Somewhere in Northallerton’s history, an owner had been a doctor or interested in medicine. The rare compendiums, folios and monographs dealt with the most obscure medical knowledge. It was a folded leaflet tucked among those pages that had raised the theory that dock plants salved nettle stings because of the acid/base relationship.
Agatha was a font of herbal lore and medicinal cures, yet her learning had been handed from mother to daughter, the science behind the knowledge absent. In the last year, Bronwen had learned many of the real explanations here in Jasper’s library.
When the door to the library opened barely an hour after she had settled with a book, Bronwen looked up, surprised. She was rarely disturbed here. Even Warrick had learned she did not care for tea and refreshments when she was reading.
Tor stepped through the door, looking around with a surprised expression.
Bronwen’s heart sank. She had forgotten for a while that the man was in the house. Now he had broken her peace.
Tor spotted her sitting on the stairs leading up to the gallery. “Ah…” He shut the door and moved into the room, threading through a pair of leather armchairs. “A riddle is answered.”
“The riddle being ‘how can I best interrupt Bronwen?’” she asked, closing the book with a thud.
His gaze met hers. There was no rancor there. Given how rude she had been to him the previous evening, the lack of animosity was a surprise. “The riddle was, ‘where did she learn about biological chemicals, when students of the Sorbonne must study for years to be granted access to such tomes?’”
“I have studied for years.”
He turned on his heel, taking in every inch of the large room. “I believe you.”
“I suppose you’re one of those people who thinks women have no need of higher education?”
“I suppose you’re one of those women who intends to study at the new ladies’ college at Cambridge, when it opens?”
“Where I am told what I must read?” Bronwen shook her head. “They will not issue degrees to women even if they pass their examinations with higher marks than the men. Why would I bother with Cambridge when there is more knowledge here on these shelves?”
Tor glanced about the room once more. He was dressed this morning in a dark frock coat and striped cravat. The cravat was pinned crookedly.
Was this the first time he had ever pinned a cravat himself? Bronwen suspected that there were many tasks he must undertake that he had never done before.
What would make a man like him suffer through the many petty irritations such a lack of experience would bring him? Why run away?
His gaze came back to her. He glanced at the closed book on her knees. “I should leave you to your reading.”
“Yes.”
Yet, he did not move.
Bronwen sighed and rested her forearms on the book and linked her fingers together, waiting.
Tor came closer to the stairs. “I feel I should apologize for last evening.”
“I accept your apology. Now…” She lifted the book.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs. She was sitting on the fifth step, which put her head at his level. “We got off to a bad start,” he said.
Bronwen shook her head. “We are not at the start of anything. You are a temporary guest in the house where I live and that is all. How we interact while you are here has no bearing on the long term. Be rude if you must. It is immaterial to me.”
He examined her for a long, silent moment. Bronwen did not writhe under his gaze. Why should she? She felt no guilt for her plain speaking. She had been honest. It was not her fault if he found the truth unpalatable.
“There is not a single curse in your speech,” he said, “yet I feel insulted. I cannot fathom why.”
Bronwen linked her fingers together once more. “You feel insulted because I am utterly indifferent about you. I imagine indifference is a novelty to a man like you.”
His gaze turned inward. “Yes, I suspect you are right. I have never met someone who cares so little about me.”
“No?” she asked, her tone cool. “Or do they merely let you think they care?”
“Disingenuity is a blight of the higher ranked life,” he admitted. He put his foot on the first step and bent closer. “Why do you not care?”
Bronwen straightened up, putting distance between them. “Why do you care why I don’t care?”
“I am curious.”
“You seek more insults? One is not enough?”
“There is a violence to your indifference…it is as though you are protesting too much. Shakespeare had that right.”
“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” Bronwen quoted.
“‘O, but she’ll keep her word,’” Tor replied, which was the next line. His smile was small. “Shakespeare’s Prince of Denmark has lessons for everyone,” he added.
“You like that I insult you every time we speak?”
“We have only spoken twice,” he pointed out, for he had been absent at the breakfast table. “This moment is that second occasion. You have been honest, both times. Honest and direct.”
“Ah.” She put her hands on the book, resting them there. “It is true, I am forcing myself to remain indifferent about you. The world you live in, who you really are…these are things far outside my own small life. You have descended upon Jasper’s house, using your connection to buy yourself an adventure. Then, when you have taken your fill, you will return to your life, never to look down upon us again.” She shrugged. “Therefore, I will remain indifferent to you. You will soon be gone.”
Tor straightened with a snap, as if she had slapped him. His eyes narrowed. “You think I am looking for a toy to play with. The distraction of novelty, to appease my ennui.”
“I cannot imagine anyone running from the life of privilege you enjoy for any other reason.”
He spun away, as if emotions were driving his feet. He walked in a tight, hard circle and came back to the stair. His jaw was tight.
Bronwen felt no fear, despite the clear signs of anger he displayed. He would not dare touch her. If he tried, she was sitting at just the right height to kick him and today, she wore her boots, too.
His hands gripped the iron railings. The knuckles whitened. “You know nothing of my life.”
“Precisely.”
He shook his head. “You read these books, yet you fail to absorb their lessons.” He swallowed, his jaw working. “Have you studied the symptoms and treatment of cholera?”
“Briefly.” Her heart gave a little squeeze.
“Have you ever seen a cholera victim?” He shook his head. “Don’t bother answering. I know you have not. You are a maiden, living a sheltered and indulged life. You have wisdom of a kind from your reading, while you have no real experience of life.”
“And you have?” She tried to laugh. It sounded strained.
“I visited the hospital in Edinburgh,” he said, his voice low. “Every day for a week, to see if there was anything I or my people could do.” His gaze turned inward. “The stench turns your stomach. Then there are the moans and screams of pain. People collapse in on themselves, turning into dried out husks, in a matter of hours.”
“Dehydration…” Bronwen whispered.
“They contort themselves and scream while they are doing it,” he added. “The children are the worst. They thrash on their pallets and their eyes roll.” His gaze came back to her face. “Death is a relief, after that.”
Bronwen swallowed, her heart thudding.
“I watched people suffer and knew there was nothing I could do about it and not just because this is not my country or my people.” He pushed himself off the stairs with a hard thrust and turned away. “My own country suffers,” he added, his voice low. “There is a sickness that has gripped it for years. People die. Healthy, young people. Old, frail people. Women, children, men. The sickness does not distinguish who it chooses as its next victim. It can strike anyone and every time the symptoms are diffe
rent. No expert can tell me what is the cause.” He turned to face her. His throat worked. “And they look to me to provide answers, to fix everything for them. I am their overlord. It is my duty to protect them and I am failing.”
Bronwen didn’t dare move, for the impotent fury radiated from him in waves. His hands were fisted by his sides. The tension in his shoulders made him look like a man on the verge of exploding.
Then he drew in a heavy, harsh breath. And another. His shoulders settled and he flexed his hands.
“I do not linger here looking for an adventure,” he added, his tone dry.
“You think you will find answers here? In the Yorkshire dales?” She couldn’t prevent the note of incredulity in her voice.
He ruffled his hair with a rough movement, as if he were trying to scrub away his frustration. “If I seek anything at all, it is the hope that I might find…perspective.” There was bitterness in his eyes. “Of course, someone as indifferent as you would not care to understand that, either.”
He moved away, his steps fused with the anger he had subsumed.
“Socrates said a change of context can promote critical thinking,” Bronwen said.
He turned to look at her. His brow lifted. “Exactly.” He sounded surprised.
Bronwen put the book on the step, got to her feet and moved to the floor. “I was wrong about you,” she admitted. “I thought that…well, you know what I thought. I misunderstood. I am sorry.”
He studied her for a moment, then let out a rushed breath. “You have an uncommon clarity of self. Most men are incapable of seeing their mistakes even when presented with evidence. Even more are incapable of admitting it.”
Bronwen shrugged. “I am not a man.”
He smiled. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, too.”
“Most people misunderstand me. That is not a difficult admission to make.”
He nodded. “Your indifference makes them misinterpret. I assumed you were merely a woman grasping for freedom in any way she could and to Hades with societal expectations. Only, you are using your freedom.” He lifted his hand and waved it to take in the room. “For this. Freedom gives you the means to study and not in some controlled college with narrow-minded professors.”
Bronwen couldn’t help smiling. Her pleasure warmed her. Few people grasped so quickly why she lived the way she did.
Tor sat on the arm of the sofa and crossed his arms. “What have you studied? Where has your reading taken you?”
Her surprise made her start. “You really wish to know?”
“Yes.”
Bronwen recalled the many facets of human knowledge she had tapped, some deeply and some of which she had only skated the surface. “I take knowledge wherever it is available,” she said, as a different idea occurred to her. “Tell me, are you really looking for a fresh perspective to jolt you into new ways of thinking?”
Tor frowned. “A succinct way of putting it. Yes, that is what I seek, although until your indifference pushed me into describing it, I did not know it.”
Bronwen nodded. “Then you must come with me.”
His arms dropped. “Where?”
“Wherever I go. Come and see for yourself what I see and observe. Today, I want to visit Agatha and make sure her cottage survived the rainstorm and help her hang the rosemary for drying.”
“Should I call for the carriage?”
“Don’t be silly. We’ll walk.”
“Walk,” he repeated, sounding flummoxed.
“Do you even own a pair of boots?” she asked, eyeing his elegant shoes.
“Perhaps Jasper will lend me a pair.”
“Hop to it, then,” Bronwen told him. “It’s five miles to Agatha’s and I would prefer to be home for lunch. Cook has made cottage pie.”
Tor looked affronted. “Hop to it?” He raised his brow.
“You’re not a prince of Denmark here, remember?” She met his gaze. “Perspective,” she reminded him.
“Yes,” he agreed and strode to the door.
Bronwen went to collect her shawl and bonnet, resisting the warm trickle of appreciation that a man had listened to her—actually listened—and no lesser man than the Archeduke Edvard Christoffer, at that.
For her, he should remain merely Tor Besogende, too.
Chapter Seven
Sometimes, in the morning, Rhys found it difficult to get his hands to work as they should. At first, it had been a mere stiffness that had soon worked itself out as the day passed. Lately, though, especially on cold mornings such as this one, his fingers would not cooperate.
It was not the first unsettling sign of aging he had noticed, only the most severe one. Usually, he ignored that he was fifty-five years old, because he still felt like a young man. At least, he did if he avoided mirrors. The gray in his hair was always a shock to him.
Instead of telling Anna he could not manage his cravat for himself as he had his entire life, he announced he would not go to the office today. Anna would fuss and worry if he said why. Instead, he spoke of a light schedule and Benjamin’s more than competent handling of the partners.
Rhys slid his dressing gown over his shirt and made his way downstairs, flexing and cracking his knuckles, trying to restore feeling to his fingers. He would settle in the library and read the newspapers—all of them—from front page to back. Then there was that excellent new volume by John Stuart Mill on the reading stand…
Alice was sitting at the desk, writing. She looked up when Rhys entered and smiled, her green eyes dancing and her dimples deepening. “I hope you don’t mind, Father? Your desk is much nicer for writing than the dining room.” She was a pretty sight, in an apple green dress and a white ribbon trailing from the back of her hair. She looked fresh and lovely and sweet.
“I don’t mind at all,” Rhys assured her. He enjoyed the way the morning sun was make her pale blonde hair gleam. Her skin was clear and so pale it sometimes seemed it might be transparent. “You don’t like the morning room?”
Alice wrinkled her nose. “Iefan has been smoking in there. The smoke makes me cough until it hurts.”
“That was last night, wasn’t it?” Rhys asked, for Iefan had left for Sussex on the morning train to follow up with clients.
“It still makes me cough.”
“Then you are welcome to use my desk. Who are you writing to?”
“Neil.” Alice’s cheeks bloomed red. She concentrated on the blotting of her pen. Her breathing quickened.
Rhys made himself sort through the folded newspapers just as he had been, while his mind raced. “Neil is in Northumberland now?”
“His regiment returned to barracks last month.”
“How did the India campaign go?”
“There was no battles at all. Just heat and dust and elephants. Neil was very disappointed.”
Then Neil was writing back to her and sharing intimate details. Rhys wondered if Vaughn and Elisa were aware of the correspondence, although he didn’t for a moment wonder if they approved of their son’s alliance with his daughter. Neil had grown into a fine man and an even better officer.
Rhys cleared his throat. “Has he…spoken to you, Alice?”
Alice lifted her gaze to meet his. Her face was flushed. “He wanted to come to the Gathering, Father, only the boat was delayed. He has leave at Christmas and he said he would try to make it to London…” She bit her lip. “I’m sure he will speak to me then.” Her gaze dropped to her hands, as if she had run out of courage.
Rhys lifted her chin, to make her look at him. “Do you love him, darling daughter?”
Her eyes glowed. She glowed. “I do.”
“Then no matter when he speaks to you, it will be time enough. Neil is a good man. He won’t make you wait.”
Her happiness welled up inside her, turning her expression into one of pure joy.
Rhys hugged her. He couldn’t help it. Her simple pleasure and love were infectious.
“Oh, Daddy, I’m so happy!” she whispered, her cheek
against his shoulder. “I don’t know why Sadie and Bronwen insist upon finding happiness somewhere out in the world when it is right here inside me!”
“They’re just not as lucky as you, my sweet one,” Rhys told her. Fierce love overwhelmed him, making his vision blur and his heart to throb. Of his four daughters, Alice was the sweet one, the quiet one, the one he had been afraid would be lost behind the strident clamoring of the others.
Neil had seen her beauty and goodness, though. Thank God for that.
Rhys kissed her silky hair, relief making him dizzy.
Alice coughed and leaned away from him. She waved her hand in front of her face and coughed again. “Goodness, Father. Your gown reeks of smoke!”
“I don’t smoke,” Rhys pointed out.
“Wood smoke!” She coughed again. The sound was a harsh bark that pulled from the depths of her lungs. It hurt to hear it. Rhys hid his grimace as Alice got herself back under control.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry.” She pressed her hand to her mouth, covering it as she gave another small cough. “The tiniest whiff of smoke sets me off.” She dropped her hand and smiled an apology at him.
Rhys caught her hand and lifted it up so he could see clearly.
There were red spots sprayed across the palm.
His heart turned to ice.
“What is it, Father?” Alice asked.
Hiding his reaction, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his handkerchief and cleaned off her palm. “It’s nothing,” he lied. “Nothing at all. Finish your letter to Neil, my darling. Enjoy yourself.”
Her face lit. “I will.” She picked up the pen, eager to return to the letter.
Rhys made himself walk away, struggling to look normal as he did, for now, not just his hands wouldn’t cooperate. Everything had seized up, except for his heart, which careened about like a wild bird in a cage.
* * * * *
Bronwen looked up from the page she was reading, putting together Price’s Theorem of Reason in her head.
Her gaze took in the entire library, because she was sitting at the top of the stairs, up by where the book had been shelved.
Scandalous Scions Two Page 6
