Chapter 29
This was the trouble with Jack—every time Nicola decided to wall off her heart from him, he did something to knock every brick down.
Clearly with much thoughtfulness, he’d brought the superstitious first footing legacy to life. He was indeed a tall, dark, and handsome man, equipped with his various New Year’s presents. He’d tossed some coal on the fire for warmth and comfort. Brought water, salt, and bread for a healthy, long life, silver for future fortune. If he had brought mistletoe, she would kiss him under it, if he’d let her.
Maybe not. He’d been clear last night that she’d been much too forward. And when her head cleared from its sensual haze this morning, she was mortified at what she’d done. Turning up at a man’s house in the state she’d been born in. What would her parents think if they ever found out? Nicola could picture her mother’s horrified face and had shuddered in shame before she’d taken a step out of bed. She’d squandered every ounce of propriety she had—it was a wonder Jack was not thoroughly disgusted with her.
He had come tonight, however. Perhaps he still liked her a little. But he’d certainly proved he wasn’t in as much of a rush to consummate their relationship as she was. In ten days—no, nine now, he’d be gone and she’d lose her chance with him.
He’d spoken of the future. When he was “better.” Nicola knew there was no future. If he discovered why she couldn’t speak…
No, definitely no future. She had only the present, and he’d come to make amends for his dismissiveness last night. She would restrain herself and her opinion, toasting bread, and toasting the new year with water. Nicola would be the perfect representation of a successful solicitor’s daughter, even if she was still in a nightgown, a lacy nightcap on her head. She would accept what she was given and try not to complain.
She spread the apple butter on the browned bread and watched Jack wolf it down. Probably once he got back to civilization, he’d never leave his kitchen, making himself a nuisance to his cook. What was his country estate like? Was Ashburn very grand? Jack did not seem like a very grand sort of person, but then, he hadn’t built the place.
From what little he’d said, he spent most of the time in London. There had been a Mayfair address in those letters she’d helped send, affirming the fact that Jack was well-to-do. Rich. Beyond her, really. Class lines were still very visible in Britain’s fabric, and she had no ducal godfather or viscount uncle to elevate her to his rank.
She didn’t think he was a duke or a marquess or an earl—he simply wasn’t stuffy enough. He wasn’t stuffy at all. But his signet ring bore a crest. She squinted at it across the kitchen table.
“What? Have I crumbs in my beard?”
She smiled and shook her head.
“Do you have your notebook with you?”
Another shake. It was upstairs on her bedside table. The sign language card was tucked into it, but she’d been too annoyed to make much progress with it. Why should she learn it, when Jack was going away?
“Good. For I want to talk to you with no interruptions.”
Taking a sip of the warmish water, she waved him on.
“Look. About last night—no, don’t glare at me. Let me finish. I admit I was stunned when you came to visit. I wasn’t prepared for company. Any company, particularly not the woman I’ve grown so fond of. If I had expected a beautiful woman, I never would have been wearing those blo—um, those blasted pajamas.”
Fond. Better than the word like, but not much. Beautiful was all right, but inaccurate.
“I—I treasure our friendship.” Nicola rolled her eyes, but he continued. “I want everything to be right between us. I’ve never really been a stickler, but in this case, I fear I must be.”
He raked a hand through his dark hair. “I’m a hypocrite, I know. There was Christmas, and every other time I took advantage of you. Oh, you’d tell me I’m being silly. You were delightfully complicit. Kissing you wherever and whenever has been the singular joy of my stay here. I shall never forget your generosity or your good heart. You almost make me believe—” He broke off, staring into the fire.
Good. He should believe. They both must look forward to better days, or what was the point of living? Nicola would learn to talk again somehow, and Jack would put the unhappy past behind him. She could nearly taste the assuring words on her tongue.
“Anyway, as flattered, no, honored as I am by your faith in me, I could never forgive myself if I dishonored you.”
Honor. Bah. Nicola did not share his definition of dishonor, either. Her virginity was becoming increasingly inconvenient by the hour. She crunched into her bread without appetite, wondering when Jack would decide he’d apologized enough, open the kitchen door, and walk home.
Nicola was restless. And a little depressed. Jack was backing away from her, putting sufficient space between them, though he still sat at her kitchen table. The only thing that might calm her tonight was music, and she didn’t dare to wake her neighbors.
She flexed her fingers, hearing random discordant notes in her head. Something cheerful to lift her spirits was required, if she could manage to find the right sheet music. She wished Tippy were here to curl at her feet. Nicola needed a focus to distract herself from her dismal attempt at seduction, and her piano would have to do.
The morning couldn’t come soon enough. She’d never fall back asleep now.
“You do understand?”
Nicola shrugged. What did it matter how she felt? Jack was obdurate.
“I don’t want you to think I don’t care.” He reached into his suit jacket and drew out a slender folded notebook. “I wasn’t going to give you this, but I don’t dare to keep it. Too much temptation, I’m afraid. Do with it what you will.” He placed it between them and rose from the table. “I’ll say good night. And Happy New Year.”
True to custom, he left by the back door. There was no kiss. No embrace, or even a friendly pat. Nicola shut her eyes briefly so the tears wouldn’t spill. How useless to cry, when she was so very lucky in most ways.
Nicola opened the notebook to see a long column of figures and odd sketches in the margins. No temptation for her there. She cleaned up the kitchen, removing all traces of Jack’s appearance. She’d have to hide and return the flask somehow. Mrs. Grace knew to the very last teaspoon what belonged in Stonecrop Cottage, and had discovered the missing plates and teacup under the sofa in one of her cleaning frenzies. Nicola had fibbed and written she’d forgotten all about putting them there for a reason she couldn’t remember, and had weathered the housekeeper’s gimlet eye.
She climbed upstairs, weary but enervated at the same time. Wrapping the water flask with a petticoat, she tucked it into a drawer, fairly confident that Mrs. Grace wouldn’t snoop through her underthings. Then she tossed her hair out of the confines of the cap and set to brushing it all over again.
Her stroke was at regular intervals, rather like a metronome that counted beats. Her arm grew tired, yet she kept up the effort. Her hair would be shiny today.
For no one to see.
She threw the brush down on her dressing table, where it landed on the unfurled notebook. Had Jack written a secret message to her? If he expected her to tally up numbers or decipher a secret code at this hour, he was mistaken.
She flipped through the pages, having no comprehension of what was in front of her. From the squiggles and unfamiliar symbols, she judged Jack was some kind of mathematical wizard, certainly skilled far beyond her household accounts training. Nicola had no clue as to what the drawings represented, either. She stifled a yawn as she skimmed through the book; perhaps it would bore her to sleep.
And then—
Nicola sat up straight, her mouth agape. Goodness! Or Badness! That might be more appropriate.
Nicola barely recognized herself. This was not the woman she saw in the mirror every day when she bothered to look. She was somehow more seen through Jack’s eyes.
The drawings were simple yet beautifully rendered. In a few deft lines, Jack had captured her every slight curve just from the few seconds she’d stood nude before him. He’d also imagined her in places other than his kitchen. There were a dozen pen and ink sketches that would have robbed Nicola of speech if she had any.
He drew her as a lover might, and she felt her face flush with heat. Jack admired her. If only she could convince him to act on that in the coming days.