“You sound like a book I love.”
“Let me guess, Civil War story?”
“I’m kind of a fiction girl. This one’s an English love story, actually, titled North and South. Margaret from the South looks down on the industrialist, John, from the North, until she falls in love with him. No war, just a couple skirmishes and plenty of sparks.”
“It’s a little that way in reality too. The South still looks down its nose at the North. But I say, let ’em. We get the work done.” Dillon rapped his window. “A group I brought up here last year raved about that shop. You should go.”
“Bainbridge Books? Hey . . . I’ve purchased from them. They have a wonderful antique book collection.”
Dillon slowed into a tight driveway framed by large stone pillars and parked directly in front of a massive wooden door. The inn was a manor house such as Lucy imagined an eighteenth-century squire owning. It was yellow stone and broad, with lead-paned windows, bays on both floors, and huge stone urns bursting with spring flowers and plantings straddling the front stoop.
Lucy squeezed Helen’s wrist. “We’re here. Are you awake?”
She opened her eyes. “I am. I can’t imagine why I’m so sluggish. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. Do you have any Advil?”
“I do.” Lucy dug into her handbag and tipped two Advil from a small bottle. She handed them to Helen with a water bottle as Dillon walked around the car to open the door.
He handed Helen out as a young woman bustled through the inn’s front door. Lucy caught a glimpse and got the general impression of pale. The young woman was slightly plump and dressed in a white blouse with an equally crisp apron tied over it. Her blonde hair whipped across her face, obscuring any further details.
“Welcome. I’m Bette.” She shook Helen’s hand first then turned to Lucy as she stepped from the car. “Thank you so much for calling this morning and letting me know your arrival time. It was such a help.” She then reached out to Dillon. “If you drive the car around to the garden, the car park has plenty of room.”
Dillon stood still until Helen nudged past him. He grabbed the bags and flashed Bette a thousand-watt smile. “Let me take care of these first and I’ll get right to that.”
Bette held her hair back with her hand as two bright spots of rose burst on her cheeks in reply to Dillon’s eagerness. She appeared flustered as she directed Lucy. “Please walk through to the Great Room. I’ve set out pâté and wine.”
Lucy led Helen up the few stone steps to the foyer, which served as the inn’s lobby and opened up into the second floor. The stairs traveled up the far wall, turned, and continued to the floor above in a circling hallway. There was a fireplace on the right wall with a heavy wooden mantel that matched the exposed beams of the ceiling. Lucy took a deep breath, pulling in the smell of past fires, wood polish, and flowers. “This is beautiful.”
“Thank you. The house originally belonged to the Northrup family and was built in 1679, but it was taken over and added to in the mid-1800s by Thomas Seaton, a textile manufacturer. His family sold it to my great-grandparents in 1913 and it’s been an inn ever since World War I, following its days as an infirmary.”
“What an amazing story, but then again, I bet most old houses have interesting stories to tell.” Helen sounded groggy.
Bette nodded. “When you’re standing for over three hundred years, a lot is bound to happen to you. I can give you a tour tomorrow if you’d like.”
Bette led them to a love seat and an armchair set before the fire. She picked up a tiny placard on the small center table. “I reserved this for you as I thought you might be tired, even a little chilled.”
“Thank you.” Helen moved slowly toward the chair.
“Rest here while I check you in and get your keys. Mum is finishing your rooms and we’ll take your bags straight up.”
“Thank you, Bette.” Lucy sat across from Helen and pushed the table out from between them. “Helen, may I see your foot?”
“A lady doesn’t show her ankles.” Helen’s voice was too drained to carry off her joke.
Lucy reached for her right foot and slowly lifted it. “You were limping. Your shoes are too tight.” She slid off Helen’s Belgian-style loafer. “It’s cutting into your foot. Was it like this yesterday? We walked too much. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Helen leaned forward and gaped at her foot, which was slightly purple under her sheer stocking. “It didn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt even now, but I do notice the shoe is off. That feels better.”
“Have you lost feeling?”
“It was simply cramped. It’s fine now.”
Lucy put Helen’s foot back on the floor and slid the shoe next to it. She removed the shoe from Helen’s other foot as well. “You can slip them back on when we go upstairs, but do you have something bigger?”
“I have a pair of loafers I wear with socks. They’re a half size larger. I can wear those.”
Lucy sat back and bit her lip. “This isn’t right, Helen. I’m over my head here.”
“You’re not. My feet are tired and swollen. That’s hardly surprising with all we’ve done. Why don’t you hand me a little of that pâté? Perhaps a small glass of wine?”
“Of course.” Lucy acquiesced and slid the small table back between them.
The sun dipped behind the hill and instantly the room chilled. Lucy poured Helen a glass of wine. “That was nice of her to save the fire seats for us. She must have known that would happen.” She gestured to the window and the last rays of light receding from the hill.
“I imagined the moors were like this. Wild and wintry out of the sun. In all the books, there’s always a fire burning.” Helen snuggled deeper into her seat.
Lucy poured herself a glass and sat back as well, watching the dark wine take on tones of ruby and raspberry in the firelight. She lifted her gaze and found they weren’t alone. A few guests were scattered about enjoying tea or wine, whispering, reading, or simply looking out the large windows to the field behind.
Bette returned with two keys dangling from purple tassels. Lucy flicked her hand toward the window. “That would be called a moor?”
“Yes. And that particular moor leads right to Top Withens, Wuthering Heights, if you’re up for a walk. I have maps at the front desk.”
“Now we’re in the thick of it.” Lucy motioned to Helen. “Wuthering Heights, right here. Shall we wander in search of Cathy tomorrow?”
“You certainly should.”
Lucy dropped her eyes to Helen’s feet and saw her discreetly tuck them farther under the love seat’s skirt. She returned her attention to Bette. “Is the Brontë Parsonage open too?”
“Every day from nine to five o’clock.” Bette surveyed the room. “Would you excuse me? I apologize, but there are a few dinner details left. We had someone call in sick and we’re short staffed.”
“Absolutely.” Lucy took both keys from her. “Where do we find our rooms?”
“You’re at the top of the stairs to the right. Your driver offered to carry your cases up, so I showed him the rooms and everything is all situated for you.”
“Thank you. We’ll sit here a few more minutes and then head up. I believe we have dinner reservations for seven o’clock.” Lucy glanced to Helen as if asking if that plan still suited her.
“We’ll be ready whenever you’d like to eat. The dining room is through that doorway behind you and there will only be two other couples besides yourselves tonight, so please come whenever you wish.”
“Thank you,” Helen chimed into the conversation as Bette hurried away. “She’s working hard, that one.”
“Sure looks like it. I feel like I should be helping somehow.”
Helen smiled. “I got the impression Dillon will make himself available. Didn’t you?”
“You caught that too?” Lucy grinned. “I thought he was going to fall over himself right there on the front stoop.”
“He did and don’t you dare tease him. He’s a
good boy.”
“Fine,” Lucy mock-moaned. “I hardly think that’s— Hello.”
Dillon strode into the room right to them. “Your bags are in your rooms and I thought I’d go . . .” He stalled.
“Come join us.” Helen opened her hand languidly to the seat next to Lucy as if she had all day and simply wanted to chat.
“Thank you.” Dillon sat and rubbed his knees. He shifted in his seat.
“Tell me. How are the rooms?” Helen’s voice was light—and fake.
“They’re real comfortable. You’ll be pleased.” He shifted again.
“Dillon, would you mind asking that nice young woman . . . I can’t remember her name . . .”
“Bette,” Dillon offered.
“Yes. Would you mind asking Bette if there’s any help you might give? She seems overwhelmed this evening and—”
“Be glad to, ma’am.” And he was off.
“You said I couldn’t tease him.” Lucy laid a hand over her forehead and simpered, “I simply can’t remember her name.”
“I couldn’t resist.”
“You are having fun, aren’t you?” Lucy studied Helen. Even if Helen was feeling unwell, she seemed lighter. “I know all that’s ahead . . . but you seem happy. Your eyes . . . It’s hard to describe. They’re clearer. Sid would call them ‘Mountain Blue’ right now. Even in the firelight, they’re bright, and he says the deepest, clearest skies are only above mountains.”
“I like that. To me, they feel wider too. Do they look it?”
“They do.”
Helen sighed. “I’m unwinding in a way I don’t think I ever have before. I think I’d grant every favor asked right now, so don’t call my granddaughters.” She winked and raised her glass in salute.
Lucy took a sip of wine and knew what she should ask . . . Can we go home now? Helen needed it, Charlie needed it, James needed it—they all did. But she asked nothing.
Chapter 21
The next morning, Lucy felt it again. Wind, rain, cold. It whirled out her window and rattled the pane. She closed her eyes and, rather than wish it away, snuggled deeper into the pillows and the soft down comforter. Perfect.
She thought how marvelous it would be to sit by the fire all day and read. She’d put away The Vicar of Wakefield and read Helen passages from Brontë novels. Maybe the scene from The Tenant of Wildfell Hall when Markham goes to visit Helen in the winter and she gives him the rose and tries to discreetly woo him. Or the one in Jane Eyre when Jane first arrives and meets Mrs. Fairfax by the fire and, of course, the reader senses the beginning of a great adventure tinged with dark mystery. So many gems to share by the fireside.
After indulging in a few passages, Lucy dug into her suitcase for leggings, a deep brown tunic sweater, and patent leather walking loafers. This was not a day for skirts, ballet flats, or heeled boots. This was a day for soft wool, warm socks, loafers, and literature. She pulled her hair into a high ponytail and skipped down the stairs to find Bette at the desk.
“Good morning. Has Helen come down yet?”
“She hasn’t passed me. There’s a full breakfast in the dining room and a fire already laid in the Great Room.” She nodded at the tablet in Lucy’s hands. “You’ve some books in there, I expect.”
“Over a hundred. If I could carry them all around I would because I love the touch and the smell of the paper, but this is the best way to carry mass quantities. I thought I’d entice Helen into a slow day of reading next to the fire. I don’t want to even suggest going to the Parsonage. She’d probably say yes and the weather seems pretty rough right now.”
“It’s supposed to clear,” Bette wailed.
“We’re not upset.”
“I don’t know why not. Everyone else is.” Bette chuckled and seemed to relax. “Thank you for not blaming me. Come have some breakfast.” She tilted her head toward the dining room then cast her eyes up and over Lucy, who turned to follow her gaze.
Helen walked slowly down the stairs dressed in dark wool pants and an aubergine turtleneck sweater. Lucy immediately noted that the colors were new for her; Helen usually wore clear, pale colors. Lucy also caught a glimpse of Helen’s loafers, large, black, and most likely, much more comfortable. She concentrated on each step and only looked up as Lucy called to greet her.
“Good morning. I thought we’d stay here and sit—”
“I—” Helen reached out her hand, and as if someone opened a drain, she and all the color in her face slipped together.
In slow motion, Lucy watched as the figurative hole opened and sucked Helen inside. She crumpled and fell down the steps just as Lucy sprang up to catch her.
“Helen, Helen!” Lucy caught her before she slid down the three remaining steps.
Bette rushed forward and held Lucy up so that she didn’t topple under Helen’s weight.
Lucy’s voice strained under her efforts. “I’ve got her. Call for help. Is there 911?”
“Are you sure you’ve got her?”
“Yes. Go. Go.”
Lucy felt Bette’s hands release her shoulders. She swayed back before pushing forward with her feet to stabilize Helen.
Footsteps pounded behind her. “We thought we heard—What happened?”
Lucy released her hold on Helen as two men gently lifted her from the steps and carried her to the long sofa in the Great Room. The taller one sat on the sofa’s edge and patted Helen’s hand. “What is her name?”
Lucy glanced between them.
“Miles is a doctor,” the other offered.
“Helen Carmichael.”
“Can you hear me, Helen? It’s time to wake.” He said something quick, deep, and, Lucy presumed, German to his friend, who left the room.
“Is she okay?”
“She is waking now. Wil is bringing her a glass of water.”
Moments later, Bette led a tall young man with a large black bag into the room as Wil returned with the water. Both men went straight to the sofa. Bette stood with Lucy.
“That was so frightening.” Bette twisted her hands in front of her. “But Dr. Matthews will know what to do.”
Lucy noticed Bette’s flushed face and rapid breathing. “You ran?”
“It was faster than calling. His office is down the street.”
Impulsively Lucy threw an arm around her. “Thank you so much.”
Within a few minutes, Dr. Matthews, with the help of Wil and Dr. Miles, had Helen safely tucked into bed. When Lucy entered Helen’s room, she was propped against the pillows with an IV flowing into the top of her wrist.
“Are you sure she shouldn’t be at a hospital?” Lucy’s semi-belligerent tone caught everyone’s attention—including her own. “I’m sorry, but are you sure? I mean, how do you know she’s okay?”
Dr. Matthews regarded Helen before addressing Lucy. “Her vitals are strong and other than fatigue and extreme dehydration, she’s fine.”
He clasped Helen’s hand. “You can see the effects of dehydration in her hands and swollen feet.”
Helen pulled her hand away with a huff of annoyance.
Lucy caught it, but directed her focus to the doctor. “Her feet were swollen last night. We . . . I didn’t know that’s what that meant. Are you sure about the hospital?”
“I’ll give her two bags of fluid and I recommend a few days’ rest. I suspect the antibiotics contributed to this and, that said, her immune system is weak. Sometimes hospitals aren’t the best places to be.”
“You’re sure?”
“If you insist—” came from the doctor simultaneously with a sharp “Lucy!” from Helen.
Lucy held up her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.” She leaned around the doctor. “I’m not telling James if something happens to you.”
Helen laughed. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“I’d be more scared of Charlie.” Helen closed her eyes. “Now could you all please leave? I’m done in and there’s nothing more to
do. A trip to the hospital is not up for discussion.”
The doctor chuckled. “We will leave, but I’ll be back in a couple hours to switch your fluids. And if you need to use the bathroom, please ask—”
He stopped at Helen’s raised hand. “We are not discussing that. Thank you, young man.”
Shaking his head, he followed Lucy from the room.
She turned toward him as soon as the door clicked shut. “You are sure she’s okay? Really sure? There is nothing you’re not telling us?”
“She is exhausted and she’s dehydrated and”—he gave Lucy a significant look—“that is the extent to which she’s allowing me to treat her and the extent to which I could regardless.”
With a slight bow, he ducked around her and loped down the stairs. He waved to Bette and called back to her from the front door, “I’ll be back in a couple hours to check on Mrs. Carmichael.”
Lucy stood holding the railing and staring down until the heavy front door slammed shut.
Bette lifted her head. “He’s a very good doctor.”
“He’d better be.”
Lucy had secured the armchair near the fireplace by leaving her book in it every time she ventured up to Helen’s room. Hours later, Helen remained fast asleep; Lucy still checked regularly.
By one o’clock, she felt as if she’d already worn a path along the plush Wilton carpet and sank once more into the chair. She palmed her phone and ran her finger across the blank black face to turn it on. But this time, she tapped James’s number.
Lucy listened as it rang and rang. Right before it would’ve jumped to voice mail, she heard a brusque, “Lucy? What’s up?”
She wanted a softer intro, but this was what she had to deal with. She dove in. “Your grandmother fainted walking down some stairs this morning. She’s fine. They were carpeted and I caught her, but I needed to call and I don’t have your dad’s number.”
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 70
