A Perfect Weakness

by Jennifer A. Davids

  “Does Arthur need assistance, my lord?” he asked.

  John shook his head and walked over to the side of the cart. “What bone is that?”

  “The tibia,” Arthur replied.

  “You remember what to do?”

  He set his jaw, then gave the little girl a small smile. “Hullo there, Sally.”

  “What’r you goin’ to do, Arthur?” she sniffed.

  “I have to pull on your leg, just a bit.” He flexed his fingers.

  “Get on with it,” John muttered.

  At the same moment, the little girl began to cry. “Arthur, please don’t!” Arthur gave Miss Howard a warning look, and she bent over the little girl, blocking her face from her legs. “It will all be over in a moment, darling.”

  Without warning, Arthur yanked on the leg. She gave a blood- curdling squeal and was quiet.

  Miss Howard checked her. “She’s just unconscious.”

  John rested his head against the side of the cart. Well done, Arthur.

  When Joseph handed Arthur the cloth and wood, John said, “Be sure to—”

  “I know.” There was a depth to Arthur’s voice. And why not? Parker watched John with a set jaw.

  Charlie Milford jogged up with Miss Abbott close behind. “What’s going on? This young lady came back to the stables, cryin’ of broken bones and looking whiter than death.”

  “Arthur has just set his first broken leg,” John said.

  Charlie looked at his groom with a raised brow. “Good for you, lad.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Arthur climbed from the cart. “Go fetch the best-sprung carriage the Hall has, Mr. Milford. This girl needs to get to the cottage hospital as smoothly as possible.”

  “It’s coming round now.”

  Sure enough, a carriage came around the corner of the house. Arthur, with Joseph steadying the splinted leg, lifted little Sally from the bed of the cart and carried her over to the carriage that halted next to it.

  “I’ll accompany the child on the journey,” Miss Abbott said. A bit of color had returned to her cheeks.

  “Isabella, are you sure?” Miss Howard asked, accepting Parker’s aid out of the wagon.

  “Yes, I’ll be fine now that the ... blood ... is covered up.” She walked over to the carriage and gave Arthur a quick look of admiration. It softened her face and gave her a loveliness that he wasn’t aware she possessed.

  Color rose in Arthur’s face as she climbed in, and he and Joseph gently positioned the child next to her.

  Arthur shut the door. “I’ll go with them. It will give me a chance to see where I’ll be staying and find out what I should take with me when I go.”

  “Where would you stay but here?” Charlie stared at his groom as if he didn’t quite recognize him.

  “I meant to tell you later today, Mr. Milford,” John replied. “Arthur plans to become a doctor. I’ve arranged for him to study with Dr. Royston. This will be his last week with you.”

  “So that’s why you’ve been havin’ all those books in your room.” He walked up to Arthur and shook his hand.

  “I’m sorry if this leaves you short-handed,” John said.

  But Charlie shook his head. “Couldn’t be happier. Always thought he was too smart for the stables.”

  “Arthur,” Joseph squeaked, “what will mum say?”

  “I sincerely hope your mother will be one of the proudest women in the county,” Parker replied. He added his good wishes, then he and Joseph walked back into the Hall.

  “They should get going. Sally needs attention,” Miss Howard said, her voice unusually quiet.

  Arthur climbed up on the seat next to the driver. “I’ll see Miss Abbott home before I return.”

  John raked a hand through his hair, then over his face. He could hardly blame the lack of respect in Arthur’s voice. What if the break had been more complicated or Arthur had pulled it at the wrong angle? John had turned away from medicine to prevent himself from hurting people, and now that very avoidance could have hurt a child instead.

  Miss Howard said something to Charlie about the cart, but he didn’t stay to hear it. He rushed up the stairs two at a time. He started toward the library, but an angry voice stopped him.

  “What on earth were you thinking?” Miss Howard swept over the threshold. Her hair was tousled, and her eyes were blue sparks. “Arthur has no experience setting bones. Did you not see how terrified he was? How he hated to cause Sally pain? Why wouldn’t you set it?”

  “Why did you even bring her here to begin with?” He could hardly believe she had done it. He had thought she was different, not like Maggie. While his heart told him she was truer than that, he plowed on. Perhaps if he growled and raged at her, she would see just what kind of monster he was and leave him alone. “You should have gone straight to the cottage hospital.”

  “Going there would have taken twice as long.” Her voice echoed throughout the hall. She took a step toward him. “Ashford Hall made the most sense because you are a doctor—”

  “I was a doctor!”

  She strode up to him until she was inches away. Raising her head, she locked her eyes to his. “I don’t believe that.”

  Her scent of lavender and roses toyed with him, dissolving his anger. And her declaration …

  “The war does not have to keep you from your calling.” Her voice grew soft and beautifully, dangerously warm.

  Her fingers curled around his. Their heat threatened to seep through to his heart. He should tell her everything. She would understand.

  Would she understand how he killed Beth? And even if she did, would he deserve her mercy?

  “Yes, it does. It’s better that way.” John jerked free and backed away. He needed to get away from her. Much farther than the few feet between them now. “Why did you tell Thomas about the trip?”

  She swayed at the rapid change in subject. “That was an accident. He opened a message meant for me.”

  Regret shone on her face. He clenched his hands as he focused on a seam in the floor. “Why doesn’t he want to go?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I could make him go,” he offered.

  “No. That would not be wise.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not for me to say.”

  He whirled around. First that blasted tree, now this. What was she refusing to tell him now? He stopped, both hands frozen in his hair. Did one have something to do with the other? Surely Thomas wasn’t wrapped up in the reason a child was buried beneath that tree. His arms swung to his sides as he turned to ask her, but she was gone. He strode to the door and watched her drive away from the house.

  CHAPTER 21

  The next morning, Penelope set out early enough to walk to Clara’s cottage before her students arrived. She could have sent someone to take the tea to her. Maybe she should have. But Clara’s determination to meet with the father of her child alone drove her to take the task upon herself. Clara had not thought this through. She didn’t realize what else was at stake aside from her reputation. With the school being funded from her uncle’s annuity, there was the reputation of the Hall to consider. But what about her? She didn’t have a spotless reputation, yet the honor of the Hall rested on her shoulders more heavily than Clara’s. The ugly gash she’d made in the fabric of her own life had mended, but poorly. What business did she have saying anything to Clara? Hadn’t she made enough mistakes just over the past few weeks? First her suspicions about her brother and then her scheming over their trip—Thomas still wasn’t speaking to her.

  Then there was Lord Turner.

  First the ball, then their argument. She still didn’t understand everything he’d said. How was it good that he allowed the war to keep him from being a doctor? He was such a good man, a kind man. The first man in years who touched a part of her soul that—

  She stopped. There would be no going forward with that thought. She would send a note of apology, then stay away fro
m him. Far away. Though how she would manage that, she hadn’t a clue.

  She walked up to Clara’s door and knocked. Clara opened it with a cool countenance. “Good morning, Miss Howard.”

  “Good morning, Clara.” She waited to be let in, but the girl did not move an inch. She offered the tin of tea she’d bought. “I promised to bring you this. I’m sorry I could not come until today.”

  “You shouldn’t have troubled. I am very capable of taking myself to Woodley to purchase tea.”

  “Of course you are.” But she was puzzled. Since when did Mr. Brown stock peppermint tea in his shop? Yet even as she had the thought, a breeze carried a whiff of mint from inside the cottage. Whatever brand he carried, it was an inferior one. She withdrew the tin. “How are you feeling?”

  “Well, as you can see. Please excuse me, Miss Howard. My students will be arriving soon.”

  Penelope caught her before she shut the door. “Clara, please. Reconsider. I could wait in the schoolroom if you like.”

  “I’ve made my decision. Unlike yours, mine will turn out for the best.” The door slammed shut.

  Penelope raised her chin and strode away from the cottage. Clara was young and impulsive; she really hadn’t meant what she’d said. Being with child made every woman a tad sharp. But the sting of her words had dealt their blow. And the truth of them cut deep.

  John reined Fortis in from a canter to a walk and looked around to see where he’d finally ended up. He could just see the Castle in the distance. He rubbed his bad leg. Time for a break and that was as good a place as any. If there was a corner or an inch of the estate he hadn’t yet seen, that wasn’t the case now. He’d been riding over it for the better part of the day. With any luck, the ruins would be deserted despite the crisp cheerfulness of the day with its blue sky and lazy sheep’s wool clouds. How could such beauty exist in the same moment as the turmoil that raged in his heart?

  He had been foolish to come here.

  All he’d wanted was a safe haven, a place to ride out the rest of his days in peace and quiet with no danger of hurting anyone else ever again.

  Instead, his fall from grace was picking up speed.

  Fortis ambled over the bridge that spanned the Castle’s moat. An empty expanse of green and ancient stones greeted them. It should have seemed peaceful, but the breeze that played in his hair as he tied Fortis to the makeshift hitching post was a gale and the sunshine as blinding as heavy rain. His gaze was drawn to the shade of the oak tree. No. He didn’t need to wonder after that again. The great hall. It would hold his interest. He wandered in and around it as he ate an apple he’d taken from the Hall’s orchards. But in the end, the ache in his leg drew him back outside. It needed rest. The tree with its enormous trunk invited him to sit beneath its fading green branches. He sighed. Resting in its shade would do no harm.

  His riding coat served as a blanket as he sat at the base of the tree on the opposite side of the angel marker. He didn’t care what George would say about his coat later. He only wanted to stretch out his leg and ease its ache.

  Drawing up his good leg, he rested one arm on his knee. He made a study of the grass, then the wall, then Woodley, and then the patchwork fields beyond. In whichever direction London lay, it would be best for all involved if he shut up the Hall and went there. Things were well in hand here, and if he stayed, he would only manage to make things worse. The storms he’d run from had followed him. Best to leave before the maelstrom became a hurricane. He hadn’t had Ashford House shut up entirely. He would go there until he knew where he would be going next. George would go with him, but Parker would have to stay, as would Mrs. Lynch. There were many details to be sorted out and a mountain of ramifications to avoid thinking about. One in particular.

  The look in Penelope Howard’s eyes when she heard the news.

  He got to his feet, putting weight on his leg. Most of the ache was gone. He leaned down and picked up his coat. It was time to head back if he meant to go through with his plans.

  Lavender and roses. There was a thread of it mixed with the breeze. On the other side of the tree, Penelope knelt in front of the angel marker. She had pushed back the long grass surrounding it, tore out some in small clumps.

  She rose to her feet as he approached, stray blades of grass clinging to her skirt. “Lord Turner.”

  “Miss Howard.”

  Questions about what she was doing and why faded away. They didn’t matter now. He was leaving. And the thought of not seeing her again, of her soothing presence in his life gone for good, was too much. He could barely breathe for the weighty ache in his chest.

  He took a step away. “I was just leaving.”

  “My lord.” Her voice halted him. “I must apologize for my anger the other day. I was too harsh.”

  Dear God, what kind of angel was she, apologizing to him?

  “No, Miss Howard. The fault was mine. I had no business forcing Arthur to set that break. You had every right to be harsh.” Guilt doubled the weight in his chest.

  “Why?”

  He floundered for a response. The reasons were there on his tongue. But he held them back. “Why?”

  “Yes. Why?” She stepped up to him until she was just a few handbreadths away. “What did you mean when you said it was better that way? It’s not just the war, is it? Whatever the reason is, it cannot be that bad.”

  He could immerse his soul in the compassion that welled in her azure eyes.

  Monster.

  Butcher.

  He swallowed. “There are things in my past … things you shouldn’t ever have to know about me.” She opened her mouth, but he rushed on. “Trust me when I say my hands have hurt more than they’ve helped.”

  She grasped his arm. “God’s grace covers all such mistakes, my lord.”

  His breath caught in his throat, in part at the possibility behind that thought, but more so at the deep tremor that raced through him at her touch. His voice grew thick. “Not mine.”

  “Everyone’s.” Her voice thinned and tightened. “Yours ... and mine.”

  Hers? What could this woman have possibly done to need grace? She was grace itself. And kindness. And light. Impossibly perfect, and he was utterly unworthy of her.

  He should leave. He needed to leave. But the tears on her cheek willed him to raise his hand and wipe them away with the pad of his thumb. The instant his fingers touched her, they demanded his hand cup her face and his thumb trace a path from her cheek to the soft, delicate skin where her jaw met her slender neck.

  She trembled beneath his touch, and he threw down his coat and drew her to him, unable to deny himself any longer.

  He drank in her soft sweet lips; he drowned himself in her, a doomed man. No matter how far he went or where, he would always take a piece of this woman’s soul with him.

  A silken, throaty gasp rose from her as his lips traced the line of her jaw to the edge of her neck. He wove his fingers into her hair and, for the briefest moment, he pulled away to plumb the depth of her eyes. With a soft, almost desperate, whimper she pulled him back to her, deepening their connection, her hands driving an intoxicating path from gently caressing his face to digging themselves into the folds of his shirt. At that moment, he dared to believe in the grace she spoke of, that it was possible for him to cease his endless falling and right himself once more. With her by his side.

  With that single thought, his mind caught up with his heart.

  Everything she ever dreamed was in his kiss. His lips spoke more eloquently against hers than any praise he’d ever given her. She groaned as he feathered them from her mouth to her neck, and the next thing she knew, he had raised his head, searching her eyes. No, don’t stop. Not yet. She pulled his head down to meld his lips with her own and all but drank the faint taste of harvest apple from his perfectly proportioned mouth. Her fingers caressed his face. Her head spun with the scent of his shaving soap, and she allowed her hands to travel to his shirt. She buried them in the soft linen and felt his hear
t match the untamed beating of her own.

  The next moment her hands and lips were empty.

  He stumbled away from her with a wild look of horror. Reality took hold, and she realized what she’d allowed. Shaking, she backed into the tree. She reached behind her and clung to it for support.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. He reached down and fumbled for his coat.

  A part of her longed to rush to him and force him to stop apologizing. But sanity all too quickly returned to her thoughts and heart.

  “No,” she heard herself say. “I don’t know what I was thinking, my lord. Perhaps it would be best if we forget this ever happened.” She winced. Did those words sound as ridiculous aloud as they did in her heart?

  “Yes,” came his soft reply, and she glanced up to see him striding—almost running—toward Fortis. Tears filled her eyes, and the sight of him thundering away from the ruins quickly turned into a kaleidoscope-like mosaic.

  She had to rally. The verse in Mama’s Bible. What was it? She couldn’t recall. She rushed to the angel marker. The sight of that would surely still her heart. But her heart pounded along with the sound of the horse’s hooves as he galloped away. She slumped into the tree and slid down it with a deep sob. Dusk had fallen by the time her tears were spent. When she returned to Fairview, she refused both dinner and questions and went straight to her room.

  CHAPTER 22

  Pink just edged the sky as Penelope descended the stairs and walked down the hall to Fairview’s little dining room. She caught the scent of toast and heard the clink of a teacup. She hadn’t risen early enough. Thomas sat at the small table in front of the fire.

  He raised a brow at her, his cup half raised. “You look awful.”

  So he was speaking to her again. “I’m fine.” She sat down across from him and poured herself a cup of tea. “I’m not feeling particularly well. It will pass.”

  “And yet still up at this early hour.” He took up his fork and stabbed at a piece of his egg. “What a trooper.”