Chapter 2
He’d been warned by friends that he’d be bored to tears here, but Lord Jonathan Haskell Ryder—Jack to his friends—was rarely bored anywhere. Curiosity was in his bones. He’d been the despair of his parents and teachers since he cut his leading strings, not willing to leave things be but to radically change them like some Victorian alchemist. As a child, he’d deconstructed anything with parts, and, much to everyone’s surprise, put them all back together with only the occasional loose screw or spring leftover. There were fewer mistakes like that as he’d aged, and he was considered by most to be kind of a mad genius.
To be sure, Jack didn’t think of himself in quite that way. But his mind had always seen the possibilities, whether they were mechanical or metaphysical. As a youth, he’d long outstripped the lecturers at university, and had gone on to considerable glory after he dropped out, founding foundries, inventing inventions, and wooing willing women.
The foundry, however, had been his undoing. It had been months since the depression had settled so deep in his curious bones a canny Welsh miner couldn’t have found it with a pickaxe. His numbers didn’t make sense anymore, he hadn’t invented anything interesting in ages, and as for women—well, the least said the better.
But here he was on the second day of his Puddling Program with a lissome blonde in his arms. Things were looking up.
He’d better look down, for this road was a nightmare of ice and dirty snow. What had this young woman been thinking of to come outside with flimsy footwear that was not meant for the outdoors? They looked like dancing slippers, for heaven’s sake.
Jack was pretty sure no dancing was on the menu in Puddling. He’d read over his ironically titled “Welcome Packet” and had felt most unwelcome, given the numerous rules and restrictions.
Foolish female and her foolish shoes. It’s not as if she could even call out for help. Jack wondered if she’d always been mute. His parents would certainly have approved of him being struck dumb by lightning and robbed of speech forever, for he had rambled on in his childish enthusiasm until his father caned him regularly into quiet.
Fighting with his father was over, however. Now it was just his mama who wanted him to behave according to her exacting standards.
Settle down. Slow down. Marry a suitable girl, sire a passel of ordinary children, stop being…different.
Almost impossible for a man like Jack, whose mind skittered from one thing to another with frightening speed.
His mother had been unsupportive when he told her what he was doing for his victims, reminding him he was not directly responsible for the accident. But he knew he was. If he’d not been so involved in other projects, he might have kept a closer eye on everything. Because of his negligence, two people had died.
Died. No amount of money would bring them back to life. And he had money. Tons of it. From patents and factories and investments, not counting his inheritance. Everything Jack Ryder had touched turned to gold, causing him to rest a little on his laurels. He’d wanted to prove that he was not just a baron, but a businessman, and he had.
The gods laughed. Hubris. A word with which he was now totally familiar.
True, the casting defect wasn’t his fault. Even if he’d been on the foundry floor, he might not have noticed the imperfection. The girders had passed through many hands and many inspections.
The result was the same.
Jack had divested himself of three-quarters of his holdings. Anything that could blow up, break, burn down, or cause possible harm to the general populace had been sold. He could now personally guarantee that such industrial carelessness would not continue on his watch. His money was now tied up in harmless, nonlethal endeavors.
It should have improved his spirits, but it did not. He’d sunk further and further—
There was an anxious tap on his shoulder. Ah. They had reached his passenger’s home. He carried her up the steps from the street and shouldered his way through a gate. A long slippery stone path led to a cottage. The sign near the door read Stonecrop. Much better than Tulip. More masculine-sounding. He knew next to nothing about plant life, could not have identified stonecrop if he were thrust headfirst in a bed of it, but that could be remedied by books.
If only he could get his hands on some. Tulip Cottage’s bookshelves held only musty sermons and other “improving” tracts. He’d been forced to take apart a butter churn before he could fall asleep last night.
“Here we are,” he said cheerfully. “Is the house locked?”
She shook her head.
He turned the knob and sudden warmth surrounded him in the hallway. To the left was a small conservatory, its glass door closed. Not much was growing within, save for a straggly fern. Maybe this young lady could do with some botany books as well. To the right, a parlor with a plush horsehair sofa. He deposited her on it and looked around the crowded little room. The appointments were superior to his cottage, newer. There was even a piano. Stonecrop didn’t feel quite so much like a prison as his pared-down abode.
“Shall I make you some tea before I fetch the doctor?”
More headshaking.
“You do want me to fetch him, don’t you?”
The blonde bit her lip.
“That’s it. I’m going.” He gave the fire a few sharp pokes before he left so the cottage would stay warm. “Don’t move. Not an inch.”
The blonde scowled at him. And then stuck out her tongue.
Jack laughed. “I know I’m bossy. But it’s for your own good. I’ll be right back.”
He remembered where the doctor lived, for he’d been given a map of the village yesterday in his packet. Once he read something, it tended to stick in his head. He usually could quote whole paragraphs of the most useless books and monographs without too much effort, one of the skills that had so frightened his teachers.
Jack could still see the newspaper headlines from last March all too clearly, even if his name had not been mentioned.
After making one wrong turn—he guessed he was a little worn out, for how could one get lost when there were only five streets, rambling though they were, to choose from?—he rapped on the door of the surgery. The brass plate read Charles Oakley, M.D. The man himself answered after the second knock.
“Lord Ryder, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”
“Nothing for me, sir. I found a young woman on the street. Wait, that sounds odd, doesn’t it? Anyway, she slipped and fell, and I picked her up and carried her home. She’s wrenched her ankle, and I think you should give it a look. I don’t know her name, but she lives at Stonecrop Cottage.”
“Is Mrs. Grace there now?”
Jack felt a stab of disappointment. So his lovely, silent blonde was married. Where was her husband? Had he throttled her so hard she couldn’t speak? People came to Puddling for a whole host of reasons, and Jack was naturally curious about hers.
“Yes.”
“Well, she’s in good hands then. Thank you for your help.”
He wasn’t prepared to leave his chivalrous stance just yet. “I’ll walk that way with you. My cottage is down the lane from Stonecrop. But of course, you know that.”
Oakley got into his coat and clapped a hat on his wispy white hair. He picked up the medical bag that sat on a bench in the front hall.
“Aye. Settling in, are you? I’ll come over tomorrow to give you an examination. Should have come this afternoon, but the day got away from me. Three cases of purulent sore throat, one broken finger, and twins born over in Sheepscombe to boot. I haven’t even had my lunch yet, but it will be dinnertime before I get anything in my stomach.” He locked up his house and they were on their way.
“I don’t want to hold you from your important obligations. An examination’s not necessary. I’m perfectly well,” Jack lied.
“So you say. But I can see you haven’t been sleeping. You were cagey when you applied to come here at the last minute, but anyone can tell it’s not for the clean air and good plain food.”
Jack tried to open his eyes wider to look more awake, but he had a feeling nothing would trick this old fellow. “I just needed a change. A quiet place to think.”
“We can’t help you if you won’t help us.”
“What do you mean?”
“We usually have an extensive file on each of our Guests. You’re a bit of a mystery, Lord Ryder. We only allowed you to come since our Christmas season is slow. Most Guests want to be with their families at this time of year. Of course, after January, our applications triple. Familiarity breeds contempt, I reckon.”
A mystery? That made Jack sound far more interesting than he was. He had not been precisely forthcoming when he’d filled out the endless paperwork, though. There had been no mention of the railway accident and his part in it, and he preferred to keep it that way. He was frankly tired of trying to explain what he felt every waking minute. Nighttime too.
“Quite a racket you all have going on here. Popular place, is it?”
The doctor came to an abrupt stop. “Do you doubt our efficacy? There are scrapbooks touting our success stories.”
“But I don’t expect I’ll ever get to see them. That would be a breach of confidentiality, wouldn’t it? Pesky ethics.” Jack knew his law and had read every word of the contract he’d signed. Everything about Puddling and its famously successful Program was hushed up, and one virtually took a vow of silence to be here. Mrs. Grace fit right in naturally. “Come along. Mrs. Grace is in pain.”
The doctor shot him an odd look but shuffled down the hill as fast as was safe for an elderly fellow.
Impatient, Jack went faster. He decided he’d go home in a minute, once Mrs. Grace was settled with the doctor. He entered the cottage without knocking and found his charge still on the sofa, bare feet stretched out, trying to smile. Her inappropriate shoes were laid neatly on the floor, her woolen stockings rolled into them.
“Dr. Oakley’s just behind me. Does it hurt very badly?” He could see himself that her ankle was twice the size it should be. He should have packed it in ice before he left.
She rolled her eyes at him. They were blue, fringed with short thick lashes that were slightly darker than her hair.
“You think I’m making too much of this, don’t you? Well, I’m not. I hate to see people in distress.” Animals too. He was too softhearted by half. Growing up, he’d mended wings and paws, and as an adult, he’d refined medical instruments that might even be in Oakley’s bag.
She fluttered her hand at him, motioning him away. Through the parlor windows, Jack could see the doctor coming up the path, puffy breaths of cold air preceding him.
“All right. I’m going. But if you need anything, just let me know.”
A roll of the eyes again.
“You can write me a note. You have a housekeeper, yes? She can give it to mine.” Somewhere in the Puddling literature, Jack had read communication was cut off with one’s family while one stayed here. That was fine—he didn’t want to talk to his mother for the next six or seven years or so. He loved her, but was tired of hearing her plans for him, which usually contradicted any of his own. But the powers that be couldn’t object to Mrs. Grace getting in touch with him, could they? He was only a few doors down. If she could holler, he might even hear her if the wind was right.
Maybe she was a widow. A young one. Although she was not in mourning. She wore a simple yet à la mode blue gown trimmed with darker velvet piping. He could see now that she’d discarded her coat that her figure was slight. Unexceptional. She certainly had not been difficult to carry up a hill. Of course, Jack was fit. Prided himself on it. His father had turned to fat before he was forty.
Jack believed in an active mind and an active body. Of course, nothing much stopped his mind and hands from whirring along like a clockwork. No wonder he couldn’t sleep, and it had only gotten worse this year. That old doctor had cottoned onto that in a trice.
Oakley huffed in and set his bag on a table. “Now, my dear, this young man tells me you had a spill. The right ankle, yes? Raise a finger if my manipulation pains you too much.” He looked up at Jack. “Thank you for your assistance, but I think my patient needs some privacy.”
Jack stared at Mrs. Grace’s ankles. Really, what was the fuss about catching a glimpse of something so bony and unappealing? He’d much rather see—
“Of course. Do remember I’m right down the lane if you need anything. Good afternoon.”
Jack ducked under the lintel and left the cozy cottage. Stonecrop was nicer than his. But he hadn’t come to Puddling for the architecture or décor. In two hundred and twenty six steps, he’d opened his door and sought out his housekeeper, Mrs. Feather, in the kitchen. She stood over the stove, stirring something that did not smell entirely divine.
“What’s for dinner?” Lunch had been less than divine too. And breakfast? The oatmeal had been so thick it could have been used as wallpaper paste.
“Soup, my lord.”
“And?”
“Soup, my lord.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time. What’s the second course?”
She turned to him, holding the wooden spoon aloft as if he’d been naughty and she longed to smack him. Which she probably did after twenty-four hours’ acquaintance. Jack sometimes had that effect on people.
“Perhaps you don’t understand. Have you not read your Welcome Packet? The Puddling diet is a simple one, designed to cool your blood.”
“My blood’s already frozen—I’ve been outside for two hours wandering about your little burgh. Really, just soup? No bread or cheese?” he asked, utterly without hope.
“No, my lord. And fine, fresh well water, of course.”
“Of course.” Jack enjoyed his liquor as much as the next man. But he knew after a longer-than-brief period of overindulgence after the accident that he wouldn’t find consolation in a bottle. “I don’t suppose there’s any dessert?” He could have sworn he caught the whiff of raspberries in Mrs. Grace’s cottage.
Mrs. Feather blanched, as if he’d suggested that she serve him a platter of opium. “Oh, no, sir. That wouldn’t do at all.”
Jack would have a word with the doctor when he came tomorrow. Twenty-six more days of this sort of treatment would turn him into a skeleton. Raspberries were perfectly healthy, God-given bounty. Half the time they grew wild.
Surely fruit was good for one. Didn’t all those poor sailors suffer when they had no access to nutritious food? Acid fruit cured scurvy. Jack was no physician, but remembered something dimly from his studies.
Perhaps he’d been ill-advised to come to Puddling. After all, it was his mother’s suggestion. He’d never heard of the place before in all his thirty years, having trod the straight and narrow during his adolescence and young manhood. He’d been too busy with his self-imposed schooling to become wayward, a bit of a dull dog, if one wanted to know the truth. Puddling had the kind of program that society people seemed to know about but wouldn’t admit to ever resorting to. His friends had been shocked he’d chosen to sign himself in.
But it had been months, and all the projects and holidays and books and feminine amusements he’d tried to occupy himself with had done nothing to soothe his soul. It was time for a change.
If he did not starve to death first.