Chapter 8
December 20, 1882
Taking advantage of Nicola’s generosity, Jack penned several letters, wrapped them in a scrap of oilcloth he found in the dank cellar of Tulip Cottage, and tucked them under “their” bench well before the stated time. He did his usual ramble, hoping to “accidentally” bump into her, but did not.
He was still being taught his lesson, diet-wise. There had been more cabbage soup yesterday, and then some brown sludge for dinner which was more or less unidentifiable. Jack had never cared much for what he ate before, but was rapidly becoming a frustrated gourmand. Last night he’d even stooped to reading a cookbook he found in a kitchen drawer, something Mrs. Feather had obviously never consulted. The resulting saliva that dropped on its pages had been embarrassing, but he was alone. Mrs. Feather was on duty from half seven to half five, so Jack was spared from more than ten hours of disapproval a day.
He was used to it. Despite his words to Nicola, he still felt his mother’s wrath quite keenly. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d enjoyed unconditional maternal devotion. His parents’ relationship had been unhappy, and he’d borne the brunt of their misery from an early age. Poor little rich boy? That had defined him once, but he’d worked hard to overcome his inauspicious beginnings.
The fact that he was unlike most children had not helped. Neither his father nor mother could claim to be intellectual, and their comprehension of scientific inquiry was nil. Jack’s father had resented a son who was smarter than he was and had beaten him accordingly. His mother had been better, but Jack knew he still bewildered her.
But there was no point to feeling sorry for himself. In fact, his deprivations had made him stronger, and he rarely dwelled on the past when there was so much present to deal with. And to be fair, since his father’s death, Jack’s mother had cheered up considerably if one knew what to look for. She wasn’t a bad woman, just a tad difficult.
An unhappy marriage was hell for all involved. Jack supposed that was why he’d been reluctant up until now to even consider getting leg-shackled. His previous brushes with “settling down” had been caused by his inattention to convention. Who knew it was forbidden to dance with a partner more than twice of an evening? But when one was explaining one’s latest project to a feather-headed debutante, more time was needed, even if the poor girl looked bored to death.
Jack had never meant to break any hearts, and on the whole, thought he hadn’t. The two young ladies involved had been more interested in his title and fortune anyway, and hadn’t a clue who Jack really was or where his interests lay. They’d gone on to marry ambitiously, for which he was profoundly grateful.
Jack returned home to await his appointment with the ancient vicar. They met for half an hour daily, and so far hadn’t accomplished much. There was the usual discussion of divine forgiveness and redemption, but right now Jack just wanted to forgive himself. It was all very well for the Fellow Upstairs to welcome Jack into the fold without reservations, but it had done nothing to abate the bad dreams or hear the imaginary screams of the passengers on their way to Bath. Jack’s negligence had caused harm and horror, and now was being visited upon him tenfold. No life was without obstacles; he knew that. Challenges made one tougher in the end, but Jack couldn’t see the way around this one.
Two men were dead.
He supposed soldiers could justify their actions to take lives—they were killing the enemy, standing between them and their country. Their honor. There was a higher purpose. Freedom. Protection and preservation of a way of life that was dear to them, although what was happening throughout the empire was at best confusing. Jack was not naïve enough to believe that everything his country imposed upon others was right or justified. One had only to look at the recent debacles on the African continent to have serious doubts.
The rap on the door did nothing to rouse him from his moroseness. Mrs. Feather announced the vicar as if Jack didn’t have eyes in his head. He didn’t bother to move from his chair in front of an indifferent fire, but gave the man a wobbly, welcoming smile.
“Good morning, my lord!” Reverend Fitzmartin radiated happiness—justifiably, since the man was so old it was a blessing he was still alive. He had his health, a loving wife, all of his marbles, and most of his teeth. Plenty to be thankful for right there. While his sermons were not scintillating (Jack had only sat through one since arriving, and Advent was inevitably a solemn affair), the vicar made good use of his classical education and sprinkled his wisdom throughout his words. He seemed convinced that Jack would be cured of his melancholy if he would simply turn to God.
If only it were simple. Jack had spent months on his knees in prayer when he wasn’t running around the United Kingdom trying to make amends, and had only worn out the fabric of his trousers.
Mr. Fitzmartin raised a white wooly eyebrow, casting his cheerfulness aside for a stern inquisition. “Are we behaving ourselves today?”
“We? I don’t know about you, Vicar, but I have nothing naughty to confess,” Jack said, crossing his fingers behind his back.
“You were seen with the young lady yesterday. Did you not understand the purpose of the governors’ visit? You cannot get away with much here. Plenty of folks have already reported your liaison.”
“It was hardly a liaison! We met quite by chance. Our daily exercise. With only five streets to walk, it’s inevitable one encounters other Guests on occasion, isn’t it?” He’d seen the Countess and her dog three days ago. They’d nodded and passed each other by without a word—the Countess, not the dog, who had growled most unjustifiably. She was a very handsome woman, perfectly beautiful, really, but did not make Jack lose his breath in any way. Her hair wasn’t golden. Her eyes were not that special color of blue.
She wasn’t Nicola.
“You disappeared into the churchyard.”
“I have an interest in ancient gravestones. St. Jude’s has very fine examples, don’t you agree?”
The vicar gave him a familiar look. Jack had seen it on the face of every nanny his parents had ever employed and any number of his schoolmasters. “I wasn’t born yesterday, as you can tell. Miss Nicola has been entrusted into our care. She has enough worry in her life without being taken advantage of.”
Jack felt his face grow hot. “I would never do such a thing!” And anyhow, she had kissed him the first time, and asked him to kiss her again. Not that he was going to peach on her; it wouldn’t be gentlemanly, and Jack was a gentleman despite dabbling in trade, much to his mother’s consternation.
But Lady Ryder liked her jaunts to the south of France, didn’t she? And new clothes and jewels and feminine fripperies. Where did she think the money came from? Jack’s father had left her a stingy widow’s jointure, trying to annoy her even in death. As annoyance was a permanent state for her, she’d taken the financial slap with her usual grace, which was to say none. Jack had heard her utter words he hadn’t imagined she even knew when the will was read.
“I should hope not. We discussed this thoroughly yesterday, did we not?”
“Indeed we did. I remember nearly every word.”
“Good. You seem a bright boy. No point to me beating the dead horse then, is there?”
Jack grinned. “No, sir. Cart it away to the knacker’s yard. Lecture me on something else, if you please.”
Mrs. Feather entered with tea and biscuits, the biscuits being solely for Mr. Fitzmartin’s delectation. Jack was pleased to see they were burned at the bottom. Served them all right. He had a passing thought for Nicola’s cinnamon buns and firmly rejected it. He was made of stern stuff and could do without.
After brushing the blackened crumbs from his front, the vicar proceeded to pray and pontificate. Jack nodded at all the appropriate lulls and pretended to look interested. Unfortunately, his mind had wandered to the churchyard bench and what had occurred there. To Nicola’s sofa.
Kisses. Just kisses. He’d probably kissed dozens of girls in his day, not that a gentleman kept track or compared notes with other gentlemen. An ogre did not stare back at him in the mirror every morning as he cleaned his teeth, so Jack had made plenty of hearts skip a beat. Until now, however, he’d kissed and run. But there was something about Nicola that made him want to stay put.
Not in Puddling, certainly. He was looking forward to the time he could summon his coachman and hear the clank of the village gates behind him. He’d go to his estate in Oxfordshire or townhouse in London and eat until he couldn’t button his trousers, then figure out a way to court Nicola properly.
He’d never really tried to do such a thing. His previous relationships had been casual, with no thought of the future or domestic compatibility. With his parents’ example before him, marriage had never been one of Jack’s goals.
Until now.
He knew he was being premature. He knew next to nothing about Nicola, and, irony of ironies, she couldn’t tell him. Blue eyes and golden hair and a mischievous sweetness were not enough, surely. What in hell was happening to him?
For nine months, he was worried he was losing his mind. It seemed he’d been right.
What he needed was an uninterrupted night’s sleep. A good solid five or six hours of dreamlessness. If he couldn’t sleep at night, why not the daytime? The vicar was wrapping himself in his muffler, done with his diligence for the day. Jack could send Mrs. Feather home, or out on an errand. He’d climb the stairs, hopefully not hit his head on the doorframe, draw the curtains, punch down the pillows—
“Did you hear me, my lord?”
Jack covered his yawn. “Yes, yes. Whatever. I’m sure you know best. I find myself rather tired, Vicar. I believe I’ll head up to my bedroom for a nap. Could you inform Mrs. Feather on your way out? I don’t want to be disturbed for the next several hours. In fact, if she’s thrown my supper together already, she might go home.” Jack hoped he wouldn’t be tempted to throw his supper out.
Reverend Fitzmartin waggled an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Perfectly. As I’m sure you’ve heard, I missed a night’s sleep recently. One must try to catch up.”
“Very well. Don’t forget.”
Forget what? Jack almost asked, but then the vicar would resume lecturing him. He’d refresh himself about the details tomorrow during their regular session.
Jack went upstairs. Revered Fitzmartin’s sonorous tones and Mrs. Feather’s replies were muted from below. Jack undressed, pleased to hear the cottage door squeal shut twice. He was alone, no one telling him how to live or what to eat. Now if only he could close his eyes, clear his mind, and sleep.