Chapter 22
Jack prided himself on thinking on his feet, although he’d failed once today rather spectacularly, thus his sojourn in the cellar. Right now he was stumped again.
Where could he say he was all day? He’d never admit to being at Nicola’s the entire time, even if she hadn’t known he was right under her nose. That would bring the wrath of the governors down on them both, and who knew how they’d be punished?
He’d been so bored below he’d drawn in the dust, dozens of mechanical objects from memory and even a stag wearing a top hat between its antlers just for a change of pace—he’d scuffed up his illustrations to wipe away the evidence before he ventured up the ladder, which seemed a pity. Jack would have enjoyed showing Nicola his artistic and scientific talent.
He’d managed to nap for a short while too, quite an achievement on the stone floor with only his suit jacket and muffler to keep him warm. Jack’s stomach had rumbled so loudly it woke him up. He was surprised Mrs. Grace hadn’t heard it as she went about her chicken-roasting above.
The small cellar did not run the whole length of the cottage, but was directly under the kitchen and pantry ell. Knowing that all the food was directly above him, inaccessible, had driven Jack’s hunger to new heights. Even two cups of tea, three roast chicken sandwiches, and eight biscuits prepared by Nicola and eaten in quick succession by him had not cleared his head.
Think, Jack. Apparently the whole village was out looking for him. From his vantage point in Nicola’s spare bedroom, he could see lanterns bobbing below in the street in the gloomy dusk. The poor blighters would freeze to death as the frigid winter afternoon turned into frigid winter night, and he wasn’t worth that.
He’d tidied himself up as best he could, washing his face and hands and brushing the dirt from his wrinkled clothes. He’d come out last night without his camelhair topcoat, as it was light-colored and would have been noticeable in the dark. Jack was reluctant to go outside, just when he’d finally gotten warm. The tea and kisses had been very helpful in that regard.
But he couldn’t subject the well-meaning villagers to any more time spent searching for him, even if they were bleeding him dry for the cost of the program and starving him to boot. So, where could he have holed up since before dawn without anyone noticing?
St. Jude’s bell struck four times, and Jack had his answer. He’d never question divine intervention again.
If he was lucky, he’d be able to hop over stone walls, trespass through a few gardens, and get to the church itself without using any of the lanes. Its doors were always open. If they had already checked there for him, he could claim he’d hidden in a cupboard in contemplative prayer and didn’t wish to be disturbed.
Jack hoped God wouldn’t strike him dead for his duplicity.
He went downstairs to a nervous Nicola, who was washing up all traces of his visit in the kitchen.
“I have a plan, not a very good one, but it’s the best I can do. I’m going to church.”
Nicola wiped her hands on a towel and took out her notebook.
What if they’ve already looked there?
He grinned. “They must have missed me. I fell asleep in some dark corner, didn’t I? The sleep of the dead. Couldn’t hear them when they called my name. Everyone knows I have trouble sleeping. When I finally do conk out, I might as well be deaf. I’ll see if I can’t curl up with the vestments for verisimilitude.”
Be careful.
“Careful is my middle name. Actually, it’s Haskell. Oops, not supposed to be telling you that sort of thing, am I?” But if Nicola was to be his wife one day, what was the harm?
Yes, he’d just about made his mind up to propose. No more pussy-footing with talk of courting, etcetera. Maybe he’d spring it on her the last day he was in Puddling. Every time he came home, he could be greeted with wild kisses from a beautiful young woman. Hell, a beautiful mature woman if he could keep her sweet as they both grew old.
Really, though, he should make an effort to know her slightly longer than two weeks before asking her to marry him formally, if only to assuage his mother. She would no doubt pepper him with questions when she returned from France, but with any luck, Jack would be wed by then.
He gave Nicola a fond kiss. She looked so adorably domestic, an apron tied about her slender waist, her hair coming undone from its strict pins, a charming rosy blush on her cheeks. He wanted to see this face upon waking every morning for the rest of his life.
That presumed he would sleep again. Well, he’d managed on a chair and on a stone cellar floor within the past twelve hours with no bad dreams. Nicola was curing him already.
“Wish me luck.” Jack hoped he wouldn’t snag his pants, or worse, private parts, on the triangular rocks that topped most of the garden walls he’d seen. The church couldn’t be more than three or four house plots away—its spire was visible from Nicola’s conservatory roof. Mummifying his face with his black scarf so that only his eyes were unobscured, he gave Nicola one last wool-covered kiss and crept out the kitchen door.
The wind cut through him immediately. All those poor souls out looking for him—Jack really did need to go to church and ask forgiveness. He sprinted over one wall, dashed through the snow-covered garden, then climbed the next two walls a bit more carefully as they were nearly as tall as he was. The church was in striking distance, its rooster-topped spire looming over him. He scurried between a shed and a patch of ice, then raced through the clipped yews in the churchyard to the main door.
It swung open in Jack’s gloved hands, emitting an unearthly groan. The interior of the church was as dim as the advancing dusk outside, and just as cold, but it was thankfully empty. A few votives flickered to one side of the altar. Jack instinctively dropped to his knees, touching his head to the pew in front of him.
He prayed a rather straightforward entreaty, then, shivering, sat back on the hard bench. He hoped old Mr. Fitzmartin was snug in his house on Vicarage Lane. That was his next destination—he’d turn himself in and hope for the best.
Would the vicar know Jack was lying? Jack was out of practice, had never stretched the truth all that much growing up. Well, there was a first time for everything.
He was spared from disturbing the old man at his tea and perjuring himself. As soon as he screwed up his courage and exited the church to face the cold and consequences, he was faced with a trio of people coming up the path.
“Oi! There he is!”
It was Tom, the foreman from the work crew, and two men he didn’t recognize. At least Jack wouldn’t be fibbing in the church—being outside it was much better, wasn’t it?
“Hello, Tom! I say, I’m so very sorry I wasn’t at work today. I had trouble sleeping and let myself in to the church early this morning to, um, pray. Think. I guess I slept the whole day away.”
“You’ve been in there all day? Didn’t the bells wake you up?”
Jack shook his head. The village was very proud of its automated bells, though they still had human bell ringers who did things the old-fashioned way on occasion.
This was one of them.
“Stan, Joe, get up in the belfry and sound the all clear.” Tom turned to him, his face dark with anger. “No point to anyone freezing their bollocks off any longer for the likes of you. Puddling has been turned upside down since the middle of the morning because of you. You’re in trouble, Lord Ryder.”
“I usually am,” Jack said, feeling somewhat guilty. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to shirk my work.” He was rhyming, but Tom was definitely not impressed.
“Oh, we got on for a bit without you, for you know you’re rubbish at carpentry. Painting too. My own son, Tommy, could do better, and he’s not ten years old yet. But we’ve been out searching for hours instead of finishing up at Primrose Cottage.” Tom raised the lantern to peer in Jack’s face. “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying you were in the church all day?”
Jack blinked at the brightness. “Yes.”
“All day.”
“I just said so, didn’t I? I resent the tone you’re taking with me. I am a peer of the realm, and not used to my word being questioned.” Jack sounded very much like his late papa, but there was no point to being a baron if you couldn’t pull rank when necessary. Just imagine how a duke would handle this insubordination! Old Tom would willingly crawl into a crypt.
“You’ll have to convince the governors. I’ll take you over to the vicarage. Miss Churchill is there, and some of the others too frail to go out on a day like this to look for your sorry arse. Let’s go.”
Tom’s attitude did not bode well for the future of Jack’s Service. He saw himself getting hit “accidentally” with Tom’s hammer. With the church bells ringing in his ears, he was led off to the slaughter.