Cottage by the Sea (58 page)

   Moments after the housekeeper's retreat Blythe could no longer deny the unwelcome sensation of a fresh attack of nausea.

   "Luke… could you excuse me for a bit?" she asked in a tight voice. "I really want to continue our talk, but I'm afraid I'm feeling kind of rotten after not getting much sleep for the second night in a row. I'll see you later."

   And without further explanation she made her way as quickly as possible across the stable yard, into the castle's rear entry, and down the hall to the bathroom adjoining the library.

Luke returned his gaze to the kitchen garden and the adjacent fields, whose contours gently rolled toward the sea. He wondered gloomily if Blythe's hurried exit merely demonstrated an understandable distaste for his recent show of emotion. After spending several minutes indulging in such negative speculation, he exited the silent office and walked past the flock of workmen without uttering a word to any of them. Entering the castle through the kitchen door, he found Chloe pouting over a cup of coffee.

   "She just dashed through here, if that's who you're looking for," she said sullenly. "I know she'll upset the boy just as we're about to leave!"

   "As I understand it, he's already upset," he said wearily. "Has Blythe gone up to see Richard?"

   "I haven't a clue," Chloe retorted, and turned to glare reproachfully at Mrs. Quiller, who was whipping a creamy mixture in a copper bowl with her back to them both.

   As Luke prepared to mount the grand staircase in search of his son, he paused for several moments on the landing next to the door to the bathroom that adjoined the library. A look of concern furrowed his brow. Then, with a thoughtful expression, he slowly climbed the stairs. When he reached Richard's room, he knocked softly.

   "May I come in?"

   "Yes, sir, it's open now," his son said, abruptly sitting upright on the bed, where he had obviously been crying facedown into his pillow.

   Luke closed the door behind him. He and Richard stared at each other in silence for a long, awkward moment.

   "I've… ah… come to apologize about several things, Dicken," he began tentatively, "and to tell you how grateful I am that you were all right the other night when the tide came into the cave."

   "I'm sorry, too, Daddy," Richard said in a small voice, "for what I said in the pony stable."

   "You were upset," Luke said slowly, "and I'm sure you didn't mean to be hurtful."

   The look of relief and wonder that flooded Richard's eyes was an open invitation to Luke to sit down on the side of the bed. Wordlessly he pulled his small son against his chest and rested his chin on top of the boy's head. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by the bittersweet memory of Lindsay's silken brown hair, identical in texture and color to Richard's own.

   "Oh, Dicken…" he breathed, feeling as if the tremendous pressure in his throat would strangle him. "We've had a very hard time of it these last two years, haven't we?"

   The boy then threw his arms about Luke's neck and began to cry deep, wrenching sobs, as he had earlier beside his mother's grave. Luke stared over Richard's head at the photograph of Lindsay perched on the nightstand next to the bed. As moisture filled his own eyes, his late wife's face began to blur, and he found himself holding on to the ten-year-old for dear life as wave after wave of emotion assaulted him.

   After a few minutes Richard hiccupped, "I m-miss her so much, Daddy, d-don't you?"

   "I miss her tremendously, and I despise how much she had to suffer," he replied softly. Then he added in a tone both serious and amused, "And believe me, Dicken, she would have been very upset with me if she knew I'd sent Aunt Chloe to Shelby Hall in my place to talk to your headmaster when you almost got sacked."

   Dicken nodded solemnly but remained silent. Luke reached for a tissue from the box sitting next to Lindsay's photograph and gently wiped his son's cheeks. He urged him to blow his nose. Then he seized a tissue for himself.

   "I'm sorry I let you down that time, son," he said finally, pulling the child against his chest once more and feeling comforted beyond measure by the sensation of the boy's arms around his waist. "I was feeling so sad myself back then, I became rather paralyzed. I knew what a dreadful period it had been for you, but I didn't want you to be frightened by what a difficult time I was having, coping with everything that had happened." He pulled back and looked his son squarely in the eye. "I cried too," he disclosed. "Every night for months."

   "I wouldn't have been frightened seeing how sad you were, Daddy," Richard assured him, patting his father's sleeve. "I was really sad too," he disclosed gravely. "We could have kept each other company."

   This time Luke didn't attempt to disguise the feelings that swept through him.

   "You are such a wonderful young man," he said, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm so proud… and fortunate… to be your father."

   And as Luke and his son continued to talk, the eldest member of the Teague family was suddenly filled with confidence that he would, at last, find the right words to express to his and Lindsay's child the many other things that had needed to be said for so long.

Blythe slowly opened the door adorned with the wooden sign that announced "Dr. Valerie Kent, Psychologist." She had slipped out unobserved from Barton Hall and practically ran the mile to Gorran Haven to keep her appointment with Dr. Vickery, anxious to learn the results from the blood test she'd taken earlier.

   "What's that you're carrying?" Valerie asked, offering to help Blythe set down a long, rectangular package on her desk.

   "Thanks," Blythe replied. "Vickery's nurse told me you'd come in today to catch up on your bookkeeping."

   "My dear!" Valerie replied with immediate concern when she noticed that Blythe's cheeks were damp with tears. "Yes, please do come in. Good heavens!" she exclaimed as she set the box down on her desk. "How extraordinarily heavy."

   "The custom's declarations say they are a pair of antique silver candlesticks," Blythe announced ruefully, pointing to the customs declaration pasted to the package, "and a few pieces of flatware that my grandmother bequeathed me in her Will." Blythe reached across Valerie's desk for a tissue from a box reserved for her emotion-prone clients and dabbed her eyes. Meanwhile Valerie stared, mesmerized by the battered box that was smothered with two long rows of colorful U.S. postage stamps. "When my father sold the ranch at the beginning of the summer, I guess he just packed up the stuff and sent it over. Thrifty gent that he is, Dad obviously shipped the package from Wyoming the slow, inexpensive way—by land and sea. The postmistress hailed me on my way to see Dr. Vickery."

   Valerie pointed to the ancient upholstered chair reserved for her clients and urged Blythe, "Please… please, dear. Sit down. Now, won't you tell me what's happened?"

   "I'm definitely pregnant," Blythe announced in a voice filled with awe. "Dr. Vickery just confirmed it… the blood test, the exam—everything. He said this baby is locked on the uterine wall like a barnacle at low tide."

   "That sounds like Vickery," Valerie noted dryly. "Well… how do you feel about it?"

   "Even though I was already pretty sure… I-I can't quite believe it's true," she said with a fragile smile. "I'm delirious… terrified… and I can't even begin to imagine what the future will hold." She laughed softly. "I'm quite undone by it all, as you Brits say."

   "Please… sit down," Valerie urged again, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. "Have you revealed to Luke yet that you suspected as much?"

   "No… not yet," Blythe answered slowly. Then she met Dr. Kent's steady gaze. "He told me just this morning about the horrible dilemma he and Lindsay faced when she got sick."

   "Ah… yes." Valerie nodded gravely. "Then you understand now, do you, a bit about his complicated relationship with Dicken?"

   Blythe nodded and then asked, "How did you know about it? He said he didn't tell anyone."

   "He didn't… at least not to me," Valerie agreed. "However, Lindsay had disclosed to me early on that she thought she might be pregnant again. After the family was told of her diagnosis, I could easily imagine what dreadful choices they faced. When Luke's behavior toward Dicken changed so dramatically… it wasn't difficult to deduce that 'survivor's guilt' probably played a role." Valerie shook her head and heaved a sigh. "I had hoped he'd come talk to me about the difficulties that he was having… but he never did."

   "Then he didn't tell you about the disturbing dreams he had for months that Lindsay's baby was lost, or stranded and in terrible jeopardy? It was almost an identical vision to the one I had in your crystal ball."

   "Why, no…" Valerie said, a look of amazement spreading across her rounded features. "He never said a word about any disturbing dreams."

   "Did you try talking to Luke about his change of behavior toward Dicken after Lindsay died?" Blythe asked pointedly.

   "A few times," Valerie said. "He kept insisting that he was coping as well as could be expected and gave me that
look."

   "Oh… I know
that
one." Blythe nodded glumly. "I-I can't imagine how he'll respond to my news."

   "You will tell him, though, won't you?"

   "After Dicken leaves for school," Blythe replied. "What will happen after that is up for grabs," she added, her tone hardening.

   "Lucas was dealt some very heavy blows these last years," Valerie reminded her gently, "but after you arrived at Barton Hall, and after he thought he might have lost his son the other night—I think he's beginning to view his life in an entirely new light."

   "I hope so," Blythe said sadly, "but what about our outlook on parenthood and our views as to what's appropriate as far as the education of children is concerned—not to mention the issue of discipline?" She heaved a heavy sigh. "When I left the house just now, Chloe was primed to whisk him off to school in her Jag." Blythe heaved a sigh. "Maybe he and I are just too different in our attitudes to be able to…"

   She allowed her sentence to trail off into the ether.

   "You'll just have to talk it through, though, won't you?" Valerie said encouragingly.

   "
Yes,
Valerie," Blythe responded, rolling her eyes with mock exasperation. Then she sobered. "But even if we can come to some accommodation on what we both think it means to be parents… what about the… well, you know… the visions? He'll think I'm a nutcase if I ever come clean with all the stuff we've been doing."

   "It's true… Lucas has always been a skeptic when it comes to the paranormal," Valerie agreed with a wry smile. "Hocus-pocus claptrap,' I believe he calls my trade. I could never even persuade him to try the Ouija board when he was a lad."

   "Well, I really think I've got to tell him
something
about what I've experienced at Barton Hall, don't you?" she asked anxiously. "After all, these are more his ancestors than mine. How could I remain mum about a thing like that… and still have a life with him? Worse yet, what if these folks keep popping up all the time?" she demanded.

   Valerie remained silent, apparently deep in thought. Then she started drumming her fingers on her desk.

   "Do you love this man?" she asked suddenly. "Can you accept him as he is, quirks and all?"

   "But what about my 'quirks'?" Blythe insisted. "I mean, it's not every man who'd want a woman in his life who sees a bunch of—"

   "Do you
love
this man?" Valerie repeated stubbornly.

   Silence filled Dr. Kent's small office.

   "Yes," Blythe answered finally. "I love him. And I accept his quirks, as you call them—except for two."

   "You can list them?" Valerie asked with gentle sarcasm.

   Blythe nodded. "I cannot live with someone who would not trust me to be telling the truth about what I've experienced here in Cornwall. But if I tell him, he'll never believe me… he'll think I've merely had a nervous breakdown, or—"

   "And your second quirk, as you call it?" the psychologist prodded.

   "I will not turn my child over to other people to raise."

   "So?"

   "So… I'm going home to Painter's Cottage, have a few saltines for lunch—and
think
."

C
hloe stalked into the sitting room where Luke had just replaced the telephone receiver on the long-necked antique instrument that perched on his desk.

   "The camp trunk simply will not fit in the back of my car, Lucas!" she announced irritably. "Two suitcases were plenty for that child last term. I can't understand why he's being allowed to take those cowboy boots and—"

   "Dicken is extremely fond of those boots," Luke said mildly, tapping his silver-plated pen against the desktop. Then he added with a glint of amusement brightening his fatigued countenance, "He insisted that he needs them at school to show the other boys—"

   "What that boy needs is to be taken in hand," Chloe countered sharply. "And if you aren't of a mind to, then Mr. Hewitt at Shelby Hall is perfectly capable of—"

   "I don't think you understood what I said," Luke said with elaborate politeness. "The gift of those boots means a great deal to the lad."

   "It's that American creature, isn't it?" Chloe pronounced bluntly just as the phone on Luke's desk gave a shrill ring. "Or Valerie Kent, that lunatic cousin of yours," she added acidly. The telephone immediately ceased ringing, a signal that Mrs. Q must have answered it in the kitchen. "Both of them coddle my godson as if he were a broken doll. You've said yourself that Valerie should be locked up for all that hocus-pocus she prattles on about while claiming to practice psychology!"