Chapter 34
January 11, 1883
“You’ve brought what?”
Moll jumped, turned around in a circle, and lay back down on the bed at the outburst.
There might be something wrong with his hearing, some unanticipated side effect from his injuries or the drugs he’d swallowed like a good boy. Jack was grateful Hamilton Ross had given them privacy and the bedroom door was shut.
Ezra Clarke tapped the leather folio. “It’s right here. As you instructed.”
“I instructed you to procure a special license. To marry.” He didn’t even know Nicola’s last name. Presumably that was whom he wanted to wed, unless something had happened during the brief hours he’d been unconscious that he was unaware of.
“I confess it was tricky to get them to leave the bride’s particulars blank on such short notice. But that’s what you pay me so handsomely for.” His secretary grinned, deservedly proud. Ezra was a fine young fellow, enterprising when need be. Jack overpaid him for just such achievements as this.
“Have I met the young lady, sir?”
Nicola had not come this morning. Jack had had to shovel his breakfast porridge in by himself.
“No. What exactly did I say?”
Clarke pulled a letter out of his pocket and handed it over to Jack. Most of it was illegible, even to him—his penmanship had never won any prizes. But a few choice words leaped out.
“I’ll be damned. I must have been more out of my mind than I thought.”
Clarke frowned. “You mean you don’t want to get married after all?”
“No, no. I do. I’m almost certain of it. The problem is, I haven’t asked yet. Not formally. I have been beating about the bush like a rabid beaver, but the circumstances were never propitious. And then I hit my head and wound up here. The doctor tells me I can go back to my own cottage tomorrow.”
“Won’t you be more comfortable at Ashburn? I thought that’s where you were headed once you left the confines of Puddling.”
“Yes, that was the original plan.” So he could be close to Nicola, and somehow contact her avoiding Puddling’s regular rules. But she was leaving now that she was cured, wasn’t she? The only thing holding her back was Jack.
Should he pretend to be sicker to keep her here to continue her nursing? Dr. Oakley was an observant old fellow, and that plan would come to nothing. Besides, Jack was feeling ever so much better, especially now that he knew he was getting married.
Perhaps he should tell Nicola.
Not tell. Ask. The getting down on one knee business was still out of the question—he might not be able to get up.
“And there’s this too. I got it out of the safe as instructed.” Clarke presented him with a familiar velvet bag. Inside it was the Ryder betrothal ring, an aquamarine surrounded by diamonds. Jack’s mother had given up wearing it long ago, as it reminded her of the philandering husband she had wished to the devil for decades.
Moll, who had been lolling on his bed pillow after the earlier disturbance, far more comfortable than Jack, gave a happy bark and raced to the closed bedroom door. She scrabbled against the wood, and Ham barked out, “Down, girl!” He poked his head around the doorframe.
“You have a visitor, Jack. Do you want me to tell her to go home?”
“It’s not Mrs. Feather, is it? Or Mrs. Stanchfield?” The latter had brought him a jar of pickles from the store, which he was totally uninterested in consuming. Since the accident, he’d had quite the parade of Puddlingites making the trek down Honeywell Lane to Ham’s modest farmstead. Checking in on their investment, he reckoned.
“Someone you like much better.” Ham winked. “Shall I tell her to wait until you’ve finished your business?”
“No, send her in. This is the one,” he whispered to Clarke. He tucked the ring and its bag under the covers and tried to sit up straighter. Out of habit, he brushed his hair down. It always came as a surprise when there wasn’t any to be found. Well, there were bristly bits—Jack probably resembled a prisoner, though no one had handed him a mirror. His bandage had been reduced to a smaller sticking plaster by Dr. Oakley this morning, so he was no longer turbaned. “How do I look?”
Clarke blinked. “Do you want me to tell the truth or lie, my lord?”
“That bad, is it?”
“Well, your face looks like someone messed about with a paint set.”
That’s what happened when one hit a tree with one’s face, Jack supposed. So, he wasn’t at his handsomest—he was lucky to have all his teeth intact. His appearance hadn’t seemed to bother Nicola as she’d tended to him the past few days. Apart from yesterday’s dressing-down, she’d shown the patience of a saint.
She was right—it was time for him to start a new chapter. Acquiring a wife was just the way to begin.
Nicola entered, bearing a battered tin. Clarke leaped out of the chair like a jack-in-the-box.
“Plum cake. I made it myself this morning from Mrs. Grace’s bottled plums. Don’t forget to share it with Ham. This must be Mr. Clarke?” She gave him a friendly smile, and all the clouds of winter gloom disappeared.
Jack was amused to see Ezra blush to the tips of his ears. He was not the only one affected by Nicola’s adorable presence. Today she wore a bustled tartan rough-silk skirt and white shirtwaist, her hair twisted up with a few loose tendrils escaping the tortoise-shell combs. An amethyst thistle brooch was at her throat, and he remembered her family had spent Christmas in Edinburgh.
“May I present my secretary and all-around assistant, Ezra Clarke? Ezra, this is Miss—good gracious, Nicola, I still don’t know your last name.” He gave Clarke a wink.
“Nicola will do—we’re informal here in Puddling,” she said breezily, shaking Clarke’s hand. “How are you today, Jack?”
“Much better now that you’re here. Clarke, you won’t mind giving up the chair?” There was no place else to sit in the crowded little room besides the bed, and Jack didn’t trust himself.
“Oh, I cannot stay. I have letters to write and want to practice the new sheet music my mama has sent. I got a lovely box from my family yesterday. Presents from Scotland. It was like having Christmas all over again.”
Without the cunnilingus, Jack hoped. He would never, ever forget that day.
“I will walk you home, Miss Nicola,” Clarke said, surprising Jack. He wasn’t sure if he cared for those two plotting without him, but his night shirt was insufficient against the cold, and his balance still questionable.
When he was left alone with Moll, he drew out the ring he’d shoved under the bedclothes. How convenient that the stone matched Nicola’s eyes—it was almost as if the original Baron Ryder had anticipated her advent a hundred and fifty years ago.
Jack’s ancestor had been an inventor of sorts too, developing an improved gunpowder for the king. He’d been rewarded with a barony, though Jack didn’t care to think about how many lives had been lost through his relative’s discovery. Jack felt bad enough about the two men on the train.
He might always carry that with him—he was coming to terms with the fact that he couldn’t put it out of his mind completely. But perhaps Nicola was right; he couldn’t dwell on it and continue to travel the desolate path he’d been on. He was no use to anyone, least of all himself. He needed to forgive, if not forget.
Nicola would help him. Jack thought he could handle most any challenge if she was by his side.
Or beneath him. Above him. He’d spent too much time in bed and lasciviousness was overtaking him.
He would ask her to marry him tomorrow. One last night of sneaking into her cottage before he told the world that he’d found the woman he loved, even if he didn’t know her name.