Chapter 12
Was she drunk from two pieces of fruitcake? Jack had had three himself, glutton that he was, and couldn’t detect any substantial change in his brain. No unusual loss of judgment or flight of fancy.
He wasn’t woozy from drink, just kisses. His lips tingled as if he’d been stung by generous and loving bees, a whole hive of them. Every hair on his body was standing alert, and another part of him had stirred in an embarrassingly obvious manner. His eyes functioned so he could read, although he could make no sense of Nicola’s blunt and unexpected demand.
Take me to bed, Jack. Five single-syllable words. Easy enough to interpret, yet somehow Jack could not get his mind around them. She couldn’t possibly mean it; she must be making one of her jokes.
He had intentions toward Nicola. Honorable ones. Ones that didn’t include taking her to bed just yet. He had wanted to court her somehow, if he could figure out how to do it from the freedom of Ashburn. It was closer than London, and he might move unnoticed through the Cotswold countryside. Sneak into Puddling somehow. Even if he wasn’t “cured,” he couldn’t stay in Puddling beyond the requisite twenty-eight days.
Could he?
It was true he was dwelling less and less upon the accident. Keeping busy building Primrose Cottage for the past several days had helped. He was so exhausted after working from dawn to past dusk in the bitter cold that he fell into bed and was sleeping for two or three uninterrupted hours at a stretch, a very welcome alteration to his routine.
The guilt was still there, of course, but not as sharp as it had been. He’d apologized and made generous monetary settlements to all the injured parties and survivors; perhaps that would have to be enough.
He couldn’t change the past no matter how much he wanted to.
However, he had some say over the future, and he wasn’t going to take advantage of Nicola. He needed to respect himself; it was hard enough to hold his thoughts together as it was. Jack was only beginning to come to terms with what had happened, but if he overstepped—
The nightmares might never cease, and he would earn every one of them.
Nicola was vulnerable. Isolated with her disability. It was natural that she would look for affection—she was alone in this odd place, missing her family.
Trouble was, he had affection for her, and wanted it to be more. Wanted, to be honest, to have sexual congress with her as much as she appeared to want to with him. One simple kiss told him that, though there was nothing simple about kissing Nicola at all. He’d never experienced the like.
She was a proper young woman, and deserved more than a quick improper tumble. She deserved a better man than Jack. One who was not distracted and lost in panicked dreams half the time. One not crippled by guilt.
Damn it.
“We cannot, Nicola,” he said gently.
That foot came down again, along with a flash of anger in her blue eyes. Why not?
“Look, I like you very much. More than like, I think. I am honored you like me enough to even contemplate such a…” What to call it? “Thing.” It was the best he could do.
“Believe me, nothing would suit me more if we came to know each other better. You make me feel, oh, I don’t know, more comfortable than I’ve been in months. I enjoy your company.” He touched her lower lip. “I enjoy your kisses.”
So what is your objection?
“I’m not a good bargain right at the moment. You must know that, or I wouldn’t be here in Puddling.”
What had he told her? That something bad had happened. Maybe he should be more explicit.
Jack took a deep breath and a step back. “I am responsible for a railway accident that resulted in the death of two men. Countless injuries as well. I—I haven’t been able to sleep much since. I wasn’t there, but saw the photographs, the train cars dangling from the bridge. The spilled suitcases. The…the carnage. I can’t get the images out of my mind no matter how hard I’ve tried.”
Her face turned as white as the sheet that had covered the potting bench. She dropped the red pencil and it rolled beneath the piano.
What could she write anyway that would make either of them feel better? The horror was written all over her face.
If she’d had any desire for him, it was thoroughly scotched now.
But honesty was the best policy. Or at least that’s what the vicar and the doctor tried to drum into him every chance they got. Jack was to face the past head-on, assume ownership, make amends, move on.
It was the moving on part that he was having so much trouble with.
“A foundry I owned cast bridge girders that failed. The flaw in the material was never noticed during construction—I was much too busy doing other things to pay close attention, and the people I placed my trust in were in the end not so trustworthy. They were careless, cut corners, which I would have known if I had supervised the company more closely. It’s taught me a hard lesson—one has limited resources in life. Only so much control. Only so much time. I’ve narrowed my focus, but can’t help feeling it’s too late sometimes.”
Nicola’s paleness was alarming. He really should go—he’d said too much already. Honesty might not be the best policy in this case, and he was only digging his hole deeper. But he kept rambling.
“So, you see why I can’t begin a serious relationship until I sort myself out. I don’t think I have the patience to remain in Puddling, but when I’m better—when I don’t have this cloud hanging over me—I would very much like to pay my addresses to you. That is, court you. Get to know you better, even if nothing comes of it. I don’t care if you don’t ever speak another word. I mean, of course I do for your sake, but I like you just as you are.”
He was making a terrible mess of this confession, had never felt less articulate in his life. It wasn’t quite a marriage proposal—at least he hadn’t been entirely ridiculous. Nicola’s lips had lost all their color and he was very much afraid she was about to faint. He touched her elbow to guide her to the sofa, and she flinched.
Yes, he definitely should go. So much for courting.
“Never mind me—I don’t expect you to understand. I hardly understand myself. Thank you for a lovely Christmas lunch. It’s late. Dark. I’ll just take my silly tree back, shall I? You don’t want something so unsightly spoiling the looks of your parlor.”
He’d wanted to make those clever Japanese shapes out of paper for it, but there hadn’t been time, not to mention he’d pounded his thumb once too often hanging cupboards in Primrose Cottage and his dexterity was off. Jack wondered who the next poor victim would be to move in and enjoy the fresh scent of new wood and the dubious benefits of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation.
All he knew is that he would be leaving once arrangements could be made—perhaps tomorrow or the next day. He couldn’t stay in the village and know that Nicola held him in disgust.
He’d never forget the look on her face.
His overcoat hung on a hook in the hall. Shrugging into it, he returned for the tree and found Nicola twisting an uneven metal bow.
“Don’t! You’ll cut your finger.”
She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to her what happened, and continued to bend the wire.
Did she understand? She should be grateful, not offended, for his refusal of her ill-advised offer. She must know that, tempting as she was, he was still clinging to a thread of gentlemanly behavior. When she woke up tomorrow, she’d feel nothing but relief.
He was unreliable, and she needed more.
Jack bent over to pick up the red pencil. Nicola took it and dropped it into her pocket, making no effort to write anything in her notebook.
“Well, I’ll be leaving then. Happy Christmas.”
She met his gaze. No more tears; that was a good sign. She would soon forget about him, their strange winter interlude an amusing anecdote if she ever felt the need to discuss Puddling with anyone. Jack was sure that she would talk one day, and was sorry her words wouldn’t be for him.
He clasped the bucket to his chest and was nearly poked in the eye by a branch. The blasted thing probably would die, being uprooted in the dead of winter. Just another victim of Jack’s mad ideas. He really should know better by now.
He’d more or less said good-bye. Why was he still standing here?
“Please don’t be angry with me.”
Her eyes narrowed, and the pencil and notebook came out of her pocket.
I am not angry.
“Good. I don’t want you to think I’m rejecting you, just the situation. You are much better off without me.”
You don’t like yourself much.
“Why—” He halted before he could argue. He’d never given the idea of liking himself much thought before. One didn’t go about thinking of one’s good and bad points all the time, at least if one was sober. But it was true that since the accident he’d been much more self-critical, which was only natural, wasn’t it?
“I don’t hate myself,” he said finally.
You said you feel guilty.
“Well, of course I do.”
How could you have prevented the accident?
An excellent question, one he’d asked himself for nine months. He’d been unable to give an answer.
“I don’t know.”
Her brow was furrowed as she continued to write. You can’t control everything. You said so yourself. Some would say you can’t control anything. She underlined anything twice.
“Are we talking about fate again? For I must tell you, I am a rational man. Usually. Of course, we have control over certain circumstances. Free will. We make choices.”
This conversation was becoming suspiciously serious. But if Nicola didn’t like him at all, she wouldn’t bother writing in her notebook, a look of concentration on her face, her pink tongue protruding a bit from between her lips.
The doctors say there is no physical reason for my silence. Am I just choosing not to talk?
“That doesn’t make sense.”
None of this makes sense. Some things just…don’t.
No truer words were ever written.