Clayton harrumphed. “And you talk about my manners. I would have thought employing Maggie without my knowledge was interference enough.”
“You know me. I cannot sit back and let things lie.”
“So it seems. Are you staying long?”
Beatrice Abbott’s smile broadened, but it did not eradicate the enveloping sadness.
“Just overnight, you’ll be pleased to note, and then I head back to London and onto Bath for a sojourn.”
“Nothing stops you, does it?”
“No, Clayton. It doesn’t. Life is for living.”
“And you’re the merry widow.”
Beatrice’s smile disintegrated. “No, dear, never that. But despite the sadness, one must carry on.”
Chapter Five
The next morning just after Clayton’s mother departed, word came that they were due another visitor Giving Maggie barely two days to get Bellerose whipped into shape.
It wasn’t long, but as six a.m. chimed on the morning of Clayton’s friend’s arrival, with leaden feet Maggie trudged up the stairs to her room.
As she entered, she sank down on her bed, desperate to lie down, but if she did she knew she would fall asleep within minutes.
There was no time for sleep.
Maybe...just maybe she could take a few minutes.
Yanking off her shoes, she delighted as her toes experienced freedom, wiggling at their release. She undressed down to her slip, climbed onto the bed and picked up Josephine’s diary.
He tells me he loves me...
Love.
Maggie’s eyes shuttered as the word revolved around in her exhausted brain.
What it would be like to be loved by a man? Really, truly loved?
A heavy sigh expunged from her chest and she simply lay there, tired beyond even exhaustion.
So tired...
“Maggie. Maggie.”
Maggie bolted upright, disoriented. “I...” Oh God, she’d fallen asleep. “I’m sorry.” She jumped off the bed as Clayton peeked around the door.
“Edward has arrived.”
“Oh, my goodness, what is the time?”
“It’s gone ten.”
“Ten! But I only shut my eyes for a moment.”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine. You’ve worked hard. I was…” His voice trailed off as suddenly his gaze traveled south, taking in her disheveled appearance. “You’re not dressed.”
“I was asleep.” She scooped up her dress and held it to her. “I’ll be right down.”
“Take your time. You’ve worked hard these last few days, and done an excellent job.” Then he was gone and Maggie breathed again.
Quickly she dressed, straightening her hair and slipping back on her work shoes. She looked in the mirror. Practical and efficient were the words to describe how she looked.
Not beautiful.
Not loved.
She shook her head. “Dreams, Maggie Francis. Just dreams.”
Spinning from her reflection, she grabbed a fresh apron and as she tied it around her waist, she exited her room. At least he’d said she had done a good job. It should have been ample satisfaction, but as she took the back stairs to the kitchen, something niggled.
Efficient. Helpful. But not...not loved?
Maggie shoved at the kitchen door and stomped into the vaulted room. “Stupid! So stupid!” Annoyed with herself for even hoping such thoughts, Maggie quickly saw to the tea for Clayton and his guest, grateful that she’d baked several teacakes and a batch of scones before she’d collapsed and slept.
Carrying the tray to the salon, the sound of voices echoed from inside the room. Balancing the tray on one hand, she knocked on the door and went in. Clayton turned from his guests. “Put it on the table, Maggie.”
Without saying a word, she did as instructed and went to leave.
“One minute. Maggie, come and meet my oldest friend.” Clayton turned to his guest. “Edward, this is Maggie, my housekeeper. She’s the one who is ruling the roost. This is Lord Edward Hindmarch, the Earl of Darlington.”
Taken aback by meeting gentry, Maggie stood wide-eyed then remembered her manners and offered a slight curtsey, her balance off kilter.
Straightened, she thanked God she hadn’t toppled over. “Nice to meet you, my Lord.”
Edward Hindmarch offered a smile. Golden haired, his clothes fit to perfection. He was perfect. Too perfect. Something wasn’t quite right, and though Maggie couldn’t put her finger on it, she knew instinctively that this man had secrets. “Nice to know someone is keeping Clayton in order, Maggie.”
“I do what I can.”
“And I see you’ve had success. This place is looking better than it has for some time, and Clayton too.” Edward cast Clayton a grave look of concern, and then leaned over to Maggie. “Keep him safe, my dear.”
Maggie’s eyes widened at the visitor’s serious tone.
“What are you two conniving? She’s not trying to convince you that I need to go out for three walks a day, is she?”
Edward’s laughter bubbled. “Wouldn’t do you any harm.”
Clayton snorted. “And you call yourself my friend.”
As the two men sat to take their tea, Maggie escaped, closing the door behind her and taking refuge in the kitchen.
Grateful to be alone, she quickly made sure the lunch and supper menus were underway, then sat in the sunny solar just off the kitchen to try and discern why a distinct unease had settled across her heart.
Edward Hindmarch seemed a nice enough man, a golden Adonis, to be certain. There was, however, something about him, something that fired an unsettling sense of disquiet in Maggie.
What it was, she had no idea.
Edward’s parting comment was that she keep Clayton safe—but from what? Or whom?
***
Still exhausted, Maggie fell into a fitful sleep at the end of the long day. Sleep however, did not last long, as a scream woke her with a start. She bolted upright, heart thumping. Chills slid down her spine as goose bumps came to life across her arms.
She listened. What was it? Who was it?
The sound came again, every nuance pain-filled.
Tossing back the covers, she opened her bedroom door to the hallway.
Where?
“Sorry, so sorry. I’m sorry.”
Clayton?
In two long strides, Maggie reached his closed bedroom door and rushed in. The thread of moonbeams broke the darkness from behind a gap in the always-closed curtains.
“Clayton?”
“Help me. Help me. They are all dead. My punishment.”
Though he called out, Clayton lay asleep, his face wracked with pain, the brutal scars criss-crossing his cheek, distended white ridges of corded flesh.
“Clayton, you’re dreaming.”
“Nightmare is my punishment.”
“What punishment? Why?”
“They died. All dead. Gone. Only I remain. Me. Their leader, who didn’t lead.”
His talk feverish, Maggie retreated to the nearby bathroom, grateful that Bellerose had been modernized to include bathrooms with every bedroom. She found a facecloth and dampened it. Back at Clayton’s side, she laid it across his brow. “It’s only a dream, Clayton, It’s not real.”
He struggled up on his elbows, now wide-awake, eyes starkly haunted. “Real enough. Real death. Real failure.”
“You’re no failure. You were wounded. You could not have been at their side.”
“I should have been.”
“Should have? It is war, Clayton. Death happens.”
He fell back to his pillow, searching eyes staring up at her. “How did you become so philosophical?”
“Soldiers are not the only ones who live with war. We all lived it. I lived it daily. My father lived it, and died because of it. She blinked away the vision of her father hanging like some piece of meat at the Smithfield market. Oh, father, why did you leave me?
As they talked a moment, the tension in Cl
ayton’s expression relaxed.
“The dreams have eased?”
“I’m awake.”
“That is good. When I was a little girl and I had a bad dream, my mother would come and turn my pillow over. She said if I did, it would squash the bad dream and it would go away.”
“And did it?”
Maggie offered a gentle smile at the memory. “Yes, I do believe they did. Would you like me to turn your pillow?”
Taking his silence as acceptance of something so silly, but real when a person is desperate, Maggie leaned forward and withdrew his pillows, giving them a shake and tucking them back beneath his head. “There, that should get rid of them.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. I will leave you to sleep.” She gathered up the damp cloth and went to turn from him, but he snatched at her hand.
“Don’t go. Stay awhile, just sit here.”
Maggie’s gaze dropped to where his fingers circled her wrist. His touch was warm, and very enticing. How easy it would be to give in. It had been so long since another being had touched her. Been kind. Gentle. And at that moment it was as if that was the most important thing in her life. For another human being to actually touch her. To be cared for.
“How about I read to you from the diary?”
His mouth quirked a bit. “Your obsession is showing, but yes, that would be nice. Josephine is an intriguing forebear.”
“You wait there.”
“Not going anywhere.”
She shot him a half smile and quickly retreated to her bedroom, retrieving the diary from the table beside her bed. It lay open where she’d finished reading late the night before.
As she went to go back to Clayton’s room, she quickly slipped her dressing gown on, tying the sash in a knot.
Standing beside his bed again, Clayton turned from staring balefully at the visible slice of moon and suddenly Maggie wondered what on earth she was doing?
“Sit down, Maggie, you’re giving me a crick in my neck.”
She looked to the bed, then to the Victorian sofa beneath the window.
“There is no light for reading.”
“So sit on the bed.”
Maggie swallowed back the burst of indecision.
“I won’t bite.”
That he intuitively understood her uncertainty fired the now familiar heat to stain her cheeks. “Perhaps not, but I already know you bark.” Switching on the lamp, she sat tentatively at the foot of the bed.
“Have you enough light?”
“Asks the man who would live in eternal darkness.”
His brows furrowed instantly.
“Oh, Clayton, I’m sorry, I didn’t think before I spoke.”
“Words justly deserved, nevertheless.”
Her mouth quirked, but this time she stalled the words on the tip of her tongue. She shifted slightly edging further up the bed. Nervously she slaked the tip of her tongue across her lips that seemed so unusually dry. She held the diary in both hands. “Josephine has gone to a party, a fiesta she calls it.” Maggie eyed Clayton over the top of the book. “It is rather exotic isn’t it? Imagine traveling all the way to New Orleans. The adventures she must have had!”
“Is that why you like to read about her? Because she is adventurous?”
“I’ve always liked reading. We had a small library of sorts near my home. I would go there and read and read. Treasure Island, Grimms’ fairy tales, Dickens and Shakespeare, and of course, Miss Bronte. But then Germany dropped its bombs on it.” She picked up the diary again and started reading. Her teeth scraped across her bottom lip, biting it. “Something is not right, Clayton. She mentions this visitor and there is a certain unease in her entries since that night.”
“What do you think is the problem?”
“I don’t know. Oh how I wish she’d written more, but she is definitely nervous. Something is worrying her.”
Clayton yawned, stretching his arms above his head, and then tucked them beneath his head.
“You are tired, you need to sleep.” She closed the diary and stood.
Clayton reached for her again. “Stay, Maggie. Can you please stay until sleep takes me?”
There was a hint of desperation in his tone and though he had been relaxed these last few minutes as she read from the diary, nightmares still haunted his consciousness.
Reaching over to the table lamp she switched off the light, then took her seat again on the bed. “Go to sleep, Clayton.”
“Thank you.” He took her hand in his. “You’re too good to me, Miss Francis, did you know that?”
As clouds skimmed across the night sky, obliterating the moon, the room descended into darkness. Maggie sat rigid at first, uncertain what to do. So she listened to the steady rhythmic sound of Clayton’s breathing which, ironically, she found calming. The minutes ticked by and she too felt the fall of sleep take hold, unfettered and unchallenged, she lay down beside him, and slept.
***
Dawn eked into the room, drawing Maggie from the best sleep she’d had in weeks. She went to stretch, but stilled and held her breath. Something wasn’t right.
A hand lay heavily across her middle, fingers caressing her belly.
Oh, dear heaven. She was...
Heat scalded her cheeks as realization set in. She had fallen asleep in Clayton’s bed and that hand idly stroking lazy circles across her abdomen, was his.
What if he woke?
She had to get out of there. Easing up, she breathed a sharp sigh of relief when she spied the bed covering. At least she had lain on the outside of the blankets.
As her feet landed on the floor, one foot connected with something.
The diary.
She bent to retrieve it, but at that moment Clayton stirred. “Don’t go. Stay.”
Spinning away from the bed, ignoring the diary, she raced on silent feet across the room. Hand fisted on the door, she glanced back at him. Thank God he still slept.
What if...
She shook her head.
Get out of here.
She opened the door as silently as she could, only to come to an abrupt halt as she closed it.
“Going somewhere?”
Edward Hindmarch stood at the top of the landing. Eyes the color of the ice blue lake raked her from head to toe and back up—slowly.
Something crawled across Maggie’s skin. “I was checking on Clayton.”
“And I guess you’re going to make yourself indispensable. Or maybe you already are.”
Maggie took a step to the right and reached for her bedroom door. “He had a nightmare and called out.”
“And you couldn’t resist helping. Seems to me it took a long time—all night, in fact. I’ve met women like you before. Women who see an opportunity.”
Maggie’s gut churned. “Don’t be disgusting.”
“I’ll be watching you, Miss Francis. Clayton is my friend and I won’t allow him to be used and abused when he’s not at his best.”
“He is recovering and I am not using him. His mother offered me a job as his housekeeper. That is all.”
“Make sure it is.”
Maggie straightened, refusing to let this man bully her. “You yourself said I should keep him safe. I intend to.”
Edward pushed off from the wall. “Good. I’ll keep you to that, for everything and everyone, Miss Francis, is not what or who they appear to be.”
Maggie frowned. Confused, her brain in a fugue from her disturbed sleep, she tried to grasp what Clayton’s friend uttered.
But still it didn’t make sense.
Chapter Six
Troubled by Edward Hindmarch’s comments, Maggie kept out of Clayton and Edward’s way. With Florrie’s help, they completed their morning tasks, and the young woman was delighted when Maggie allowed her to serve breakfast.
But now Maggie had another problem. After tidying Clayton’s room, she’d taken the diary with her, leaving it in the library for later when she would have a moment t
o read some more. Now it had seemingly vanished.
She’d searched everywhere, but it was nowhere to be found. How could she explain to Clayton she’d lost his family heirloom? Though he didn’t seem as enamored with the diary as she was, it still belonged to him as part of his family’s history.
After another fruitless search upstairs, she headed down the stairs practising her explanation as she went, only to meet a fretful Florrie on the bottom step. The young woman glanced repeatedly toward the closed library door, her eyes wide and wild.
“What is it, Florrie?”
“It’s a policeman, Miss. A detective all the way from London.” She clamped a hand up to her mouth and whispered in Maggie’s ear. “He wants to see Mr. Abbott about that stuff they get from flowers.”
“What stuff? What flowers?”
“You know, miss, what those people grow in China.”
Maggie stared at Florrie in disbelief. “China? You mean poppies? Opium?” Her mind reeled with the implications. “Where is Mr. Abbott?”
“In the library and Lord Hindmarch is there, too.”
At the mention of Clayton’s friend, Maggie’s stomach soured. Something about the man continued to make her uneasy. The man held a secret.
Just at that moment, raised voices echoed from behind the closed library door. “You’ve got to be joking? I’ve been fighting for my bloody country these last four years. I haven’t had time to bring that poison into the country. And why would I?”
Florrie jumped. “Hell. The boss sounds like he’s about to blow a cork.”
Maggie’s mouth pursed. “Indeed. Perhaps it’s time for a cup of tea. Go put the kettle to boil, Florrie.” Wiping her already sweaty palms down the sides of her apron, she pushed her shoulders back and sucked in a steadying breath. She knocked quietly on the door, and then entered. Three sets of eyes switched toward her.
Fury darkened Clayton’s emerald eyes, while worry etched itself across Edward’s expression. The third man, she did not know.
He was a squat man in his early thirties, with a black wool coat that had seen better days, the threadbare patches darned with odd bits of colored wool. His face gaunt, grooves etched deeply into his cheeks as if he had not had a decent meal for some time. A cap stuck out of his coat pocket and he held a notebook in one hand, a pencil in the other.
Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2) Page 6
