Song From the Sea (15 page)

A waxing quarter moon hung deep gold in the horizon as it started its rise into the starry heavens. Its faint light tipped the treetops of the thick forest, where an owl hooted once, twice, and then fell silent.

Walking into his office, Nigel removed his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair, then sat down and rubbed one hand over his scratchy eyes. He'd slept badly, probably the result of a guilty conscience. He was beginning to wonder if his judgment hadn't been seriously flawed when he'd decided to keep the truth of Callie's identity from Adam, even though his reasons for doing so had proved perfectly sound.

With each passing day Callie became more and more a part of the fabric of life at Stanton. She was like a ray of sunshine that couldn't help but brighten everything and everyone around her, Adam included—Adam most especially. Never in his wildest imaginings had Nigel expected Callie to have such a quick and positive effect on Adam's spirits. The most he'd anticipated was for Adam to be diverted from his own troubles by those of an ill, nameless young woman in trouble, and the best he'd hoped for was that Adam would become fond enough of Callie to see to a happier future for her than she'd find with Harold.

What Nigel hadn't anticipated was Callie herself. No longer ill, save for the occasional headache and a gaping hole in her memory that she disguised uncommonly well, she cheerfully busied herself with whatever she could find to do, whether it be in the kitchen, stables, or garden. Nigel never knew where he'd run into her, but always took pleasure from her company when he did.

Callie had that effect on people. Even Adam behaved as if she'd always been around, rather like a comfortable piece of furniture that he didn't particularly notice but would miss terribly if it suddenly vanished.

Which was where the problem lay, Nigel thought, rubbing his eyes again. Adam seemed to have developed his own case of amnesia regarding Callie. Since the first night three weeks before that Callie had dined with them and Adam had decided that she genuinely didn't know who she was or where she belonged, he hadn't once mentioned her lack of memory or what he planned on doing with her in the future. Adam behaved as if he hadn't given the matter another thought. She might have been a piece of lost luggage he'd mistakenly acquired, forgetting that he ought to return it to its rightful owner.

Nigel no more wanted to see Callie gone than anyone else at Stanton did, but he could hardly let the weeks drag on into months until years had gone by and the existence of Miss Callista Melbourne had been forgotten by the world at large—although he knew that wasn't likely to happen, not with what he'd recently discovered.

He glumly pulled open his desk drawer and withdrew the sheet of paper that had arrived by yesterday afternoon's post, wishing he'd never laid eyes on it. He should never have hired the blasted detective in the first place, for the man had done his job far too well.

Nigel now knew every pertinent detail about Callie's past, and he much preferred her own imaginative and far less complicated version, that she was a penniless young woman most recently of Ravello, Italy, with no relatives to worry about her welfare.

Unfortunately the real Callista Melbourne, most recently of Corfu, Greece, was not only not penniless, she was heiress to a considerable fortune whose trustee happened to be Sir Reginald Barnswell, a respected senior barrister and member of the King's Council. Furthermore, her nearest relative, a second cousin, happened to be the fifth Baron Fellowes.

Someone was bound to be looking for Callie, and if neither Sir Reginald nor Lord Fellowes had yet realized that Callie had disappeared, her ghastly fiancé Harold Carlyle certainly knew she had. Given that Callie's fifty thousand pounds would become Harold's upon their marriage, Harold, eternally greedy, wasn't likely to leave too many stones unturned to find her, and he'd sooner or later notify Sir Reginald or Lord Fellowes, if he hadn't already.

Hence the horns of Nigel's dilemma: If he passed on this information to Adam, Adam's sense of responsibility would immediately compel him to contact Lord Fellowes and Sir Reginald and dispatch Callie directly into one or the other's care, whereupon chances were that she would be compelled to go through with the marriage to Harold as arranged, for God only knew what reason. And if Callie was married to Harold Carlyle that would be the end of any happiness for her. He'd keep her under lock and key, spend all her money, and make her life thoroughly miserable. Nigel really couldn't bear the idea.

He hesitated, then made up his mind. Stuffing the damning sheet of paper into the back of his drawer, he locked it and slipped the key up under the raised inside edge of the desk bottom.

If someone was going to be thoroughly irresponsible, thereby saving Callie from Harold's clutches, it might as well be he.

What Adam and Callie didn't know wouldn't hurt either of them for the moment, and what was a little more time in the scheme of things? One never knew how matters might unfold, and maybe Adam would eventually see what Nigel did: Callie was Adam's perfect match.

“I'd be happy to take the basket to Mrs. Bishop for you,” Callie said, when she overheard Mrs. Simpson complaining to Cook that she only had two hands, two legs, and an entire house to run, and hardly had the time or stamina to go dashing all over God's kingdom to deliver Charity to Those in Need as much as they might need it.

“If you insist, poppet,” Mrs. Simpson said, managing to look doubtful and relieved all at the same time, but handing her the covered basket nevertheless. “It's a fair walk to the Bishop cottage, but if you think you can manage, it will save me the journey and I can get on with counting the linens. Jane's gone on her half-day and I can't spare any of the other girls.”

“I can manage easily enough,” Callie said, delighted for an excuse to go farther afield than usual.

“I don't know, poppet—with your health the way it's been …”

“Honestly, Mrs. Simpson, I feel perfectly well—I haven't had the headache in nearly a week now, the weather is fine, and the roads are dry. It's an easy enough errand.”

“Yes, but you should really be asking his lordship's permission before you go.”

“Lord Vale isn't here to ask. He went into town with Mr. Dryden to do some business and he said they won't be back before five. I can't think why he'd have any objection.”

“No, I suppose not,” Mrs. Simpson said, still looking doubtful. “Very well, then. The Bishops aren't really his lord-ship's responsibility as they're not on his land, nor do they lease from him, but Tom Bishop is my brother-in-law's nephew and they do need the help. Now remember to tell Nellie Bishop that the plasters are to be warmed before she puts them on her Georgie's tummy, and he's to have nothing stronger than the beef tea for three days. He has the stomachache something fierce and she's doing him no good by feeding him buttermilk.” She clucked her tongue. “Ah, well, he's her first child and she's not to know any better. By the time the second one makes its appearance in a few months she'll be far more relaxed. The roasted chicken and vegetables are for Nellie and her husband, and she's not to be sneaking tidbits to the boy, not until he's stronger.”

“I'll tell her all of that, Mrs. Simpson,” Callie said with a reassuring smile, relieved that Mrs. Simpson had forgotten to mention the footmen who were supposed to follow her about.

“You keep to the roads, then, like a good girl—no crossing the fields. The bulls are separated out and you're not to know which fields are which. Nasty creatures bulls can be, and you never know when they're going to turn on you.”

“Please don't worry about me,” Callie said, privately thinking that people had an unwarranted prejudice against bulls, who were only interested in protecting their families just like anyone else.

She left by the back door, careful to make sure she hadn't been spotted by either Michael or Henry, and set off on her way, humming a snatch of song, breathing in the sharp, sweet air scented with blossom and the rich loam of earth from newly plowed fields, ready for sowing. The afternoon sunlight poured down hot and bright, warming her shoulders that were covered only by a light shawl, and she pulled that off and tossed it over the basket.

Callie's heart felt lighter than it had in a long time. She might not have a family or home of her own, but at least she had a temporary refuge, and with each passing day she felt more at home. She liked being useful, as if she was in some small way paying back the kindness that had been given to her.

She enjoyed every moment of the forty-five-minute walk, taking in all the new sights. Picturesque cottages dotted the sides of the road once she'd left the main drive of Stanton behind, some with gardens filled with wintered broccoli and cabbage, baby lettuces and the feathery tops of carrots, others bright with a multitude of flowers.

Wildflowers grew everywhere and she stopped to admire yellow cowslips, blue vetch, and white stitchwort growing in the thick grass along the verges. Chestnut trees danced with pink blossom, lilacs cascaded down stone walls, and as she rounded a corner she spotted a pheasant sitting peacefully in the sunshine. She smiled and called a greeting, and it ruffled its feathers in reply and lazily turned its head to watch her pass.

The Bishop cottage was tucked back behind a neat hedgerow, a thin wisp of smoke coming from its single chimney. Callie pushed open the wooden gate and made her way up the path to the front door. The two-room house was simple, the white paint around the windows trim and the steps freshly scrubbed, and yet somehow an overall air of shabbiness hung about it.

She'd noticed this general decline in the appearance of the cottages in the last half mile and had wondered at it.

Knocking lightly, Callie shifted the basket to her left hand and pulled out a posy of sweet violets that she'd picked along the way.

The door swung open and a woman whom Callie guessed to be in her early twenties appeared, her dark hair pulled back with a frayed ribbon, her dress clean but carefully darned in places. She looked tired; smudges stood out under her eyes and her cheeks looked pale. One hand rested over the slight swell of her abdomen. From the inside of the house Callie heard the thready, fretful wail of a small child.

“Good afternoon,” Callie said. “Are you Mrs. Bishop?”

“I am,” the woman said, regarding Callie with a subdued curiosity.

“I am pleased to meet you. I am Callie Magnus. Mrs. Simpson sent me from Stanton Abbey with her compliments and asked me to deliver this basket to you.”

Nellie Bishop first looked startled, then uncomfortable, as if she felt embarrassed to be accepting charity. “She is very thoughtful, although I have told her time and again that we manage perfectly well.”

“I have decided that as Mrs. Simpson has no children of her own, she feels a need to mother everyone else,” Callie said, her heart going out to Nellie Bishop. Callie of all people knew how it felt to have nothing and be beholden to other people. “I've been at the receiving end of her maternal instincts for the last month, bless her, but I confess I seized on an excuse to escape for the afternoon. I hope you don't mind a perfect stranger coming to your door.” Callie extended the posy. “They were so pretty, I couldn't resist. They probably need water right away or they'll start to wilt.”

Nellie's mouth turned up in a faint smile and she buried her nose in the violets. “Thank you,” she said, looking genuinely touched. “Please, won't you come in?”

“Thank you. I'd like that very much.” Callie followed Nellie into the house.

A fire burned in the hearth where a pot hanging from a rod simmered, and a child Callie guessed to be about two years of age sat on a blanket in front of the protective screen, still crying and rubbing at his eyes. He was heavily bundled in clothing and looked hot and uncomfortable. “This must be Georgie,” Callie said, placing the basket on the kitchen table and going to kneel down next to him. “Hello, Georgie,” she said softly. “I hear you're feeling a bit under the weather. Tummy-aches are no fun, are they?” She passed her hand lightly over his shock of blond hair.

Georgie stopped crying and looked at her with wide gray eyes, then stuck his thumb in his mouth and started sucking with a vengeance, drool running down his red cheeks.

Callie looked up over her shoulder at Nellie. “What a fine boy you have. Does he take after his father?”

“He does indeed,” Nellie said, relaxing slightly and looking pleased. “From the day he was born he's been the very image of Tom. He's big for his age at eighteen months, so I reckon he'll grow into a strapping man just like his pappy.”

“It's always nice when sons take after their fathers. What sort of work does your husband do?”

“He's a farmer, miss. He leases fifty acres from Squire Hoode.” Nellie began unpacking the basket.

“Squire Hoode?” Callie wrinkled her brow, trying to recall if she'd heard the name but it didn't ring a bell. “Does his land march with Stanton?”

“Aye, miss, although the grange is nowhere near the size of Stanton, nor the house grand like the abbey. West Grange Manor is nice enough, but nothing could compare to Stanton Abbey, could it? I reckon the squire knows it, too.” She stopped abruptly, her hand slipping to her mouth. “Begging your pardon, miss. I have no business going on about my betters.”

“Oh, I do wish you would,” Callie said, knowing she was breeding mischief but unable to help herself. She felt an affinity with Nellie Bishop, for no reason that she could really explain other than they were close to the same age and Nellie had a nice smile and honest eyes. “There's so much I long to know about Hythe, and Stanton in particular, but I don't feel that it would be proper to ask the servants and I certainly can't ask Lord Vale or even Mr. Dryden anything the least bit personal. I have to be terribly careful about not overstepping my place, being only a temporary guest, but I'm afraid one of my worst failings is an unquenchable curiosity.”

“I do know what you mean, miss. I'm the same way myself. I drive my Tom quite round the bend with questions.” She grinned. “He says one day I'll have my nose pecked off when I dig it too deep where it doesn't belong.”