Chapter 26
December 30, 1882
Jack could not remember a time when he was so bone-tired. As foreman of the project, Tom had been a particular slave driver, personally dragging him out of bed before sunrise two days in a row, barking out orders, snapping when Jack failed to meet his standards.
Jack had skills, but none that dovetailed with house construction. It was unusual for him to feel so inept—he’d made a fortune that meant next to nothing to these Puddlingites. When there were only five shops on the five crooked streets, what good was money anyway?
Draped by a moth-eaten blanket, Jack was in his pajamas in his bedroom, cuffs rolled up to his knees. He was soaking his feet in a saltwater-filled roasting pan, willing the blisters to go away, or at least shrink in size. He’d been tempted to toss the borrowed work boots into the stove, but the odor would have been overwhelmingly offensive in his small cottage.
And Charley would want them back, even though they smelled atrocious enough without being burned.
Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve, and the thought of staying up to celebrate seemed impossible. Jack had actually slept relatively soundly last night, after being worked right down to his fingertips as punishment for skipping work the day before. He had fallen into bed immediately after supper, too exhausted to complain about it.
Poor old Reverend Fitzmartin had been forced to come to Primrose Cottage for the daily morale boosting, shivering under Tom’s watchful eye in the as yet unheated kitchen. It was unfair to torture the vicar, and Jack begged him to skip today’s inspirational lecture. But, dutiful as ever, the man had not. He’d read a passage from the Bible that Jack half slept through, despite Tom’s glare. If there were to be a test about its contents or meaning, Jack would surely fail.
He was failing the Puddling Program in general, and not succeeding with the British Manual Alphabet either. What had possessed him to think he could learn it in a matter of days? Especially when his work-worn hands were too sore to find the correct positions. He set the card down on a table, its images blurring together.
He gazed down at his hands and flexed his fingers. He’d always been adroit, able to manipulate the tiniest cog or spring or nut. Right now he was uncertain he could comb his own hair or hold a cup of tea without spilling it.
He’d reheated the thin soup Mrs. Feather had left for him, counting the floating slivers of beef. An infant could have enumerated them, so low in number as they were. The tea caddy had been nearly empty of leaves, so Jack had made do with Adam’s ale, saving up for breakfast. At least the bread had been fresh, and would have been so much better with butter. Alas, no one had churned any.
It wasn’t much past ten o’clock, and his bed looked very attractive across the room. If he slipped into it so early, would he awake at midnight, doomed to be conscious until Tom hollered him out of bed again? No, tomorrow was Sunday, a mercy. He could get up on his own—Mrs. Feather didn’t come in until lunchtime—and go to church. If he was lucky, he’d get a glimpse of Nicola in a pew as she mouthed the words to the hymns. Try to catch her eye. Give her a reassuring smile that he’d forgiven her for forcing him to disrobe.
How would he entertain her tomorrow night? Keeping his clothes on, of course. There was nothing in his cottage to eat or drink, and he couldn’t arouse Mrs. Feather’s suspicions by requesting something out of the ordinary. Nicola would have to pack another basket for them from the riches in her pantry.
Once he was sprung from Puddling, he was going to write a strongly worded letter to the governors. It couldn’t possibly be helpful to starve the Guests as they did, day after unsatisfactory day. Jack didn’t care if their methods had been successful for almost eighty years; it was time for a change. In good conscience, he would never recommend the place—
Though it was not likely to come up in conversation. Jack could never admit to having checked himself in here to the world at large; his stay was confidential. The few people who knew—his mother, his secretary, two or three friends—would never say anything to besmirch Jack’s reputation. One was never supposed to acknowledge weakness, especially if one was a male. To be branded peculiar would doom any prospects Jack had if he wanted to traverse society.
And he might. If he married, it wouldn’t do to hide himself and his wife away. Any children they might have would carry the stain of his difficulties into the future as well. It was imperative that he somehow become normal again.
Which meant sleeping without hearing the cries for help.
When he’d met with the train’s passengers, Jack had quizzed them on the details of the event. To a person they’d all stated that it was God’s grace that the train had so few cars, that only a handful of people had traveled that miserable cold March day.
Following Mr. Fitzmartin’s suggestion, Jack reminded himself regularly that it all could have been so much worse.
But it had been bad enough.
He picked up the card again, trying to focus his mind on something else. Something he had control over. Maybe that was at the core of it—the accident was a clear indication that Jack had lost control. Failed.
Ah, more failure to contemplate. As blue-deviled tonight as he’d ever been, he buried his face in his hands.
Something made him look up before he allowed the hot tears to spill. He opened his mouth, but had no words.
Nicola stood in the doorway like a slender bear, her scarlet coat reversed to its black fur lining. An incongruous tight-fitting workman’s cap covered her golden hair, and she had smudged her face—smudged her face!—with soot.
“What are you doing here?”
She gave him a little smile, then whipped out her notebook from what should have been an inside pocket. She had already written in it.
I couldn’t wait until New Year’s Eve. I won’t stay too long.
“Long? I’ll say you won’t! I can’t believe you’re here at all,” he blustered. “The risk—I’m not worth it.” Realizing how ludicrous he must appear, he hastily removed his feet from the pan, sloshing water on the carpet. That still left him in his paisley pajamas, but at least they were an improvement over what he’d been wearing—or hadn’t been wearing—the other night. She appeared fascinated by his toes, and he dug them into the rug.
He continued to read her precise handwriting. I wanted to see if I could qualify as a spy. If you see these words, I have succeeded!
“And you can go straight back home. Damn it, Nicola, what if you get caught? There will be no New Year’s Eve for you then. In fact, to be on the safe side, I am cancelling the whole thing. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
She snatched the notebook from him. You don’t have the power to hold back time.
“But I do have the power to decide how to spend it. You must go home. Right now.”
No. She waved her pencil with a flourish.
“Let me walk you back.” Putting boots on over his poor damaged toes would be agony. But he could put trousers on over his pajama bottoms. Grab his overcoat. Drag her home. It was only two hundred and twenty-six steps.
You are being inhospitable. I wanted to see your cottage.
“Yours is much nicer, as you can see.” If he stood up and moved around, the two of them would barely fit in the bedroom. The sloped ceiling was a daily reminder that he was too damned tall.
Show me the amenities. And then I’ll go.
Amenities! As if the cottage had any. Really, she was being obtuse—she wasn’t wanted. He was in a hideous mood. Didn’t she notice?
Or had she been sent to lift him up out of his doldrums?
Interesting. If he believed in…if he believed.
He rose from his chair. “Don’t mock my pajamas. I wouldn’t have bought them in a hundred years. My mother gave them to me last Christmas.” They were Italian silk, and expensive. The colors were rather florid, a surprising choice for his always elegantly attired parent. He’d left the packing for Puddling to his valet, which in the case of his nightwear had been a mistake.
But who was supposed to see him in the dark?
Nicola, whose bright blue eyes shimmered in the firelight.
“There is only one bedroom up here. You have two. The washroom does have running water, however. All the modern conveniences.” Ha, for what he was paying he’d expect gold-plated fixtures. Jack picked up a candle, opened the door, and she poked her head in. He was grateful his shaving equipment and toiletries were lined up neatly. One might sport a beard, but one was fussy about its maintenance.
He’d let his guard down, so lost in thought he’d enabled her to sneak into the cottage and all the way up the stairs without detection. He should have locked the front door, but never in his wildest dreams did he think she’d come to visit tonight.
“Oh, hell. Come in. Hold still.” He dampened a washcloth and wiped the dirt from her face. Quarters were tight in here too, and he could smell lily of the valley, watch the muscle of her jaw twitch with each stroke. Her skin was impossibly soft and warm, and it was obvious that he should kiss her.
She looked up at him, so trusting. There was still a trace of black across her nose, and he brushed his thumb across, noticing a small constellation of freckles for the first time. How had he missed them in daylight? They added piquancy to her elfin face, and he placed his mouth over the bridge of her nose.
She stood still, leaning into him, breathing lightly against his chest. Jack kissed her eyelids next, her eyelashes tickling his lips.
They should go downstairs, far from his bedchamber.
Should. Would. Could. Which one to choose?
Would. Bumping into the door, he backed away, closing his eyes to her startled expression.
“Let me show you the kitchen. We’ll make a pot of tea and then you can leave. No, wait. I’m almost out of tea. There should be enough for a cup, though,” he babbled. “I’ll walk home with you, of course. Just slip my feet into some boots and throw on my coat.” If they were noticed, perhaps his pajamas bottoms would somehow pass inspection as the latest style in gentlemen’s evening trousers. Who here in this backwater would know the difference?