Windswept (30 page)

Jacob’s jaw clenched, though he said not unkindly, “It’s not up to you to question anything I do, now is it, Juditha?”

“As Dylan’s primary caretaker, I…” She stopped and clamped her lips shut at Jacob’s scowl. “No, sir it isn’t up to me.”

He brought Nora to the entrance. “Juditha, this is Miss Seabrook. Please make her feel welcome and prepare the south bedroom for her stay.”

The servant nodded once at Nora. “Of course, Captain.”

“Oh, and Juditha, there’s a basket of fabric in the carriage. Miss Seabrook has very little in the way of clothing. Would you see to it that Polly stitches up a few simple dresses and accessories as soon as possible?”

“Yes, sir.” With a small bow she went back into the house.

Jacob turned his attention to Nora. “Are you ready to go in?”

“I’m not sure. I doubt that you are making me a welcome guest since you’ve doled out orders concerning my stay. The servants will find me a nuisance.”

He smiled at her. “You’ll find out soon enough that doling out orders is what I do best on Belle Isle, but in exchange I receive just as many.”

As if on cue, a voice bellowed from inside the house. “Jacob, is that you? Get in here this instant!”

He took Nora’s arm. “I suggest you leave any warm-hearted sympathy for the people at Proctor House at the door and cloak yourself in emotional armor, Nora. You are about to meet Papa.”

The room was shrouded in shadow though it was the middle of the day. All but one of the heavy draperies had been closed to the sun. Still there was enough light for Nora to see that the man in the wheelchair, despite his years and handicap, was every bit as formidable as his son. Broad-shouldered and thick-chested, with a full crop of coarse gray hair streaming back from his forehead, he did not seem in the least dwarfed by the conveyance in which he was forced to live his life. In fact it seemed as though this barrel of a man should be able to leap from the chair and push it away without so much as a tremble in his limbs.

Leaving Nora at the threshold, Jacob strode across the room. “Father, how are you?”

Ignoring his son’s outstretched hand, the elder Proctor spoke gruffly. “What are you doing here? I didn’t expect you for at least another month. Has something gone wrong?”

Jacob dropped his hand and stepped back, putting more distance between him and his father. “No, nothing has gone wrong. I decided to come early, that’s all there is to it.”

The man tilted his head and squinted at his son. “I hope you’re telling the truth. You’ve brought currency, haven’t you?”

“Of course. Plenty to see you through.”

“The wrecking business is good?”

“As ever.”

Jacob’s father snorted, a most unpleasant sound though it signified his relief. “You must indulge me my suspicions, Jacob. I have nothing to do all day but sit in this damned chair and watch them grow.”

“Father, I’ve brought…”

At that moment Harrison Proctor’s milky gaze fell on Nora. He wrapped a fist around one wheel of his chair and pushed himself closer to the door, forcing his son to step out of the way. “Who is this?” he demanded in a tone that might have been more appropriate if he’d inquired as to whether his son had brought cholera onto the island.

Jacob made no move to bring Nora and his father closer together. “Father, I’d like you to meet Miss Nora Seabrook. Nora this is my father, Lord Harrison Proctor.”

Nora tried to smile, but it came across as a timid gesture. “A pleasure to meet you, your Lordship. I appreciate your hospitality…”

He pointed a thick, quivering finger at her and she stopped speaking, realizing the man did not intend to return her cordiality with his own.

“What have you done, Jacob?” he demanded of his son, though he continued to stare at Nora. “Why have you brought this woman here?”

“She is my guest, Father. I brought her because I chose to. That’s the last I’ll hear on it.”

“No, you’ll hear this. You’re a damn fool, Jacob Proctor. And you, Miss Nora Seabrook, are as big a one for coming here.” He whirled his chair around until his back was to both of them. “Go on and get out of here, both of you. And Jacob, keep a tight rein on her if you know what’s good for you.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Now
that’s
the last you’ll hear on it from me. You’ve boiled the water, Jacob. Now it’s your own goose that’ll be cooked.”

Chapter Eighteen

Working with Polly, the Proctor’s elderly maid, Nora had two additional dresses to add to her wardrobe in less than two days. They weren’t works of art. Nora’s talents did not lie with needle and thread, and Polly’s eyesight was not what it used to be. Therefore the garments were lightly basted, simple dresses with straight lines and imperfect hems. But after a few nips and tucks in the right places, Nora was pleased with the outcome of their hours of work.

And she was pleased, too, with the friendship established between her and the talkative Polly. A servant of the Proctor’s since before Jacob was born, Polly had delightful stories to tell of Jacob’s boyhood in England. Unfortunately she had little to say when asked about Jacob’s life since his mother’s death. In fact, she became almost morose in her silences. It seemed the demise of Sophie Proctor was a subject no one in the Proctor household wanted to talk about. Still, despite the difference in their ages, Polly and Nora giggled and chattered about matters great and small while they stitched.

During this period, Jacob left Nora to herself while he supervised the transfer of goods from the harbor to Proctor House, traded merchandise in the market, and dispersed the trinkets which validated his Father Christmas reputation. Nora was grateful she had Polly’s cheerful company and the dressmaking to keep her busy.

When she did see Jacob, he seemed tense and guarded. His discomfort eased somewhat when she assured him she was staying in her room, the kitchen, or the garden. “Though my curiosity about this island has not been satisfied in the least,” she told him one night at dinner. “I want to see all of it, not just the part I can see from your father’s terrace.”

“And you shall,” he promised. “Before we leave, I will take you on a tour around Belle Isle’s perimeter. You will have an opportunity to write all sorts of impressions on that writing pad you always seem to have by your side.”

Lord Harrison Proctor was present for dinner in the  evenings, and these strained, silent periods, were the only contact Nora had with him. Considering his gruff, ill-mannered behavior the day they met, Nora wasn’t sorry her time with Lord Proctor was limited.

During their meals, he responded to his son’s questions and comments with an occasional grunt or wave of his hand. He never spoke to Nora at all, and she soon gave up any attempts to engage him in discourse. When he finished eating, he rang for Juditha, who pushed him to some remote region of the house where he apparently remained for the rest of the evening.

Jacob was pleasant and companionable, but he seemed determined to continue with the aloofness he established on the
Dover Cloud.
After inquiring about Nora’s day and what she planned to do for the rest of the evening, he retired to the library where he insisted he had correspondence to answer and ledgers to update. Consequently it was the spindle-thin, white-haired Polly who provided Nora with the majority of human contact during her first days on Belle Isle.

Truly Nora had no intention of breaking her promises to Jacob, but the afternoon of her fourth day on the island an opportunity to explore a small part of Jacob’s secret world presented itself and she couldn’t resist. She’d run out of things to do. She’d visited with Polly, read three chapters of a book, and written a lengthy journal entry. A full afternoon and evening stretched ahead of her. Seeking any occupation which might draw her interest, she wandered off the terrace and proceeded to the furthest point of the sculpted garden.

A manicured area gave way to fruit trees, palms and tropical ferns. This untamed section of Proctor land was shady and inviting. Nora walked along a gravel path that led to an iron fence and gated trellis. When she could go no farther, she peered through the gate and spied a small white cottage in the middle of thick island greenery.

The structure was like something out of a fairy tale with its pointed rooftop and pastel shuttered windows. Adding to this charming picture, tinkling strains of a music box drifted from the cottage to where Nora stood entranced, her hands on the iron rods of the gate.

Who lives here? she wondered. It has to be someone who likes music. She recognized the light airy notes of a Viennese waltz. Tapping her toe in time to the music, she visualized elegant ladies and gentleman twirling around the dance floor at one of the Richmond balls she’d attended before leaving for Key West.

The tune ended, but another just as beautiful began right after it. Nora leaned her cheek against the gate, closed her eyes and floated with the music. Suddenly the pressure of her body caused the gate to swing open wide. Whoever had last passed through had neglected to secure the padlock, and it dangled uselessly from the hasp.

What good luck, she decided. She would follow the music and find someone else to talk to, possibly a friendly soul. It was hardly violating her promise to Jacob to venture just a few yards from the Proctor garden. She slipped through the gate, closed it behind her and walked to the cottage.

The door was open, and Nora stopped on the flagstone entry. A young man was inside. Though he faced away from her, she could determine several things about his appearance. He was tall and thin, and dressed all in white so that he resembled a snowy willow branch, with the same grace of movement. He swayed to the music as if it were part of him. Strands of fine golden hair brushed his shoulders as he dipped and stretched to the strains of the waltz.

At precise intervals he raised his arms above his head as though he were reaching for endless sun and sky instead of ceiling. His long fingers moved to and fro, stretching and curling with the rotation of his wrists.

When the music stopped, so did the man. Nora thought another tune might start up again, and when it didn’t, the man remained where he was, neck arched, arms outstretched. He stood for a full minute like a swan frozen on a winter pond.

“Excuse me,” Nora said softly.

He emitted a startled cry, shook off his statue-like pose with a violent quaking of his body and whirled to face her. His eyes widened in shock. He clawed at his open mouth with trembling fingers.

Nora stayed on the flagstone but reached out her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

He dropped his hands from his mouth. “You did frighten me,” he accused. “That wasn’t nice.”

“I know. I was watching you dance. It was lovely. You move beautifully.”

He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head. The fear and suspicion that had glazed his eyes was replaced by a sort of innocent curiosity. The corners of his mouth pulled up in a puzzling grin. “Did you hear that, Marianne? She was watching us dance.”

Nora looked around for the person he might be speaking to. Seeing no one, she still returned his smile. “My name is Nora. What’s yours?”

“Dylan.”

So this is Dylan
. “Do you live in this cottage?”

He nodded. “Here, and in the trees and in the water. I live everywhere. And I dance. I love to dance. I dance with beautiful ladies like Marianne.”

He made an open circle of his arms in front of his body as if he were holding a dancing partner. He took a first step, stopped and cocked his head…waiting, listening. Finally he glared angrily at Nora. “Go away. Marianne says you must go. You made the music stop.”

Nora laughed, a nervous sound that seemed forced. “Marianne?” she questioned. “There’s no one here but you and…”

“Marianne is here,” he insisted. “She’s always here and she doesn’t like you because you stopped the music. Go away.”

Suddenly Nora understood that the man in the cottage was not playing a game. Dylan truly believed he was dancing with a partner, and just as fervently, he was certain that Nora had intruded and interrupted their afternoon. She’d never met anyone like Dylan, but she’d heard her parents talk about people who weren’t like the rest of society. People who were ill, who imagined things. And she had an idea what happened to them. They were most always put away like Juliet and Francis Butler’s daughter. The poor girl had been no older than Nora was now when she’d begun acting strangely, and her parents had sent her away. Nora never saw Charlotte Butler again. And it occurred to her now that no one ever mentioned her name.

“You’re not nice,” Dylan said. The downward tug of his lips and knitting of his brows indicated his escalating anger. “You took the music.”

“No, no I didn’t, Dylan, but I will go if that’s what you want.” She began easing away from the open door. Instinct told her that slow, careful movements would be less likely to inflame the man’s antagonism.

He watched her go until uncertainty veiled his eyes. “No, wait!” he called, running to the door. “Marianne is wrong. She can be bad sometimes. Marianne stopped the music, not you.” He kept his hands on the doorframe and leaned out toward Nora. “Who are you?”