by Lily George
“Well, no harm done, and I am happy to have plenty to do.” She cast a shy smile his way and reached for a doll. “I shall clean everything up and have it ready for her once she comes.”
“Good plan.” A sudden urge to tell her everything about Juliana struck him. What if he told her the whole sordid tale and unburdened himself to her about his own failings? It might be a relief to share the painful past with someone.
He tamped the urge back. That was weakness. That was folly. He was master of Kellridge and of his own feelings and emotions. His past transgressions were his own to bear, and he must do so alone.
The cold frost that served him so well settled back over him as he clicked another piece of the puzzle in place. “I leave tomorrow. As I said before, do let me know if there is more that I can do. I’ll send some proper toys from London. Not these worn, cast-off old things.” He chuckled dryly and rose, dusting off his trousers. “Be sure to lock everything back up when you leave.”
“I will.” She gazed at him with an inscrutable look in her eyes. “Godspeed, Mr. Holmes.”
He gave a brief nod and walked back out of the attic. He was doing the right thing. He was doing the only thing he could. His duty was done, and now he would fling himself back into London and the season and all its dubious delights as his reward.
Each step echoed through the quiet, still house as he descended.
There was emptiness in his life that only a strategic retreat to London could fill.
Funny how deep and vast that emptiness had grown in just the past few days.
Chapter Six
The weather was nothing short of abominable. One of those late spring showers that soaked a man to the bone and made mud of the most navigable roads. Rain ran in rivulets down Paul’s hat as he waited for the carriage to be pulled round, and he drew his overcoat closer to drive out the damp. The sooner they were started, the better. Perhaps they could make it as far as Derby before changing horses. The carriage plodded into view, its slow pace causing his pulse to quicken.
“Don’t spare the whip,” he remarked curtly to his driver as he placed his foot on the board. “We want to get ahead of this weather if at all possible. The roads aren’t a sea of mud yet. Give the horses their heads.” He gave a brief nod to the grooms, who had taken advantage of the rain to move up front onto the box, as he climbed into carriage.
“Aye, sir,” the coachman replied. His tone sounded doubtful, though.
Well, that was simply too bad. Even if his driver had some misgivings about his orders, he was bound to obey them.
The coachman’s whip cracked through the air and the carriage leaped forward. Paul removed his overcoat and cast his hat aside. Then he settled against the squabs and watched Kellridge retreat into the distance. Who knew when he would see it again? ’Twould be months at least.
Guilt gnawed at his insides. He shouldn’t leave. He could turn the horses around now, and no one would say anything. Well, that wasn’t true. The gossip in the servants’ halls would natter on endlessly, for the master never changed his plans, and already he had dithered over the day of his departure. His uniform and practical way of living had been severely thrown since Becky’s arrival, and he simply had to gain mastery over his own life again.
Kellridge would get on just fine. That was why he ran things the way he did. Besides, he had business in London. Selling Father’s shipping shares would grant him a tidy profit and dispose of a responsibility that he had grown too mired within. Everything would be attended to in his absence. The greatest reward lay in knowing he could run with the most decadent crowd in London, and no matter how dissipated his company or his time spent, Kellridge would be waiting for him when it came time for all revelry to cease.
The carriage bounced and jerked along the roads. Was it the high rate of speed that caused such a well-sprung carriage to jostle about? He usually traveled at an alarming pace, so surely that wasn’t it. Perhaps the rain was already making a mess of the roads. Oh, well, nothing to do but endure it. Once they reached Derby, he’d enjoy a fine dinner and perhaps play cards with the innkeeper. He always was a good chap, up for a game at a moment’s notice.
Paul wedged himself into a corner, which eased some of the discomfort of his travel. He could prop his head against one of the cushions and get a good nap in. ’Twas better to do so now, when en route to London. Once he reached his townhome, he’d get precious little sleep.
The carriage gave a violent jounce and skidded down a length of the road. His horses whinnied, his coachman cursed, and through the mixed and jumbled noise of chaos, he discerned the sickening and undeniable sound of splintering wood. He braced himself against the side of the carriage but was thrown like a rag doll. His head bashed against the window, which was odd because now the window was where the floor should be, and hundreds of drops of water splashed his face. No—they cut his face. ’Twas not water, ’twas broken glass.
As the carriage’s mad flight ground to a halt, Paul put tentative fingers to his cheeks and discerned a warm, sticky trail of blood.
“Are you all right, sir?” the coachman cried out from above him—far above him, and not through the window, but through the carriage door, which was now where the ceiling had been. The coachman whistled softly. “You look as though you lost the fight.”
“Thank you for that.” Paul sat up gingerly, withdrawing his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and holding it to his face. “What on earth happened?”
“Has to be a broken axle.” The coachman heaved himself on top of the door and extended his hand down to Paul. “I know Jim was worried about that right front wheel. The grooms are taking a look at the damage now.”
Paul allowed himself to be pulled upright, and then heaved himself through the door and onto the curiously slanting side of the coach. He slid down and sank onto the muddy road, pressing the handkerchief to his face to stop the bleeding. “This is what comes of changing plans,” he muttered.
The rain picked up in earnest, and thunder boomed in the distance.
“Aye, it’s a broken axle,” one of the grooms shouted. “Can’t repair it here.”
Paul struggled to his feet, his cheek throbbing. “We need to get back to Kellridge. From there we can get enough hands out to set the carriage right, and bring it back for repairs.” He turned to his coachman. “How far are we from home?”
“Riding at our usual pace, I’d say we’re only half an hour away,” the coachman replied. “Walking, I’d say about an hour.”
“Right.” Paul struggled to speak loudly over the din of the rain and the pulsing of his cheek, which made every movement a fresh agony. “We’ll have to set out for it then. Each of us can walk one of the horses back.” He tucked his bloodied handkerchief back into his pocket. “Let’s at least try to set off the main road.”
The horses, still skittish from the accident, tossed their heads and shuddered as the men unhitched them and led them to the side of the road. Paul worked as swiftly as his clumsy, wet fingers would allow to rig a tow line to the carriage. Together, men and horses struggled to clear the wreck from the roadway. Shards of glass tinkled, falling inside the carriage, as it slipped and bumped through the mud.
What an awful mess. Paul narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the damage. The axle was broken, all right—smashed clean to bits. The windows of the carriage yawned open and black, pierced now and again by jagged teeth of broken glass. His horses had been terrified but appeared uninjured. If they hadn’t come out of it so well, he would be kicking himself right sharp. After all, a man could easily replace a carriage, but Kellridge had some of the finest horses in Derbyshire. Had a green lad taken off at such a fresh pace and caused as much damage, Paul would have been the first to take him to task for recklessness. As it was, he was now dealing with his own stupid folly.
’Twas both humbling and demeaning to find himself in s
uch a position. And who knew what his face looked like. The shock of the incident was receding, and in its wake, his cheek stung and pulsed. In truth, his entire body ached, and his knuckles smarted where he’d scraped them as he pulled himself out of the carriage.
His hat and overcoat were still somewhere in the remnants of the carriage. It didn’t signify anyway, for he was wet now, through and through. He had no desire to revisit the carriage and endure a new round of cuts and bruises. He untethered the horses and handed one off to each man. They turned and headed north up the road back to Kellridge, cloaked in exhausted silence.
As they plodded down the slime-covered road, Paul roamed through the incident in his mind. Whenever faced with tragedy, a fellow must learn all he could from it. Only then would the experience hold meaning. Before understanding and accepting the lessons learned from this disaster, he would have to first castigate himself for his part in it. He shouldn’t have rushed away from Kellridge before the carriage was ready. Shouldn’t have struck forth in such dreadful weather. Shouldn’t have asked them to travel at such a pace. All of these mistakes had been made in the name of one thing only—avoiding his niece’s impending arrival.
Had he been calm and measured in his response, he could have remembered that he was, after all, master of Kellridge. If he didn’t wish to see his niece upon her arrival, then there was no need for him to do so. He could stay in his part of the house, and she in hers. He would have been under the same roof with her for no more than a day before striking out for London as he should—with a well-maintained carriage, better weather (one could hope) and a less pressing need for great speed.
If one were to be completely honest, he wasn’t merely avoiding his niece. He was avoiding Becky Siddons, as well. She was too pretty by half, and he found himself thinking about her far more than was proper. He was avoiding not just her attractive form, but the disappointment that darkened her eyes when he’d refused to meet Juliet at the docks. Her anger when they spoke about it again in the study. Her fear when he’d spied her in the attic. Becky was a whirlwind of emotion, and he had run the risk of injuring perfectly good horses, killing or maiming excellent servants, and had completely destroyed a carriage in his haste to extricate himself from her chaos.
Whether he acknowledged it at the time or not, he’d allowed emotion to cloud his judgment. Because of his own fear of his feelings, he had run headlong into catastrophe.
Paul wrapped the leather straps of the horse’s bridle once more around his hand, to help calm the deep ache in his head. When he got back to Kellridge, he would first change out of these wet, bloodied clothes and have a hot bath. Then, he would discuss with Jim how quickly repairs could be made on the broken carriage.
He would strike forth for London again when all was ready in good time, for he was not about to let fear or feeling dictate his journey ever again.
* * *
Becky turned the china doll over in her hands. Yes, a bit of mending on the dress and this toy would be as good as new. In fact, if she could ask Nan for a few bits of remnants from the shop, she could make some new dresses or even an entire wardrobe for the doll. She took her needle from her sewing basket and pulled out a skein of thread.
Beside her, Tabs purred blissfully. Rain pattered on the arched window in Mrs. Clairbourne’s sitting room. In no time at all, that good lady would return with afternoon tea for the two of them. ’Twas a lovely way to spend a damp, ungenial day.
Loud cries erupted from the hallway and, above the din, Mrs. Clairbourne’s voice rose, issuing some kind of orders. Becky cast the doll and needle aside and stood, straining her ears. No one ever shouted at Kellridge. In fact, noise of any kind seemed rather profane.
“The master had an accident...”
Becky stood with one hand on the door latch. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest. What kind of accident? Was he all right?
She opened the sitting-room door. Mrs. Clairbourne was in the hall, sending servants scattering in all directions. When the older woman spied Becky watching, she gave a tight smile. “I am afraid I’ll have to postpone our afternoon tea,” she apologized between orders. “The master’s been in a carriage accident. One of the grooms saw them in the lower field, walking back home.”
If he could walk, then at least he was not dreadfully injured. Even so...
“What can I do?” She had to have some occupation. Remaining in the sitting room would be intolerable. Surely she could help in some way.
“Oh...” The housekeeper shrugged. “Run along and grab a few hot bricks from the kitchen. Wrap them in flannel and take them up to the master’s room. If his valet is in there, give them to him. If not, then tuck the bricks in the foot of his bed. The master will be chilled to the bone in this weather, and he’ll need to get warm in a hurry if he’s to keep from taking ill.”
She had very little idea where the kitchens were, or where Paul’s room was in the labyrinthine corridors of Kellridge. She couldn’t very well stop and ask for more directions, not when everyone was so harried. She followed one surge of servants and, carried along on their current, managed to find the kitchens. Once she was there, she grasped a scullery maid by the arms. “I need some hot bricks for the master’s room.”
“O’ course.” The maid trotted over to the hearth and, using a poker, pulled out two bricks. Becky glanced around the kitchen—yes, there were the flannel cloths, in a basket by the hearth. She knelt and, with the maid’s help, swathed the bricks in the cloth.
“Where is the master’s bedchamber?” ’Twas rather bold to inquire, but otherwise, she would wander around the house forever. The maid nodded and tucked the bricks into a cloth-lined bucket.
“Follow the main staircase to the top of the second floor, then turn to your left. The master’s chambers are in the west wing. Try the third door in the corridor.”
Becky nodded and accepted the heavy pail with gratitude. There would likely be no gossip if she headed up to the master’s chambers now. Everyone was too busy, too concerned with Paul’s welfare, to worry about propriety.
She took the stairs as quickly as the weight of the pail would allow and made it down the corridor. She set the pail down before the third door and knocked briefly. If the valet was there, she would merely leave the bricks and go find some other way to help.
No one answered. She pushed the door open gingerly and stuck her head inside. The room was dim, lit only by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The curtains had been opened, and rain streaked against the panes.
Well, there was nothing to do but leave the bricks and then rush back downstairs. No need to be nervous. No one was here, and she was doing Paul a kindness. She grasped the pail and hurried over to the large four-poster bed that must be his.
She flicked back the bedclothes and hastily stuffed the bricks down at the foot of the bed. Then she drew the heavy damask fabric back up and over, smoothing it down so that it looked almost as tidy as it had before. As she plumped the pillows back into place, she looked down at the small table beside Paul’s bed. Two miniatures rested on its surface, framed in gold. Both were of young women.
Becky placed the pail beside her and peered closer. One of the young women bore a passing resemblance to Paul, but her hair was black, where his was sandy, and her eyes were a startling shade of blue. Her lips were curled into a challenging smile. As though she were a little amused at everyone. Could this possibly be Juliet’s mother, the saucy Juliana?
The other woman was completely unfamiliar. The artist had captured her elegant, almost regal air. Her almond-shaped eyes were the color of toffee, and her wealth of copper-colored hair was massed around her noble head. Who was this? And who was she to Paul that her portrait sat right beside his bed? She didn’t favor Paul in the least, so it wasn’t likely that she was a relation. Her clothing marked her as a contemporary of theirs—not a woman from the past. Well, whoever she was
and whatever Paul felt about her was certainly no business of hers. So what if this woman meant enough to be the first thing Paul saw when he woke each morning, or the last before he slept each night? She snapped her mind off.
In years past, she might have gone all dreamy and reminisced about some romantic love affair Paul had conducted with this woman, something beautiful and tragic and worthy of epic poetry. Never again. She was a nursemaid and a spinster, and she had left all those things behind. She would simply assume that the woman in the portrait was a family friend that was so close she was like an aunt to him. Aunt Hildegard, or some such. There. That put an end to all musing.
She better hurry back. There must be something else she could do to help. She picked up the pail and quit the room.
She closed the door with a gentle click, then turned...to find Paul standing before her.
She gasped and dropped the pail, which clattered to the floor, unheeded. “Mr. Holmes—oh, Paul, you look terrible.” His cheek was horribly cut and bruised, and spatters of mud and blood marked his otherwise elegant attire. “Are you quite all right?”
What a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t all right. He looked like he’d had a near brush with death.
He tried to give his usual ruthful smile, but paused and winced. “Hurts too much,” he muttered out the corner of his mouth.
“Come in.” She opened the door and grasped his arm, tugging him into the room. “I just put hot bricks in your bed,” she chattered on, trying to cover her shock at his appearance. “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to help.”
He shook his head from side to side, and then closed his eyes. “Fine.”
“Where is Wadsworth? Or your valet? Surely they should be up here assisting you.” She helped him sit in the easy chair before his hearth and knelt on the floor before him, tugging at his boots. “You’re soaking wet. You’ll catch your death if you don’t dry off and warm up.”
