Chapter 28
December 31, 1882
Jack had fought with himself all day and did not find a worthy opponent. Fought on his knees in church, immune to the vicar’s sermon. Fought at the disappointing-as-usual luncheon table, Mrs. Feather measuring out a precise inch of butter for his bread. Fought on his brisk afternoon walk around the village, a perfect blue sky overhead which failed to cheer him. Even fought when he found himself back in the churchyard on “their” bench. There had been no message for him, nor had she appeared in church or anywhere he might have bumped into her.
He didn’t deserve a message or a glimpse of her profile in the pew. How could he have treated Nicola so abominably last night? True, he hadn’t expected to be disturbed, but her presence should have brought him joy. She’d offered—well, he couldn’t get the sight of her bare body out of his mind, though he hadn’t really tried hard. It was one of the reasons for the self-argument.
And another—he’d made her feel unwanted, possibly ashamed. Drove her out of his cottage like a fleeing Cinderella, though she’d left no glass slipper behind. He’d stood barefoot with his broom, his feet glued to the sugar-dusted floor, incapable of stopping her.
But Jack had done as she asked after all. From memory. He didn’t need her in front of him, her soft white skin lit by candlelight. Those indelible brief seconds had burned into his brain. As soon as Mrs. Feather poked her head into the parlor to let him know his supper was in the ice box and wish him a “Happy New Year,” he’d leaped from his chair to find one of his notebooks.
There were plenty of blank pages from the middle on—he’d not been inspired to create anything earth-shattering or world-changing since his first-week-Puddling boots. His previous notations resembled hieroglyphics to him, so disengaged was his mind from industry. He might never right himself, and the financial consequences of that meant nothing to him at the moment. He’d had more than his fair share of success—look where that had led.
To here in his old battered chair, he supposed, fingers smudged, a random thumbprint in the corner. Nicola gazed up at him from her page, hope in her eyes. Her wavy hair partly covered one small but exquisite breast, just as it had last night. The puddle of fluffy fur at her feet made her appear to be rising out of nature itself. She was slim but not thin, her delicate curves more beautiful than the fantasies he’d allowed himself.
He had held her and carried her, seen her sweet thighs and the mound of golden fuzz. Jack had had plenty of time to think about what she’d look like without clothing, but his imagination did not measure up to the reality.
And he’d turned her away!
For her sake, as well as his. Someone needed to protect her.
So his battle had been fought, and he’d both lost and won. It was New Year’s Eve and had been dark outside for hours. He doubted Nicola would expect him to call for her, which gave him more time to get his drawings done. He posed a naked Nicola reclining on his sofa, her coat acting as a blanket. Jack drew her sleepy-eyed and half smiling, purely wanton. He’d never live long enough to see such a sight, but nothing could stop his hand from sketching it.
More pages followed. Naked Nicola in his kitchen sipping tea, with only Mrs. Feather’s apron tied around her waist. Nicola reading in this chair, her legs crossed. Nicola on his bed, her hair spread across his pillows.
Enough. Jack slammed the book shut, wondering where he could hide it from Mrs. Feather. She’d never understand his mechanical formulations, but the nudes of Nicola were self-explanatory.
Feeling unusually superstitious, he couldn’t bear to toss the drawings into the fire. He’d heard of primitive magic—spells cast, pins inserted in straw dolls. Burning Nicola’s images would be unlucky, he was sure.
For a rational man, he was losing his wits.
He checked the mantel clock. It was close to midnight, when the supernatural didn’t seem so impossible. The new year was almost upon him, and he recollected the country traditions. Suddenly knew what he must do.
He would be Nicola’s first-footer, intercepting her on the lane if she was hare-brained enough to come to him tonight as previously planned. It was bad luck for a blonde woman to be first to cross the threshold, and he needed all the good luck he could get.
He was still dressed, and shoved a handful of coal from the hod into his pocket. Gathered the few slices of remaining bread. It was the best he could do—in his greed, he’d eaten most of yesterday’s fresh loaf. Filled a flask with water. Wrapped a pinch of salt in his handkerchief. He had no mistletoe, but a few coins in his pocket—a very few—would fulfill most of the myth. He’d just have to remember to exit by the kitchen door after he arranged his offerings.
And, he vowed, he would not stay long, echoing Nicola’s words to him last night. There would be no lingering glances or tender touches or scorching kisses.
Then he remembered—he was supposed to gift her with something beyond the traditional items too. Well, why not his notebook? She could dispose of it as she wished, and he would not be driven mad by the images within.
His overcoat barely buttoned over the lumpy parcels tucked into his suit pockets, but Jack wasn’t afraid of the cold. The bells on the church tower began to peal, and he devoutly hoped none of his neighbors would be out on the road to hear them more clearly.
It was a fine, clear night. The cottages between his and Nicola’s were mostly dark, and no wild revelry was apparent. Puddlingites were practical people. They had to get up and go to work Monday morning, New Year’s Day or not.
Would her door be unlocked? A spare key was kept under an empty flowerpot in his front garden in case of emergency, and Jack assumed the same would be true for Stonecrop Cottage. The governors required access at all times for surprise inspections—it was one of the rules stated in the Welcome Packet. Jack had been lucky so far that no one had barged in to catch him staring blankly at a wall, feeling sorry for himself. He was meant to be busy. Active. According to Dr. Oakley, too much time to brood was not helpful to his “condition.”
He arrived at Nicola’s in less than two-hundred twenty-six steps, only slightly out of breath. The cottage was in full darkness, and Jack wasn’t sure whether he should be grateful or not. His scheme had been hasty, and the results might not be what he wished for.
The door handle turned but wouldn’t budge. With a silent curse, Jack rooted around the bottom of the doorframe and nearly knocked over a clay urn. Beneath it was the key. After a few fumbles, the front door opened, emitting an eerie creak. Mrs. Grace had fallen down on her hinge-oiling duty.
He hoped Nicola would not wake up and be alarmed. He stood in the hallway, getting his bearings. Listening. The cottage was as quiet as the rest of Puddling.
Despite the lack of light, he’d been inside often enough to find his way into the kitchen, where embers in the fireplace still burned. He tossed the fresh coal over them, and lay the bread slices and water on the table. Carefully, he unfolded his handkerchief, stopping the salt from scattering. He placed a coin in next to the bread and stepped back to admire his handiwork by the revived fire.
Mrs. Grace mustn’t be the first to find the New Year’s bounty on the table. Jack didn’t care if she had a lucky year ahead. He would go upstairs and wake Nicola, apologize for the lack of party. Apologize for everything.
He hoped she wouldn’t bash him on the head with his notebook.
Jack lit a candle and crept up the stairs. He knew which room was Nicola’s, would know even if he hadn’t been upstairs before by the scent of lily of the valley. A sweet, delicate scent, perfect for her. He wished it was not winter so he could shower her with beribboned nosegays of the stuff.
The bedroom was chilly, yet she had thrown off the blankets. She lay in the center of the bed, curled into a ball, her nightgown riding up to her thighs. She wore an absurd nightcap over her glorious hair, and he longed to yank it off.
Jack had not made any particular effort to be quiet, and it was a bit unnerving to watch her sleep so soundly. He could be anyone, come to do her harm.
Of course, she had locked up the cottage for the night, and Puddling was as secure a place as any in Britain. It was literally walled off from access by the main road, and pretty much unknown to the outside world. The villagers knew which side of their bread was buttered and would never hurt a Guest.
“Nicola,” he whispered.
There was no response. She slept on, her lashes flicking. Jack took a few steps closer, where the candlelight caught the gilt strands of her fringe.
He really could stand here for hours, watching the shadows dart, listening to her steady breathing. There was a blessed intimacy in his vigil, one that was unhampered by misunderstanding or past mistakes.
However, every minute he was here put them both in danger.
“Wake up. Happy New Year.” He placed a hand on her shoulder.
She lurched up with a start, her eyes wide. When she saw that it was he, she hastily pulled down her nightgown and frowned.
“I’m here to bring you luck,” Jack said, feeling like an idiot. He was no talisman of good fortune, certainly not to the travelers of that train to Bath. “Your first-footer, you know, a dark-haired gentleman. Come downstairs and see.”
Nicola continued to stare at him with suspicion, and a touch of derision too. She must dislike him after last night, and who could blame her? But she pulled on her wrapper and followed him downstairs.
The kitchen fire was now ablaze, Jack’s New Year’s presents on the table obvious in the light. Nicola’s eyebrow lifted.
“The coal’s on the fire, as you can see. It’s all the usual things, minus the mistletoe,” Jack explained. “You can even keep my coin—I don’t expect I need to buy a cinnamon bun or anything,” he said with some regret. “But perhaps I’d better take back my handkerchief. Wouldn’t want Mrs. Grace on our case.”
Nicola nodded. She opened the salt cellar and shifted the grains into it. Instead of returning the handkerchief to him, she folded it into a tiny square and tucked it up her sleeve.
“Well, I’ll go then. Sorry about the party, or lack thereof.” Jack had decided his notebook was staying put in his coat. He turned to walk out the kitchen door.
Nicola got there before he did. She pushed him back into a chair, then grabbed a toasting fork from the hearth. Good Lord, did she plan on skewering him for his transgressions?
No. It seemed she wanted to toast the bread. A jar of apple butter was fetched from the pantry, and she poured the water from the flask into two small glasses.
So they were to have a party after all. Jack wouldn’t even miss champagne if he could get her to look up at him with her wide blue eyes.