Elizabeth Mansfield (22 page)

TWENTY-NINE

“How could ye
do
such a fool thing?” Mickley scolded as he bound Kit’s hand with a thick bandage. “Ye might’ve severed an art’ry!”

“But I didn’t,” Kit snapped, “so you can stow your gab.”

“Don’t comb
my
hair, ye looby,” the batman retorted, unperturbed. “
I
ain’t the one that’s turned yer noddle to mush.”

“Mush, is it?” Kit glared at him. “I can still best
you
in a game of chess.”

“Not of late ye can’t. Admit it, Cap’n. It’s bellows to mend with ye, if I’m a judge.”

Kit, painfully aware that his man was right, merely shrugged. Then he got to his feet and flexed the fingers of his wounded hand. “So you think I’m out of countenance, eh? Something more seriously amiss than a cut on my hand?”

“I think,” Mickley said as he gathered up the remaining bandages and dropped the bloody swabs into a basin, “that
she
‘as ye trapped, toppled, an’ trussed up like a piece of mutton.”

“She?”

Mickley snorted at Kit’s pretense at innocence. “Ye don’t think to cut a wheedle with me, do ye, Cap’n? Ye’ve been at sixes and sevens ever since ye first laid yer peepers on Miss Caroline.”

“Have I?” He let out a long breath and turned to the window. “Yes, I suppose I have. I just didn’t know it was so obvious to everyone.”

“I ain’t everyone. No one in this ‘ouse knows ye like I do.”

“Thank goodness for that.” Kit stared glumly out of the window at the thin band of twilight glow that was quickly disappearing from the western horizon. “I wouldn’t want the rest of the world to know that a woman’s turned my ‘noddle’ to mush.”

“Nothin’ to be ashamed of, Cap’n. There’s ‘ardly a man alive what didn’t make a fool of ‘isself over a petticoat sometime ‘r other.”

Kit turned from the window and cocked at eyebrow at him. “Even you, Mick?”
 

The batman blushed. “Even me.”

“You don’t say!” In his surprise, Kit forgot his own troubles and grinned broadly. “Who is she, man? Someone here at the Grange?”

Mickley shrugged. “One o’ the maids. Betty Rhys.”

“Ah, yes. The pretty one with the blond braids. I compliment you on your taste.”

“She ain’t so pretty as all that,” Mickley muttered, dropping his eyes in embarrassment. ‘Too plump by far.”

“Not at all,” Kit insisted. “A pleasing armful, I’d say.”

“It don’t matter. She won’t ‘ave a thing to do with me. She’s spoken for.”

“Oh?” He eyed his man with sympathy. “Wed, is she?”
 

“Not yet.”

“Then don’t give up, Mick. You’re a better man than most. All you need do is convince her of it.”

Mickley shook his head. “What’s the use? Once a chit makes up ‘er mind, there’s no changin’ it. Ye’re a good man, too, ain’t ye? The best, if ye ask me. But yer Caroline don’t see it, does she?” With his medical supplies gathered up in his arms, he trudged to the door. “Women!” he muttered in disgust. “Too silly an’ stubborn to use the brains God gave ‘em.”

Kit turned back to the window and gazed out morosely at the rapidly darkening sky. “Yes,” he said in a voice as dispirited as Mickley had ever heard it, “it seems we’ve
both
fallen into the dismals. Confound it, Mick, nothing about this deuced inheritance is turning out as I expected. Sometimes I think it might have been better all around if we’d remained in Spain.”

THIRTY

Caro needed her sleep badly, but she lay tossing on her bed, wide-awake. Despite her utter weariness and the fact that she would have to rise at first light, she couldn’t make sleep come. Her mind was in too great a turmoil. She tried to force her thoughts into safe channels—planning tomorrow’s menus, for example, or envisioning a proper rearrangement for the storing of the linens. She even tried counting sheep. But her mind would not obey. It kept reliving the emotionally disturbing moments of the day ... her brother being carried in ... Kit’s setting of the bone ... and, not least, the scene in the little sitting room when Kit had taken her into his arms.

Kit was the basic cause of her discomfiture, as he’d been from the first. She’d known from the moment she’d learned his name that he would cause her heartache. And that was what was keeping her awake now—heartache. She tossed about restlessly on her bed in a vain attempt to ease that all-enveloping pain, but it would not go away.

The problems was that Kit, in her eyes, had two conflicting sides—the Mr. Terence side that was kind and generous and brave, and the Vexatious Viscount side that was selfish and domineering and dishonest. And the terrible truth—a truth that was slowly beginning to break into her consciousness—was that she loved them both.

She’d known, of course, that she loved Mr. Terence. But when she’d discovered that he was nothing but a fabrication created by Kit Meredith, she’d buried her feeling for him deep inside herself and replaced it with fury—a fury directed toward the man who’d tricked her. Every time she looked at Kit’s face, however, she saw Mr. Terence there, too. It was a face she loved and hated both at once.

Those mixed feelings were troublesome enough, but what made matters even more confusing was the fact that Kit had, time after time, saved her from a difficult situation. He’d sent Arthur to school, taken Gil under his wing, and saved her from the Ducketts. Today, too, he’d managed to put her in his debt by his competent setting of her brother’s broken bone. It did not help her state of mind to be so constantly beholden to the man who made her furious!

Her pride could hardly bear it! The only way she’d been able to assuage that wounded pride was to come here to the Grange as housekeeper rather than as guest. And she’d been living with this compromise fairly well ... that is, until tonight. Tonight he’d kissed her. Twice.

Tonight’s caresses had been very reminiscent of the embrace Mr. Terence had given her that last night of his existence. Marcus Terence’s kiss was one she didn’t want to remember, for he’d followed it with an embarrassed admission that he was not a suitor for her hand. It had been, for her, a most painful scene, and she had no wish to relive it even in memory. But tonight Kit had brought it back most forcibly to her mind.

That they’d both been stirred by tonight’s embraces was obvious, but what he’d meant by them was not. He’d never, in either of his guises, indicated that he loved her. Was he merely playing with her—a master taking advantage of a woman in his employ? That was what she’d accused him of, but she didn’t really believe it. The act had not been a calculated one. He’d been as surprised and shaken by the kisses as she’d been. But then, why had he never, that last time or this, indicated that he cared for her in a serious way?

She would never forget how shocked Mr. Terence had been by her suggestion that he might be a suitor for her hand. Of all the painful memories of that episode, that rejection was the worst. She’d been more hurt that evening than ever before in her life. It was beyond mere bruised pride; she’d been cut to the quick.

But if Kit Meredith, like his fictitious creation Marcus Terence, did not care for her as a prospective wife, what
did
he intend by that shattering embrace? He could not be asking for a carte blanche, for he was not a fool. He surely knew that neither he nor she was the sort to engage in an illicit arrangement. What, then, did it all mean?

She could find no answer. If her own feelings were so confused and so difficult for her to analyze, how could she possibly analyze his, which were an even greater mystery to her?

These thoughts went round and round in her head until, suddenly, she realized that the gray light of dawn was seeping in through the gaps of the draperies. The night had passed, having given her nothing but a jumble of confused emotions, a myriad of unanswerable questions, and no sleep.

THIRTY-ONE

Gil was trying out his new crutches. Caro, Letty, and Mickley were gathered in Gil’s bedroom watching Kit give instructions to the boy. Caro and Letty noticed Kit’s bandaged hand at the same moment. “Goodness me, Kit,” Letty gasped, “what happened to you?”

Kit, who’d managed to hide his fist in his pocket during the past three days, flicked Mickley a warning look. “Nothing much,” he murmured. “A cut across the back is all.” And he hastily turned to the boy. “Now, Gil, come to me. Don’t be afraid. Put your weight on the left as you swing.”

Caro had seen the warning look and was also aware that Kit had turned the subject. “What happened to his hand?” she asked Mickley quietly. “Tell me!”

“Nothin’ to tell,” Mickley whispered back. “An accident with a pane of glass. Not worth speakin’ of.”

“A pane of—”

But Gil had made his first two hops, and everyone broke into applause. Caro let the subject of His Lordship’s accident drop.

Gil was pleased with himself. “I can do it!” he exclaimed happily. “Watch me cross the room.”

He swung himself over to the window without mishap, but to turn himself around for the return required extra care. As he hesitated he saw something outside the window. “I say! There’s a carriage pulling up.”

Both women hurried to the window to see. “My goodness, it’s Martha!” Letty cried. “I’d recognize that dreadful old barouche anywhere.”

It was indeed Martha. The intrepid old woman stepped out of her ancient black coach and announced to Melton, who’d hurried out to help her down, that she’d come for a visit. From the large number of bandboxes and portmanteaux that the footmen were already carrying inside, the visit was apparently going to be a long one.

Martha was eagerly greeted, and a festive welcoming tea was immediately arranged. Everyone gathered in the large downstairs sitting room for the occasion, including Gil, who, still too unsure of himself on the crutches to manage the stairs, was carried down by Mickley. Even Caro permitted herself to attend. But when Kit took her aside to request that, under the circumstances, it was only proper that she join the family for dinner, she refused. “Martha is fully aware of my position here, my lord. There is no need to break the rules on her account.”

The presence of an unexpected guest lent a holiday aura to the household. Caro helped the cook prepare a special dinner, the highlight of which would be roast grouse with truffles. The number of diners at the dinner table was expanded not only by Martha but by Mr. Lutton, who’d dropped by to see his pupil and was coaxed by Kit to remain for the evening. It was a cheerful meal, for although everyone present was conscious of Caro’s absence, Kit kept a lively conversation going. It was only when Caro herself came in, dressed in proper housekeeper fashion in black bombazine and white apron—and carrying a large apricot souffle as the piece de resistance of the meal—that an awkward silence fell.

When the festivities were over and everyone had retired, Martha invited Caro to her bedroom for a private chat. ‘Tell me, my girl,” the elderly woman demanded bluntly as soon as Caro had shut the door, “how long do you expect to continue this charade?”

“Charade?” Caro stared at her aunt, startled.

Martha, already in her nightshift, was sitting at her dressing table, plaiting her wiry gray locks. She looked over at Caro with a frown. “You know what I mean. Playing at being a servant here.”

“Why do you call it
playing,
ma’am?” Caro asked, surprised. “I work very hard.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do. But you must realize you are playing a role. And if you ask me, it’s a role that doesn’t suit you.”

“Why not?” Caro, offended, put up her chin. “Are you implying that I’m not capable of handling the work?”

“Don’t speak nonsense. You are capable of anything you set your mind to. What I’m saying is that your insistence on holding a menial position in this household is making everyone else uncomfortable. Not only the servants, but Letty, Kit, and even Gil.”

Caro blinked at her aunt for a moment, those harsh words striking little blows at her heart. “Good God! It’s true! I
do
make everyone uncomfortable.”

Martha, seeing the girl’s stricken look, felt a tinge of regret for having been so blunt. But, she told herself, she’d done what she had to do. “I hope I haven’t hurt you, my dear, but it had to be said. I know that Letty is too mealymouthed to speak frankly to you of the situation, but I am not.”

Caro sank down on the edge of the bed, the color gone from her cheeks. “I’m glad you said it, Aunt. I never thought of it quite that way.”

“Then think of it now.”

The poor girl, much disturbed, twisted her fingers in her lap. “I only took the post because I thought I was needed here. That Kit ... His Lordship ... needed me.”

“I’m sure he does. But in the position you held when you lived here with Clement. Not as a housekeeper who takes her meals belowstairs.”

“But ...” She peered at her aunt in troubled urgency. “Can’t you see my position? I had no choice but to live as a servant here. The new viscount is not the same as the old. I can’t live here on his ... his
charity.
”