Seeking Philbert Woodbead ( A Madcap Regency Romance ) (The Fairweather Sisters) (11 page)

They
scratched their heads and stroked their chins.

He finally
asked, “Has he painted a camel hump? Hills? Mountains? A pig with a stick and
mountains?”

“Don’t be
silly,” she replied irritably.

“Then why
don’t you explain it to me?”

“Well,” she
frowned, “I haven’t figured it out yet. If I had I wouldn’t need your help.”

“You must
have some ideas?”

“I suppose,
but they are not very good.”

“Tell me
one.”

“No.”

“You have
to. Otherwise how am I supposed to help you? You know him best. Now what could
it be?”

She
fidgeted for a moment and then said, “This here is a man with a crown on his
head. See these points.”

“The only
thing I see is a pig. Those points are ears. If it was a crown, then it would
have more points. Now, what about this here?”

“I suppose
it could be a kidney?” she offered hesitatingly.

“A kidney?

“Yes, a
kidney.”

“Why a
kidney?”

“It looks
like a kidney.”

“A human
kidney?”

“A fish’s
kidney.”

“Do fish
have kidneys?”

“Well, then
a human one.”

He tilted
his head to the side, examining the painting anew. “Do you know doctors dig
corpses out of the grave and then cut them up? And then they pull out all the
innards and draw them.”

“How do
they know that a living person’s innards are the same as a dead person’s? What
if they shrivel up the moment a person dies?” she asked curiously. “Do they
also cut up people who are alive?”

He looked
at her bright, eager face and said hastily, “Let’s stop speaking of shrivelled
up innards. It is making me feel queer. Instead, let us discuss why your poet
would draw a kidney suspended in empty space over a pig. I for one don’t think
it is a kidney. It looks more like an inverted hill.” He looked at her again
but this time from the corner of his eye. “Why did you think of a kidney and
not an inverted hill? Tell me, do you have violent fits? Have you ever woken up
in the stables or a guest’s bedroom with blood on your hands and no idea how it
happened?”

“Are you
calling me insane?”

“If I am,
then do you feel a bloodthirsty urge to pick up the letter opener and pepper my
body with bleeding holes for revenge?”

“No, and
you asked me what I thought the painting depicted. I was trying to help. No
need to criticise.”

“Amy—”

“Celine,”
she automatically corrected.

“Amy,” he
repeated, springing out of the chair. He started pacing the room, “Are you sure
your poet wants to be found. I mean, he knew you could understand his poetry. Hence,
shouldn’t he have written you a poem with his address in it? Or better still,
tell you directly and clearly without the need for rhymes. Why did he paint
it?”

“I received
the painting with a note attached that said that if I ever wanted to contact him,
then he could be found at this place. He said if I truly loved him, then I
would be able to decipher the painting.”

“I think I
need to know more about your love story,” he said looking baffled.

She
hesitated, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks.

He looked
away and cleared his throat, “I only want to know the spirit of the tale not
the details.”

She kept
her face carefully averted from him as she spoke, “We have an inn called The
Tears of a Tankard in Finnshire. Mrs Reed runs it. She also sells pickles,
jams, and other condiments. I went to purchase her raspberry preserve when I
ran into Philbert. He was staying at the inn in hopes of finding poetic
inspiration and because his father had thrown him out of the house.”

Lord Elmer
smiled. “He must have read one of his poems to his father.”

She glared
at him. “That’s not true.”

“Then why
was he thrown out.”

After a
moments silence, she said quickly, “hisfatherdissaprovedofhispoetry”

“His
father,” he repeated agonisingly slowly, “disapproved of his poetry. In other
words he had read one of his poems.”

She gave a
short nod.

He curbed
his smile and gestured for her to continue.

She
continued, “I bumped into him and spilled the raspberry preserve all over his
green, moth eaten patchwork coat. It was my fault. I had not been watching
where I was going, and I had failed to tighten the lid of the jar.” Her voice
became dreamy, “He was very nice about it and his pink cheeks puffed in and
out, in and out, and once again in and out—”

“Your eyes
trapped each other’s, heads swam, the beggar on the street corner started
crooning a song, and your lashes fluttered, lips moved, mischief occurred under
bellowing skirts, and you fell in love,” he interrupted. “I know those bits. It
is the same for everyone. What I want to know is what in the dickens ruined it
all?”

She fiddled
with the quill as she spoke, “He left a letter for me every night on our
doorstep. I would wake early every morning and get the letter before anyone
else discovered it. One day I did not wake on time and my mother found the
letter.”

“Dash my
wig,” he said mildly.

She dug the
nib into the sheet making a hole.

“I am
listening,” he encouraged.

She took
the nib out of the hole and continued, “She forbade me to write to him or meet
him. He continued to write for some more time unaware that I could no longer
read them. My mother was burning the letters. I did manage to get the last
letter he ever wrote before my mother could get her hands on it, and I found
the painting. He thought I no longer loved him, so he painted the place with a
note to say that if I loved him, I would know the essence of the painting and
understand where he will be every day, all day, in London. He said he will wait
for me forever. He left Finnshire that day and I have not heard from him
since.”

“Your love
story came to an abrupt end because you overslept. Tragic.”

“Oh, to
hell with you.” She stood up. “I told you it was a bad idea. Let me find him on
my own. You need not worry your pretty head over it.”

“I have
been called handsome but never pretty. I am sorry. I will not tease you. Come
sit. Let’s make a note of all the places in London that have mountains or hills
in them. I am certain this is a hill and not a kidney. Then I will get my valet
Nithercott to visit these places and make discreet enquiries.”

Some of the
steam went out of her. It did sound like a good idea. Better than she had in
days.

Half an
hour later she set her quill down and rubbed her tired eyes. She pushed the
sheet towards him, “These are all the names I could find.”

He poured
the sand on the paper, “I will get Nithercott to investigate. Your Philly
should be easy enough to find. A fat poet named Philbert Woodbead. He already
sounds unique.” He grinned. “Don’t be so serious, Amy. A little fun never hurt
anyone.”

She eyed
him in frustration. He was being so kind in helping her, and yet he had an
aggravating habit of getting under her skin. She wanted to throttle him and
kiss him at the same time. She blinked at the last thought. Kiss him?

He looked
at her quizzically as he put the names in his pocket.

“Are you
ill?” he asked concerned. “You are looking very odd.”

“No, I was
just thinking,” she said hurriedly.

“About?”

“The poem.
This poem here. It is a wonderful piece that Philbert wrote for me,” she said
grabbing the sheet closest to her.

He took the
paper and read the contents. “This is a wonderful piece?”

“Yes,” she
said defensively. “You need to have a sensitive soul to understand it.”

“I need to
have a sensitive soul to understand ‘An Ode to the Noble Liverwort’? He calls
you his Noble Liverwort?”

“He likes
botany,” she mumbled.

“Why don’t
you go to bed?” he suggested kindly. “You are looking pale.”

She
scrambled up and made her way towards the door only to slap her head and come
right back.

“The poems,
I need to take them back,” she muttered embarrassed.

“By all
means take them and keep them. I read another one, ‘The Cat and the
Parti-coloured Iris’, and it managed to frighten away my sleep. The cat ate the
iris. I think I shall read anything but poetry until daylight. Goodnight,” he
said offering her the neat bundle.

She grabbed
it.

He held on.

She tugged
at the bundle and then looked at him questioningly.

He smiled
and pulled out a pin from her hair. A thick brown lock fell covering her left
eye.

“You cannot
be proper when having an adventure, my dear,” he informed her.

Her right
eye focussed on his lips … Not her adventure, she thought firmly. Her adventure
would be properly proper. Proper. Not improper but proper … Certainly,
assuredly not naughty at all but very, very proper.

“Good
morning, your grace,” Celine sang walking into the room with a breakfast tray.

Penelope’s annoyed
head swivelled in her direction. “It’s a blasted morning. I cannot believe the
silly midwife thinks it’s time for me to be completely confined to the bed.”
She straightened up and sniffed. “And don’t call me your grace. I hope you
didn’t get me any eggs.”

Celine
turned around and quickly spooned the boiled eggs into the head housemaid’s
outstretched palm. “Not at all, I have some toast and a bit of bacon. Would you
like chocolate or coffee?”

“I would
like a party,” Penelope grumbled.

Celine
deposited the tray onto Penelope’s lap. “Goodness, what a capital idea.”

“I am going
to have a baby, but that does not mean that you treat me like a dim witted
child. My wits have not slid into my stomach.”

“Then why
were you wrestling with the housemaid for the broom?”

“I am
bored. Everyone knows that. And as for the wrestling, you can’t blame me. It is
natural.”

“Natural?
How is insisting on wanting to sweep and scrub the floors when you cannot even
see your toes natural? I am not even going to mention the fact that you are a
duchess with hundreds of servants at your beck and call.”

“Pigeons do
it. They build the nest and then clean it up to prepare it for the newborn
chicks.”

“You are
not a pigeon.”

“I feel
like a pigeon. A trapped, miserable pigeon sitting in a nest waiting to lay her
egg while her husband scours the countryside for maggots to bring home for
dinner.” She shook her head sadly. “Do you know, as a duchess I am invited to
countless balls, shooting parties, sailing parties, country parties, dinners and
masquerades. Instead of going to them I have been confined to this mansion and
now to this bed. I am a pigeon too fat to fly. I want to fly, Celine, and
dance. Better still, dance and fly at the same time. Can we not sneak out for
one last night in town before the babe is born? We could go to the night
garden. It would be our secret.”

At
Penelope’s mention of a secret Celine’s mind automatically sprang to Lord
Elmer.

“Celine,
why are you blushing?”

“I am not.
I am a little warm.”

Penelope
drained her tea and nodded. “It is warm, and yet,” she pointed at the
fireplace, “you can see that the housekeeper has lit the fire high enough to
roast me alive. Now, it is not that Mrs Cornley would like to see me dead
because she madly loves the duke and wants to be the Duchess of Blackthorne
herself. No, the truth is not so exciting, for you see the reason I am about to
sweat away my last breath is because Anne has a cold.”

“Anne, the
duke’s sister?”

Penelope
nodded.

“But she is
in Bath,” Celine said confused.

“Fancy
that,” Penelope muttered. “Now, I wish someone would explain that to the duke’s
blooming mother.”

Celine’s
face cleared, “Another letter arrived from the dowager.”

“Yes, and I
am quickly realising why mother-in-laws are a despised lot in this world. She has
written to the housekeeper informing her that I must be kept as warm as
possible because Anne has a cold. Just because her daughter has a cold her
daughter-in-law must suffer. How is that fair? And why couldn’t Anne curb her
sneezes. It was blasted insensitive of her. She knows what the dowager is
like.”

Celine made
comforting sounds.

Penelope
gestured for the tray to be removed. “Now, Celine, I feel like having a fruit
cake. Will you request the cook … thank you … and throw this jug of water into
the fireplace, and perhaps open the window slightly.”

“Anything
else?”