“That’s all right.” The pressure in his chest lessened. He started for the bell pull to summon Joseph but paused when the doctor spoke again.
“But before I go, I want to issue an invitation for you to join me at the cottage hospital whenever you can.” Dr. Royston placed the book back in the pile. “Not the most interesting of cases, but we keep busy. There are few such hospitals in this area at the moment.”
The tourniquet re-tightened. A cottage hospital? He’d read about them when he was still in the States. William had mentioned the need for one, had even hinted that he would donate the necessary funds. So he’d gone and done it. And in doing so had created another “opportunity” for John. But unlike the ones in London, this one would be far harder to get away from.
“That you are trained as both a physician and a surgeon means your services would be extremely valuable to us,” the doctor continued. “The man we usually call to perform surgery, a Mr. Albert Worth, resides an hour or so east of here, which can be tricky when there is an emergency.”
He managed a deep breath, releasing it as he spoke. “Unfortunately, the estate will be taking up a good portion of my time.”
“Really? I was under the impression Thomas Howard is very adept at his job. You shouldn’t worry for anything.”
“And I’m sure I won’t.” John started back toward the bell. “But Ashford Hall and its concerns will be my priority.”
“But the hospital is one of the Hall’s concerns.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you are now the patron. The board makes most of the decisions, but you have the final say.” He cocked his head and regarded John. “Lord Renshaw gave me the impression that you would be very much involved.”
“Well, he was mistaken.” He yanked on the bell pull. “If you have any needs or concerns, please inform Mr. Howard. I will let him know to expect to hear from you.”
Joseph entered, but Dr. Royston didn’t move an inch. “I heard you visited your tenants today. Lord Renshaw, I understand, was always mindful to do that from time to time. But he came to visit the hospital at least once a week. I hope we can count on you do to the same.” He gave him a nod and followed Joseph out the door.
CHAPTER 8
Not even Hannah was up when Penelope made her way to the kitchen. She put on the kettle and slathered a slice of bread with jam. Once her tea was prepared, she took her simple breakfast into the parlor and opened the curtains. Through the small rectangular glass panes, the predawn sky glowed orange-red, a warning of rain later in the day. Good thing she had risen early. She could make her visits before the weather broke and still be back for tea with the teacher for the new girls’ school.
She yawned. Warm chestnut eyes and a teasing half-smile had haunted her during the night. No, it hadn’t been as much that as it had been his praise. Kindhearted … admirable … I can’t imagine a better person … you are very kind …
Handsome faces seldom are, but in this case—oh no, what if, in this case, that maxim were wrong?
It had to be wrong, it simply had to be. What about his reaction to Thomas asking after his medical practice? Or despite his encouraging manner, how bored he’d clearly been as they spoke of the tenants and the estate? His questions were intelligent and thoughtful, but they were belied by his flat tone and the way he focused on a far corner of the room as her brother answered.
Those two points pruned back his effect on her, and she had finally been able to sleep. But now, as the light crested the hill outside, it threatened to grow. And that would never do. Best get her emotions in order.
She slipped up to her room and returned with her mother’s Bible. The well-worn book opened naturally to the passage in John now. She no longer needed to mark it, as Papa had asked. Did she even need to have the words before her? His insistence she read it daily had written them on her heart, if not her very soul. But its meaning was no longer bitter. It was a comfort now. God and the passage of time had changed its meaning as well as her view of the token Papa had given her which rested on the mantel in her room. Even so, there were consequences to every action. Consequences she would live with forever.
She pressed the book shut and, laying it on her knees, spread her hands over the cover. Mind and heart were made up and in order. She would do her best for the Hall, as she always had. Lord Turner could keep his secrets. So long as he did his duty, they were no concern of hers. Besides, how often would she really be seeing him? She could avoid him at the cottage hospital when he visited and had no need to meet with him over her visits to the tenants. She could voice any concerns to Thomas, who would pass them along.
She rose. It was time to get the day started. She would visit the Hall today but did not have to present herself to Lord Turner to pick up the basket Thomas had delivered. Her need for it was sentimental as it had belonged to her mother. Penelope made her way to the stables, ordered the cart, and drove away from Fairview a quarter of an hour later.
She drove to the rear of the house and let herself in by the servant’s entrance, as was her habit on her informal visits to the Hall. She navigated the few steps down to the linoleum floor and made her way down the white-walled passage leading to the caverns of the house.
This late in the morning, the staff had already left the servants’ hall, but she heard the cook, Mrs. Long, laying down her orders for the day. Penelope peered around the corner into the kitchen. The cook’s back was to her as she guided the newest kitchen maid in the intricacies of properly scrubbing a copper pot. Mrs. Long had been the Hall’s cook for as long as Penelope could recall and ran it with calm efficiency. She had yet to hear her raise her voice to any of those in her charge, a trait she greatly admired.
Mrs. Long caught sight of her. “Miss Howard, we have not seen you for an age. Would you care to sit down for a minute or two? I find myself with a generous amount of coffee on my hands this morning.” She nodded toward the silver tray on the work table before her.
Penelope stepped into the kitchen. “Coffee? You sent up coffee for his lordship this morning?”
The woman crossed her arms over her chest. “Mrs. Lynch was quite adamant he drank it, but this is the second morning that we’ve sent it up, and he’s barely touched the stuff. He’s an American, isn’t he?”
“Indeed, but I happen to know he prefers tea.” She lifted the lid, and its rich brown scent wafted out. “I had it from his lordship himself yesterday.”
“And here Mrs. Lynch goes and orders tins and tins of coffee.” Mrs. Long shook her head. “I haven’t the slightest notion what the state of our tea is like. If it’s no good, she won’t order more, not until the coffee is gone.”
“Not to worry, Mrs. Long. His lordship so enjoyed the tea we served yesterday that I thought I would order some for the Hall as well.”
“Order what for the Hall, Miss Howard?” Mrs. Lynch stood at the kitchen door.
“Tea, Mrs. Lynch,” Mrs. Long replied. “Miss Howard has it on good authority that Lord Turner is partial to it rather than coffee.”
The housekeeper’s frown deepened. “Does she? And how did you come by this, Miss Howard? That is rather personal information for a young lady to know about his lordship.”
Penelope fought the urge to glance heavenward. Mrs. Lynch was, perhaps, only two years older than she. “Lord Turner stopped by with my brother while they were out visiting tenants yesterday, and he happened to mention it.”
“I see,” the woman replied as if forced to admit it. “I suppose I shall have to remedy that, but I haven’t a clue as to what to do with all that coffee.”
“Why don’t you send some of it over to the Home Farm? I’m sure Mr. Howard would appreciate having something other than tea for a change.”
Mrs. Lynch’s face softened at the mention of Penelope’s brother. “Well, I bought quite a bit. I hope he enjoys it.” Ice slid back into her voice. “But please remember I am the housekeeper for the Hall now, Miss Howard, and it is my responsibility to or
der the supplies we need for his lordship’s comfort. Not yours.” She strode down the hallway toward the still room.
Mrs. Long shook her head. “That woman has been after your brother since she was nothing but the head housemaid at Hartsbury Manor. Though why she has it in for you is beyond me.”
“I wasn’t in favor of her being hired.” Penelope watched her retreating figure and sighed. “She overheard me saying as much to Mr. Parker, and we’ve been on uneasy ground ever since.”
Mrs. Long leaned toward her conspiratorially. “I ’spect your disfavor was based on her youth—much too young to run a household, truth be told. But I’ll wager you’re a little uncomfortable with her attraction to your brother too.”
The woman didn’t know how right she was.
“Well, at least I know what to do with the coffee.” Mrs. Long picked up the pot and started for the sink, then paused. “Unless you still wanted some. I have some time before I have to start on luncheon.”
“No, thank you. I only came by to pick up my basket. I sent over a few things with Mr. Howard when he came to visit Lord Turner.”
“A basket? Oh yes, I do remember that. I’m sorry, but I don’t recall what became of it. We were quite busy preparing his lordship’s first meal at the Hall.”
A young maid looked up from her work at the far end of the table. “Mrs. Lynch might know what became of it, Miss. I saw her take a basket into her room yesterday.”
Penelope overcame the temptation to take a look in the woman’s room. Not the best idea if she wanted to make peace with her. Her need for it was purely sentimental.
“We’ll keep an eye out for it,” Mrs. Long handed the pot to a maid. “I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. I’ll send it along to Fairview when I find it.”
Penelope thanked the cook and bid her goodbye, leaving the pleasant kitchen to return to her cart. She should swallow her opinion of Mrs. Lynch and find a way they could become friends. How could she smooth out the roughness between them? Should she ask her to luncheon with her and Thomas? That would certainly please Mrs. Lynch, but not necessarily her brother. Despite the housekeeper’s efforts, Thomas seemed less than interested, although he never failed to act the gentleman. Then again, after his time in London, he had made an effort to seem disinterested in any young lady.
She turned the cart from the lane onto the road, which ran alongside some of the wilder portions of the Hall’s land, and caught sight of Lord Turner. He and the Hall’s head woodman were walking their horses toward the gate in the estate’s fields, close to the roadside hedge. After all that bother with his leg yesterday, and he went out to meet Mr. Gibson on horseback?
They turned toward her as she approached, and Lord Turner raised a hand in greeting. While Mr. Gibson mounted his horse and headed back over the field, Penelope pulled to a stop.
“Good day, my lord.”
“Hello. Out on your rounds, I see.” He gripped the top of the gate with such strength his knuckles turned white. “No injured animals yet?”
“No, sir, none. But it is early.” She gave herself a mental jab. Where had that teasing tone come from? “I see you were with Mr. Gibson.”
“I wanted to explore the rest of the grounds beyond the gardens.” He winced as he shifted his weight. “It’s bigger than it looks.”
“Yes, it is. Even though I grew up here, I always find myself on the grounds without even realizing it.”
He studied the ground as if it fascinated him, but his brow held a deep crease. His leg must have been bothering him far more than he cared to reveal.
Perhaps a little impropriety was in order. “Your horse looks a bit winded. Would you like for me to drive you back, my lord?”
“Yes, Fortis could use a break.” He reached for the latch in the gate.
Once his horse was secured to the back of the cart, he settled in next to her. If only her heart were as easily controlled as the tired mare she urged into a walk. She struggled to rein it in as he looked down at her with eyes like soft toffee.
“Thank you.”
“You are most welcome, my lord.”
“No, really, thank you.” He shifted his bad leg in front of him. “It was stupid of me to think I could go riding again after yesterday.”
“Thomas mentioned you injured it during the war in America.”
“Yes. It always acts up when I do too much. I know better.”
“They say doctors make the worst patients.”
He said nothing, and the air grew as taut as it had yesterday in the parlor. So it was something about medicine that disturbed him. But why? According to Mr. Smith, he had the finest training. Why avoid the subject?
It hardly mattered, now did it? It wasn’t really any of her business. Hadn’t she settled that with herself earlier this morning?
“With your permission, I’ll take the road the tradesmen use to deliver goods to the Hall. You could easily walk or ride to the main drive from there without being noticed.”
“Thank you, Miss Howard.”
The gratitude in his words relieved the tension, but she struggled with what to say next. She shouldn’t say anything, really. That would be best. Oh, but had he enjoyed what she sent over in the basket?
Before she could ask, he said, “Dr. Royston called on me. He said you were with William on his last day. Could you tell me how he was?”
She swallowed as her throat tightened. “As he always was, even considering his condition. Kind. Cheerful. Asking me about how this or that was coming along.” Always a finger in every pot. Even in the end. “We watched the sun set that day and then he told me how much he loved Thomas and me. It was as if he knew.”
Things will change once I’m gone, dear girl, he’d said. I know you think your life is exactly as it should be and will be, but it’s not. Embrace what’s coming.
“Did he say anything about me?”
She started. Had he? Was that what her uncle had meant by that enigmatic statement? Oh, Uncle William. Even from beyond the grave he still tried to plan and scheme and play the matchmaker. After his triumph with her parents, he apparently meant to duplicate the feat. No wonder he had left her nothing substantial. He intended Lord Turner to be her “inheritance.” But why? He’d known how impossible that would be. He himself had all but said that no man would want her in her condition.
She flashed Lord Turner an apologetic gaze. “No, my lord.”
For several moments, all that could be heard were the horse’s hooves as she walked along to the tradesmen’s drive, the gravel crunching and hissing beneath them. Trees dotted the path and seemed to whisper to one another as the wind lazily threaded through their branches. In between them was a stately view of Ashford Hall from the rear as it overlooked the rolling, hedge-lined hills beyond.
“So he was ashamed of me,” Lord Turner muttered.
The weight of his words pressed on her, and she drew the cart to a stop.
“My lord, I knew my uncle well. I cannot believe he was ashamed of you.” She knew how it had been when he was ashamed of someone close to him. “I’m sure there was no reason for him to be so.”
A different sort of tension stretched the air, more perplexing than the previous uneasiness. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and his hand was fisted in an iron-tight ball. “Are you sure, Miss Howard?”
She blinked. “My lord?”
“I think William never told me or you about my being the heir because I was the poor relation.” He stared at the Hall. “My father was William’s cousin. His father was a landowner and expected him to marry well, but instead, he married a penniless orphan. Grandfather disinherited him, and he and my mother moved to a suburb of Philadelphia.” He shrugged. “We lived a simple life, but a happy one.”
“Do your parents still live there?”
He shook his head. “They’re buried there. My father died in an accident and my mother a few years later.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“But don’t you see? What el
se could William do when he discovered I was his heir but offer to educate me and make me respectable? And then not tell me for fear I would get too big of a head?”
After spending so much time with him, Lord Turner understood little of her uncle. Then again, he had not seen him for several years. He needed a gentle reminder.
“I’m sorry to be bold,” she said, “but surely you recall Uncle William’s devotion to his family. He would not have wanted the fact that you were his heir hanging over you.”
“Of course. He told me himself he disapproved of my grandfather’s actions. Family was more important than rank or position.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Then why not tell you and your brother about me?”
“I cannot say.” Indeed, she would not say. It would be too mortifying to confess her suspicions of her uncle’s machinations. “But his last words to me were full of hope for the future of Ashford Hall. He would not have spoken so if he had been ashamed of you.”
“He was a very forgiving soul,” the lord muttered.
What a curious statement. “Yes, he was.”
“Dr. Royston also said he passed in the night and that, as far as he could tell, it was peaceful. Do you think he was at peace?”
He would know far better than she. But he wasn’t seeking a medical opinion. She whispered a yes. Her voice was not to be trusted.
“I miss him too.” Uncle William had meant as much to him as he had to her. He laced his fingers with hers and gave them a squeeze, then quickly released her.
He tugged on his jacket while she shifted in her seat and shook the reins. The cart lurched forward, but they only rode for another minute or two before Lord Turner bade her to stop.
“Why don’t you let me out here? I think I can manage the rest of the way.”
“Of course, my lord,” she murmured and set the brake.
He gingerly climbed from the cart and shuffled back to his horse, then drew the animal around to her side of the cart and peered up from the beneath brim of his tall hat. Thankfully, it shaded his eyes so she couldn’t see if their chestnut-brown depths were as warm as his voice sounded when he spoke.
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