Crossed in Love, page 3
“They don’t feed her enough,” Peter said conversationally when the dour Hodges offered no more insights.
“She’s been ill.” Hodges flung more coals on the fire and stirred the embers, “Another winter like the last and she’ll not likely survive.”
That startled Peter. But before he could question, the servant lumbered for the door, and the forbidding lines of his face warned against interference.
As he ate his breakfast, Peter heard the sound of children playing on the lawn, and his heart felt a little lighter. Perhaps this wasn’t so strange a household as he had thought. Sun poured in the large windows, illuminating the mellowed wax of the old rosewood furniture. Better able to appreciate his surroundings today, he admired the coziness of the old-fashioned wallpaper and the delicate Queen Anne styles. An embroidered tapestry of a rose garden hung on one wall, and it was almost as good as looking out on a bright spring day. If he had to near break his neck and chill himself to the bone to arrive here, it was worth it to be inside a home again.
He looked up eagerly at the recognizable patter of Cecily’s feet in the hall. He hoped she wasn’t too angry at their earlier disagreement, if it could be called that. She was an intriguing little thing, and he would like to know her better.
She seemed to have returned to her normal self when she joined him, if this unsmiling owl-like creature was her normal self. Peter gave her a smile and she seemed startled, but she returned a ghost of a smile as she removed his tray.
“I heard the children on the lawn. How many people are in the household?” Peter inquired by way of making conversation.
The tray slipped and nearly dumped the empty coffee cup to his lap before Cecily righted it. Nervously, she set the tray back on the stand and tried to wipe up small spills with the cloth from the wash bowl.
“Children? You heard children?” Not waiting for him to answer, she hurriedly continued, “There used to be many. Brothers and sisters and cousins, all laughing and playing when they weren’t fighting and screaming. You know how children are. But everyone’s gone now. It seems quite odd to be the last.”
Peter stared at her in growing horror. She was mad. She had to be. Was that the illness Hodges had spoken of? Such a lovely young woman, and quite out of her head. He had just heard the children on the lawn and wondered about them, but she spoke as if they were all dead or blown to the four corners of the earth. He watched as she stood at the window overlooking the lawn.
“Where did they all go?” he asked cautiously.
“To war,” she answered sadly. “One way or another, war and violence were responsible. Why must men always fight? What makes them think it is a grand and glorious deed they do when they march off to kill other men? Have they no notion of what they do to themselves and those they leave at home?”
Thinking of his own escapades and the mother he had left behind, Peter shook his head. “No, they don’t. Men think that everything will stay as they had left it. It isn’t real until you’re in the midst of it and suddenly realize that you may never see home again.”
Cecily swung around. In the morning light, his square, blunt face wasn’t exceedingly handsome, but his eyes were wide and honest and filled with a pain similar to her own. Hodges’ old nightshirt looked ridiculous on him, but he had a stature to overcome that flaw.
She had seen his fancy frock coat and waistcoat and frilled shirt and knew he would pass as a gentleman of means on any street in London once he was dressed. Like this, though, she could see that he was a gentleman of character as well.
“I don’t understand how men can be so blind. Surely they must know that bullets kill and swords maim. Do they think their deaths won’t matter to those of us at home?”
Peter wasn’t at all certain what this conversation was about, but he could tell the topic was one that she had brooded about for a long time. There wasn’t anything he could say to relieve her mind, though.
“They think they are protecting their way of life. I wasn’t in India or Afghanistan, but I understand the enemies’ armies weren’t exactly polite to those they conquered. Men fought to keep their women and their homes from suffering that fate.”
She looked impatient. “Forgive me if I find that utter nonsense. The Sikhs didn’t fight to protect their women. They fought to gain power. The army fought to regain that power. Men can give a thousand pretty reasons for war, but it always comes back to the same thing. I’ve studied the wars of history, and they all have the same basic motive. One man thinks he’s better than another and tries to prove it by breaking the other man’s neck.”
A well-read lady’s maid. How unusual. And exciting. Peter regarded her with approval. “And how would women do it differently? If someone threatens to come over and steal your chickens and take over your house, how would you stop them?”
A half-smile tilted her lips as she contemplated this question. “I think I would be inclined to let them. When they grow tired of arguing with Hodges and tracking down chickens that won’t roost and patching crumbling walls, they will beg me to take it back.”
Peter laughed and held out his hand to gesture her into a chair. “Stay, and help me solve the rest of the world’s problems.”
She shook her head and started for the door. “You must rest. I have been selfish in taking up your time. Hodges will come fetch your tray.’’
She was gone before he could protest. The sound of the children was gone too, and the sunshine had somehow dimmed. It was damned depressing talking to a ghost that wouldn’t light for more than a minute. Maybe he ought to go in search of the elusive Lady Honora.
That thought lasted only long enough for Peter to rise and try to find the chamber pot. His legs were like blanc mange, and he had to grasp the bed and pull himself back into it when Hodges barged through the doorway.
The manservant gave him a glance of disapproval, flung back the covers so Peter could climb back between them, and reached for the tray without saying a word.
Determined to find out more about this household, Peter stopped him before he could make good his escape. “Where are my clothes, Hodges?”
The giant gave him a wary look. “You just proved you ain’t in no shape to get up. They’ll come back when you’re ready.”
“I want them near in case I am ready and there’s no one around,” Peter insisted.
“I’ll bring up your bag. You could use a shave.”
With that curt dismissal, the giant strode out.
Cursing his helplessness, Peter wished he had a book, only to discover someone had thoughtfully left one on the chair beside the bed. Determined to overcome his weakness, he once more tackled the task of standing up, this time falling back to the bed with the coveted book in his hand.
He was sound asleep before he could read more than the title: The Family History of the Chelseys.
When he woke next, the book was gone, and from the tight-lipped frown on the little maid’s face, Peter could surmise who had taken it. He was certain now that he had somehow stumbled across the Rosebud Cottage of his painting, but there were still moments when he thought he might have hit his head too hard and be dreaming.
He hadn’t expected Rosebud Cottage to still exist. He’d had the impression that the painting was quite old. Only whimsy and melancholy had sent him searching for a memory. But the book and the lady’s name almost proved he had woken up inside the painting. Perhaps he ought to begin wondering if he could ever get out.
He found his overnight bag with his change of clothing on the chair and his razor and shaving soaps neatly laid out on the stand. He sent Cecily a wary look as she bustled about with a feather duster. He wasn’t about to perform his ablutions with a female in the room, even if he did realize he must bear a close resemblance to a hedgehog.
“Hodges tells me you’ve been ill.”
She looked startled, but whether at the fact that he addressed her or the mode of his address, Peter couldn’t tell. He watched in satisfaction as she stopped her dusting. He might have little experience in talking to the gentler sex, but he was learning.
“That was last winter. I’m very well now, thank you.”
He studied her peaked face and the shadows under her eyes and wondered how she must have looked when she was ill. As it was, he could see vestiges of prettiness— especially when she smiled—but little more than the glimmer of blue in her eyes or the occasional blush of pink on her cheeks. He shook his head in disagreement.
“You need to be resting, not working night and day. And you should be the one eating good stout broths, not me. Your lady is no friend to allow you to work yourself into nothing.”
She almost smiled at that and came to test his head with her cool hand. “I have all the rest I need, whenever I want. I’ll be fine, thank you. You’re the one still running a fever. I don’t know what became of the physician. Should I send Hodges after him again?”
The touch of her soft fingers brought back memories of childhood, of warm beds and fevered nights and his mother’s tender hands caressing his brow. Peter hadn’t thought of those days in years, but this place was returning it all.
He would have to speak with Lady Honora one way or another. It didn’t seem likely that she would part with the cottage, but he could at least sound her out. And then he would hire her lady’s maid and feed her until she was well again.
“It’s just a cold. I’ll be fine without any quack hovering over me. Is there any chance that I might see Lady Honora and thank her for her hospitality before I go?”
Amusement danced in Cecily’s eyes as she removed her hand to straighten the bed covers. “I’m certain she’ll stop by if she’s interested. She’s a very fickle lady.”
That slander caused Peter’s eyebrows to raise, but he wasn’t in a position to argue. She could quite possibly be right; he just preferred to think of the lady as perfect. “I’m sure she’s busy,” he answered agreeably. “Is she a widow?” That would explain the children and the lack of any mention of a gentleman on the property.
“Yes, how did you know?” Laying aside any pretense of dusting, Cecily perched in the window seat, enjoying the heat of the afternoon sunshine.
“I’ve not heard a man about the house, and with the children and all. . . .“ Peter admired the picture she made in the window. She wore a pale blue gown today, and though she was still too slender to be healthy, she possessed a feminine delicacy that he could appreciate.
Still, she was no match for the Lady Honora. And if the lady was a widow with a ready-made family, all the better for him. There had to be some way he could come to know the lady better.
“And, yes, the children.” Cecily nodded knowingly. “This house was made for children. Lady Honora believed they ought to be brought up in the country, and she had her husband build this cottage just so she could be with the children as much as possible, even when she accompanied the earl to London on business. The attic is littered with rocking horses and toy soldiers and dolls. The cottage is a child’s heaven.”
An earl. So much for his prospective hopes. The widow of an earl wouldn’t spend time in his company, although she had certainly seemed friendly enough those times he had seen her. But a woman who loved children undoubtedly would be kind to injured strangers. Peter struggled between desire and common sense.
“I would like to see more of the house. If the rest is as charming as this room, it must be lovely. Will you take me on a tour sometime?’’
He wasn’t certain if he imagined it or not, but a bleak shadow seemed to cross Cecily’s face. A moment later she rose from the seat and picked up her duster. “There is little more to see. You must rest for now. Uncle Quincy’s pleurisy got worse when he tried to rise from bed too soon.”
He wasn’t any feeble Uncle Quincy, but he was in no hurry to be thrown from this extremely pleasant situation, either. Peter nodded obediently. “Might I have something to occupy my mind if you will not linger to talk with me? The book that was here earlier, perhaps?”
“Lady Honora must have dropped it,” Cecily stated flatly. “I cannot imagine why else it would have been here; it’s extremely dull reading. I’ll see if there isn’t something more to a man’s tastes.”
Peter could think of any number of things more to a man’s tastes than a book, but he rather thought it might be impolitic to mention them. That wouldn’t stop him thinking about them, though, and planning some means to put them into action.
Once Cecily had returned with a tome on the hunting activities of Sussex and left again with a busy air, Peter swung from the bed and sought his land legs again. After months at sea it had felt much like this to walk on land. He hadn’t realized a meager knot on the head and a fever could drain a man’s stamina so.
His breathing was still ragged, but whatever miracle brew the little maid had been feeding him seemed to be working. He could manage to stand without collapsing, and with a little effort, he could reach the window and look out.
There was little to be seen from this viewpoint. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud bank, and the children had vanished with it. The stretch of grassy lawn before the dense wilderness of trees seemed rather brown and neglected, but it was October, and he supposed by October lawns must don a wintry appearance. He had little experience of nature save for the sea, and it had been a long time since he had been in England in the fall. Still, the signs of neglect caused him to wonder along another angle.
Quite often noble houses had few funds to support them. Running a half-dozen estates and a high lifestyle rapidly depleted cash reserves. Could it be that the earl had died leaving his widow without the funds necessary to support their children and various households? That could explain the seeming lack of other servants besides Cecily and Hodges, the lawn’s neglect, and even the parsimony of meals.
That might even explain to some extent Cecily’s inexplicable tirade on men and wars. Perhaps the earl’s heir had gone off to war and died and his estates had been left to a distant relative. Only this cottage might not have been entailed. It was an intriguing possibility, one he would like to explore.
He returned to bed with dreams of wooing and winning the Lady Honora, his mind circling the multitude of means to accomplish his heart’s desire. He was a determined man, one who seldom let go of a goal without accomplishing it. A little lack of experience didn’t deter him any.
Before he could open the pages of the book that Cecily had brought to him, Peter closed his eyes and fell asleep with a myriad of ideas dancing though his head.
When next he woke, Peter had the distinct impression that it was late afternoon. The room had grown dimmer with the winter light fading into the west, but it was still light enough to discern the shapes of furniture and the presence of a shadow flitting about the far side of the bed.
He felt groggy from the nap, but any presence at all was of interest to him, and he turned eagerly in hopes of meeting the lady of his dreams again.
She didn’t disappoint. She was always lovelier than he remembered, her smile soft and welcoming, her face a portrait of moonlight as she leaned over and caressed his hair. He didn’t feel the same sense of home as he had when Cecily touched him, only a mere ruffling of his hair, but it was enough to satisfy him for the moment.
“Lady Honora, I’ve been eager to meet you.” Peter struggled to right himself while still preserving his modesty. He remembered he hadn’t taken advantage of his shaving kit, and he cursed.
She held a finger to her lips and gave him a wickedly mischievous smile.
Peter glanced toward the doorway, half expecting Cecily and Hodges to appear, but he didn’t hear a sound in the hall. Still, he understood her warning. Whatever was going on in this household, the Lady Honora wasn’t supposed to be here.
“I’d like to thank you more properly for my care than I can from a bed. May I call on you once I am up and about?” he whispered.
She clasped her hands in evident delight, then blew him a kiss. Picking up her skirts, she glided toward the doorway. Reluctant to let her go, Peter called after her, “Can’t you stay a little longer?”
The forlorn smile she offered when she turned back to him nearly broke his heart, and then she was gone, and he was alone again.
Punching his pillows into place and reaching for a candle, Peter cursed his own inadequacy in dealing with ladies and the unfairness of life to keep this one from his quarters. He knew that she was all a man could ask for in a woman. Somehow, he would have to set his sights on acquiring her.
And that meant getting up from this bed. It was all very well and good to lie about and pretend to be an invalid just for the pleasure of being pampered, but he obviously wasn’t going to accomplish anything more by it. He needed to find out all he could about the Chelseys and Rosebud Cottage and Lady Honora. With the right information, he could set his course.
When Cecily next entered their patient’s chambers, Peter was sitting in the chair by the window wearing garments retrieved from his bags and fully shaved for the first time in days.
She gasped at his appearance. She had not imagined him quite so. . . She was at a loss for words as she met steady gray eyes and noted a chin set with determination. He was a large man, dwarfing the delicate chintz chair in which he rested. She was used to Hodges, but this was different, and she feared to approach him.
“You should not be out of bed yet,” she scolded, setting his tea tray on the table by the bed, avoiding physical contact. Just his overt masculinity was disturbing to an unfathomable degree.
Peter glanced at Cecily and felt this painting-world he inhabited slip to a different angle. He had never tried to imagine the inhabitants of the stone cottage in the oil. He supposed he would never have tried to picture the servants if he had. And he definitely would never have pictured one like this. He would have imagined them all to be a jolly, healthy lot, laughing and carefree, perhaps. Lady Honora had much to explain when he finally had a chance to pin her down. He had the insane urge to pull Cecily into his lap and cradle her in his arms and promise her everything would be all right.
