by Jacksons Way
“Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford and their child have been placed in the blue room. I'll see to having your old cradle brought down from the attic later today. It will need to be cleaned and bedding found for it, of course.”
“Of course.” This wasn't a problem in the least. It was a simple matter of housekeeping. She'd send Jeb up for the cradle later.
“Outside of your adventures this morning …” Mrs. Beechum sighed again. “Miss Agatha had departed before your message to her arrived here. I don't know where she went and so couldn't send it on. Mr. MacPhaull sent a second message. I placed it on the desk in the study. Mr. Rutherford brought the mail packet in from the carriage on his first arrival here and it's with the message from your brother.”
“Very good.” Were they done? Could she get on with taking care of Jack's head?
“Havers has announced that his accommodations are inadequate and suggests that if you hope for him to remain in service you will have to refurbish his room. He also wants to know how he will be paid since Mr. Patterson is incapacitated and can't authorize his monthly salary.”
Lindsay gritted her teeth. Havers' concern about his salary wasn't unexpected, but his sense of necessary style was, and it irritated her. She knew that she should allow herself some time to rationally think the matter over before dealing with his expectations. “I'll have a talk with him,” Lindsay promised.
“Primrose is threatening to quit,” Mrs. Beechum went on. “I'm afraid that cooking of any sort has been a casualty of the contest she and Emile are waging.”
“Meaning that there's no luncheon.”
“And that there are no efforts under way for supper, either,” the housekeeper confirmed.
Lindsay was hungry and knew that the others had to be as well. “I'll have a talk with both her and Emile. Immediately,” she declared, flipping loose tendrils of hair over her shoulder as she eyed the far end of the dining room and the swinging door that led into the kitchen.
She'd taken a single step forward when Mrs. Beechum said, “There are reporters from both the Sun and the Herald in the kitchen, waiting to speak with you about the building fire.”
“Wonderful,” Lindsay groused, stopping and turning back. Jeb and Lucy, Mrs. Beechum, and Jackson Stennett all watched her, waiting to see how she was going to handle the small mountain of difficulties before her. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue while she looked between them all and decided. “First things first,” she said decisively. “Mr. Stennett is going up to his room to lie down before he falls down. I'll be up to take care of his head as soon as possible.”
“I'm fine,” Jackson offered quietly, wincing slightly as he pushed away from the wall to stand squarely on his feet.
Oh, yes, she could see that. “Humor me, please,” she countered. “I have too many things to do without having to stop to pick you up off the carpet. Jeb,” she added, addressing her junior accountant, “if you'd be so kind to see that he makes it, I'd be most appreciative.”
She didn't give either one of them a chance to speak before turning to her housekeeper and saying, “Now, Mrs. Beechum, please extend my apologies to the reporters and ask them to return later today when I can devote proper attention to answering their questions. Then have Primrose start heating water for our baths. While you're seeing to those two tasks, I'll speak with Proctor about the pan of dirt for Mrs. Kowalski's cat.
“When the reporters are gone, I'll be in to straighten out the difficulties between Primrose and Emile. Tell them that I expect to find them preparing something for us to eat when I get there.”
“And Havers?” Mrs. Beechum inquired, her brow raised.
“Havers can wait a bit. I don't know quite what to tell him at this point.”
“How about telling him to go to hell?” Jackson suggested.
“It's tempting,” she admitted with a weak smile, “but I need him. He's been with Richard for years. I couldn't find anyone to replace him who would be even half as capable in caring for him.” To Mrs. Beechum, she said, “Please tell Havers that I'm aware of his desires and extend my apologies for not being able to discuss the matter with him until later.”
“Talk to me before you promise him anything,” Jackson instructed, making his way toward the stairs. Jeb stepped forward, but Jackson shot him a look that stopped him in his tracks. “I can make it on my own, Jeb. Much obliged for the concern, though.”
Lindsay watched Jackson Stennett haul himself up the stairs. She wouldn't be long, she silently promised him. And she promised herself that she'd apologize for putting a cat pan and kitchen squabbles ahead of him. It wasn't right. But it was very much the usual nature of her world.
THE WATER IN THE PITCHER was cold, but it was clean. Jackson studied his reflection in the mirror. He looked like hell. There was some consolation to be had in the fact that he could see that fact clearly. No blurred edges, no half-transparent, slipping, double images. He had a god-awful headache and his shirt was ruined, but his brain hadn't been scrambled. He'd live. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.
Jackson poured some water into the basin, then stripped off his jacket and opened the neck of his shirt. He'd washed the worst of the grime from his face before a knock came at the door. “It's not locked,” he called out, dropping the wash rag into the bowl and thinking he might feel human again one day soon.
In the mirror, he saw the door open. It wasn't Lindsay who stood on the other side, but Mrs. Beechum.
“Miss Lindsay asked me to tell you that she'll be along directly to tend to your head.”
Jackson smiled wryly. “Did she ask you to extend her apologies for not being able to do it right now?”
“Of course, sir,” the housekeeper answered.
Jackson turned and faced her, his arms folded across his chest. “Tell me something, Mrs. Beechum, is there anything in this world she doesn't apologize for?”
The woman quietly replied, “You've noticed.”
“It's rather hard not to, ma'am. With her, every other sentence either begins or ends with the words ‘I'm sorry’ Why does she do that?”
Mrs. Beechum contemplated the floor for a second and then lifted her face to meet his gaze squarely. “Lydia MacPhaull—her mother—was somewhat difficult to please. She had very high and exacting expectations.”
“Of Lindsay.”
“Especially of Miss Lindsay, sir. And especially so after the senior Mr. MacPhaull left home.”
If he was reading between the lines correctly, Billy's wife had made the daughter pay for the father's sin. It wasn't right and it wasn't fair. And it had been damn small of Billy to have let it happen. “What about Henry and Agatha?” he asked. “Did Mrs. MacPhaull hold them to the same standards?”
“Unlike Miss Lindsay, they seemed to have no difficulty in being and doing as their mother wanted. But Miss Lindsay is cut from a different kind of cloth, sir. Which of course made constantly failing all that much more difficult for her.”
“Billy should have taken her with him when he left.”
“I've always been of that opinion.”
He started, not realizing that he'd spoken the thought aloud. At least he'd managed to commit the error with someone who shared his view on the matter. He wondered how Lindsay felt about it. Had she wanted to go with her father? Had she missed him? Or had staying with her mother been of her own choice?
“Is there anything I can get or do for you until Miss Lindsay gets here, Mr. Stennett?”
“I'm fine, Mrs. Beechum. Thank you for offering.”
“Very good, sir.”
He mentally subtracted the years. Lindsay had been eight when Billy had walked out of her life. How long had she endured, alone, with her mother's animosity? “Mrs. Beechum?” he called just before the door closed. The housekeeper looked around the edge, her brow arched. “How long has Mrs. MacPhaull been gone?”
“Three years, sir. It will be four this fall.”
He suspected, just from the way she
said it, that the woman could have told him the exact number of days, hours, and minutes. “Thank you.”
She nodded and quietly closed the door. Jackson resumed his mental calculations. Billy had been gone seventeen years. His wife had been dead for the last three of them. Which made it fourteen years that Lindsay had lived apologizing. Maybe more.
Jackson rubbed his fingertips hard against his brow. Billy had tossed the financial mess into his lap knowing that he'd do right by the children Billy had never mentioned having. And Jackson would do what was expected of him. But Lindsay had risked her own life to save his and that debt couldn't be settled by handing her money or property deeds. It went deeper than that. He didn't have a whole lot of time before he went home, but maybe he could use what he did have to undo some of the damage that Lindsay had suffered at the hands of her parents. It was a tall order he was setting for himself. And there was a distinct possibility that Lindsay might not appreciate his efforts. But he knew that if he didn't try, he wasn't any bigger a man than Billy had been.
• • •
LINDSAY PAUSED IN FRONT of the hall mirror, the heavily laden tray carefully balanced in her hands. She'd done the best she could to wash the grime from her face. Time hadn't permitted her do much more than finger-comb her hair and use the few remaining pins to pull it all back off her face. Her dress was a disaster, destined for the ragbag.
She pasted a soft smile on her face, thinking it would outshine her otherwise bedraggled appearance. It didn't. She rolled her eyes, sighed, and gave up the attempt. Hopefully Jackson Stennett would be too concerned with his own condition to notice hers, and too much of a gentleman to comment on it if he did. It was the best she could hope for. Her mother would be appalled that she was even taking the chance; a lady never allowed a man to see her as anything less than feminine perfection.
With a deep breath, Lindsay lifted the tray and turned to the closed door across the hall. Her hands full, and the tray too awkward to shift, she was forced to knock by tapping the toe of her shoe against the lower edge of the panel.
“One second,” he called from the other side.
Lindsay's heart began to race. She called herself a fool and was drawing a steadying breath when Jack opened the door. Her breath caught, almost choking her. He stood before her smiling, his eyes bright, and his shirt closed by a single button midway down his chest. Even smoke-shaded, the linen contrasted sharply with the bronze and darkly furred expanse of skin. She swallowed hard, and mindful that she was gawking, deliberately met his gaze, lifted the tray and said, “I brought hot water and soap.” Pleased with the composure she heard in her voice, she added, “I thought that we'd get your wound cleansed before Dr. Bernard gets here. It will make his work easier.”
Stepping aside to allow her to enter, he asked, “Have the crises of the cat, the cooks, and the newspapermen been averted?”
“For the moment,” Lindsay supplied, carrying the tray to the window table. “The reporters will be back with their questions this afternoon.” She looked back as she set down the tray. Jack was studying the doorway as though trying to decide whether to leave the door open or close it.
“If you'd be so kind as to leave it open,” she said, “and then come over here and have a seat; you're too tall for me to work with you standing up.”
He slid a glance at her, his smile quirked and his eyes twinkling. Her pulse quickened another degree. Pushing the door almost, but not quite closed, he came toward her, asking, “How is it that a woman who tucks her skirts up one minute can be concerned about open doors and propriety the next?”
“Necessity of the moment can be granted forgiveness,” she answered, angling a chair for him. “Deliberate flaunting and shortsightedness don't merit such latitude.”
He tried to nod, but the pain in his head flared with the effort. Without another word he walked to the chair and sat obediently. Lindsay carefully removed the scrap of petticoat from around his head, then tried to gingerly peel back the wad of fabric she'd pressed over the wound itself. He sucked a breath through his teeth and Lindsay winced.
“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, just before she yanked the bandage off with one swift motion. He made a strangled sound deep in his throat and gripped the arms of the chair so tightly his fingertips went white. Lindsay wanted to put her arms around his shoulders and hold him, to assure him that the worst was over. She took a step back. The distance didn't help; her mind filled with an image of Jackson Stennett wrapped in her arms, his head nestled against her shoulder as he feathered kisses along the side of her neck. Her breath caught and heat suffused her cheeks.
“Please don't tell me how awful it looks. I have a weak stomach.”
Lindsay blinked and the vision vanished. “I wasn't going to,” she hurriedly said, busying with the medicinal items on the tray. “In fact, I was going to say that I've seen worse paper cuts.”
He turned sideways in the chair so that he had a full view of her. “You'd out and out lie to me?” he asked, grinning.
He had a smile that could melt ice at fifty paces. Her knees were decidedly shaky. “Yes,” she said, looking away from that very dangerous sparkle in his eyes, “but only to make you feel better.” She focused intently on laying out the items she needed. A soft cloth, cinnamon soap, clean compresses. Would she need the razor?
“Lindsay?”
The softness of his voice was compelling. She met his gaze. His eyes were dark and somber and she felt herself being drawn into the depths of them. She stopped breathing.
“Thank you for coming in after me, for dragging me out.”
It would be so easy. All she would have to do is lean forward and down a little bit. His lips would be soft, the kiss simple and light and delicious. “It was an impulse,” she said, desperately going back to the organizing of her supplies. “I've always had difficulty controlling them. In hindsight, I could have saved myself a great deal of money and frustration if I'd have left you in there. It wouldn't have been nearly as satisfying as pushing you in front of a carriage, but…” She shrugged and poured the hot water from the little pitcher into the bowl.
“Would you have really rolled me down the stairs and dragged me into the street by my pant legs?”
“Of course I would have.” She soaked the cloth and then took up the bar of cinnamon soap.
“It wouldn't have been very ladylike of you.”
She could feel his smile bathing her. Keep busy, Lindsay. Don't give your mind the chance to wander. She lathered the cloth, saying, “And not a soul in the entire city would have been the least bit surprised to hear that I'd done it.” She laid aside the soap and squeezed the excess moisture from the cloth. With no other choice, she faced him. “How many fingers am I holding up?” she asked, trying to take command of the situation.
“Two,” he answered, his smile broadening. “And just so you know … Everyone always holds up two.”
She motioned for him to turn in the chair so that she could work on the back of his head. As he complied, she observed, “I take it that you've been rendered unconscious before?”
“Yeah. And often enough that it's a wonder I have any sense left at all.”
She arched a brow and said dryly, “I think that's a debatable conclusion.”
He chuckled and then groaned.
“Are you all right, Jack?”
“It hurts to laugh.”
“Then don't,” she instructed blithely. “And brace yourself. I'm going to start.” She tenderly dabbed at the gash along the base of his skull. As much to distract herself as him, Lindsay said, “Dr. Bernard will be here any minute now. You know what he's going to say, don't you?” She didn't give him a chance to guess. “He's going to say that you should take to your bed and not tax yourself for the next several days.”
“Well,” he said, his words sounding as though they were being forced through clenched teeth, “Dr. Bernard hasn't invited your brother and his wife to dinner tonight. And Dr. Bernard hasn't threatened your sister
with destitution if she doesn't make an appearance at the table, too.”
“Henry declined the invitation. That was his second note of the day.”
“Oh, really? What was his excuse?”
“He and Edith have tickets to a play this evening. They happen to have tomorrow evening free, though.” She rinsed the cloth in the bowl, squeezed it out, and then poured fresh water over it.
“What about Agatha?”
“Henry and Edith had an extra ticket,” Lindsay explained as she rinsed the antiseptic soap from his wound. “Henry said they've invited her to go with them. She'll accept, of course. Agatha loves the theater.” She tossed the rag into the bowl with a soft sigh. “I don't see that there's anything we can do to force them to come to dinner this evening.”
“Considering the general chaos going on in the house and the hellacious headache I have, it's probably best to postpone it all a day anyway. Are you done with your doctoring back there?”
“I still have to put iodine on the wound.”
He came out of the chair in one swift, determined motion and then turned to face her squarely, his grin wide. “Let Doc do that. I'd feel a lot less guilty about hitting him than I would you.”
She laughed, realizing even as she did that she'd laughed and smiled more in the last two days than she had in the last two years. Maybe longer. Considering the upheaval going on in her life, it was a decidedly odd way to behave. But there was something about Jackson's way that made her feel good, made her feel as though her problems weren't nearly as looming as they had been before he'd walked into Richard Patterson's office. It was all an illusion, she reminded herself, sobering. If anything, the troubles besetting her had been made even greater by Jackson Sten-nett's arrival. The power of a handsome face and a disarming smile, she silently warned.