Chapter 16
December 26, 1882
Boxing Day. If Jack had been in either of his houses, he’d be doling out gifts to tradesmen and servants. His secretary, Ezra Clarke, was taking care of all that for him this year. He’d had the opportunity to think ahead and write a great many instructions when Nicola passed his secret missives on.
Where was Nicola’s Christmas present? The real one he’d tasked Clarke to obtain, not the misshapen bush that had been forgotten after their amazing encounter on the kitchen table.
Ha. A kitchen table. Jack was losing his finesse. He’d been accused of many things by women, being a distractable sort of fellow, but inattention to a lady’s pleasure and comfort had never been one of them until recently.
It had been a reckless thing to take her as he’d done, but he couldn’t regret it. He’d heard Nicola laugh. The sound had been pure joy, better than the beautiful music that flowed from her elegant fingers.
She was altogether a remarkable woman, which is why he had to be careful. Take things slowly. He was as fractured as could be, still sleepless, still weighted down with misery, even after last night. Perhaps more so, for he’d taken advantage of Nicola’s hospitality in the most brazen way. Jack might not feel regret, but some shame had woken up with him this morning.
Nothing more could come of their relationship, at least for the immediate future. He needed to shape himself up, get whole, although how he was going to do that remained to be seen after so damn many months of inertia. Jack was stuck in a deep groove, treading over familiar territory day after day and night after night. He was boring himself witless waiting for the hopeless tangle to give inside him.
His elusive cure surely wasn’t accomplished after the nice old vicar’s visit early this morning. True, Reverend Fitzmartin was a calming, sympathetic presence—one got the feeling he’d seen a lot in his many years serving the Lord all over Great Britain, and did not sit in towering judgment. He was a recent arrival to Puddling, but seemed well-versed in its philosophy and gentle perseverance.
Maybe that was part of Jack’s problem. Everyone had been so forgiving—his mother, his solicitors, even the victims who had been so overcome after his generosity that they wept onto his shoulder and thanked him. Thanked him! For upending their lives and livelihoods. For putting them in peril. Even the families of the two dead men accepted their fate and were grateful for the remuneration.
No one seemed to understand. Jack needed to be…punished for his carelessness. Indifference. Maybe he should investigate to see if hair shirts were still available for purchase. Scourging implements.
Perhaps he should simply ask one of the cottage work crew to hit him on the head with a hammer and be done with it.
He pictured old Fitzmartin clubbing him with a Bible. Jack hoped the fellow couldn’t divine what he and Nicola had been up to last night. He didn’t care for himself, but her reputation would be compromised. As much as he would love to make her his wife…
Wait. What? He was contemplating marriage seriously for the first time in his life. In his bumbling fashion, he’d requested her permission to court her yesterday once Puddling was behind him. But—
Ah. The big but. A three-letter word that had more power than one much longer and more syllabic.
Jack shook his head free of cobwebs. He knew better than to dally with an innocent woman. Last night had been more than fun, but neither of them was ready for more. It would be the height of folly to believe all their problems would disappear with a wedding vow that Nicola couldn’t even utter.
Marriage was for life, and he’d known her less than two weeks. Thirteen days, to be specific, and during some of those they’d had no contact whatsoever, even if she was never far from his mind.
His lost mind, apparently. Could he be getting worse the longer he stayed here?
If he left, he wouldn’t see Nicola.
That seemed a dreadful fate. In fact, he should go see her right now. Apologize for last night. Not that he was sorry—he’d have to be careful choosing his words. She might assume he hadn’t enjoyed himself. Hadn’t treasured her gift to him.
He had treasured it sufficiently to be able to conjure up the scent and taste of her all through the night, which was a kind of scourging in itself. It was unlikely the opportunity would present itself to repeat such a performance. His senses had been so overwhelmed when he got home, he hadn’t even made a foray into the basket she’d packed for him. Jack had hidden it in his room and hoped Mrs. Feather didn’t find it in her usual cleaning frenzy.
Guests were monitored during the day, their every movement noted by prying Puddling eyes. The most innocent of activities were duly noted and reported to the doctor, the vicar, Mrs. Grace, or Mrs. Feather. It was too damned cold to reenact their “chance” meeting in the graveyard.
But the rules had been relaxed for Christmas dinner. Perhaps they could find a way around them again. People went to bed early in Puddling. The five lanes were pitch-black at night, no signs of lamps or candles flickering behind the curtains. It was exhausting work being vigilant against Guest transgressions all day, he supposed.
Jack himself had a ten o’clock curfew and was diligent about extinguishing the lights, even if he was wide awake. Which was most nights. He wished his mind had an “off” switch, but so far one had not been invented. Certainly, liquor and ladies and hashish had been utter failures to cool and quell his scattered thoughts before he checked into Puddling. He’d indulged in none of them in too hedonistic a manner; he’d never been one to abuse good sense. If he couldn’t think clearly, he couldn’t work. Those ice boots were the first good idea he’d had since the accident.
He checked his pocket watch. The crew had been given the day off from working on the new cottage, so the empty hours stretched before him. His soul had already been poked at and found somewhat wanting by Mr. Fitzmartin. Mrs. Feather had disappeared down the ladder into the earthen-floored cellar, and Jack couldn’t imagine what the woman was doing. He’d explored the space himself when he first arrived, its shelves empty of canned goods, very few respectable spiders thriving in such Spartan surroundings.
Jack felt like those empty shelves. What did he have to offer Nicola besides a few moments of delightful dalliance? She deserved more, from someone who was not as hampered as he was.
Bah. The day was overcast, but some fresh air would be better than the close atmosphere of his little cottage. If he happened to stop in at Nicola’s, what was the harm? He had to put that damned bush back in the ground if it wasn’t dead already, and he wanted to, if not apologize, assure her that the evening had very special meaning for him.
He dressed for the outdoors, then shouted down the open trap door that he was going out. Mrs. Feather mumbled up something back, and he left to climb up the lane to Nicola’s.
The sky was leaden, promising more snow. Jack wondered how his mother was faring in Menton. If the Riviera resort town was good enough for Queen Victoria and her entourage as a respite from winter, there was a chance his mother would find it adequate.
He tried to picture his black-clad mama relaxing amongst the palm trees and blue Mediterranean and failed. She took her widowhood nearly as seriously as the monarch, for entirely different reasons. Lady Ryder knew she looked her best in mourning clothes, the more expensive the better. At fifty, her skin was as white and unwrinkled as porcelain, her dark hair only slightly threaded with silver. She was a beautiful woman, even if her tongue was a touch too sharp.
Jack loved his mother…at a distance. He knew she meant well, even if her methods were not always on the up and up. It was a great relief to be in Puddling beyond her reach. No sanctioned communication, no visits, hence no lectures.
What would she think of Nicola? Jack wasn’t ready to find out.
He ambled up the slope, mindful of the icy patches. He had half a mind to write to the Puddling governors complaining about his and Nicola’s safety. The Countess and her dog too, presumably. Since they were meant to walk and walk and walk every day, it was a wonder none of them had broken a leg or worse.
Perhaps he should be thankful for the poor condition of the lanes. That was how he met Nicola, wasn’t it? In a lovely heap on the cobblestones. Bring on the bad weather! Maybe he’d be trapped with her at Stonecrop Cottage in a sudden blizzard. In his delightful imaginary scenario, Mrs. Grace would have to have left for the day, else it would be no fun. There would be plenty of food and frolic on tap, and he could resume his unconventional courtship.
Jack smiled at his foolishness. The entire village would be drafted to dig them out of hibernation posthaste—there would be no opportunity for any more seduction.
He straightened his plaid scarf and rapped on the door, hoping he wouldn’t be turned away.
He was greeted, if you could call it that, by Mrs. Grace. She gave him a look which could have frozen fire.
“You have taken Miss Nicola’s peaches.”
He had, and they were hidden in a trunk at the end of his bed underneath a faded quilted coverlet.
If that’s what she meant. Perhaps the word peaches had a hidden meaning for her, just as the Countess suspected.
Jack wasn’t going to admit to anything.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, my lord. Miss Nicola told me she gave you some, as well as packed up a basket. I keep an eagle-eye on my pantry. It’s one thing to celebrate Christmas, quite another to stray from the Puddling diet the day after.”
“I ate them last night,” Jack fibbed. “Ate everything. Down to the last crumb.” All he needed was Mrs. Grace to get Mrs. Feather to search his belongings. He was looking forward to a ham sandwich later.
She waggled a finger at him. “No more infractions. You still have two weeks left, and you wouldn’t want to be booted out.”
Wouldn’t he? All right, he wouldn’t. The thought of not seeing Nicola sliced his heart in two.