Redeeming Lord Ryder. Maggie Robinson
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I like to walk in the morning. Shall we say ten o’clock?
“All right.” His breakfast was served promptly at eight. He was expected to be downstairs and dressed too. No robe and bedroom slippers allowed. It was all part of the routine whose soundness Jack was not entirely sold on. Where was the logic in it? What difference would it make if he ate at eight thirty? One would think Mrs. Feather would enjoy an extra half-hour’s sleep.
Of course, he was not sleeping at all.
He’d even spoken to Oakley about laudanum. The doctor had flatly refused. A crutch, he’d said, one that Jack would soon regret using.
Jack was already full of too many regrets.
She motioned towards his cup and picked up the teapot. Did he want another cup of tea? Not really, but if he agreed, he could extend his visit. And if he was smart, he’d eat up all the treats that were on the tray. Who knew when he’d get another good meal?
And if he had another cup of tea, he could look into Nicola’s blue eyes a little bit longer.
Chapter 5
December 18, 1882
Nicola’s heart was racing. Just a little. No need to call for Dr. Oakley, however. She was only anticipating going for a Monday morning walk.
She’d need to go miles to work off her breakfast—porridge with double cream and honey, poached eggs on toast, bacon, sweet rolls, stewed apples, and a whole pot of tea. She could barely bend over to hook up the new boots her mama had sent so promptly. If food was the answer to her problem, she’d be reciting the Magna Carta by noon.
She hadn’t quite worked out how she was to respond to Jack on their walk—she couldn’t very well bring the notebook and purple pencil along and lurch all over the lanes as she wrote. Maybe there would be no need for conversation, just a quiet appreciation of nature and the quaint charm of Puddling. It had snowed in the night, and the winterberries outside the parlor windows resembled frosted rubies. Nicola would take a sturdy cane just to be sure, but clinging to Jack’s arm would be much more fun.
What had come over her? She was not normally forward. She’d never longed to hang on to Richard’s arm as they meandered around Bath during their long courtship. They had kept a proper distance, a polite gap that neither one of them was especially anxious to bridge.
On the whole, losing her voice might have saved her from a stultifying marriage. Nicola deserved more.
If she recovered—when she recovered—she would look about her for a congenial companion, but perhaps not a husband. Her parents would be horrified if she took a lover, so it might be best if she removed herself from their orbit. She had the means now, and was beginning to feel the motivation.
She was finally waking up. Goodness.
She took one last look in her mirror. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes were sparkling, and she hadn’t even taken one step out of her cottage. She’d managed to coax her fringe to curl, and her wine-colored dress was the nicest she’d brought with her. Its black frogging gave her a jaunty military air, although she supposed soldiers weren’t jaunty at all most of the time. The possibility of getting killed at any moment was bound to be a dampening prospect.
Nicola took the stairs with care, clutching the bannister. Her ankle still twinged, but it was securely wrapped beneath the new boot. She settled herself on the sofa to wait, trying not to watch out the window like a lonely puppy. It was five minutes past ten, and just because Jack wasn’t prompt didn’t mean he wasn’t coming.
And then it was a quarter after. Half past. Feeling a little silly, she rose and went into the kitchen.
Mrs. Grace looked up from slicing carrots. “He’s late.”
Nicola nodded. She’d brought her new notebook with her, and the blue pencil.
I hate to ask, but could you go to his cottage to see what’s keeping him?
The snow wasn’t deep. If he wasn’t coming, she’d go out by herself. She could walk up and down her own front path and be safe enough if it came to it.
The housekeeper wiped her hands on a towel and removed her apron. “I don’t like an unreliable man.”
Nicola was sure Jack wasn’t unreliable. Mostly. She watched Mrs. Grace don her own boots and a heavy cloak.
“You can finish up the carrots if you like. Not too thin, mind. They’re for tonight’s stew.”
Nicola smiled. Mrs. Grace’s stew was one of her favorite dishes.
She sat at the pine table and mangled a carrot. Her kitchen abilities were on par with her knitting, but she enjoyed helping Mrs. Grace most days. Nicola was picking up domestic skills that would be useful once she had her own household.
The clock on the Welsh dresser ticked loudly, and another carrot was brutalized. What was keeping Mrs. Grace? A simple “Yes, I’m coming” or “No, I’m sorry” shouldn’t take so long. She hoped Jack hadn’t fallen ill. Or fallen, as she had. Or maybe Mrs. Grace had slipped? Nicola was worrying too much, something she did more now in the last nine months than before. Danger lurked around every corner. No one and nothing was safe.
Just stop, she admonished herself. Nothing was ever solved by worry. One ruined one’s time needlessly imagining the worst. If the worst came, there was usually nothing one could do to forestall it anyway.
She heard the front door bang open and leaped to her feet.
“Nicola!”
It was Jack. She found him in the hallway, looking like a madman. His face was haggard, his eyes sunken, his hair was windblown, and he wasn’t even wearing a winter overcoat over his rumpled clothes.
What happened? she mouthed.
“I’m so sorry. I was up most of the night working on something, but must have fallen asleep around dawn. Mrs. Feather didn’t have the heart to wake me in my chair—who knew she was less evil than I thought? Anyway, your housekeeper and my housekeeper pinched me to see if I was still alive and here I am. What a way to start the day with those two witches hovering over me.”
Don’t be rude. You can’t go for a walk like that, she wrote.
He looked down on himself in surprise. “No indeed. And I haven’t had breakfast either. Quick, before your housekeeper gets back! What do you have to eat here? Mrs. Feather just feeds me gruel.”
He started to open up the wrong kitchen cupboards. Nicola lay a hand on his sleeve to stay him and felt a pleasurable little zing. She guided him to the pantry, where half a pan of cinnamon rolls sat, covered by a dish cloth.
Jack ate them all. Without a plate or a napkin, he bolted them down as if he would never eat again, licking his fingers—ink-stained fingers—between bites. He gazed at the well-stocked shelves in amazement.
“You have real food here! Just as I thought. They’re not trying to punish you. Maybe I should stop talking.” He colored, realizing his thoughtlessness. “You know what I mean. Please don’t take offense. I’m sure the Puddling people are trying their best with all of us. With the prices they charge I had hoped for better dinners, that’s all. Are those peaches? May I have a spoon, please?”
Nicola opened a drawer and handed him a silver-plated spoon. He proceeded to wolf down the contents of the jar, and she was considering opening another for him when Mrs. Grace rushed into the kitchen.
“Miss Nicola! Are you all right? I couldn’t stop that man.”
“Do I have telltale crumbs in my beard?” Jack whispered, ducking behind the pantry door.
Nicola brushed away a flake of pastry without even thinking first. Heavens. His beard was very soft, like fur. It was neatly clipped and gave him an air of distinction despite the disreputable state of his clothing.
Flushing, she stepped out of the pantry to prove she