Song From the Sea (11 page)

Callie felt instant relief that he had changed the subject, but something else as well—she felt a real joy in the thought of being outdoors, of seeing the gardens, examining the plants. “I would like that very much,” she said. She didn't relish the idea of strolling in Adam's company, for he made her feel uncomfortable, as if she'd been turned inside out and back in again, but he would no doubt be able to provide her with a great deal of information and insight as to the flora and fauna. “Thank you,” she thought to add, addressing herself to her sorbet, but her appetite had fled.

“It will be my pleasure. You do look tired, Miss Magnus. Would you like me to escort you to your room, or would you like to stay and have pudding?”

“Thank you,” she stammered. “I think I would like to go back to bed, but I can find my own way. I enjoyed the meal very much,” she said, struggling to her feet, and both men immediately rose.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like assistance?” Adam repeated, his brow drawing together.

“No …I must learn to manage for myself,” she said. The last thing in the world she wanted was for Adam to come anywhere near her bedroom again. A walk in the garden was as close as she cared to be, and even that was too close.…

She didn't know why, but Adam Carlyle struck her with a strange trepidation, as if he could see straight through her and knew her for the fraud she was.

6

A
dam couldn't sleep that night. There wasn't anything unusual in that; he hadn't slept a full, peaceful night since Caroline and Ian had died, but what made this night different was the direction of his thoughts, for they weren't focused on his lost family, but rather on Callie Magnus.

They were two of a kind, he and Callie, both of them lost, although in his case he couldn't escape the memories that brought him no comfort, and in her case, she had no memories that might have given her the comfort she needed.

Or did she remember? He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the canopy of his bed, listening to the rain pounding against the windows. He had sensed a genuine emotion in her at dinner as she talked about her home in Italy. Then there was the Italian that had come so smoothly off her tongue and her obvious classical education, unusual in a woman. Yet he couldn't help feeling that she had been making up large parts of her narrative, more from what she hadn't said, and the sad, lost look in her dark eyes as she spoke.

He wondered if memory could be selective, if it was possible to remember the basics of language, for example, but not the emotional content or details of one's own life. He would have found such a trick enormously useful, to be able to wipe out large portions of his past, the parts that gave him such pain. If he could be sure of the effect, he'd gladly bash himself over the head with a large rock, but unfortunately there was no guarantee that he wouldn't end up a gibbering idiot.

Sighing heavily, Adam laced his hands behind his head. He couldn't find his way back to the happiness he'd once known, but he might possibly be able to help Callie Magnus find her way back. All he had to do was keep talking to her, draw her out without her realizing what he was doing. Maybe she would say things that would give him a clue as to her lost identity. He'd have to be patient, very patient, and very careful as well, for she shut up as tight as a clam at the least hint of prying.

Yes … that was it. He'd make some use of his final days on this earth, do some good for someone. He would consider it one last act of kindness before putting himself out of his misery once and for all, and if he did a very good job, he'd be able to accomplish that feat sooner rather than later. He'd have to put his own troubles to one side if he was to accomplish his goal, for it wouldn't do to give Callie any hint that he'd long since given up on life, not if he was trying to give her back hers.

Feeling much more settled in his mind, Adam rolled over and fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning Adam sprang out of bed with uncommon energy. The sun was shining, the sky painted a brilliant blue, and now that he had a plan in mind, he had all intentions of making it work. Callie Magnus was a project, and he enjoyed projects, feeling them challenges to be met and overcome. He had a talent for putting plans into action and making them work, if he did say so himself.

Shoving a piece of toast between his teeth, he let Plimpton help him into his jacket, took a last gulp of coffee, and briefly inspected himself in the looking glass. He looked the picture of innocence, he decided with satisfaction. He'd just have to remember to keep his expression perfectly pleasant.

Nigel had pointed out to him that he'd developed a habit of scowling and speaking curtly that tended to put people off. Adam hadn't been aware of such a habit, but as Nigel was usually observant and didn't tend to make pointed remarks without reason, Adam was forced to believe that he must be right.

Pity—he wasn't accustomed to paying attention to whatever expressions his face might unwittingly assume, and he imagined the effort would be fairly taxing, but whatever he needed to do to ensure the success of his scheme would be worthwhile in the end.

“Thank you, Plimpton,” he said, stepping back from the glass. “You have achieved a most satisfactory result.”

“Thank
you
, my lord,” his valet replied, looking mightily surprised. “You are looking unusually well this morning.”

“I slept,” Adam said. “Sleep can do wonderful things for the constitution. Sleep, good food, and large quantities of fresh air are what Dr. Hadley has prescribed for Miss Magnus, and I shall therefore be indulging in these myself so as to oblige him and hasten Miss Magnus's recovery— oh, and Plimpton, from now on Miss Magnus and I shall be taking a full breakfast downstairs every morning, although I'd still like coffee and toast up here while I dress.”

“Very good, my lord. I am delighted to know your appetite has finally returned,” Plimpton said, glancing pointedly at the breakfast tray which held nothing but empty plates.

“Mmm,” Adam said with distraction, thinking about exactly where to take Callie for their walk. He'd be wise to stay close to the house in case she lost strength, but there were gardens aplenty that ought to keep her interested.

Whistling a little tune, he vanished through the door, intending to do some paperwork before their excursion.

“You wouldn't believe it,” Plimpton said, his eyes wide as he managed to pull Mrs. Simpson and Gettis off to one side of the vast kitchen. “His lordship was actually
whistling
as he left his room!
And
he finished his entire breakfast.” Plimpton's excited speech was so unlike his usually calm and deliberate manner that both Mrs. Simpson and Gettis immediately understood the importance of what he was trying to impart.

“God bless the boy,” Mrs. Simpson murmured, producing a large handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and dabbing at her eyes. “Maybe there's hope for him yet, the poor dear. All that grief, suffering for so long—I've feared for his health, I have, ever since the tragedy.”

“It is true,” Gettis said gravely, “that he cleaned his plate last night as well, and even had second helpings. I haven't seen the like of that since … since before the terrible day. Cook was that pleased. What do you make of it, Mr. Plimpton?”

“I think he's coming back to us, that's what I think,” Plimpton said, slightly misty around the eyes. He passed a hand over his balding head as if to collect himself. “What's more, I think Miss Magnus has something to do with it.”

Mrs. Simpson gasped, her hand leaping to her mouth. “You mean,” she squeaked, “you mean there might be something
there
?”

“I mean,” Plimpton said, drawing up in a dignified fashion so that his chest puffed out slightly, “that I believe his lordship is interested in Miss Magnus's welfare and that she has given him a reason to move forward. His lordship has always been at his best when worrying about other people's problems, rather than his own.”

“True,” Gettis said, nodding sagely. “I've known him since he was a boy and I was only a footman in the household, but his lordship always managed to soothe his troubles by tending to a wounded animal or championing a local lad whom his nasty cousin had taken a disliking to. Perhaps his lordship has found a cause in seeing to Miss Magnus's recovery.” He pulled his own large handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and nose, not from any surfeit of emotion, but because he suffered terribly from hay fever.

“Yes—yes, I think you have the right of it,” Mrs. Simpson said. “Look at the way he sat by the poor poppet's bed when she was too ill to come to her senses, fretting over her welfare. He's done nothing but ask about her ever since, consulting with the doctor at every opportunity, seeing that she was as comfortable as she could be. That's his lordship all over, isn't it? Dear boy. Dear, dear boy.” She blew her nose delicately.

“It is too soon to hope overmuch, but I cannot help but pray that this marks a turning point in his lordship's grieving,” Plimpton said solemnly. “It is time for him to return to the living.”

They all straightened instantly and with considerable astonishment when the unexpected sound of Adam's voice came from some distance behind them.

“Oh, er … good morning, Cook,” he was saying in a cheerful fashion. “I wondered if I might have some stale bread crusts. I thought I'd take Miss Magnus to feed the ducks.”

The three of them exchanged a long, meaningful look, and without another word they dispersed and went about their usual business.

Callie shot Adam a sidelong, slightly wary look as Gettis helped her into a pelisse that had magically appeared out of nowhere, like the rest of her borrowed clothes.

As usual, she could read nothing from Adam's face, although it didn't seem to hold that shuttered, slightly forbidding expression that she dreaded. He'd been waiting for her in the Great Hall when she'd come down, and said nothing more complicated than “Good morning. Have you breakfasted?”

That told her nothing at all, and she wondered anew if he had tumbled to all her lies and half-truths and was waiting only to spring his trap.

She swallowed hard, trying to remember how happy she was to be going outside into sunshine that she had longed for as a thirsty man longs for water. She refused to let any foreboding spoil her morning out. She'd worry about Adam and his questionable motives later.

As they walked out the door and down the steps of what she assumed was the main entrance of the house, she peeped over at him again. He was dressed in simple buckskin trousers and a linen shirt open at the neck, his jacket an old and comfortable-looking affair of plain broadcloth; his boots appeared equally old and comfortable. He looked more like a gentleman farmer than a marquess and she had to admit that she liked the effect, for she felt far less intimidated by him. He actually seemed like a normal person, his dark hair ruffling lightly in the breeze, his face relaxed, his stride an easy amble that kept pace with hers. The tension slowly ebbed out of her body as they walked, and she relaxed her guard.

“We're fortunate that it's a beautiful day,” he said in his mellow voice. “We've had enough rain this last month to drive even the cows to distraction, but the result should be a spectacular May if the weather continues to hold.”

Callie was so absorbed in looking about her and drinking in the warmth of the sunshine that she barely heard him. She glanced back at the house, trying to get some sort of perspective of its size and nearly fell over when she saw just what that size was. Stanton Abbey looked more like a palace. The windows of the long, low front were large and mullioned, the towers of the four staggered wings crenellated, and the stone from which the entirety had been built was a lovely, soft gray, and bathed in the morning light.

“Oh!” The gasp escaped involuntarily, an expression of astonishment and awe.

Adam caught her by her elbow and steadied her just in time, for she tripped over her own feet. “It does rather take one by surprise the first time,” he said pleasantly, turning her to face the house full on. “It's hard to believe the place started as a Cistercian monastery. Henry the Eighth closed the monastery right after the poor abbot had spent vast sums of money on new building. My family benefited from that piece of good fortune when Henry decided to give the abbey to them for some service or other—that was in 1540, and then one of my ancestors, feeling flush at the time, decided to rebuild it in the mid-1600's, transforming it into what you see now.” He smiled down at her. “The style must be somewhat familiar to you, given your Italian background.”

“I—yes, it is,” she said, perfectly and jarringly familiar with the style. “That is, I am not accustomed to palaces, but I do recognize the architecture. I find it strange to see it here in England.” That was an understatement. Other than its size, many parts of Stanton Abbey's exterior fitted closely with the image in her mind of the Italianate house with the high walls and the bougainvillea pouring over them in a riot of glorious scarlet. Instead of tall spires of cypress trees, manicured yews framed and defined the outer walls, and massive beds of flowers completed the effect of lush color, lending the English setting the rich, warm look of a Mediterranean landscape.