by Darcy Burke
Or not. She wasn’t sure there was any way to defend his behavior.
The two-story farmhouse looked the same, with its cheery mullioned windows and charming fence with the gate her father had built with the letter T leading up the walkway to the front door.
Her breath caught when the door opened and out bounded a familiar dog.
Isis leapt into the yard and dashed about for a minute before going to relieve herself. Calder came out onto the stoop and looked about, his gaze settling on Isis as she finished her business.
Felicity knocked on the roof of the coach, and the driver knew to pull to the house and stop—she’d told him she might want to. She’d had no idea if anyone lived there. And now it seemed…Calder did?
Not just because he’d come outside with his dog, but because smoke curled from the chimney, indicating it wasn’t a quick visit to check on the property. Or maybe it was, and he just preferred to linger. Her heart twisted—he was so incredibly complicated.
Felicity watched out the window as the coach pulled up in front of the house. Calder stepped from the stoop and moved along the path until he reached the gate.
The coachman helped her out, and she told him she’d just be a few minutes. Calder opened the gate for her as she approached, and they walked along the path in silence for a moment. Isis chased a bird who’d had the nerve to land on a fence post.
“What are you doing here?” Felicity asked.
He looked at her askance, a hint of amusement—amusement!—hovering over his mouth. “I could ask you the same.”
“I haven’t come by since I returned to Hartwell. I was curious. I never imagined to find you here.”
“The estate owns it. I didn’t know that until I inherited and read through all my father’s account books. There was a great deal he didn’t tell me.” If that was meant to be a veiled comment about the horrible secret the former duke had kept from all of them, she was impressed with how little vitriol Calder’s tone carried.
He opened the door to the house. “Do you want to go inside?”
“Please.”
He gestured for her to precede him. She walked into the hall, which was flanked by two rooms, one her mother had used for their formal receiving room and the other they’d used as a library and family parlor. She went into the latter and saw that the furniture was the same.
“It looks exactly as I remember,” she said softly as she moved about the room, trailing her gloved fingers over a table, the back of a settee, and the mantel. A warm fire heated her as she turned and took in the familiar space. “Why is it the same?”
He stood in the doorway to the hall, Isis at his side, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I suppose whoever lived here after you left kept everything.”
“Where are they now?”
He shrugged. “The house was empty when I inherited.” He moved into the room, keeping his gaze from meeting hers. “I like to spend time here when I want to be alone.”
Except as far as she could tell, he was always alone. Which meant he came here for another reason, at least partially. She wouldn’t press him. “I just came from Hartwell House. I have a list of repairs—rather, I can draft one for you. The house requires general maintenance as well as more furniture.” She looked around the room. “We could start with what’s here.”
His eyes met hers with a look of astonishment. “You’d give your family’s things away?”
“They’re not doing anyone any good here,” she said. “At Hartwell House, they will be put to good use.”
Calder stood near the window, through which Felicity could see her coach. She couldn’t leave the coachman waiting long, not in this cold.
“Calder, I somewhat understand why you stopped giving money to Hartwell House, but you must see that they need it. Surely you can spare enough to see the building repaired at the very least. They are in dire need.”
“You ‘somewhat understand’? How is that?” His tone held a dark, mocking edge.
“I comprehend that you don’t wish to do anything your father did. Since he supported Hartwell House, you will not.”
“Or perhaps I’m just a coldhearted monster who doesn’t want to help others.”
She snorted. “I don’t believe that any more than you do.” She was fibbing a bit—she wasn’t sure if he believed that about himself or not. “I see a man who loves his dog and his sisters.” She walked toward him, slowly, as if she could frighten him if she moved too quickly.
He didn’t budge as she approached. “Will you ever stop pestering me?”
“No. At least not until you’re yourself again. I’ll be right here for however long that takes.” She stopped directly in front of him so that they nearly touched.
“Felicity, I am not the dream you remember. I am cruel and horrible, exactly the way I was raised to be. As it happens, I will repair Hartwell House so that I can then turn it into a workhouse.”
She knew he didn’t mean it. He was trying to push her away because she’d said she would stay as long as it took. “Mrs. Armstrong will never allow that.”
“She will if I offer her a large sum of money. People will do anything for blunt.”
The truth hit her hard and fast, particularly standing here in this room—her home—a place her father had forsaken for nothing more than money. “Please don’t do that,” she pleaded. “You don’t have to do that to drive me away. I’ll leave if you ask me to.”
His jaw worked, and he opened his mouth. But nothing came out before he snapped it closed.
“Do you want me to go?” she asked.
He looked utterly conflicted, his eyes blazing as if a war were being fought just behind them.
Felicity realized she’d pushed him far enough today. He was making progress—with his sister, and with Hartwell House. Perhaps she could make one more attempt…
She lifted her hands to his shoulders. “Just visit Hartwell House and see for yourself. I agree that you will repair it, and the idea of a workhouse will be lost completely.”
She stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his. She kissed him once, twice, a third time, her mouth lingering beneath his. “And I’m not leaving Hartwell—or you.”
Letting him go was difficult. She wanted to enfold him in her arms and show him how much she cared for him, what it would be like if he let himself truly feel.
But she didn’t. She stepped back, gave him a final look that conveyed all the warmth and hope she had for him, then left the house.
She’d come back another day and see the whole thing. Today hadn’t been about that or her. It was about Calder and bringing him back. He was so close, and she wasn’t giving up until he found peace.
Chapter 7
Calder’s brain hurt. He’d thought and reflected and bloody felt more in the past week than he had in the past decade. And what good had it done?
He was allowing the St. Stephen’s Day party to happen at Hartwell, something that would have made his father happy, which made Calder decidedly surly.
Then he’d invited his sisters and their husbands to spend Christmas at Hartwood, something else that would have pleased their father. He’d adored them, particularly Bianca, who was the “very image” of their mother, as their father had said a thousand times. And the hell of it was that they adored him. It was a wedge between him and his sisters, invisible to them and insurmountable to him. He could easily tell them why he despised the man they loved, but why ruin their memory of him?
He could hear Felicity now—See, you are every bit the man I knew you were.
Maybe. Somewhere deep inside. Somewhere he wanted to keep private and unseen.
And now, here he was at Hartwell House to investigate their needs. All because of Felicity.
The afternoon was slightly warmer than the day before, but still cold enough that he’d brought his coach. He stepped out of the vehicle, and Isis leapt down beside him.
Calder frowned at the manor house. It looked perfectly fine. He knew he was being
foolish, that he likely couldn’t see its defects. Plus, Felicity had said they needed furniture. He couldn’t decide whether there was a deficit unless he went inside.
He didn’t particularly want to.
Postponing the inevitable, he walked around the house, sizing up the exterior as best he could. He noted a broken window and a potential leak judging from the water marks on the stone.
Calder realized Isis was no longer with him. He looked around, then saw the greyhound dash by. She picked up a stick with her mouth and trotted back around the corner to the back of the house.
Following her, Calder saw the reason for Isis’s distraction. A girl with bright blonde hair patted the dog’s head, then threw the stick again. Hell, she had quite a throw.
“Is that your dog?” she asked as he walked over to her.
“Yes.”
The girl’s mouth drooped with momentary disappointment. “I was hoping she didn’t belong to anyone.” She sighed. “She’s very beautiful.”
“I think so too. Her name is Isis.” He glanced back at the house as Isis came back and the girl took the stick once more. “Do you live here?” Calder asked.
The girl nodded. “I’m Alice.” She threw the stick again, and Isis ran after it like she was a puppy once more. “I wish I could have a dog. But Mrs. Armstrong says there isn’t room for pets. Except her cat, who everyone says is older than any cat should be.”
“How old is that?” Calder asked.
The girl’s brow creased. “Oh, very old. I should say fifteen maybe.”
Calder chuckled. “Is that old for a cat or for people too?”
Isis returned with the stick, and Alice took it. Then she blinked up at Calder. “Only for cats, silly. People-old is like you. You must be at least thirty.”
Calder’s chuckle bloomed into full laughter. “I am in fact thirty. How old are you?”
“Six.” She threw the stick. “And a half.”
He knew how important that half year could be at her age. “So you’d like to have a dog, but Mrs. Armstrong won’t let you have one. What about your mother, what does she say?”
“She wouldn’t mind. She thinks my younger brother might like one too.”
“You have a younger brother?”
She nodded as Isis ran to her. “Joseph. He’s three.”
“What happened to your papa?”
“He died.” She said this without emotion but managed not to sound cold like Calder did. For her, it was simply a statement of fact, of the reality that was her life.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” And he was sorry their little family had needed to rely on the charity of Mrs. Armstrong. Yet it was a far better alternative than a workhouse.
Blast it all, he was a monster. He couldn’t turn this place into a workhouse. “Do you like living here?” he asked her gently as she continued to throw the stick for Isis.
“Most of the time. Sometimes Mama cries because we can’t live in our own house. I only care that we’re together. But I wish our room didn’t leak.” She made a face. “I hate that dripping noise when it rains. I shall be ever so happy when the new institution is built. It won’t have a drip.” She smiled at him, and the brilliance of it nearly made him weep.
When Isis returned next, she flopped at Alice’s feet and let the stick fall to the ground.
“I think that’s her way of saying she’s tired,” Calder said.
“I should go inside anyway. Mama said I shouldn’t stay out long because it’s so cold.” She walked a few feet away and squatted down.
Calder followed her and watched as she picked up a handful of soldiers and a wagon. One of the wheels fell to the ground as she stood.
“Dammit.”
Calder blinked at her, his eyes widening. “I beg your pardon?”
She clutched her toys and looked at him, her features frozen. “John says that all the time. It’s a naughty word, isn’t it?”
“It’s not entirely suitable for six—and-a-half—year-old girls.”
“Please don’t tell Mama. Or Mrs. Armstrong. I won’t get any pudding for dessert.”
Calder put his hand on his heart. “I swear your secret is safe with me. Dammit.” He winked at her, and she giggled. Oh, that sound… He looked at her and saw the future that should have been his—a bright-eyed, blonde-haired little girl with a love for dogs and a penchant for curse words.
He bent and picked up the wheel, then held out his hand for the wagon. “May I try to fix it for you?”
She nodded, handing him the wagon.
Calder studied the toy and realized there was a piece missing. He surveyed the ground and managed to find it. He slid the wheel back onto the axle, then bent to retrieve the missing piece, which he affixed to the end to keep the wheel on. “Here you are.” He handed it back to her.
“Thank you, sir.”
He noted that the toy soldiers seemed more suited to a boy. “Would you like to have a doll?”
She shrugged. “I s’pose. But I’d rather have more soldiers. And maybe a gun. I asked for one—and a dog—on St. Nicholas Day, but I got these instead.”
Calder couldn’t help but laugh again. “You want a gun?”
“Yes, so I can shoot Freddie.”
Stifling his laughter, Calder adopted his most serious tone—the fact that she wanted to shoot someone was serious. “Who’s Freddie?”
“He pulls my hair and steals my biscuits. I don’t like him.”
“I don’t think I like him either. However, shooting him is rather excessive.”
“I wouldn’t kill him,” she said sullenly.
“Well, that’s good to know. How about you find revenge in another, more fitting, way?”
Calder’s mind worked until he settled on a solution. “You say he steals your biscuits?” At her nod, Calder continued. “Next time, put something in your biscuits that would make him scream.”
She stared up at him, rapt. “What would make a boy scream?”
“Maggots.” Calder knew this from personal experience. When he’d been around Alice’s age, he’d hidden food—he couldn’t remember nor could he identify what it was—in his room. Sometime later, he’d stumbled upon it only to see it was crawling with maggots. He’d screamed and then he’d been punished for hiding the food.
“On second thought, perhaps you shouldn’t do that,” he said. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
She shook her head vigorously. “Oh, I won’t. He’s the one stealing my biscuits, and if he says anything, Mrs. Armstrong will know he’s a thief.”
“Perhaps the biscuits should be a gift. That way you have no culpability. I’ll bring you some, for Freddie, mind you.”
“Oh, would you?” Her voice held a hint of awe that was altogether different from the awe bordering on fear that everyone else treated him with.
“Certainly, plus some for you that are maggot-free.”
She grinned widely. “I like you almost as much as your dog.”
His heart swelled. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever received.”
She rolled her eyes. “It is not.”
It actually was.
A short while later, after watching Alice go back into the house, Calder left without going inside. He didn’t need to see the leaks or the furniture that was needed to decide to support Hartwell House. His interlude with Alice had told him everything he needed to know. That Hartwell House needed his help—and dogs—and that he wasn’t entirely broken.
Severely damaged, but for the first time, he had hope that he could be fixed. He smiled, thinking of Alice shooting Freddie. That boy was going to be sorry he ever pulled her hair and stole her biscuits.
When Calder went to the kitchen to discuss his very specific biscuit requirements with the cook, all the retainers in the kitchen and scullery had stopped working and tried not to gape.
“Let me understand, Your Grace,” the cook said. “You want a half-dozen biscuits with…maggots?”
“Or some
sort of vermin that’s available at this time of year,” he said, realizing maggots could be hard to find in December unless one visited the privy. And he would never ask anyone to do that, not even on his most obnoxious day.
“I know just the thing,” one of her assistants said. “Worms are available any time of year. Would that suffice?”
“I should think so. There’s a girl at Hartwell House who says one of the boys keeps stealing her biscuits. I should like him to stop, and shooting him—that was her solution—seemed inappropriate. Worms in the biscuits he pilfers should put an end to his thievery.”
Everyone in the kitchen stared at him. Then the cook began to laugh. Others joined in. Calder found himself smiling.
After a minute, the cook said, “We’ll come up with something. He won’t be stealing her biscuits again.”
“Thank you,” Calder said. “I’ll need them tomorrow afternoon, along with some that are free of vermin for the girl.”
“Oh, we’ll make something special just for her.” The cook and her assistant shared a look, and Calder couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so…satisfied.
What he wouldn’t give to make the sensation last. Too bad it was already starting to fade.
The weather on the day before Christmas Eve was as cold as the prior two days, with an added bonus: the threat of snow. Felicity looked up at the sky as she arrived at Hartwell House with a stack of parchment.
“I don’t think it will snow until later, if at all,” her coachman noted as he helped her out of the carriage.
“Well, if it does start, we’ll leave at once,” she said. “I won’t be terribly long anyway.”
He nodded, then handed her the stack of parchment that Felicity had accumulated. She’d gathered and purchased as much as she could find. “Thank you. Are you going to the stable to warm up?”
“Aye,” he said with a grin. “The other day, I had a mug of fine ale as well.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Felicity said, chuckling before she turned to go to the door. She knocked, but no one came. Then she heard…screaming?
