Lily and the Lion (3 page)

Dr. Payne cleared his throat, his keen eyes shifting back and forth between the two of them. "As I was saying—and I'm sure Lily won't take umbrage in my plain speaking, since I've known her since she was no taller than my boot top—her propensity to take personal interest in every unfortunate case that comes her way may someday prove to be.. .ill-advised! Such undiscriminating charity is in variance with the good sense I know she has!"

"I'm certainly glad she didn't look the other way and spare herself the trouble of nursing
me
back to health!'' Peter exclaimed with feeling. '' I shall be forever grateful that she saw me as I lay face down in the dirt!"

Frustrated with being persistently misunderstood, the good doctor sighed and said, "I'm not speaking of you, Captain Wendover, but these cats, for example.. ." He waved his arm in a sweeping gesture. There was a calico cat stretched out on the window-sill, its front paws tucked under its chest, its head raised to the sun in a sphinx-like pose, its eyes shut. There was a black kitten by the fireplace, batting around an old tassel from a discarded slipper. There was a grey tabby on the end of the bed, nestled against Peter's feet. "And the rest of the house is similarly decorated, I might add!" he finished.

"A cat at the end of the bed works as well as a hot brick," Lily defended, "and you know we only have six cats altogether, Dr. Payne. It's just that they like Peter and spend much of their time in here. Besides, I think cats can be a soothing influence in a sickroom. Shadrack, Jonas and Eve are comforting companions for Peter."

"They do very well when
you're
otherwise occupied, Lily," Peter said teasingly. "But you know I'd rather have your company than any other," he added in much too serious a tone to suit Lily.

"She's been a good nurse for you, Captain," the doctor said, putting away his instruments. "I understand you'll be leaving us as soon as your family sends transportation. But I don't want you thinking you can resume all your former activities willy-nilly. There will be a period of recovery that must be strictly adhered to, or there's a possibility that the fever may return."

"Lily shall see that I stay in bed," Peter replied, smiling in such a way that Lily felt the colour creeping up her face to the very roots of her hair. Again she contemplated the rag rug.

"Is Lily accompanying you on your journey, Captain?" asked the doctor, tidying up from his task, then removing his spectacles and making quite an absorbing business out of the cleaning of them against the front of his black frock-coat.

"I've asked her to, but she keeps me in suspense. But if she doesn't, I shall have to ask Janet to come in her stead."

Lily's head jerked up. "Peter, how can you be so shatterbrained! Janet doesn't have the slightest notion how to bring down a fever! Why, she can barely keep up with her duties as abigail!"

"Another charity case, that one," mumbled the doctor.

Peter shrugged his shoulders, the bedgown bagging about his thin shoulders—shoulders that had been thick with muscle when he'd first been brought to the vicarage in the back of the dray. Lily wanted to see those shoulders strong and firm and muscled again. "It's either you or Janet. Next to you, Janet's the prettiest girl in the house. No offence to your sister, Rachael, but
she's
only seven."

"Your logic is not sound, young man," said the doctor drily. He turned to Lily. "It would be a shame to lavish so much attention on a patient only to lose him at the last to Janet's ignorance. I know of two or three ladies in the neighbourhood who would be qualified and capable—"

Peter crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin. "If I can't have Lily as nurse, I won't have anybody," he said stubbornly, looking for all the world like a child instead of the grown man he was.

Dr. Payne frowned. "You're not being at all reasonable, Captain."

Lily heaved a large sigh. "And I expect he does not intend to become more reasonable as the time draws near for his departure. I suppose I had better go with him—with a chaperon for myself, of course. I'm sure my parents will not object. I've already discussed the possibility with them, and they were not opposed."

The doctor raised a brow and muttered something again, this time so low Lily barely heard him. "No, I suspect they weren't. Less worldly sense than a pair of babes!"

Wisely ignoring the doctor's comments, Lily wagged her finger in Peter's face. "But I'll not spend more than a day or two with you, Peter, once we've reached your uncle's estate in Hampshire, since you say he'll certainly take you there first. I'm sure I can instruct your manservant and your mother in the proper care to be taken of you and then leave without another thought for your safety."

"That you would leave me at all, and without another thought of me, pains me desperately, Lily," Peter bemoaned, screwing up his face into an expression of theatrical woe. "Surely you don't mean it?"

Lily opened her mouth to retort in her most quelling, no-nonsense, matronly voice, but was forestalled by the sudden appearance of Janet's mob-capped head poking in at the door. "La, miss! There's a fine carriage pulled up in front o' th' house. All shiny black and grey, with beautiful horses t'pull it! And another spankin' carriage behind it!" Then she flipped her long blond braid over her shoulder and went briskly down the hall, her peg-leg beating a tattoo on the wood floor.

Peter's hazel eyes deepened in colour and brightened in anticipation. "Uncle Julian!" he shouted, sitting up abruptly, so abruptly that he weaved to and fro from the violent movement.

Lily reached across the bed to steady him by grasping his arms. "Be still, Peter! I'm sure Mama will bring him up to you immediately."

"I want to go to the window," Peter objected. "I want to see if it's truly him!"

"You've been out of bed once already this morning and worn yourself quite out, Lily tells me," said the doctor, leaning down to place a restraining hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Then you go to the window, Lily!" Peter pleaded. "Tell me how the gentleman looks as he comes up the walk. Then I'll know if it's Julian!"

Lily readily obeyed. She was curious to see Peter's uncle, too. From all that Peter had told her, Lord Ashton ought to be quite worth looking at. She'd never seen Peter so agitated. The excitement in his manner was infectious and she hurried to the window to look out, ready to be awed by the stately appearance of "The Lion." Her hand flew to her mouth and her brown eyes widened.

"Well? Well? What do you see?" called Peter.

"Oh dear, what's to do?" said Lily, but with a definite hint of amusement behind the concerned words. "I see a very tall man with long yellow hair dampening his trousers by sitting in the snow, his hat upside down in Papa's thorny rose-bush, and with a most disgruntled expression on his face!"

Peter slapped his leg and gave a shout of laughter. "Good God, it
is
Uncle Julian!"

CHAPTER TWO

F
ROM THE VANTAGE POINT
of his carriage window that crisp winter morning, Julian had thought the vicarage a remarkably peaceful-looking dwelling. The house was large and rambling, and the brick from which it was constructed had, over the years, weathered to a mellow, golden hue. The low stone wall enclosing the immediate grounds was picturesque, and though the vines that covered it were now leafless and layered with fresh-fallen snow, Julian could well imagine how charming would be the aspect in spring. Smoke curled from three different chimneys, suggesting a snug interior.

Quite delightful, he thought grimly. But who knew what manner of people resided inside? He would not allow himself to be unduly influenced by the pleasing exterior of the vicarage. Though he was grateful to the Clarkes for nursing Peter back to health, and therefore was predisposed to like them, he must be on his guard. They might be toadeaters hoping to advance themselves through their new acquaintance with Peter. Judging by the size of the house and by Whitfield itself, Vicar Clarke's living was probably quite comfortable, as long as he didn't have a quiver full of children to support. If they descended from reasonably good stock, Julian wouldn't be surprised to learn that they had encouraged Peter's infatuation for Lily and were hopeful of an alliance. Tired of speculation about the Clarkes and their motives, and most anxious to see Peter, Julian prepared to alight. Grown warm from the morning sun beating against the carriage roof, he first removed his greatcoat.

After he'd stepped down from the carriage and progressed a few feet past the gate, Julian knew his first impression of the vicarage as being peaceful to have been entirely misleading. With a sound like a stampede of swine, a thundering noise and high-pitched squeals could be heard approaching from behind the house. Then, before he'd time to assimilate the cause of the commotion and comprehend that he was about to be run over by a pack of sledding children, it was too late.

They came round the corner of the house at a speed impossible to abandon at short notice. How many of them there were was hard to tell. Julian managed to jump out of the way, but in so doing he lost his footing and landed on his backside in two inches of wet snow.

After a moment of shocked disbelief, as he felt the damp invade the seat of his pantaloons and the snow trickle down the tops of his Hessian boots (no doubt to puddle later in the toes and heels of his stockings), a small, freckled face presented itself not six inches from his nose. Large, almond-shaped brown eyes, thickly lashed, stared at him.

"Are you hurt, thir?"

Julian blinked and answered curtly, "No. Who the deuce are you? One of the little ruffians who tried to run me over, I suppose?"

The face, wrapped all about in a blue knitted scarf, solemnly swivelled from side to side. "Oh, no, thir," the child lisped. "I'm just their thithster, Rachael."

No further conversation was possible at this point, because Julian was suddenly overcome with people wishing to help him up. His coachman, his valet, the aforementioned ruffians (who had apparently repented of their discourtesy and were bent on making reparation) and a tall, gentlemanly looking man with grey flecked hair, whom Julian assumed must be the Vicar Clarke, descended upon him all at once and tried to grab his arms to give him a heave-ho.

Concerned that he might be killed by kindness, or at the very least relieved of an appendage, Julian tucked his elbows against his sides and levered himself up without any assistance at all. Cutting into the distressed babble of his servants, the jabbering of the children—there were five by quick count—and the vicar's murmured expressions of sincere concern, Julian said loudly, "I'm quite all right, just wet! Do go back to the carriage, Jem, and you, too, Pleshy! I shall need a change of clothes. Vicar Clarke, I presume?"

Julian spoke with as much calm dignity as he could muster, though he knew he sported a giant circle of wet on his backside. And it was none too comfortable, either, what with the breeze coming up from behind as it was.

"Yes, and you are Lord Ashton, Peter's uncle." Vicar Clarke smiled, sketched a quick bow and motioned towards the house. "We won't chit-chat here, my lord. Please come in and warm yourself by the fire till your manservant brings a change of clothing for you. And please accept my humble apologies for the children. They're an active lot and sometimes not as careful as they should be." The speech was delivered with good humour and graciousness, and did not indicate excessive deference or insincerity. Julian grudgingly allowed that, upon first encounter at least, the vicar was not a toadeater.

Julian bowed his acceptance of this apology and preceded the vicar to the house, not entirely sure whether or not he'd heard a wayward giggle escape from the gaggle of children that remained outside. Just as he was about to enter the house, Julian felt a tug at his coat-tails. He looked down and discovered Ra-chael proffering him his hat. It looked quite disreputable. There were thorn holes in the crown and snow melting on the rim.

"Thith ith yours, thir," Rachael told him solemnly.

"So it is," he replied equably, disarmed despite himself at the little girl's determination to be helpful. "I should recognize it anywhere. Thank you, Rachael!" He took the hat and carried it into the house.

Inside he was greeted by Mrs. Clarke, a petite woman with dark brown hair and small, serene features, dressed in a simple cambric round gown. After a brief "How do you do?" she bustled him over to stand in front of a roaring fire. While his valet, Pie-shy, retrieved his portmanteau from the carriage boot, Julian was at leisure to observe his surroundings and the inhabitants of Whitfield Vicarage.

The parlour in which he presently toasted his derriere was small and the furnishings a little worn and shabby, like the dog-eared pages of a well-loved book. But the room was clean, though comfortably cluttered with several objects of employment or amusement. On the floor by a rocking chair was an open sewing box with a half-finished pair of rose pink slippers beside it. There was a game of chess set out on a table near the fire. An easel with a water-colour ocean scene propped upon it stood near the window. And there were three cats in the room—one on the mantelshelf, one on the sofa arm and the last twining itself round and between Julian's boots.