Chapter 18
Jack felt a palpable frisson of excitement. He loved learning new things. Even if he never met another mute or deaf person in his life to test his skills, he would share this with Nicola.
“The botany book is mine. I decided I needed the diversion. Unless you want to read it first. But this is for you. Us. Here!” He handed her the large stiff illustrated card.
“It’s the British Manual Alphabet,” Jack explained to Nicola, who puzzled over the sturdy cardboard between her gloved hands. “Fingerspelling. Writing in the air, as it were, instead of your notebook.” He thumbed through the accompanying slender book his secretary had sent.
“According to this monograph, some form of sign language has been in use for hundreds and hundreds of years. Isn’t this interesting? One used to have to point to a body part that began with the chosen letter, b for brow, etcetera. Where would one point for zed, I wonder? There are various alphabets listed in here, but we’ll concentrate on British. The Americans use something altogether different. Just like them, always rebellious.”
Nicola studied the card, which had illustrations of two hands in various positions. She pulled out her notebook from her coat pocket. I feel slightly overwhelmed.
“Don’t worry. We won’t have time to learn sign language and all its nuances, but I thought it might be amusing if we had a secret code. Something to thwart our minders whose ears are always pressed at the door.”
Nicola rolled her lovely blue eyes.
“What, you don’t think I can learn this? There’s an American university dedicated solely to educating the deaf and mute. I assure you I am as good as any American student, even if I left Oxford early. To prove it, I’ll take a vow of silence with you. Starting, um, tomorrow. We’ll communicate solely with our hands.” A very provocative thought flitted across his mind, and he shoved it away. This was serious business.
Jack hoped he was not biting off more than he could chew. It would be a hardship not speaking, but Nicola had been so afflicted for months. Could he learn all the hand signals by tomorrow evening? Much of the next day would be devoted to work here in this cottage. But he’d never needed much sleep—which was a good thing, since he got so little of it now what with his nightmares.
Nicola shook her head. You overestimate me. I will need more time to study.
Relief swept over him. He was usually a fast learner, though a day or two more would be welcome.
“All right. It’s Tuesday. I’ll be busy here every day until Friday from dawn to dusk. Shall we say Saturday to meet and test out our new skills? I’ll come for afternoon tea.” The next-to-last day of the month. Sunday night would be New Year’s Eve, and Jack wondered how Nicola intended to ring in 1883.
It might be fun to be silent, relying upon fingers and facial expressions. Lips too—wasn’t it tradition to share a New Year’s kiss at midnight?
Jack was getting ahead of himself. If he truly wasn’t going to speak when he saw her, he should make his plans now just so he could be clear.
“I am giving a New Year’s Eve party,” he said with sudden decision. “Will you come?”
Is the Countess going to be there?
“Not if I can help it. It will be a private celebration. Just you and me. Do you dare to venture out and join me?”
Nicola bit a lip. What if someone sees me?
Puddling’s streets rolled up awfully early, but New Year’s Eve might be different. Did the villagers entertain each other? Jack tried to imagine mousy Mrs. Feather dressed in faux diamonds blowing a horn and failed.
The parish hall was a possible party venue, but the ancient Fitzmartins probably went to bed when the sun set. Most of the cottages were all too small for any sort of expanded festivity, and the Sykes estate would likely be off limits due to the newlyweds’ reluctance to share their space with anyone. He’d seen Tristan Sykes and his red-headed bride in the bake shop the day before Christmas, but they had been so wrapped up in each other that they hadn’t noticed him. Jack hadn’t been anxious to listen to another lecture anyway.
He was going to defy the governors every chance he got, no matter who tried to talk him out of it.
“We can practice. Do reconnaissance as it were. I’ll sneak out tomorrow night and observe any activity. Barking dogs, sleepwalking grandmothers, any peculiar nocturnal doings, and report to you at midnight on the dot.”
Nicola’s expression told him she knew where his real interests lay.
“I swear I will not lay a finger on you until you ask me to.” He was fairly certain she might, hopefully tomorrow evening.
What if you get caught?
“What can they do? Put me on a diet of bread and water? It’s just about that already.”
They can send you away.
She looked properly disturbed at that. Excellent.
“I have some experience sneaking around at night. I was an adolescent boy once, you know. I’ll be careful. Then you can try on Thursday. By New Year’s Eve, we’ll both be experts.”
Aren’t we supposed to be asleep at that hour?
“I’m usually up.” It suddenly occurred to him that Nicola probably wasn’t. There were no shadows under her eyes. “But I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”
No, it’s all right. Two nights won’t kill me. I can sleep in as long as I wish.
Ha. Of course. While he was getting dragged out of bed before the cock crowed, Nicola was snuggled under the covers. How different her Puddling experience was from his. Better rest, better food—and he liked to think he was enhancing her stay in some way too.
If Jack had his druthers, he would see her for more than two evenings. Why hadn’t the idea come to him earlier? They could have had more unfettered time together if they had been meeting in secret.
But it wasn’t until last night—until the taste and touch and scent of her imprinted itself on his mind—that it seemed so necessary to see her.
Not to take her virginity, however. That would best be left to within the bonds of matrimony. If he could straighten out, be normal—
Once again, he was getting ahead of himself. Surely he could give her pleasure, though, and derive his own from her artless responses.
“We are in agreement then. Tomorrow night I’ll tiptoe to Stonecrop Cottage. Leave the door open for me.”
Nicola blushed. Jack could watch that pink tint wash over her cheeks for hours. She was like the subject of a watercolor painting, muted with her fair hair and light eyes, yet unexpectedly compelling.
Enough. Would she notice he was getting aroused? He folded his own instruction card and slid it into his pocket. Then he rewrapped the monograph and hers in the brown paper, and put his botany book inside his coat so it couldn’t be confiscated. It was, after all, contraband, although he would have preferred some Principe de Gales cigars and a pint of brandy.
“Don’t let Mrs. Grace see this, or the jig will be up. Can you find a good hiding place?”
I think so. Until recently, Mrs. Grace left my things undisturbed. But lately—
She looked up at him with those trusting blue eyes, then returned to her notebook. I think she suspects there is something between us.
“She’s right, I hope,” Jack said, his voice a touch gravelly. “But you must throw her off the scent. Stick your tongue out when my name is mentioned and gag. Pretend you don’t want her to let me in for tea. And hide your notebook too.” He imagined Nicola tucking the little notebook into her corset near her heart and just about expired from desire.
A part of him wanted to declare himself, but he felt foolish. And unworthy. Despite his material advantages, he had little to offer a wife but his miasma of depression.
Funny, though, when he was with Nicola, his mood was instantly lifted. She acted like a tonic to him.
According to the vicar and the doctor, all change came from within. His demons were still there, waiting with their sharpened talons to be wrestled. No matter how sweet and sincere Nicola was, Jack couldn’t depend upon her for his cure.
He had fourteen days left—he was at the precise halfway mark. It was inconceivable to him that he’d known Nicola a mere two weeks. Less, really, for he’d met her on his second day. His feelings were too intense for so short a time, but he couldn’t help how he felt.
Maybe it was another sure sign that he was unbalanced.
Blast it. He’d never been one to dwell over mistakes—in his experience, they always led to greater opportunity.
None had resulted in death before, however.
He felt a tapping on his arm. What is wrong?
How long had he been sitting here in the cold, lost in thought? Wasting his precious time alone with Nicola? What the devil was wrong with him, and would it ever, ever go away?
“Sorry.” He was going from euphoria to dismal reality.
What if she never regained her voice? What if he was stuck reliving the train tragedy at the least opportune times? Maybe he’d have been better off if he’d never come here and met her.