The Heart Does Whisper (Echoes of Pemberley Book 2)

by Cynthia Ingram Hensley

  “Ben, please!” she cried pleadingly, wishing now she hadn’t spoken. “I needed your advice, not a lecture. Let us forget it.”

  Ben took a calming breath. His sister was a married woman now, he reminded himself. Plus, he feared if he wasn’t careful, she might not seek his advice in the future. Much as it pained him, he realized his role had changed. “I’m sorry, Catie, it seems I still want to be the protective big brother. I must stop doing that, eh?”

  “I sincerely hope you don’t,” she replied softly.

  He smiled. “Can we try this again, Sis?”

  “Do you promise not to be so hot-headed?”

  “We Darcys are not hot-headed, Catherine,” he told her in his brotherly voice and hearing it made her grin. “We simply possess a passionate vein. There’s a difference. Now please…continue.”

  Still wary, she hesitated slightly but then asked, “You’re a man, right, Brother?”

  “Last time I looked, yes.”

  “Then, pray tell me. How does a girl get through to your stubborn, bloody-minded lot?”

  “Well, without admitting that my lot is either bloody-minded or stubborn, my best advice is to be honest with Sean. Tell him your truest feelings. A marriage without honesty is…well, it’s not a marriage worth having. As you have undoubtedly witnessed on occasion over the years, Sarah is brutally honest with me.”

  “Yes, on occasion,” she agreed, giggling softly now. “And do you appreciate it?”

  “Indeed, I do appreciate it. That is after I’ve stormed about the house with my hackles up for a bit.”

  “So I’m to be brutally honest, weather the storm and hackles, and then Sean will see my way of it?”

  Ben chuckled at her crude analysis. “I’m not sure it’ll be as simple as that. Remember, Sarah and I have over ten years of practice. Sean’s a proud man, Catie, but I don’t think him an unreasonable one.”

  Catie picked up the legal pad once again and said in a mocking tone, “Sean, unreasonable, not at all.”

  “Shall I speak to him for you…man-to-man?”

  “No,” she exhaled glumly. “The Irishman is my problem, not yours.”

  “I must be off then. I hope I’ve helped.”

  “Greatly, Ben, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said and then added, “I miss you, dearest.”

  “I miss you too.”

  “Oh, and might I suggest, that you and that husband of yours telephone Rose in the very near future. The woman was ‘quite put out’ last I heard tell of it.”

  Catie laughed. “We shall ring Pemberley this afternoon. Cheers, Ben.”

  “Cheers, Sis.”

  After hanging up, Catie carefully ripped the top page off the legal pad and folded it into a neat square. “Bloody-minded, insufferable man,” she uttered as she stuffed the paper in her purse and left to meet Delia Reynolds in the hotel lobby.

  “Well, hello, Catie Kelly!” Delia put down what she was reading and stood up when she saw Catie.

  “Good afternoon, Delia,” Catie returned politely, congratulating herself on her calm demeanor, shocked as she was at Delia’s appearance. The realtor was all business up top with a shiny silk blouse prettily draped with a small assortment of gold necklaces and a smart fitting blazer. Her skirt, however—if you could call it a skirt, Catie mused—left rather a lot of leg between it and Delia’s high heels. Thank heavens Sean is at work, Catie thought, genuinely fearing that, were he there, Delia’s long legs might have been permanently imprinted on her husband’s brain. Feeling somewhat out of her depth, Catie unconsciously smoothed down her own dress. In anticipation of spending her afternoon with the beautiful Delia, she had purposefully put on the most form-fitting, flattering frock she owned, but now she felt so frumpy she might as well have been wearing a pair of oversized, flannel pajamas.

  Delia came forward and greeted her with a handshake that was feminine but business. It told Catie bluntly that she and Delia Reynolds were not yet and might never be friends. “I was going over some promising rental prospects for you while I waited,” Delia said as she gathered her files and then turned back to Catie. “But I thought we’d have lunch first. Is a tearoom all right by you?”

  “That would be nice,” Catie replied in a genteel but reserved tone, thinking it better to keep up her own guard for now as well.

  Owing to the balmy day and the fact that Delia Reynolds was a woman who clearly liked attention, the top was down on the Mercedes. She drove slowly through the traffic-jammed Savannah streets in her expensive import like a festival queen at the tail end of a parade. Men whistled and horns blew as she smiled and waved in response, greatly enjoying herself. All the while, Catie tried to be as invisible as possible, wondering what Nan might have to say about such unladylike behavior. That thought, at least, made her smile.

  The tearoom was quite crowded when they arrived, but Delia brushed past those waiting to be seated. “Come on in,” she said to Catie, motioning for her to follow. “I have a table reserved. They know me here.”

  Catie trailed Delia through the busy restaurant, decorated in a distinctive, feminine motif, an obvious nod to the establishment’s customers—all female from what Catie could see. As Delia said, she was known to the place and, apparently, to its patrons as well. But for what, Catie wondered as she took note of some of their expressions. Though several women called out affably to the young realtor, a few others did nothing to hide their disdain, turning spiteful looks on Delia Reynolds as she passed.

  Delia, however, either wasn’t aware of her enemies or didn’t care. Her nose up, she walked nonchalantly by them to an empty table covered with a pretty, blue toile cloth and sat down. “This is my usual table. I come here almost every day. Is Darjeeling okay with you?”

  “Yes, fine,” Catie replied, sitting down in the opposite seat.

  Delia held up two fingers to a waitress who nodded and marched away.

  “So tell me, Catie Kelly,” Delia said as she took out a cigarette and lit it. She took a long draw and eyed Catie narrowly. “What is your story?”

  Feeling suddenly like a trapped bird, Catie swallowed as she watched Delia blow out a great puff of smoke through her red glossy lips. Clearly, Delia Reynolds wasn’t one to beat around the bush.

  Chapter 5

  Sean spent his morning getting a more thorough tour of the school campus from Dr. Middleton and meeting many of Norbury’s staff and students. By noon, he was hungry and stopped by the dining hall to grab a sandwich and a Coke. As Sean made his way across the large cafeteria, humming with the racket that eating boys make, a scattered chorus of students called out, “Hey, Mr. Kelly!” He would know them all by name as well soon enough. It surprised him his first year teaching how such a myriad of youthful faces could so quickly become individual and recognizable.

  Lunch in hand, he arrived at the small office that had been provided for him and nudged the door open with his foot while juggling the hopefully palatable sandwich, the Coke, and a stack of student files given to him by Dr. Middleton. “Best way to understand what some of these boys have gone through is to read it firsthand,” Norbury’s administrator had said when he handed his new intern the stack.

  Slowly, Sean ran his thumb over the edges of the files, but instead of taking up his task, he popped open the Coke and walked over to the room’s only window. He gazed a bit longingly out at the trees, grass, and blue sky. Choosing a career in education rather than horse farming did have its disadvantages. Sean loved being outdoors and often missed the sweating work and fresh air. He took a long swallow then set the can on the windowsill to stretch his broad shoulders in a wide backward arch. “Brawny lads, the lot of them,” is how his Irish grand-da proudly described Sean and his four younger brothers…and they were. A strapping physique is one of the few benefits to a childhood spent lifting heavy hay bales and mucking stalls. Another twist and his vertebrae rang out a succession of soft cracks and pops—his way of loosening up his bones and preparing for an aft
ernoon behind a desk, pouring through student files.

  Still not inclined to turn from the pretty day and take up the stack of folders, he leaned against the casing to finish his Coke and enjoy the momentary lull in his day.

  The nineteenth-century mullions were peeling white paint, and he reached up to pull away a flaking piece when a small boy caught his eye. The child was sitting alone on a bench and wearing a school-issued sweatshirt, which struck Sean as odd because of the sweltering temperatures. Stranger still, the child rocked back and forth with his arms locked around his knees in a nervous sort of manner.

  A moment later, a teacher came out of the building in search of his missing student. “Toby, there you are.” Sean heard the man clearly through the old, single-glazed panes. “Come back inside now.” The boy stopped rocking and turned to his teacher’s voice. Although hesitantly, he obeyed, stood up, and walked back toward the building. As he drew nearer, Sean saw that the child’s hair needed cutting because his eyes were hidden behind dirty-blonde strands.

  Just before he reached his teacher, the boy stopped suddenly and turned back to the bench as if someone had called out to him. Sean instinctively glanced back too, half expecting someone to be there…but no one was. “Come on, Toby, it’s hot out here, son,” again the teacher gently urged, and the child reluctantly turned and went to him.

  Sean hurried back to his desk and began thumbing through the folders. “Toby…Toby,” he repeated a few times to himself as he searched. “Ah…there you are.” He sat down and took a bite of his sandwich as he opened the folder. Stapled on the inside cover was a picture of Tobias Malcolm Patterson, thirteen according to his date of birth, but Sean thought he looked much younger. Flipping the page over, Sean found a newspaper article from the previous year. The headline was in bold type: “Local Man Fatally Stabs Wife; Young Son Badly Wounded.” Sean swallowed a sudden thickness in his throat, pulled the file closer, and continued to read.

  A few short minutes later, he pushed abruptly away from his desk and strode angrily back to the window. “Bloody hell,” he whispered then smacked an open palm on the old casings so hard the glass rattled. Catie was right to worry that little Jamal’s dreadful story was just one of many—and not the most dreadful by far. He walked back over to his desk and slammed closed the folder on the gruesome article. “May the devil take ye, you son of a bitch!” Sean picked up his sandwich and chucked it in the trash bin. He had lost his appetite.

  ***

  Granddaughter to an ancient barony on her mother’s side and a descendant of wealthy landed gentry traceable to the Norman Conquest on her father’s, Catherine Elizabeth Darcy Kelly was every bit in possession of the sort of information Delia Reynolds sought. In addition, her Darcy ancestors had been compelled, throughout the centuries, to marry royal blood, especially when money or land was to be gained. So why, she asked herself, was the progeny of such nobility and aristocracy sitting in a tearoom in Savannah, Georgia, recently married to the son of a poor Irish horse farmer, pretending to be no more than the average Brit to a cheeky, nosy American with big hair? Because, Darcy, you love the bloody-minded Irishman, she reminded herself.

  It had been Sean’s scheme to come to America and spend their first year of wedded bliss on “neutral” ground—enough time for them to get settled and comfortable in their marriage and, therefore, avoid the pitfalls, which were sure to come from a union of such unequal proportions. And though Catie was beginning to seriously doubt the success of her husband’s plan, she honored his wishes and was vague in her narration, divulging only that she was an orphan, brought up by an elder brother, and educated in England’s finest schools.

  By afternoon, Delia’s disappointment in learning so few details had made the house hunt thus far unsuccessful. She wasn’t a person given easily to surrender and had changed her tactics, purposefully only taking her less than forthcoming client to modern, high-end condominiums—with high-end rents to match. It was an old but effective trick of the trade. If Catie Kelly was set on being secretive, Delia Reynolds would get what she wanted by other means. In short, she was only taking Catie to expensive rentals to see if the young Englishwoman would flinch at the prices. Still naïve to the world, Catie hadn’t caught on. Nor had she flinched at the rental rates, Delia noticed.

  Standing before a wall of windows that looked out at the city amid the stark, modern furnishings of a penthouse, Catie finally turned to Delia and asked, “Do you not have something a bit more—”

  “Affordable?” Delia quickly supplied.

  “No.” Catie shook her head. “A bit older—perhaps a nice townhouse on one of those lovely squares.”

  “Older?” Delia echoed incredulously, her plucked eyebrows arched in surprise. “I just assumed you two would prefer an apartment that’s a bit more hip. Most Europeans that come here do.”

  Looking somewhat scandalized, Catie promptly informed Miss Reynolds, “We British aren’t overly fond of being lumped in with that lot.”

  “Oh,” Delia uttered, lost for words.

  “I just feel more at home if the walls around me are at least a century old.” Catie smiled then. “You must have an affinity for history to live in England.”

  Skillfully regaining her composure, Delia smiled back and winked agreeably. “Honey, you’re in Savannah; old it is. Come with me, I might just have the perfect place.”

  A few blocks away, they pulled up to a shady square lined with federal style townhouses, a few large detached and semi-detached homes, and a church. Defying the late summer heat, the square was breezy and park-like with benches and crosswalks surrounding a large obelisk monument that sat in its center. Though the little green was smaller in scale, Catie was immediately reminded of Berkeley Square, the neighborhood of the Darcy’s London home.

  “Here we are!” Delia said, gesturing to a four-story semi-detached with a “For Rent” sign hanging on the banister of the stairway, which swooped gracefully to the main floor. “The garden level apartment is already leased to friendly tenants. You probably won’t see much of them. They also have a place in New York and spend most of their time there. They’re friends of the man who owns the place and probably won’t be back until he returns.”

  From the top of the steps, Catie gazed out over the neighborhood while Delia unlocked the door, growing fonder of the place by the second. Once inside, she was welcomed by an impressive entry hall with soaring twelve-foot ceilings and a beautiful dark wooden staircase.

  “How’s this?” asked Delia unnecessarily for her answer was revealed in the young Englishwoman’s delighted expression, a signal to the realtor to begin closing the deal. “There’s a good-sized front parlor here to your right.” Delia motioned her client into the room and continued her spiel. “With a bay window that looks out over the square.”

  Catie walked slowly around the room, admiring the furnishings, architecture and antiques, smiling faintly as she brushed her fingers lightly over the surface of a large English walnut sideboard.

  “The owner’s in France, trying to find his spiritual self in some remote abbey…whatever.” Delia waved her hand flippantly. “The good news is he won’t be back for a year.”

  “Is it staffed?” Catie asked, and Delia Reynolds grinned like a fox.

  “I see there’s still more to learn about you, Catie Kelly. That’s not a question I’m often asked.”

  “No?” Catie said coolly, trying to keep her poise though inwardly cursing her gaffe.

  “No,” Delia affirmed but then let her prey out of the snare—for now. “The owner is particular about his antiques, so a service comes once a week. But I know an excellent placement agency if your needs are more daily.” Again, no flinch, the realtor observed.

  After seeing the entire house, Catie waited in the foyer listening wistfully to the homey creaks and murmurs of the old floors as Delia made her way through the rooms, switching off the lights. She closed her eyes, hoping, if only for a moment, to go home to the manor in the green hills of Der
byshire.

  “…there’s a nice courtyard out back.” Catie opened her eyes and returned in the middle of Delia’s final sales pitch. “And a converted one bedroom carriage house that the owner will allow you to sublet.”

  “We’ll take it!” Catie exclaimed, shocked at her own words. But homesick as she was, prudence was easily defeated, and her mind was set.

  Delia’s mouth fell open in surprise. “Before your husband has seen it? Wouldn’t you like to show it to him first?”

  Catie glanced once more at the mahogany staircase, the long, billowing silk curtains, and intricately carved white crown moldings, and for the first time that afternoon, ever so slightly flinched. “Not until he’s had a few pints,” she replied, patting her purse, which still held Sean’s budget. “Remember, Darcy,” she recited to herself, “brutally honest.”

  ***

  Closing the last file, Sean rubbed his weary eyes and whispered, “Bloody hell.” He had spent several hours immersed in a gamut of heartbreaking reports, grateful at least that nothing he found surpassed the unspeakable violence Toby Patterson had suffered at his father’s hands. He stood to stretch and then strolled back to the window. “How could a man?” Sean wondered aloud as he stared at the bench the boy had sat on earlier that day.

  “Are you still here?” Dr. Middleton interrupted his thoughts, causing Sean to start and whirl around. Dr. Middleton looked amused. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “No worries, sir.” Sean smiled then. “I just finished reading the files.”

  Hugh Middleton’s eyes traveled to Sean’s desk and the large stack of folders. “Kelly!” he exclaimed in a condemning tone. “I didn’t mean for you to read them all this afternoon. Lord, man, it’s almost six o’clock!”

  Sean opened his mouth but then quickly shut it, unsure how to respond.

  “Go home and have supper with your wife, Mr. Kelly.” Dr. Middleton gestured to the door with his thumb. “And that’s an order.”