Redeeming Lord Ryder. Maggie Robinson
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Animals too. He was too softhearted by half. Growing up, he’d mended wings and paws, and as an adult, he’d refined medical instruments that might even be in Oakley’s bag.
She fluttered her hand at him, motioning him away. Through the parlor windows, Jack could see the doctor coming up the path, puffy breaths of cold air preceding him.
“All right. I’m going. But if you need anything, just let me know.”
A roll of the eyes again.
“You can write me a note. You have a housekeeper, yes? She can give it to mine.” Somewhere in the Puddling literature, Jack had read communication was cut off with one’s family while one stayed here. That was fine—he didn’t want to talk to his mother for the next six or seven years or so. He loved her, but was tired of hearing her plans for him, which usually contradicted any of his own. But the powers that be couldn’t object to Mrs. Grace getting in touch with him, could they? He was only a few doors down. If she could holler, he might even hear her if the wind was right.
Maybe she was a widow. A young one. Although she was not in mourning. She wore a simple yet à la mode blue gown trimmed with darker velvet piping. He could see now that she’d discarded her coat that her figure was slight. Unexceptional. She certainly had not been difficult to carry up a hill. Of course, Jack was fit. Prided himself on it. His father had turned to fat before he was forty.
Jack believed in an active mind and an active body. Of course, nothing much stopped his mind and hands from whirring along like a clockwork. No wonder he couldn’t sleep, and it had only gotten worse this year. That old doctor had cottoned onto that in a trice.
Oakley huffed in and set his bag on a table. “Now, my dear, this young man tells me you had a spill. The right ankle, yes? Raise a finger if my manipulation pains you too much.” He looked up at Jack. “Thank you for your assistance, but I think my patient needs some privacy.”
Jack stared at Mrs. Grace’s ankles. Really, what was the fuss about catching a glimpse of something so bony and unappealing? He’d much rather see—
“Of course. Do remember I’m right down the lane if you need anything. Good afternoon.”
Jack ducked under the lintel and left the cozy cottage. Stonecrop was nicer than his. But he hadn’t come to Puddling for the architecture or décor. In two hundred and twenty six steps, he’d opened his door and sought out his housekeeper, Mrs. Feather, in the kitchen. She stood over the stove, stirring something that did not smell entirely divine.
“What’s for dinner?” Lunch had been less than divine too. And breakfast? The oatmeal had been so thick it could have been used as wallpaper paste.
“Soup, my lord.”
“And?”
“Soup, my lord.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time. What’s the second course?”
She turned to him, holding the wooden spoon aloft as if he’d been naughty and she longed to smack him. Which she probably did after twenty-four hours’ acquaintance. Jack sometimes had that effect on people.
“Perhaps you don’t understand. Have you not read your Welcome Packet? The Puddling diet is a simple one, designed to cool your blood.”
“My blood’s already frozen—I’ve been outside for two hours wandering about your little burgh. Really, just soup? No bread or cheese?” he asked, utterly without hope.
“No, my lord. And fine, fresh well water, of course.”
“Of course.” Jack enjoyed his liquor as much as the next man. But he knew after a longer-than-brief period of overindulgence after the accident that he wouldn’t find consolation in a bottle. “I don’t suppose there’s any dessert?” He could have sworn he caught the whiff of raspberries in Mrs. Grace’s cottage.
Mrs. Feather blanched, as if he’d suggested that she serve him a platter of opium. “Oh, no, sir. That wouldn’t do at all.”
Jack would have a word with the doctor when he came tomorrow. Twenty-six more days of this sort of treatment would turn him into a skeleton. Raspberries were perfectly healthy, God-given bounty. Half the time they grew wild.
Surely fruit was good for one. Didn’t all those poor sailors suffer when they had no access to nutritious food? Acid fruit cured scurvy. Jack was no physician, but remembered something dimly from his studies.
Perhaps he’d been ill-advised to come to Puddling. After all, it was his mother’s suggestion. He’d never heard of the place before in all his thirty years, having trod the straight and narrow during his adolescence and young manhood. He’d been too busy with his self-imposed schooling to become wayward, a bit of a dull dog, if one wanted to know the truth. Puddling had the kind of program that society people seemed to know about but wouldn’t admit to ever resorting to. His friends had been shocked he’d chosen to sign himself in.
But it had been months, and all the projects and holidays and books and feminine amusements he’d tried to occupy himself with had done nothing to soothe his soul. It was time for a change.
If he did not starve to death first.
Chapter 3
December 17, 1882
Dr. Oakley had visited Nicola every day since he’d wrapped her sprained ankle. He’d done such an expert job, she’d even been able to prepare her own dinner that first night with some gritting of her teeth as she hopped around the kitchen with the aid of a stick. The reheated chicken pie had been delicious, and much against her better judgment, Nicola had eaten three of the tarts.
Mrs. Grace had offered to sleep over in the ensuing evenings, but Nicola liked her solitude. She read romantic novels sent by her sister—very much out of character for her since Nicola did not believe in romance—and knitted baby clothes for the poor, the Puddling Service that had been decided for her dubious skills. Her stitches were becoming somewhat less lumpy, and she felt useful for the first time in a long while.
After her daily sessions with the Reverend Fitzmartin, she was never far from her piano, although she wasn’t using the pedals at the moment. Playing allowed her to gaze out the windows at the snowy front garden. No handsome bearded gentleman marched up the path, however. Nicola was very tempted to write questions about Jack to Mrs. Grace, though she doubted she’d get any honest answers.
Guests’ privacy was of the utmost importance—the Rules were clear. Should one meet another Guest in the village, only first names were to be exchanged. And if one encountered a recovered Guest in the “Outside World,” one must never acknowledge the circumstances under which they’d met.
Nicola knew of one other Guest in Puddling besides Jack. She was known only as the Countess, a handsome young widow whose elegant mourning clothes were finer than anything Nicola had ever owned. She’d seen the woman in church, but had had no occasion to do anything but smile. And obviously, Nicola could not start a conversation.
She would like a friend, even if a countess was a touch exalted for a solicitor’s daughter. But her current speechless situation made that all but impossible. How she missed her sister, Frannie. They wrote to each other several times a week, but letters were not enough.
Bertie had three teeth and was crawling around like a little crab. Babbling.
More than Nicola could do.
Oh, she was sinking in spirits again. The weather wasn’t helpful. The unrelieved arctic dampness and gray skies for the past two days had depressed her. There were several sturdy walking sticks by the front door in an umbrella stand, but she really wasn’t up to going outdoors yet. She was housebound, and even the new sheet music her mother sent had no appeal.
She reached for the knitting basket and pulled out her needles and the beginnings of a blue cap. It was hard to believe any human being could start out so small, so dependent. But she knew it was true. She’d held Bertie when he was brand new, his tomato-red face scrunched, his lungs in fine fettle.