Chapter 31
January 6, 1883
What a showoff! But a glorious figure nonetheless. Nicola couldn’t hope to keep up with him. Her ankle, while as good as new when she walked, felt somewhat weak as she skated at her turtle-like speed. She wished the frozen stream had an iron railing to clutch for support, or better yet, that she had a strong arm to cling to.
But she didn’t want to hold Jack back anymore. He’d done his duty, squiring her back and forth at a snail’s pace. It was obvious he needed more, and she’d released him with a smile.
He was pure masculine beauty, his face lifted to the watery sun, his hair tangling in the stiff breeze. He was hatless, as usual. Nicola suspected he knew exactly how attractive his disordered dark hair was. And the rest of him was not hard on the eye either.
For so large a man, he glided with athletic grace, his movements economical and sure. He had none of the wobbly spins or hesitations that plagued her—she felt as adept as an elephant in an omnibus, stomping on toes, squashing passengers, and being unable to come up with the correct amount for the fare.
Skating was like dancing? Ha! Nicola had fumbled and fallen too many times to count, but she’d finally waved Jack and his gentlemanly assistance off. There was no reason her clumsiness should infringe upon his enjoyment. He needed the exercise. He had too much energy to contain, his mind and body always busy. Puddling’s limited five streets were insufficient to stimulate him.
In three days he’d be released upon the wider world. There were more than five fascinating streets in London—too many—enough to deplete the most excessively active person.
He’d declared the Puddling routine useless. But to her surprise, instead of London, he told her yesterday at tea he planned to spend the rest of the winter at his property in Oxfordshire, away from the hustle and bustle. He’d not seemed overly fond of his country property before, and she wondered why he’d changed his mind.
Jack promised to write. And she’d refuse his letters. Best to make a clean, very thorough break.
Would he continue to practice the British Manual Alphabet? It was unlikely he’d run into someone else who knew it. The idea of their having a secret language—which neither of them really understood—had been fun, but it wouldn’t be practical for Nicola’s future. Fingerspelling was tedious and slow, and she still required a pencil and paper to jot down the letters to make complete sense of Jack’s words, especially when she didn’t guess correctly. Her memory was not as good as it used to be.
She felt a pang. A serious pang, which poked right into her unprepossessing chest. No matter what Jack had said, the earnest looks he gave her, the tender touches, she wasn’t going to tell him who she really was. She could say she didn’t want to burden him with a lover who couldn’t speak, which contained an element of truth.
She would tell him so in a letter once he was safely out of reach, making it clear that their affair—such as it was—was finished. In the meantime, she would eke out every second of pleasure with him before Puddling’s gates opened to release him.
That meant the last of the peaches would come out of the pantry. Nicola was not going to let him leave without taking her to bed.
She had more confidence—and experience—in her potential as a lover now. The days since Christmas had brought her excessive wonder and a determination to bring things to their natural conclusion, no matter what heartbreak was ahead for her.
He must not ever find out why she couldn’t speak. That would ruin everything that had happened between them, leaving a bitter aftertaste that no amount of peaches could overcome. She’d managed to keep her secret so far.
She would invite him to share her dinner tomorrow night. Most of the disapproval of their relationship had abated—Puddling believed Nicola was impervious to Jack’s charm, that they were just convenient acquaintances, clubbing together out of neighborly propinquity. And anyway, he was going for good.
They didn’t suspect that she’d crept out at night to Jack’s cottage those two embarrassing times, and he had crept out to hers a few more. As he had suggested, she’d worked hard to convince Mrs. Grace that she didn’t really care all that much about him, rolling her eyes when his name was mentioned, sighing in exasperation when he was at her door just in time for tea for the past two days, complaining in her journal about him to the poor old vicar. If she heard “Don’t worry, he’ll be gone soon” one more time, she was likely to burst out into giggles.
If she could giggle. It seemed she was capable of making some noises now, a very encouraging sign. If only they could be formed into words, she could be free of Puddling and all its well-meaning restrictions.
And then what would happen? A return to Bath sounded awfully flat. Nicola did not want to go back to her parents’ house after experiencing considerable autonomy here. Why, she even knew her way around a kitchen now! She was a child no longer and didn’t care to be smothered in her parents’ concern for her marriageability.
A woman was meant to wed, or at least that’s how Nicola had been raised. She’d never given the premise or its inevitability much thought before the accident, but now she wondered if she could manage on her own.
She rather thought she could.
Her mother’s letters still bore news of Richard, as if it hadn’t been his idea to break off their engagement. Would he want her back if she could talk again? It didn’t matter—Nicola didn’t want Richard. Anyone after Jack would seem too…tame. Anyone after Jack would be…not Jack. She blinked back a tear, telling herself her eyes were simply reacting to the cold air.
Straightening her shoulders, she tried to balance herself, holding fast to her fur muff. Maybe that was part of the issue; she was too stiff. Wooden. And scared. Jack was far ahead, moving his long arms up and down like a skating soldier. He looked like he was born to fly.
She hadn’t been on ice in years, and then it had been a flooded cement rink made for the purpose. Puddling Stream was not as ideal. It had frozen in stages, and there were bumps and divots along the bank, undulating ripples destined to trip her up again if she wasn’t careful. Soft spots to be avoided too. Jack was going so fast it was as if his blades weren’t even touching the ground.
She envied his fearlessness. She’d never been much of a skater, should have told Jack she had no interest in freezing her posterior off, much preferring to sitting in her parlor with him. It was so frigid outdoors, the sofa by the fireplace and a hot cup of sweet tea would have been heaven. But then Mrs. Grace would have been hovering, and the chance to be truly alone with Jack for as long as she could would be gone.
She had him to herself for such a short time. While he might drop in to say good-bye on the last morning, there would be no opportunity for intimacy. No stolen kisses with Mrs. Grace planted in the room, no heated glances. They might joke with their fingers, if Nicola could remember the correct positions of the letters.
Two more full days left to accomplish what she needed. Her heart was breaking already.
But Nicola must appreciate and be grateful for her surroundings, heartbreak or not. Heavy ice-covered branches lined the banks and met overhead, giving her the feeling of being in a diamond-encrusted tunnel. The sky was silver, the sun a faded white disc. It was too cold for birdsong. The only sound was the cut of their skates into the ice and the resulting crackle.
They had this winter world all to themselves, not counting a few hardy sheep on the snowy hillside across the way. Years ago, the stream had powered a small mill, its brick building abandoned when the price of wool dropped. According to Mrs. Grace, nearly every cottage in the village still housed a loom in the attic, though the residents’ current prosperity depended on the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation.
Jack, for all his fearlessness on the skating front, was not going to be one of its successes. He still didn’t sleep well and continued to be distracted and depressed. Nicola knew he made an effort to be cheerful around her, but sensed the darker undercurrents beneath his sunny smiles. Jack shouldn’t have to live with false bravado. She was too aware of what that felt like.
Nicola was tired of being good. Being patient. Just once she wanted to break as many rules as she could in one fell swoop.
Tomorrow was the night. Or the day after, if her courage failed her.
And then…she would write to her father, asking him to find a modest cottage in a modest village for her. Not too far from Bath for the sake of her parents, but not too close for hers. She’d hire her own charwoman, someone who would not live in. Nicola valued her privacy and could prepare simple dishes to keep body and soul together after her apprenticeship with Mrs. Grace. She’d become an eccentric, if silent, spinster, free to develop an interesting reputation.
Nicola nearly looked forward to her future. But Jack wouldn’t be in it. Her eyes filled again, and she was smart enough to know this time it wasn’t from the cold.
He was so far ahead of her now, she’d never catch up. Nicola looked about for a place to rest her aching feet. The skating boots Jack had borrowed for her were too snug, and her toes were throbbing. There was a stitch in her side too. She was full of excuses for her poor performance and smiled at her cowardice.
What would happen if she pushed herself? Took long, low strides, her arms swinging by her sides? Raced as if the devil himself was after her?
She would fall on her arse again, that’s what.
Nicola brushed the snow off a flat rock and sat, wondering how long it would take Jack to realize she was not right around the bend behind him. She didn’t want to spoil his pleasure; he’d had so little of it.
Glancing around, she saw a neat farmstead on the Puddling side of the frozen water, its fields covered in white, its outbuildings square and sturdy. Not too far away was the school set within a stone wall, its bell ringing fitfully in the wind. It would be very hard to concentrate if school was in session, but it was Saturday.
They’d run into a group of village children unlacing their skates earlier. Jack had spoken to them, their faces crimson from the cold and exertion, their voices breathless. For a man with no children of his own, he’d had an easy way with them. He would make a good father, always keeping their interest with his creative inventions. Nicola let out a sigh.
And waited. There was no Jack on the horizon. How far down the stream did he intend to skate? All the way to Sheepscombe? She couldn’t feel her fingers despite her warm fur muff and gloves.
If she were moving, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so frigid. Her bottom was like a block of ice at this point.
Nicola stood, her feet awkwardly going in two different directions. She could do this. Just take it slow and steady. She aligned her toes and took a few steps, regaining her balance. Jack had likened skating to dancing, and she’d taken the requisite lessons with a French dancing master, even if her social life had not included many balls. Sober Richard thought such activities frivolous, though his political career could have benefitted from casual social conversation. She knew many deals were done over dinner tables and dance floors.
One glide in front of the next, nothing too ambitious. Her eyes were fixed on the whorls of ice beneath her to avoid the major bumps. It took all her concentration to get to the turn in the stream. Once she did, she looked up.
And saw a dark form sprawled a few feet off the ice, bright blood staining the snow. A leafless tree stood, a complicit witness to the accident.
It was her nightmare vision come to life. Nicola screamed.