Patrica Rice (20 page)

"Chelmsbys have owned this house since it was built. The lady won't let it go. You know that as well as I do. You go to that agent and we're like to find the place in flames before you return."

Having woken to the thunder of Hodges' last words, Peter looked from one stubborn expression to the other and wondered if now was the time to intervene. His fever had receded enough to enable him to realize the giant was a man and not a monster, but he still seemed terrifyingly dangerous to the slip of a female who defied him so persistently.

"Where is the lady?" he threw into the breech before Cecily's angry reply could leave her tongue.

Both stubborn faces turned toward him, and Peter nearly laughed at the conflicting emotions replacing their earlier anger.

"You saw her!" Hodges responded triumphantly.

"She's not here," Cecily answered at the same time.

The two glared at each other like brother and sister, and Peter had to pound his own pillows into an upright position.

"Who is she?" he asked affably, as long as they were providing answers of a sort.

"Lady Honora," Hodges answered defiantly.

"Well, she is here. I saw her last night." Peter lifted a challenging brow to the young maid, who slapped the breakfast tray down before him.

"You couldn't have. I was here all night and didn't see a thing. Now eat and stop this nonsense."

"You were sleeping," Peter politely pointed out. But the coffee smelled too fragrant to resist, and his interest in this quite insane argument was beginning to wane. For all he knew, he was ensconced in a house full of Bedlamites. There was no need to starve while they argued.

"You were delirious." Cecily's curt tones ended the argument.

Peter couldn't resist giving her a challenging look. "Am I so beneath the lady's notice that she wouldn't show curiosity in my appearance on her doorstep?"

That sent her into a fluster and Hodges almost grinned. "Lady Honora knows everything that goes on," he said when it became apparent that Cecily wouldn't deign to give a reply. "You be sure to tell her how good we took care of you the next time you see her.''

Cecily threw him a black look for that and stalked out. Peter was sorry she had gone. Now that his head felt more its normal size and his throat worked again, he would have liked to spend more time talking with her. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed the company of a well-brought-up young woman, even if she were only a lady's maid. The good Lord knew he had no reason to look askance at conversing with a lady's maid.

"They don't feed her enough," Peter said conversationally when the dour Hodges offered no farther insights.

"She's been ill." Hodges flung some more coals on the fire and stirred the embers, "Another winter like the last and she'll not likely survive."

That startled Peter into looking up. But before he could question further, the servant was lumbering for the door, and the forbidding lines of his face warned against any interference.

As he ate his breakfast, Peter heard the sound of children playing on the lawn, and his heart felt a little lighter. Perhaps this wasn't so strange a household as he had thought. Sun poured in the large windows, illuminating the mellowed wax of the old rosewood furniture. Better able to appreciate his surroundings today, he admired the coziness of the old-fashioned wallpaper and the delicate Queen Anne styles. An embroidered tapestry of a rose garden hung on one wall, and it was almost as good as looking out on a bright spring day. If he had to near break his neck and chill himself to the bone to arrive here, it was worth it to be inside a home again.

He looked up eagerly at the recognizable patter of Cecily's feet in the hall. He hoped she wasn't too angry at their earlier disagreement, if it could be called that. She was an intriguing little thing, and he would like to know her better.

She seemed to have returned to her normal self when she joined him, if this unsmiling owl-like creature was her normal self. Peter gave her a smile and she seemed startled, but she returned a ghost of a smile as she bent to remove his tray.

"I heard the children on the lawn. How many people are in the household?" Peter inquired by way of making conversation.

The tray slipped and nearly dumped the empty coffee cup to his lap before Cecily righted it. Nervously, she moved the tray back to the stand and tried to wipe up small spills with the cloth from the wash bowl.

"Children? You heard children?" Not waiting for him to answer, she hurriedly continued, "There used to be many. Brothers and sisters and cousins, all laughing and playing when they weren't fighting and screaming. You know how children are. But everyone's gone now. It seems quite odd to be the last."

Peter stared at her in growing horror. She was mad. She had to be. Was that the illness Hodges had spoken of? Such a lovely young woman, and quite out of her head. He had just heard the children on the lawn and wondered about them, but she spoke as if they were all dead or blown to the four corners of the earth. He watched as she moved toward the window overlooking the lawn.

"Where did they all go?" he asked cautiously.

"To war," she answered sadly. "One way or another, war and violence were responsible. Why must men always fight? What makes them think it is a grand and glorious deed they do when they march off to kill other men? Have they no notion of what they do to themselves and those they leave at home?"

Thinking of his own escapades and the mother he had left behind, Peter shook his head. "No, they don't. Men think that everything will stay as they had left it. It isn't real until you're in the midst of it and suddenly realize that you may never see home again."

Cecily swung around and stared at him. In the morning light, his square, blunt face wasn't exceedingly handsome, but his eyes were wide and honest and filled with a pain similar to her own. Hodges' old nightshirt looked ridiculous on him, but somehow he had a stature to overcome that flaw.

She had seen his fancy frock coat and waistcoat and frilled shirt and knew he would pass as a gentleman of means on any street in London once he was dressed. Like this, though, she could see that he was a gentleman of character as well.

"I don't understand how they can be so blind. Surely they must know that bullets kill and swords maim. Do they think their deaths won't matter to those of us at home?"

Peter wasn't at all certain what this conversation was about, but he could tell the topic was one that she had brooded about for a long time. There wasn't anything he could say to relieve her mind, though.

"They think they are protecting their way of life. I wasn't in India or Afghan, but I understand the enemies' armies weren't exactly polite to those they conquered. Men fought to keep their women and their homes from suffering that fate."

She looked impatient. "Forgive me if I find that utter nonsense. The Sikhs didn't fight to protect their women. They fought to gain power. The army fought to regain that power. Men can give a thousand pretty reasons for war, but it always comes back to the same thing. I've studied the wars of history, and they all have the same basic motive. One man thinks he's better than another and tries to prove it by breaking the other man's neck."

A well-read lady's maid. How unusual. And exciting. Peter regarded her with approval. "And how would women do it differently? If someone threatens to come over and steal your chickens and take over your house, how would you stop them?"

A half-smile tilted her lips as she contemplated this question. "I think I would be inclined to let them. When they grow tired of arguing with Hodges and tracking down chickens that won't roost and patching crumbling walls, they will beg me to take it back."

Peter laughed and held out his hand to gesture her into a chair. "Stay, and help me solve the rest of the world's problems."

She shook her head and started for the door. "You must rest. I have been selfish in taking up your time. Hodges will come fetch your tray.''

She was gone before he could protest. The sound of the children was gone too, and the sunshine had somehow dimmed. It was damned depressing talking to a ghost that wouldn't light for more than a minute. Maybe he ought to go in search of the elusive Lady Honora.

That thought lasted only long enough for Peter to rise and try to find the chamber pot. His legs were like wet noodles, and he had to grasp the bed and pull himself back into it when Hodges barged through the doorway.

The manservant gave him a glance of disapproval, flung back the covers so Peter could climb back between them, and reached for the tray without saying a word.

Determined to find out more about this household, Peter stopped him before he could make good his escape. "Where are my clothes, Hodges?"

The giant gave him a wary look. "You just proved you ain't in no shape to get up. They'll come back when you're ready."

"I want them near in case I am ready and there's no one around," Peter insisted.

"I'll bring up your bag. You could use a shave."

With that curt dismissal, the giant strode out.

Cursing his helplessness, Peter wished he had a book, only to discover someone had thoughtfully left one on the chair beside the bed. Determined to overcome his weakness, he once more tackled the task of standing up and reaching, this time falling back to the bed with the coveted book in his hand.

He was sound asleep before he could read more than the title:
The Family History of the Chelmsbys.

When he woke next, the book was gone, and from the tight-lipped frown on the little maid's face, Peter could surmise who had taken it. He was quite certain now that he had somehow stumbled across the Rosebud Cottage of his painting, but there were still moments when he thought he might have hit his head too hard and be dreaming.

He hadn't expected Rosebud Cottage to still exist. He'd had the impression that the painting was quite old. Only whimsy and melancholy had sent him searching for a memory. But the book and the lady's name almost proved he had woken up inside the painting. Perhaps he ought to begin wondering if he could ever get out.

He found his overnight bag with his change of clothing on the chair and his razor and shaving soaps neatly laid out on the stand waiting for him. He sent Cecily a wary look as she bustled about with a feather duster, but he wasn't about to perform his ablutions with a female in the room, even if he did suddenly realize he must bear a close resemblance to a hedgehog.

"Hodges tells me you've been ill."

She looked startled, but whether at the fact that he addressed her or the mode of that address, Peter couldn't tell. He watched in satisfaction as she stopped her dusting and turned in his direction. He might have little experience in talking to the gentler sex, but he was learning.

"That was last winter. I'm very well now, thank you."

He looked at her peaked face and the shadows under her eyes and wondered how she must have looked when she was ill. As it was, he could see vestiges of prettiness— especially when she smiled—but little more than the glimmer of blue in her eyes or the occasional blush of pink on her cheeks. He shook his head in disagreement.

"You need to be resting, not working night and day. And you should be the one eating good stout broths, not me. Your lady is no friend to allow you to work yourself into nothing."

She almost smiled at that and came to test his head with her cool hand. "I have all the rest I need, whenever I want. I'll be fine, thank you. You're the one still running a fever. I don't know what became of the physician. Should I send Hodges after him again?"

The touch of her soft fingers brought back memories of childhood, of warm beds and fevered nights and his mother's tender hands caressing his brow. Peter hadn't thought of those days in years, but this place was returning it all.

He would have to speak with Lady Honora one way or another. It didn't seem likely that she would part with the cottage, but he could at least sound her out. And then he would hire her lady's maid and feed her until she was well again.

"It's just a cold. I'll be fine without any quack hovering over me. Is there any chance that I might see Lady Honora and thank her for her hospitality before I go?"

Amusement danced in Cecily's eyes as she removed her hand to straighten the bed covers. "I'm certain she'll stop by if she's interested. She's a very fickle lady."

That slander caused Peter's eyebrows to raise, but he wasn't in a position to argue. She could quite possibly be right; he just preferred to think of the lady as perfect. "I'm sure she's busy," he answered agreeably. "Is she a widow?" That would explain the children and the lack of any mention of a gentleman on the property.

"Yes, how did you know?" Laying aside any pretense of dusting, Cecily perched in the window seat, enjoying the heat of the afternoon sunshine.

"I've not heard a man about the house, and with the children and all . . ." Peter admired the picture she made in the window. She wore a pale blue gown today, and though she was still too slender to be healthy, she possessed a feminine delicacy that he could appreciate.

Still, she was no match for the Lady Honora. And if the lady was a widow with a ready-made family, all the better for him. There had to be some way he could come to know the lady better.

"And, yes, the children." Cecily nodded knowingly. "This house was made for children. Lady Honora believed they ought to be brought up in the country, and she had her husband build this cottage just so she could be with the children as much as possible, even when she accompanied the earl to London on business. The attic is littered with rocking horses and toy soldiers and dolls. The cottage is a child's heaven."

An earl. So much for his prospective hopes. The widow of an earl wasn't going to spend time in his company, although she had certainly seemed friendly enough those times he had seen her. But a woman who loved children undoubtedly would be kind to injured strangers. Peter struggled between desire and common sense.

"I would like to see more of the house. If the rest is as charming as this room, it must be lovely. Will you take me on a tour sometime?''