With a slight smile he said, “No, I have not made up my mind as to that, but in the meantime, he shall stay at Ethridge Hall, not at Meadowbrook. I shall not have you wearing yourself to a thread and further damaging your reputation by caring for another wounded man in your home. And this one not even a cousin.”
“But—”she began.
“No, don’t argue,” he interrupted her. “I have servants at the Hall who will see that he receives care. And you may visit him as often as you wish, as his physician. I see no harm in that, since his wound is in a perfectly innocuous spot.”
“Jon!” she exclaimed in an undertone.
Glancing round, and finding that the others had moved sufficiently far away, he murmured, “Do you know, I have never cared for that name before, but I like hearing it upon your lips.”
Fortunately, the darkness helped to hide her fiery blush. At least she hoped it did. In an attempt to hide her discomposure, she stood, brushed her skirts and said briskly, “Well, we must not stand about like this all night. John, if you and Mr. Kearny will be so good as to lift our patient into the carriage, we may be on our way.”
She could not bring herself to look at St. Clair again but was certain that if she did, she would discover the familiar laughter there. He was truly incorrigible, she thought, and her own lips twitched slightly.
But then she frowned as she was struck by the thought that she was allowing herself to fall ever more deeply in love with him when she ought to know better. Flirtation, she knew, came as naturally to him as breathing. She must accept that and be grateful he was still her friend. To allow herself to begin hoping for more would be foolish beyond permission.
When they were all settled in the carriage, the exertions and stresses of the day began to make themselves felt, and no one seemed inclined to speak. But after a time, Jane roused herself enough to say, “I suppose it was very fortunate for us that Mr. Kearny turned up as he did.”
St. Clair laughed. “Good fortune had nothing to do with it. I knew he would be close by. I once made the mistake of doing the fellow a good turn and now I cannot rid myself of him. Not that he doesn’t have his uses. In fact, I have grown almost fond of him.”
Alice giggled. “A good turn! I’ll wager you saved his life.”
St. Clair shrugged. “It is a long story, and boring, to boot.”
As he seemed disinclined to enlarge upon the subject, neither of his companions questioned him further.
The remainder of their journey was accomplished in relative silence. And, despite her best intentions, both medical and otherwise, by the time they reached Meadowbrook, Jane was utterly exhausted—so exhausted, in fact, that she could scarcely think, let alone remember good intentions. She accepted without demur, therefore, St. Clair’s opinion that it was unnecessary for her to make the trip to Ethridge Hall that night. He assured her that he himself would cleanse the man’s wound, disinfect it according to her directions, and bandage it.
But, in spite of her weariness, when he handed her down from the carriage and did not immediately release her hand, she stood gazing at him idiotishly. She even felt herself swaying towards him until he finally freed her hand, and clearing his throat, said, “Well, I shall wish you a good night, my dear.”
She nodded and followed Alice into the house, knowing that she had come near to making a cake of herself once more, but too tired to care. It did seem to her that he had been equally disinclined to part, but very likely that was merely wishful thinking. Exhaustion could do peculiar things to one’s mind.
* * * *
Jane became even more convinced that she had imagined his reluctance to leave her when she arrived at Ethridge Hall the following morning. St. Clair greeted her in quite his usual manner, friendly but casual, before taking her upstairs to see her patient.
The young man, whose name, she learned, was George Davies, was awake. Though he was a trifle pale and admitted to a slight headache, be seemed not to be suffering from concussion. Jane soon discovered, however, that he was exceedingly shy.
While it was refreshing to meet someone who blushed more easily than she had been doing of late, his diffidence made conversation uphill work. After a few unsuccessful attempts at drawing him out, Jane gave up and took refuge in her role as physician.
There, too, she was quickly brought to a standstill. St. Clair had done an excellent job of caring for the wound, so that all that was left for her to do was to apply a fresh bandage to it and advise Mr. Davies to rest. After which, she made a hasty retreat.
The whole had taken barely a quarter of an hour. Jane was more than a little disappointed, for without a patient needing her care, she would have no further excuse for visiting Ethridge Hall. However, today at least, she had reason to linger. There were still one or two matters she needed to discuss with St. Clair.
She was halfway down the staircase and wondering where he might be, when he stepped out of a room on the far side of the entry hall below.
With his eyes laughing up at her, he said, “I thought it would not be long. How did you find your patient?”
“Well,” she answered cautiously, “he seems quite fit, but one can never be sure about these things.”
“Oh, I agree,” he said solemnly. “With injuries such as his, one can never be too careful.”
She looked at him sharply, strongly suspecting that he was teasing her, but she merely nodded and continued down the stairs.
When she reached the bottom, he said, “Come into the library. I wish to talk with you about the business of Meadowbrook. I feel I owe you a more detailed explanation regarding my discharging of Phillips.”
“As do I,” she told him, sweeping through the double doors.
She noticed that he carefully left the doors ajar when he followed her in, but by then, it had come to her for the first time that she was actually inside Ethridge Hall.
Standing in the middle of the huge, rectangular room, she slowly turned round, taking in all the details. It did not disappoint her. It was everything she had imagined, and more.
Opposite the doors was an enormous fireplace over which hung a large oil painting of a country scene. Both fireplace and doors were flanked by more paintings and shelves of books. Books lined a third wall as well, and in the fourth, floor-to-ceiling windows let in abundant daylight. Two exquisite chandeliers and several candelabra ensured that the room would always be well lit. A beautiful Aubusson carpet covered nearly the whole expanse of the floor. Scattered about the delightful room were groupings of sofas, chairs and small tables.
With a sigh, Jane at last turned to St. Clair and said, “Oh, it is perfect! If you knew how often I have fantasized about this house...” She stopped, feeling the heat of a blush rising in her cheeks again.
But St. Clair seemed pleased. “I am very glad that you approve. It is my favourite room, and in fact, the first I had done, after the bedchambers and kitchens. I shan’t give you a tour, however, until the entire place is finished, for I shouldn’t wish you to be disappointed.”
“I doubt I should be,” she replied with a smile. “Nevertheless, I shall wait.”
He then gestured towards one of the seating areas. She sat down at one end of a sofa, while St. Clair chose a chair set at right angles to it.
“Before we get into the matter of Meadowbrook,” Jane said quickly, “I should like to thank you.”
He raised his eyebrows. “For what?”
“For not turning the highwayman over to the authorities immediately.”
He grinned. “How could I show less compassion than you? After all, you did not cry rope on me when you thought me to be the culprit.”
“Yes, well...” she muttered, and, of course, she blushed.
“To be perfectly truthful,” he said more seriously, “I had another reason for not turning him in.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, rampant curiosity,” he admitted with another grin. “Not only did the fellow look to be the least likely in the world to be a c
riminal, but his speech indicated a certain amount of breeding and education.”
“Yes, I noticed that, too,” she said eagerly. “What do you make of it?”
“Well, to begin with, I thought it probable that his story was similar to the one you attributed to me when you thought I was the highwayman. And, in fact, I have learned since that at least a portion of it is.”
“Do you mean to say that he has actually talked to you? I could scarcely get a word out of him.”
“He is a trifle shy—which, again, is not what one would expect of a highwayman—but perhaps that condition is more apparent in the company of females.”
“Most likely,” she agreed, already beginning to fashion a history for Mr. Davies. “He seems very young, and perhaps his mother died at an early age, and he had no sisters, so is unused to...”
She stopped when she noticed a slow, knowing smile beginning to form on St. Clair’s lips, and said quickly, “But what did he tell you?”
“It seems that our highwayman, whom I think we should begin referring to as Mr. Davies, was born on the wrong side of the blanket. His father was a member of the gentry and quite wealthy, and to his credit, he acknowledged the boy, rearing him on his estate and having him educated along with his other children.
“Unfortunately, the other children were not so inclined to accept Mr. Davies, and when the father stuck his spoon in the wall, the heir gave our hero the boot. Mr. Davies then enlisted in the army and managed to survive to the end of the war. It is the remainder of the story which you will find familiar.
“Upon returning to England, he could not find gainful employment, and being a resourceful young man, he turned to the life of a highwayman.”
“Well,” said Jane, “as you once said, I am sure he preferred that to begging. In any event, I do not think we should turn him in.”
“No,” St. Clair agreed. “As a matter of fact, I believe I may have a much better solution for him.”
“Oh? What is that?”
But he smiled and shook his head, saying, “It is early days yet to speak of it. I shall need more information from Mr. Davies before I make a decision. And, of course, he must agree to the plan, too.”
“Very well,” said Jane. “I shall leave the problem of Mr. Davies to you, so long as I need not worry about him being hanged.” She paused and caught her lower lip between her teeth. “And since he is doing so well, I suppose I need not worry about him in a medical sense, either, which means it will not be necessary for me to look in on him every day.”
“How can you say so?” he asked. “It is quite possible that he may exhibit delayed symptoms of concussion. I have known such things to happen—in the army, you know.”
“Of course!” said Jane. “I had not thought of that. Well, then,” she added cheerfully, rising, “I shall see you again in the morning, if I am not needed sooner.”
“Oh, but you cannot leave yet,” he told her. “My chef has gone to a great deal of trouble preparing us an excellent nuncheon. And you know how I hate to eat alone.”
It did not take much to persuade her, for of course, she did not wish to offend St. Clair’s chef. And the repast was indeed excellent. Jane enjoyed it very much, but she enjoyed St. Clair’s company even more.
They spoke of all manner of things, from poor Beau Brummell’s flight from England to escape his creditors, to the odd Sioux custom of rubbing noses rather than kissing, which he had observed in America.
“However,” St. Clair informed her, “when I left, many of them had already accepted our custom in preference to theirs, and with great enthusiasm, I might add.”
Having drunk two glasses of wine with the meal, Jane shook her head at him and said with mock severity, “You are attempting to put me to the blush again, St. Clair.”
“How did you guess?’’ he asked with laughing eyes.
“Very easily,” she retorted. “I am beginning to know you quite well, you see.”
It was, perhaps, fortunate that, in the process of rising from the table, she did not notice the look he gave her.
As they moved towards the door together, she said, “I have enjoyed this very much, but now I really must go. Poor Agatha will think I have run away.”
“I doubt poor Agatha will worry overmuch,” he murmured, with just a touch of sarcasm. But she was several steps ahead of him, and when she asked him to repeat his words, he said blandly, “I doubt that Agatha will worry. After all, she knows where you are.”
“Yes, but I have stayed much longer than I meant to do. Sir Alfred called just before I left, and I fear that he and Agatha may come to blows if they are left alone too long. So, dear sir, I shall bid you farewell, until tomorrow.”
He did not attempt to dissuade her again, and Jane was soon riding home, filled with a remarkable sense of well-being. She was almost at her doorstep before she remembered that they had never got round to discussing Meadowbrook or Phillips.
But, after a moment, she shrugged that concern away. There was always tomorrow, she thought, and stepped lightly into the house.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next morning, after a brief visit with her patient, Jane and St. Clair finally got round to discussing Meadowbrook and Phillips.
Jane was shocked and chagrined when she learned how Phillips had been cheating her for the past four years. But there could be no mistaking the matter. St. Clair showed her the vast difference between the account books kept while her father still lived and those after his death. And he explained just how the man had done it.
“I feel like such a ninny,” she said with a great deal of self-disgust. “I have always prided myself on my intelligence, but not to have seen what was happening!”
“How should you have seen it?” St. Clair asked. “Phillips is a very clever man—I’ll grant him that much. And, from all that I have heard about your father, I doubt that you received any training in estate management.”
“No,” she admitted. “What little I do know, I taught myself. But I see now that there is a great deal more to it than I thought.”
“Indeed, “said St. Clair.
“Well,” said Jane, “I shall simply have to learn more about the matter. I do not wish to impose, but would you help me? Perhaps you could lend me some books on the subject.”
“Gladly, but I shall do better than that,” he replied. “It is always good for an owner to be knowledgeable, but what you really need is another bailiff. This time, one who is both reliable and honest.”
“Yes,” agreed Jane slowly. She caught her lower lip in her teeth, wondering how she was going to accomplish that.
“I shall take care of it,” said St. Clair.
She immediately bristled. “I am perfectly capable of solving my own problems, St. Clair. I have been independent for four years.”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” he replied. “And I admire you tremendously, I promise you. But at the moment your plate is full, what with managing your household, caring for the ill of the district, and attempting to bring Alice up to snuff. Why should you go to the trouble when I am perfectly willing to do it for you? You must allow me to do this service for you as your... friend.”
“Well, when you put it that way...” said Jane. She wondered why his affirmation of their friendship should leave her feeling less than happy.
“Good girl!” he said, then added, “As a matter of fact, I already have someone in mind for the position.”
“Oh? Who?”
“I’d rather not say just now, in case it does not work out. But it does look very promising.”
“Very well,” said Jane. “I shall leave the matter to you.”
She strongly suspected what he had in mind, but decided to pretend ignorance and allow him to go about this in his own way. And, when he told her that Mr. Davies was his candidate for the job, she would act surprised and pleased. She had some trouble suppressing a smile, for the incongruity of the terms “reliable and honest” as applied to a retired highwayman did no
t escape her.
True to his word, St. Clair supplied Jane with several weighty tomes from his library, then laughed at her look of dismay. Fortunately, she was not required to wade through them at once, for he proposed to spend the succeeding days riding with her over both her land and his own in order to teach her the basics of estate management.
They began her instruction that same day. Even so tedious a business proved to be enjoyable, for St. Clair made it interesting by telling humorous anecdotes and fascinating bits of agricultural history.
“How is it that you know so much about all this?” she asked at one point. “I would not have thought a man such as you...” She stopped, realizing that she might be insulting him.
But he merely laughed. “You mean a rake such as I? As a matter of fact, I surprise myself, but I suppose I must have absorbed more than I knew while growing up.”
It was late afternoon when St. Clair called a halt to the day’s lesson. Jane was surprised at how quickly the hours had flown. She had so enjoyed herself that she hated to part from him, and she was delighted when he insisted upon escorting her back to Meadow-brook. She was even more pleased when he accepted her invitation to come in for tea.
They entered the house to hear a familiar booming voice. “If that ain’t exactly like a female! It just goes to show that you know nothing about the matter.”
Jane and St. Clair stopped in the drawing-room doorway as Agatha retorted, “I know that your fat friend will be the ruination of this country if he continues with his extravagance and his dissipated ways!”
“Fat friend!” cried Sir Alfred, clearly outraged. “Now you have gone too far, woman. ‘Twas those very words helped put the finishing touch to Brummell’s downfall.”
“Oh, good heavens, they are at it again,” murmured Jane, and she hurried into the room.
Catching sight of her. Sir Alfred beamed and said, “Ah, there you are, my dear. A sight for sore eyes, I must say.”
He was struggling to rise from his place on the sofa and, although his foot was less heavily bandaged today, Jane made haste to stop him. “Pray, do not try to get up. Sir Alfred. I know your gout must be paining you, so I shall excuse you from such gallantry.”
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