Chapter 21
Nicola had been in a fog all day. She attributed it to her night on the couch and the blustery snow swirling outside. She had forced herself to put one leaden foot in front of the other, help Mrs. Grace with household chores, and begin a misshapen tiny pink sweater for some unlucky little girl.
Poor Jack must have left as soon as he awoke, only to find her asleep. What a vibrant pair they made. How could they possibly stay up for a New Year’s Eve party, even if it was a party of two?
She’d already made up her mind not to attempt a surreptitious midnight visit to Jack tonight. The weather was atrocious, and she’d had difficulty heading into the wind and so abbreviated her daily walk earlier. It was a pity she couldn’t contact him to tell him, but Mrs. Grace’s suspicions would be aroused if she tried to get a message to him through the housekeepers.
The woman was already fretting about a missing tea cup, saucer and plate, and had muttered something about toast at breakfast as well. It seemed odd that Jack had taken the china with him when he left, though he’d managed to find the tart and fruitcake on the serving platter and presumably ate them, leaving a fruitcake slice behind to her surprise.
At around three o’clock, Nicola had encouraged Mrs. Grace to go home before it got much darker, and thus had to answer the urgent knock on her cottage door herself a few minutes later.
It was the head of the governors, Mr. Sykes, bundled up for the weather. His fierce eyebrows and eyelashes were dusted with snowflakes, and he wore a grim expression. Nicola immediately felt guilty. The man should be a judge—one look from him, and everyone would confess to crimes they’d never even committed.
In this case, though, Nicola was guilty. Good heavens, did Puddling know about Jack coming here last night? Was she to be interrogated and tossed out into the cold for breaking the Puddling Rehabilitation Rules? Nicola tried to arrange an innocent smile on her face. She was sort of innocent—nothing had happened that she wished would have happened anyhow.
“Forgive the intrusion, Miss Mayfield. May I come in? I need to ask you a few questions.”
Heart knocking in her chest, Nicola nodded and stepped aside. She led him to the parlor, and he warmed himself before the fire for a few seconds, then turned. She pointed to the tea service Mrs. Grace had prepared before she left, but Mr. Sykes shook his head.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here. We’re making a house-to-house search looking for one of our Guests, and I wonder if you’ve seen him. You know him as Jack.”
Nicola felt faint. Mr. Sykes noticed and grasped her elbow before she slid to the carpet.
“Sit down, please. I don’t want to alarm you—I’m sure he’s all right. Somewhere. It’s just that he didn’t turn up for work today and his cottage is empty. His bed wasn’t slept in, though Mrs. Feather says that’s not unusual. But she is in quite a state anyhow. I assured her he couldn’t have got far on a day like this. Only a madman—well, he’s not exactly that, is he? We’ve had madmen here before, and he doesn’t fit the profile.” Mr. Sykes paused, looking down at his largish feet as if they would tell him how to proceed without scaring her further.
“You have spent a little time with him, I think. Christmas lunch and whatnot. He didn’t say anything to you that would—uh, that would lead you to believe that he’s—that is to say—very unhappy here?”
Each stumbled word was worse than the other. Nicola was as alarmed as she’d ever been. It was obvious Mr. Sykes thought Jack might harm himself.
He wouldn’t, would he? He’d seemed full of energy last night before he’d suddenly fallen asleep sitting up in her parlor. Wanted to show her something. Was pleased with himself. Nicola tried to recollect everything he’d said when he arrived.
A black cat. The Countess’s barking dog. Two-hundred-something steps. He’d eaten the peaches with relish and wanted brandy. He wouldn’t run off in a snowstorm for brandy, would he?
Nicola was uncertain. Should she tell Mr. Sykes that Jack had been here last night? Was he buried in a snowbank between her cottage and his, however many steps it was? He could have tripped and fallen—the steep streets were coated with ice despite ashes tossed upon them. Unsafe. She’d had an accident herself.
But someone would notice a body on the lane. If they were going from cottage to cottage, gardens would be inspected, although why would Jack be in one? Not digging up another bush, surely.
She shut her eyes, seeing that vision again of him lying inert. Helpless. Blood in the snow.
“What is it, Miss Mayfield? You—you almost spoke!” Mr. Sykes’s eyebrows were lifted in surprise.
Nicola pulled her notebook—the notebook that Jack had given her—out of her pocket.
I do make noises sometimes. Not very often. Dr. Oakley is encouraged.
Of course, he wasn’t aware of what she was doing when she made sounds. What Jack was doing to her. With her.
“That’s excellent news. We pride ourselves in Puddling for restoring our Guests to good health. Which is why it’s so vexing to think that Lo—uh, Jack has gone missing. No one intuited that he wanted to leave before his term was up. And he hasn’t taken any of his belongings—Mrs. Feather was sure of that.”
Oh. Worse and worse. Nicola bit her lip to prevent herself from crying. She needed to look concerned but not bereft. The continuation of their friendship depended upon it.
If it was to be continued. If Jack had truly disappeared—
This morning Mrs. Grace had thought Nicola had been kidnapped, a very silly idea. Who would do such a thing to an ordinary twenty-six-year-old woman? But Jack had scientific skills which would prove useful to any number of people or countries. His mind was valuable.
“He’ll be all right, I promise. We’ll do everything in our power to find him. You haven’t seen him today then?”
She had seen him after midnight. Should she say so?
No. Nicola was quite convinced Jack would not want her to. She shook her head.
“All right. I’ll be off. If you do happen to bump into him—although I do not advise you to go out in this storm—please tell him to report back to his cottage. Mrs. Feather will be spending the night there until he returns. She’ll have hot food ready.”
Which would be so awful he wouldn’t want to eat, knowing Jack.
I will. Good luck.
Mr. Sykes left her sitting in the chair, desolate. The front door blew shut with a bang, causing Nicola’s heart to stutter.
Where on earth could Jack be? Not in his cottage. Not at the worksite. Not striding around Puddling as if he owned the place.
Could his secretary have come to fetch him? No, someone would have had to open the gate to let him in to the village.
Perhaps he had left by himself. Climbed up a hill in the middle of the night, counting the steps to the next village, and was safe in London or Oxfordshire by now. Leaving her without saying good-bye. There had been no note, not that Jack would write one for Mrs. Grace to find.
But maybe he’d written something in her notebook! She flipped through the pages, almost smiling at their previous “conversations.”
There was nothing in his hand except for his beautiful little rabbit and the sketches of those strange shoes.
The tears flowed now, and Nicola was too distraught to wipe them with the handkerchief tucked up her sleeve. She’d never felt so alone in her life.
“J-j-jack,” she hiccupped. She was too upset to marvel that she’d said his name.
She should rise and light the lamps, but was stuck in the chair, her limbs useless. How had she come to care so much? The idea that Jack might be hurt or worse pierced straight through her.
A sharp thump in the kitchen broke her misery. It was probably the wind whistling down the chimney and knocking something off a shelf, but she pushed out of the chair to check.
Then slithered back down when she saw the man in the doorway.
Jack! This time no sound came out, but she’d never been so delighted to see anyone in her life. Nicola sprang up and rushed into Jack’s arms.
“Now, now, what’s this? I thought your company would never go. I was halfway up the ladder when I heard the knocker. Let me tell you I almost came up anyway. Another hour in that cellar of yours and I would have frozen my bal—um, my blood. May we stand by the fire? I’m stiff as a cadaver. Which I’m not, even though you are looking at me with a mixture of horror and fascination.”
Nicola kissed him to shut him up, then remembered he was cold and dragged him to the fireplace.
“Ah, much better. Please resume kissing me—my lips are completely numb. Are they blue—mmf?”
The room was quiet save for the crackling fire. Nicola clung to Jack like a limpet, vowing never to speak to him again if he ever caused her such worry. That presumed she would talk one day, and right now she felt she was on the very edge. She had said his name, hadn’t she? Not smoothly, to be sure. It was too soon to brag about it, until she was sure she could do it again.
However, talking was far less important than kissing.
She continued her onslaught, her tongue a perfect weapon of seduction. Jack was seducing her right back, meeting each thrust with one of his own, cradling her cheek, threading his fingers through her hair. Her scalp tingled, and other bits of skin followed. She felt herself swaying, but Jack would never let her fall. She trusted him.
But where had he been?
With great reluctance, she broke off the kiss, pleased to see a definitely dazed expression on the man’s face.
Where were you all day?
“Didn’t I just say? In your cellar. The whole damn day. I woke up when Mrs. Grace arrived and hid behind the couch for a bit. I’ll give her credit—not a cobweb or dust bunny to be found back there, so I did not sneeze and reveal myself. When she headed upstairs to look for you, I ran into the kitchen, flung open the trap door and sequestered myself in the cellar. It was not my finest exit strategy, I admit. I should have gone straight out the kitchen door, but my footprints would have shown. And yes, I realized almost immediately that more snow would have covered them up, but by that time it was too late. And, anyway, I might have been seen closing your gate. Probably any number of your neighbors were looking out the window at the right time to catch me.”
Nicola rolled her eyes, imagining Jack stuffed behind the sofa. The sofa that she had been sleeping on. It seemed she missed the whole show.
“I know you had roast chicken for lunch and it was all I could do not to emerge then. I was drooling at the aroma, Nicola, and there was nothing I could do about it. I didn’t think to pack a picnic in my darkest tweed suit—I was just aiming for stealth last night. Thank God Mrs. Grace left early. But then that fellow turned up immediately after. Who was it? I couldn’t hear.”
Mr. Sykes.
“Oh, that busybody. What did he want?”
To find you! All of Puddling thinks you’ve run away! Or are dead!
Jack laughed. “Dead! Do I kiss like a dead man?”
Don’t make a joke. What are you going to tell them? You have to go home!
“Not until I drink a cup of tea and eat all your biscuits. Do you think you can make me a chicken sandwich? I am famished.”