Chapter 10
December 25, 1882
In the end, it had taken more than Nicola asking. Jack was visited all over again by the doctor, the vicar, and the Sykes fellow who headed up the board of governors. They had made him feel a little bit like a half-dead moth pinned into a cigar box, but he must have flapped his wings enough through the interrogation to prevail.
He was somehow able to convince them that his motives were pure. That he was just being gentlemanly, taking pity on Miss Nicola, who dreaded being alone for the holiday. That she needed cheering up by a friend—in fact, she’d made a noise in his presence. That tidbit made the doctor perk up and grill him as if he’d murdered someone.
Well, he guessed he sort of had. Two someones. But Jack wasn’t going to dwell on that now, when a delicious private Christmas lunch was nearly in his grasp.
He’d expressed his concern for the welfare of the housekeepers too, who surely would rather spend the day with their own loved ones. The doctor had turned scarlet, so something must be going on there. Jack didn’t care which witch the man preferred, as long as neither one of them hovered around Stonecrop Cottage.
After a day of fierce deliberation on the part of the governors, it had been resolved that the Guests’ Christmas celebration would take place at Nicola’s cottage after the Christmas morning church service. It was larger and the larder was far better stocked. Miracle of miracles, Jack’s dietary restrictions were to be lifted for the day. Mrs. Feather’s contribution was to be a pan of roast potatoes—even she couldn’t ruin so simple a dish, and a ham would be prepared to be sliced. Various side dishes were to be easily reheated, and Jack had a devil of a time not thinking with his stomach when he really wanted to think with his heart.
He’d have the day alone with Nicola.
And so he’d sat through Fitzmartin’s sermon—for the second day in a row, as Christmas fell on a Monday—sung carols with abandon, and tried to meet Nicola’s eye across the aisle. She was swathed in a short fur cape and enormous holly-bedecked hat, which should have looked silly but didn’t. She gave him a quick shy smile, then slipped away at the end of the service before he could follow. He’d endured a few more admonishments at the church door, then stopped at home for his surprise contribution to the festivities.
He hoped it wasn’t dying.
He’d dug the little bush up from his own unprepossessing back garden yesterday, stuffed it into a bucket, and planned to put it back tomorrow. It wasn’t even a fir tree, but it still had pointy green leaves, shriveled red berries, and a vague holiday air about it. Jack had decorated the branches himself with twists of paper and cast-off odds and ends from the building site. He’d bent some already-bent nails into circles that dangled as he carried it down the lane. Snippets of wire had been tied into rusty bows and formed a tipsy star for the top.
It was altogether the most ludicrous thing he’d ever set his hands to, a far cry from the splendor of his mother’s trees at Ashburn with all the German blown-glass ornaments she’d collected. But hopefully Nicola would give him high marks for his effort.
Clutching the wretched thing against his chest, he rapped on her door.
And then nearly dropped his offering. The Countess greeted him in Nicola’s doorway and Jack found he was unable to do anything but stare.
“I see you were not expecting me. Don’t worry—I shan’t stay all afternoon. But I was persuaded to do my civic duty by providing you both some chaperonage by that divine Mr. Sykes. Such blue eyes. He was very hard to say no to, I’m afraid. Masterful. Well, he’d have to be, considering who he’s married to. What a trial she’s bound to be—he’ll need every scrap of endurance.” She gave him a brilliant smile, as if Jack would know what the hell she was talking about.
“And one does have to eat, doesn’t one? Especially as it’s Christmas, and Christmas comes but once a year. One becomes accustomed to figgy pudding, etcetera. Lovely overindulgence. I confess I’m really looking forward to it. I do have a sweet tooth.”
Mouth still open, Jack nodded, feeling crushed by the surprise of the definitely unexpected Countess. She touched his elbow and guided him into Nicola’s parlor, where she was conspicuously absent. He set his hideous bush down in front of the hearth, rather hoping it would catch on fire. The Countess immediately picked it up—she was stronger than she looked—and placed it on top of the piano.
“Very…festive. Your friend is in the kitchen. I’ve been helping, but find I am quite useless. My family would tell you I have been raised to be entirely ornamental, which is a bore but true.”
The Countess was much more than ornamental. She was a statuesque brunette, whose skin resembled double cream against the black lace of her gown, her eyes aquamarines, and her lips crushed strawberries. She was possibly the most magnificent woman Jack had ever seen up close, and he’d seen his fair share of magnificent women in his travels.
“Really, this is where you are supposed to tell me that although I’m lovely, you’re sure I’d have some sort of domestic skill if only I were given half a chance. I know Nicola is mute, but do you suffer from the same affliction?”
“Uh, no.”
She extended a slender ivory hand. Every other finger sported a jewel the size of a large marble. “I believe you’re called Jack? You may address me as Countess. Such quaint Puddling rules. I suppose you know who I really am.”
“Uh, no.” He was being repetitive. She raised a perfect plucked brow but said nothing for a moment, evaluating him with those blue-green eyes.
Jack paid very little attention to the misadventures of society despite his mother’s constant nagging. Probably the mysterious countess was notorious, but Jack had never seen her before checking himself into Puddling.
“How remarkable. Have you been locked away in an asylum this past year? My likeness has been in all the shops.”
Jack’s lips quirked. “Only here, my lady. But my business keeps me out of London much of the time.”
“Oh, I believe I’m international. But no matter. What sort of business are you in? I was told you were a baron. No last name of course.” She winked slowly, her long lashes sweeping against the pale cheek.
“Guilty. I’ve recently divested myself of some investments and manufacturing plants. Going for a simpler life.”
She gave a world-weary sigh. “Simplicity is not very simple, is it? I’m hiding from my family here in search of it. I drive them mad, and vice versa. They know where I am, but cannot get past the gates, and all their letters are automatically returned. I find that very satisfying. Shall we go into the kitchen to see how we may be of assistance? I suppose I can carry platters to the sideboard, such as it is. I believe its origin is a potting bench. Nicola has laid a table in the conservatory, but I warn you it’s rather chilly in there despite the brazier.”
Jack had given no thought to where they would eat. He wouldn’t have objected to the small scrubbed pine table in the kitchen, but it would be a squeeze for three plus the Christmas bounty. He followed the Countess into the warm room to find Nicola flushed, a tatty apron tied around her dark-red frock. She smiled distractedly, then turned back to stir something on the range.
“Happy Christmas!” he said, trying to sound hearty. In truth, he didn’t know how he felt. The Countess had not been part of his mental equation, and lunch was apt to be an awkward affair amongst three strangers, one of them totally silent. “What can I do?”
Nicola pointed to the kitchen table, which was overloaded with plates and serving dishes. Jack scooped up a basket full of rolls and a quivering aspic studded with peas and carrot slivers and brought them to the glass conservatory.
What with the heavy clouds, not much sunlight slanted through the glass roof. The room was frigid indeed—they’d better eat fast. The potting bench had been made over to be a buffet and was covered by what appeared to be a bedsheet. Jack made several trips while the Countess conserved her energy in the kitchen, chatting with Nicola.
A round table was set with much prettier china than Jack had at his cottage. A glass bowl of holly branches served as a centerpiece. He picked up a wine glass and sniffed—not a Moselle but water. But there was an abundance of food—scalloped oysters, ham with raisin sauce, rosemary-sprigged roast potatoes, the afore-mentioned aspic and rolls, green beans, Brussel sprouts, cranberry compote, rice croquettes, cheese, wafers, and a fruitcake which was soaked in so much brandy he imagined the neighbors across the lane could smell it.
Food. Real food. But it would taste better if it was shared between two rather than amongst three, not that he had anything against the Countess. Under other circumstances, she might be very amusing. It was obvious she was sophisticated and had a story to tell.
Nicola entered with the Countess, apron gone, her golden hair a bit flyaway. She pulled her notebook out of her pocket.
All I did was reheat things. Except for the raisin sauce. It is my mother’s recipe. Please help yourselves.
“And a magnificent job you’ve done,” Jack said with real appreciation. He hoped he wasn’t drooling, piling his plate high with food once the ladies had their turn.
They settled themselves around the delicate bamboo table, and Jack was alarmed when the Countess clasped his wrist just as he was about to spoon a succulent oyster onto his tongue. “We should say grace. Will you do the honors, Jack?”
He was not at all certain God would pay attention to him, but he did the best he could, including a plea for the health and happiness of all the residents of Puddling, native and temporary. Nicola gave him a grateful smile and gave his hand a squeeze. He was being manhandled by both sides, and it was not unpleasant.
He let the Countess rattle on while he shoveled food into his mouth. Each morsel was a delight, even the raisin sauce, and he didn’t like raisins much. He presumed the feast had been prepared by their three housekeepers, so evidently they did know how to cook on special occasions. Jack wondered if the Countess was also on short rations. Probably not. By her account, she had come here voluntarily, more to rest than reform.
But then, so had he. Why was he being punished?
And then Jack wanted to slap himself for being ungrateful. He had a roof over his head. Well-tailored clothes on his back. Adequate, if barely edible, sustenance. He was alive, where others were not so fortunate.
“Do you think everything happens for a reason?” he blurted.
The Countess put her fork down. “What an intriguing question. Usually one has imbibed several bottles of wine before such a discussion. And is, perhaps, a decade or so younger.” Jack figured the Countess was about his age, and had never had a metaphysical doubt in her pampered life.
What would be the purpose of me losing my voice?
Usually, Nicola’s handwriting was elegant, but she had written with a kind of quick fury.
“I don’t know. Maybe you are in Puddling to meet, um, the Countess. A friend for life.”
“Or someone else altogether,” the Countess said, giving Jack an arch look. “Are you asking if there is fate, or some sort of divine plan?”
“I don’t know what I’m asking. Just that horrible things happen, and I wonder why.”
Are you saying my luncheon is horrible?
This is why Jack liked Nicola so much—she lightened his mood.
“As if I’d be so crass to criticize this ambrosia. Really, it’s the best meal I’ve had since the peaches in your pantry.”
“‘Peaches in your pantry?’ Is that a euphemism I haven’t yet heard of?” the Countess inquired, her lips quirking.
Jack could see why she drove her family mad. “No, my lady. We are talking about jarred fruit. In syrup.” He turned to his hostess. “I don’t like to appear greedy, but might more be on offer this afternoon?”
Nicola smiled and picked up her notebook from the table. You might be too full.
“Never. I am like a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter. Or for the next fifteen days, anyhow. Mrs. Feather is determined to starve me.”
“Will you be leaving us then?” the Countess asked.
“I think so.” Even if nothing changed, he couldn’t see himself signing up for another stint of self-denial. “How long have you been a Guest?”
A deep V appeared between the Countess’s dark brows. “Hm. I arrived near the end of the July. Or perhaps August. One month is very like the next. I know I was here for the fire.”
“What fire?”
“At this very cottage. There was a mishap in the kitchen, and lots of smoke damage. It’s all been refurbished, much nicer than my little bolt-hole. And yours too, I expect, Jack.”
“You’ve been here for months? How do you stand it?”
“I find it very restful. Soothing. And as I said earlier, I am out of the reach of my grasping family. Wellington and I are quite content. My dog, not the late duke. I find dogs preferable to people at this stage, present company excepted.”
I have a dog too. I miss him.
“You should arrange to have him sent here,” the Countess said. “Perhaps our dogs can become friends on our daily walks, as we will be.”
The implication was that Nicola and the Countess were to be Guests indefinitely. Jack didn’t like the sound of that.
“Maybe I should get a dog as well.” His mother had not been fond of animals, so he’d grown up petless.
“Only if you have the time and affection.”
Jack had plenty of time, and was an absolute reservoir of untapped emotion. Who knew? A dog might be the cure to all his ills.