promises.

  Chapter 23

  With the greater part of their adventure in America piling up behind them in an ever-growing collection of fond memories and stories to be told, Sean began to note that Catie dreamed of home more and more often. And if he were to be completely honest, he too was longing for the faces of family and the familiar places of home.

  “I spoke to Rose this afternoon,” she told him as she slid under the covers and snuggled close to him.

  Here she goes again. Sean smiled consolingly. “Yeah. And what did our Rose have to say?”

  “She’s going to be in Ireland for the christening then travel to Pemberley with us. Oh, Sean, can you believe in less than eight weeks we’ll be home?” The latter was laced with pronounced wistfulness.

  Actually, he could believe it. “Steady on, lass,” he said in a voice she’d often heard him use with horses. “For all your pinin’, we’ve still a while yet.”

  “I can pine all I want!” his wife told him in no uncertain terms. “And anyway, it’s not too early to be thinking about what’s next.”

  “Oh, I’ve been thinkin’ about what’s next all right, and it has little to do with family reunions and christenings.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, resting her head on his shoulder and relishing in the warmth his presence made in their bed.

  “What I mean is, I’ve only had one answer to my queries concerning a teaching position in Cambridge next autumn.”

  “Well, that’s okay isn’t it?” she reasoned. “You only need one after all.”

  “I reckon.” He sighed.

  “I heard a ‘but’ in that sigh, darling.”

  Sean chuckled. “But…it’s a primary school. And what’s worst, many of the pupils are the children of Cambridge faculty. Not only do I dislike teaching younger students, I loathe the idea of teaching the offspring of dons. ” Then, in a perfect high-brow, Cambridge ac
cent, he mimicked the would-be parents. “‘Chauncey, tell sir that you’ve won the spelling award three years running.’ and ‘Mr. Kelly, you’re sure to discover that our Basil is a perfect mathematical genius.’”

  Catie laughed at his imitation. “Chauncey and Basil?”

  “Isn’t that the sort of names toffs choose for their children? If I had things my way, I’d only teach the boys and girls of hard-working country folk.”

  “Sean Kelly!” Catie sat up and exclaimed. “You are an inverted snob! And furthermore, unless you fancy driving ten miles out of Cambridge every morning to some rural parish school, you’ll just have to learn to live amongst a few toffs, which, by the bye, is a very offensive term!”

  Marrying Catherine Darcy at an age that many would consider her still a girl had both its upsides and down. The worst of these downsides—according to Sean—was the year he’d have to live in Cambridge while his young wife finished her education. But it was the fair thing to do, and Sean knew it. After all, Catie had come all the way to America for an internship that was sure to go a long way in advancing Sean’s career. On the other hand, the thought of driving ten miles out of Cambridge and into the quiet countryside of Cambridgeshire every morning did sound appealing. In the morning, Sean decided, he would send out more queries. To his wife, he said, “You’re right, cailín. I apologize.”

  “And it’s only for a year for heaven’s sake.”

  “Aye, only a year,” he affirmed, patting her shoulder as she nestled back down into the covers.

  “Sean?”

  “Yes, Catie?”

  “Are you just placating me?”

  He reached over and turned off the bedside lamp then settled into his sleeping position, pulling her against his chest and tucking her neatly into the curve of his body. “Aye,” he whispered into the back of her hair.