She resisted the urge to slam her cup down on the saucer. “Yes, what a tough old girl I am.”
His gaze flicked upward. At any other time, his cool regard would have pained her. But not today.
“I sprain my wrist, and you do nothing. I claim to not feel well, and you don’t even urge me to return to bed. Why am I always your tough old girl and never your sister?” She leaned her head against one hand, covering her eyes. Thomas grasped her other hand, and she peered at him through her fingers.
“You’re both.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I know you, Pen. You could be at death’s door and still feel the need to power on no matter what I said.” He let go and felt her forehead. “You’re not fevered. So what’s bothering you?”
She leaned back in her seat. How did it seem that he was the brother she had once known and yet not at the same time? No, her jumbled thoughts had more to do with weariness and yesterday’s events than anything else. “First of all, let me tell you again how sorry I am for the Ireland trip.”
His countenance stiffened, but he gave a bare nod. Good. Apology accepted. She took a sip of tea and spread jam on a piece of toast.
“And?” he asked after a moment.
“And what?”
He motioned with his fork. “You said ‘first of all.’ I can only assume there was a ‘second of all’ to what is troubling you.”
There was, but she could not say what it was. Even thinking about what happened at the ruins could not be permitted. What else had happened yesterday? “I’m afraid Clara and I had a bit of a row.”
“What? Why?”
Again, something she could not tell him. “Something silly. I’m sure we will work it out.”
“She is better, I hope.”
“Yes, as I said before, it was nothing serious.” If things worked out the way Clara hoped, he would be disappointed. But it would serve her right if it didn’t work out. That was un-Christian of her. But then again, the hardest lessons were the ones best learnt. Didn’t she know that by now?
They concluded the rest of their breakfast with civility, though things were still not quite the same. Thomas set off on foot for the Hall while she took the cart.
As she drove down the lane away from Fairview, shaving soap and harvest apple assaulted her senses. She drew in a sharp, deep breath. There. That loosened the tightening of her chest and stilled her racing heart. She had too much to do today to dawdle on foolish giddiness and pipe dreams.
A call to Miss Oliver was in order. Penelope had, as promised, visited the spinster the day after she had waylaid the matron outside the cottage hospital. As suspected, her complaint was the result of a poorly cooked meal. Penelope had persuaded her not to dismiss her maid and promised to give Prudence a cooking lesson.
The two lived at the edge of Woodley. It was a newer part of the village and a little farther out. The new well was just a few yards from Miss Oliver’s cottage. That those living in the small cluster of cottages had asked for the well was understandable. Walking back and forth to the village green to use the pump consumed time, and some did not possess even a handcart to haul water. The well was dug, but the pump had not yet come from the manufacturer in Cardiff. A temporary stone well house had been erected with a rope and bucket.
Penelope pulled up to the gate. How odd. The windows were shut tight. Miss Oliver liked to have her windows open when the weather was fine, as it was today.
She climbed from the cart, walked up the little path to the door, and knocked. No answer. She stepped to the window and stood on her tiptoes to peer in, but the curtains were pulled. She knocked harder, but still no answer. Should she force the door? No, that would be excessive. Perhaps she had gone out. But then, why didn’t Prudence answer? Had she taken her maid with her or dismissed her? Heaven forbid she’d fallen or taken ill.
She would call by the cottage hospital on her way back to Fairview, but first, she must visit Hartsbury Manor. Her visit to thank them once more for their hospitality was long overdue. By the time she reached the drive, the reins had cut creases in her fingers, and the little she’d eaten for breakfast roiled in her stomach. A groom took charge of the horse and cart. Stone gargoyles stood watch on either side of the immense double doors, with a knocker to match. The footman who answered looked at her as if she were coming to beg for bread. She lifted her chin, gave her name, and requested to see Mrs. Baines and her niece. The servant led her past the ballroom doors. Moonlight and toffee-brown eyes seeking hers … She forced her gaze onto the livery of the footman in front of her.
“Miss Penelope Howard.”
She strode into the room to find Isabella Abbott sitting alone at her desk surrounded by books. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched at the end of her nose, and she took them off as she rose to greet her.
“Miss Howard.” She paused. “Excuse me. Penelope. It is good to see you.”
As usual, her manner indicated just the opposite, but having now spent more time with her, Penelope knew she should not take it personally. But then at the sight of her workspace, perhaps she should?
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” she said as she sat down on the sofa Isabella indicated. “You look as if you were in the middle of something.”
“I am, but it can certainly wait.” The footman had not yet left, and she asked him to bring them tea before sitting down next to her. “I’m sure you were expecting my aunt to be with me. I know you will be relieved when I say she has just gone out on some errands and is unlikely to be back soon.”
“I see.”
Isabella’s shoulders slumped. “And I see I have blundered once again. I’m afraid I will never be the woman my father and aunt wish me to be.”
“Do not be so hard on yourself.” Penelope laid a hand on hers. “God has blessed you with a great deal of intelligence. You will learn.”
She shot up out of her seat and walked to the window. “You do not understand. I am not made for this life. I was made for another.”
What passionate words to come from Isabella Abbott. And her normally pale cheeks were stained crimson. “What life were you made for?”
“I’m sorry. I am not making myself clear.” Emotion buffeted her face, and her cheeks grew even redder. She picked up a book from her desk then returned to the couch. “I have always prided myself that I am not an overly emotional person. Emotions get in the way of clear thinking and speaking.” She handed the tome to Penelope as her voice slipped to a breathy whisper. “What I meant was that I was made for another.”
Still not grasping her meaning, Penelope took the book and opened it. It fell open to the letter that lay between its pages. She glanced at Isabella who nodded. The note was in Latin, but that did not surprise her as much as to whom it was addressed. Arthur Wilcox.
The day of Sally’s injury. The way they had looked at one another, Arthur’s intimate use of Isabella’s Christian name—it all came rushing back bold as brass.
“We met in the Hall library the day after the ball,” she said. Her eyes were as soft as a dove’s wing, and she looked as feminine as Penelope had ever seen her. “I never met a young man who knew Latin. Especially one in his station.”
“So you know he is a groom at Ashford Hall?”
Isabella’s eyes flashed. “He was a groom. He is going to become a doctor.”
“How?”
“Lord Turner is sponsoring him. He has arranged for him to work at the cottage hospital and is going to obtain a tutor to help him enter university.”
“I had not heard.”
“It is a recent development.” Isabella’s cool countenance refreshed itself. “Although, I find myself surprised Lord Turner is not undertaking the task himself. Arthur was quite disappointed.”
“Do not be too hard on him. He has his reasons. Things are complicated.”
Questions floated in the air, and Penelope spoke again before Isabella could voice them. “I should be going. I have other errands to run, and I must stop by the hospital.”
>
“Would you be willing to deliver something for me?” She laid her hand on the book. “When you see Arthur, place that in his hands. He told me he would be moving to Dr. Royston’s home next to the hospital sometime today.”
Penelope squeezed her hand. “Of course.” She gripped the tome. Edmund and she had communicated similarly. “Isabella, are you sincere in this? Is Arthur?”
“I am prepared to do whatever it takes to be with him. I have not known him long, but I do know my own heart in this. And I am certain of his.” Cool steel returned to her eyes despite the warmth in her voice. “I hope I can trust your discretion until I find the right time to tell Papa and Aunt Dorothea.”
Lord, let them be wiser than I was. “If I do not see him, I will keep this safe and hidden until I do.”
“Thank you.”
Her horse shouldn’t be able to pull the cart for the weight of the secrets Penelope held in her heart. Clara’s, Isabella’s, Thomas’. Her own. The road blurred, and she pulled the cart off to the side where a short, tree-lined lane led to a field that had lain fallow for the season.
Oh, her own.
She leaned back in the seat, casting her eyes up at the cruel blue sky. Despite wrapping her arms around her middle, emptiness bit them while memories of her angel filled her heart. She lowered her head. Would she have time to visit the ruins today? And if she did, would she find him there again?
She pressed her lips together. The pressure of his hand that drew her to him. The scent of shaving soap. The tang of harvest apple on his lips—
No.
She backed up the cart and guided it again to the road. Snapping the reins, she arrived at the hospital in short order, and as she climbed down, she hoped the heat in her face was not noticeable. Forgive me, Father, for entertaining such reckless hope.
Enough of her foolish dreaming. Miss Oliver took precedence. She entered the hospital and searched for either Dr. Royston or Matron Talbot.
She found both in the matron’s office. They greeted her, and the doctor helped her into one of the chairs in front of the matron’s desk, then resumed his seat in the other.
“What brings you here today, Nurse Howard?” The matron offered her tea which she declined.
“I was in Woodley running errands, and I thought to stop by Miss Oliver’s cottage,” she replied. “But it is shut up, and there doesn’t seem to be a soul around.” Dr. Royston raised a brow at Matron Talbot, who looked down at her hands. Penelope’s mouth went a little dry. “Is she here?”
“She was,” the matron said. “I’m afraid I became cross with her.”
“Why?”
“Miss Oliver came several days ago complaining yet again about cholera,” Dr. Royston replied. “I wasn’t here at the time.”
“Again? But I visited her the day after she came here the first time. It turned out to be indigestion, as we suspected.”
“Yes, she mentioned that.” Miss Talbot sighed. “You know how the woman gets under my skin. I’m afraid I was quite firm. In truth, I was rather harsh.”
“But what does that have to do with where she might be?”
“She made it quite plain she was going to go where she would not be a bother, her and Prudence,” the matron replied. “When I went to apologize, I found the house exactly as you say. We can only assume she went to her sister’s in Southampton.”
Penelope leaned back in her seat and sighed. She understood how difficult Miss Oliver could be, but the matron should have exercised a little more patience. She was a spinster, after all.
Dr. Royston patted her hand. “You know she’s done this before, Miss Howard. She’ll return when she’s cooled off and forgiven us.”
“She will, of course, have a new ailment to complain of,” Miss Talbot added. “But then again, I suppose she wouldn’t be the Felicity Oliver we all know and love if she didn’t.” Regret stained her expression. “I will sincerely apologize when she returns, I promise.”
“I know you will, Matron.” She should be relieved, but why did something still not feel right about the whole thing? Then again, nothing had been quite right lately. She raised a hand to her eyes.
“Are you all right, Miss Howard?”
She lowered it. “I’m tired, that is all.”
“I would tell you to go rest if I thought you would listen.”
“You sound just like my brother.”
The three of them chuckled as they rose from their seats and headed toward the door. Another nurse approached them as they exited. “Matron, the water you sent for is here.”
“Thank you, Nurse Campbell.” She directed the man carrying a stoneware jug to the kitchen. “For Mrs.Travers.”
“From the new well? She must be pleased.”
“She was. A little too pleased. She won’t hear of drinking from the village pump now.” She started in the direction the lad had gone. “I had better make sure he can get in the door. I’m not sure anyone is back there at present.”
As she strode off, calling after him, the doctor retrieved his watch and checked the time. “And I fear I had better go check Mrs. Travers. I’m told she had a bit of a fever; otherwise, she would have been sent home today.”
“Yes, I am surprised to hear that she was still here,” Penelope replied. “But if you have a moment, might I ask where Arthur Wilcox is?”
“I cannot say. He is not due to be here for a few days yet.”
The sound of a coach pulling up drew them to the window.
“Well, well,” the doctor said. “I wonder what Lord Turner could be doing here?”
Penelope’s heart skidded to a halt. Arthur climbed out unaccompanied. Thank goodness. Her heart could resume beating.
He entered and approached them. “Miss Howard, Dr. Royston. Sir, I know I’m a few days early, and I hope you don’t mind, but I’m that eager to start.”
“Lord Turner has freed you from his service?”
“Yes, sir. I’m no longer needed at the Hall.”
“Very well.” He motioned toward the coach. “I assume you’ve brought your things with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Let me pen a note to my housekeeper, and I will send you over. Once you have settled your things, come straight back here.” He started for his office. “Oh, as it happens, Miss Howard was looking for you just now.”
“I’m very happy for you, Arthur.” He would make such a fine doctor.
“Thank you, Miss Howard. I hope I’ll make Lord—the Hall— proud.”
His voice held a bitter edge she hoped to soothe. “I know you’re angry, but there are things which concern Lord Turner that you don’t understand.”
“Such as?”
“I cannot say.” How could she explain it to him when she didn’t fully understand herself?
“Dr. Royston said you wanted to speak to me?”
She opened her reticule. “A mutual friend has asked me to give this to you.”
“Izzy.” He almost snatched the book from her hand. He realized his mistake and floundered. “I can explain. It’s just a book she means to lend me.”
“You both may trust me. But I must ask. What are your intentions?”
“The best.” His voice and face were keen and steadfast. “I love her. I know that’s quick to say, but I do. I only want what’s best for her.”
“Of course you do. I’m sorry.” He was nothing like Edmund.
“It’s all right. I understand.” And he did. Even five years ago when he had come with her uncle to fetch her from that awful inn, he had understood. Acting as a messenger between him and Isabella was the least she could do in light of the service he had rendered her the night she returned with her child. It was Arthur who had buried the small box under the Angel Tree.
Dr. Royston’s footsteps echoed from around the corner. Arthur slid the book into his coat pocket as he approached.
The doctor handed Arthur a note. “Give that to Mrs. Richards. She will make sure your things get settled. But
I am curious. Why did Lord Turner agree to let you go so soon?”
Arthur glanced at Penelope as he answered. “He’s leaving Woodley, sir.”
“What?” Surely she had not heard him right.
“I see.” Dr. Royston asked the next question on her tongue, although his surprise was considerably less. “And has he said where he intends to go?”
“London first, according to Mrs. Lynch. After that, he’s not decided.”
“And when does he intend to leave?”
“Before the end of next week. He told Mr. Parker to admit me if I need anything from the library. He and Mrs. Lynch and a few of the others will remain on.”
“Well, I guess that is the most we can hope for,” Dr. Royston said. “I hope you will excuse us, Miss Howard, we have a great deal of work to do.”
“Of course,” she replied and took her leave.
Once in her cart, she snapped the reins, and the horse pulled ahead. How could Lord Turner come and act as if he were going to stay only to leave? Why?
Did she really have to ask? The foolishness with Sally, all her prodding and questions—had her desire to help only hindered? Yes. And whatever had been content to nibble away at his soul must be consuming it whole.
How she regretted her actions. But wasn’t it for the best? If he stayed, it would only make their situation worse. But his departure would tear a hole in her heart which might take a lifetime to heal.
CHAPTER 23
John didn’t need to look up from his desk to know who was standing in front of it. “Yes, Parker?”
“Mr. Fletcher is here to see you, sir.”
John glanced up. The man’s face was in keeping with the stoniness of his voice, a quality that had been there since he announced his departure to the staff.
He gave him a curt nod and started to walk back through the library.
“Parker.”
He stepped back. “Sir?”
John sighed. A statue stood before him, staring at a point somewhere behind his desk. He rose. “I’m sorry to be leaving so soon after I got here. I know it’s unorthodox, but you knew that about me when I arrived.” He extended his hand. “I hope you understand.”
A Perfect Weakness Page 17
