Song From the Sea (36 page)

Adam laughed, kissed her soundly, and picked her up in his arms, swinging her around before he set her back down on solid ground. “Yes, they would, and you are amazing, Callie, absolutely amazing, and kind and good and generous and very, very clever. You've come up with a brilliant idea, and I see no reason why we can't make this work. Sir Reginald's gone into the dining room and we should join him, but we can discuss this over luncheon, and perhaps he can come up with some good ideas about how to tie this all up neatly so that everyone's happy.” His face alive with excitement, Adam drew her into the dining room and started talking before he'd even sat down.

By the end of lunch, the three of them had put together a workable plan. Sir Reginald, who was all in favor of the idea, seeing it as a wise investment, agreed to have his staff organize the preliminary paperwork and come up with a fair market value. “Even if you have to buy slightly over market price in order to close the sale,” he said, “you'll still have a great deal left over to invest in improvements.”

“I'd like the cottages to be one of the first things on the list of improvements, if that's possible,” Callie said.

“Absolutely,” Adam said. “I think I'm very happy that you went into Hythe to visit Nellie Bishop that day, even if you did scare the life out of me. That's what put this idea into your mind, isn't it?”

“It is,” she said. “Nellie never complained, not really, but I could see how things were, not just for her, but for everyone. Nellie said there wasn't a single one of them who wouldn't jump at the chance to have you as their landlord. If we could make this a reality I'd feel as if we'd accomplished something important.”

“Then we'll see it does become a reality. You are going to make a very fine Marchioness of Vale, Callie. I'm very proud of you.”

Callie blushed furiously. “I didn't
do
anything,” she said. “I just had an idea. It's you who agreed, and that makes you even more wonderful in my eyes.”

“Hmm. Well, enough of this mutual admiration. I have to take my leave, as I have to get into town for a horse sale, but I'll be back a little later.” He stood. “Sir Reginald, I can't tell you how grateful I am that you came down when you did. Meeting you has been a very great pleasure, and I feel sure that we are going to enjoy a long and mutually satisfying friendship.”

“You can be sure of it,” Sir Reginald said gruffly. “I already feel rather like a member of the family, if I might be so presumptuous.”

“You make no presumption,” Adam said, shaking his hand. “You are welcome at Stanton any time you care to visit. We shall count on you to attend Christmas and christenings and all those sorts of family occasions. I'd like to think that both Callie and I have gained an honorary godfather.”

“I should be honored to play the part. On your way now, young man, for your wife and I have much to discuss, and I intend to bore her with a detailed history of her past.”

When Callie walked Sir Reginald to his waiting carriage two hours later, she couldn't help the tears that filled her eyes as she said good-bye. He had given her so much just by virtue of his warmth and acceptance, but his most precious gift had been a beautifully told story of her life that had painted a clear and richly defined picture and made her feel as if he had given her the next best thing to her memory—his own, as told through the eyes of her father.

She waved until the carriage disappeared into the distance, then turned and walked back up the front steps, her heart filled to overflowing.

Harold couldn't believe his luck when he saw Adam's carriage barrel past him on the road, made unmistakable not only by the Vale crest emblazoned on the side, but also by the fineness of the four matched bays and the livery of the coachmen and grooms on the box and the footmen who rode behind. But most unmistakable was the man who held the reins, for it was Adam himself.

Harold quickly turned his head so that Adam wouldn't recognize him, not that Adam would even bother to look at an old carriage like his, with only two horses that had seen better days to pull it.

So. Adam had left Stanton and taken a full complement of his stable hands with him, which meant he was probably off to the horse sale; he'd be gone for hours. At least he wouldn't have to contend with Adam directly, and that suited him just fine. He had no desire to tangle with the arrogant bastard.

If his luck really held, Harold thought, he might find nasty Miss Melbourne out walking on her own and he could simply grab her, throw her in the carriage, and make off with her. If he had to, he
would
go to Gretna Greene. He'd do just about anything for those fifty thousand pounds, including marrying that harridan, and just let Adam try to stop him.

His confidence rising with every mile, Harold pulled into the front gates of Stanton and drove straight up to the front door.

He wasn't very pleased when Gettis immediately appeared. He hadn't seen the crotchety man in twelve years, but his sour expression hadn't changed one iota. Harold descended from the box. “Good day, Gettis,” he said in his haughtiest manner. “I have come at Lord Vale's request.”

“Good day, Mr. Carlyle,” Gettis said, his nose in the air as if he detected a bad smell. “His lordship said nothing to me about your paying a visit, and even if he did expect you, which I seriously question, his lordship is not at home.”

Harold was prepared. He produced Adam's letter from his coat pocket and thrust it into Gettis's gloved hand. “Read that, if you can. It says that he wished for me to bring Miss Melbourne's belongings immediately, which I have done.”

“There is no Miss Melbourne here,” Gettis said, and Harold could see he'd taken him by surprise.

“Come now, Gettis, there's no need to play the fool with me. I know Lord Vale's been keeping her hidden away here for the last month.”

“If you are referring to Lady Vale,” Gettis said, recovering his poise as he read Adam's letter, “she is not receiving visitors. Furthermore, there is nothing in this correspondence that mentions that your presence was requested. Lord Vale states that you were to send her ladyship's belongings. He says nothing about bringing them yourself.”

Harold paled and licked his lips. Lady Vale? That meant they were already married? A sweat broke out on his brow. He hadn't counted on that. He hadn't counted on that at all. Oh, his mother wasn't going to be pleased.
Damn
Adam to hell!

Gettis inspected the interior of the carriage where Harold had placed two of the trunks and the two cases, then walked around the back of the carriage to where Harold had strapped the last trunk with great effort. The damned thing had weighed a ton, and little wonder, since it was filled with books, as he'd discovered when he'd forced the lock last month. He ran after Gettis.

“I meant Lady Vale,” he said quickly. “I referred to her maiden name from long habit. We are acquainted, you fool, or I wouldn't have her belongings, now would I?”

“And how do you come to have her ladyship's belongings?” Gettis said coldly, regarding Harold with deep suspicion.

“Not that it's any of your business, but I collected them from Dover when she missed her sailing. She was meant to be paying my mother and me a visit, and I was kind enough to keep them for her until she arrived in England. Well, here they are, and I would like to deliver them to her personally.”

“That will not be necessary,” Gettis said, gesturing to the two footmen who stood at the ready by the front steps. “Albert, Charles, attend to the unloading of her ladyship's things and take them upstairs to her room. Stand back, if you please, Mr. Carlyle. Your assistance is not needed.”

Harold glared at him, feeling thoroughly humiliated, but there was nothing new in that. Gettis had always gone out of his way to make him feel like an insignificant and unwelcome intrusion. But there was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing, and the realization that he'd been completely outmaneuvered made his blood boil.

He was forced to stand back and watch as the baggage was removed piece by piece, and piece by piece carried into the abbey. Gettis never took his stern gaze off Harold.

“Now that you have discharged your duty, so to speak, you may leave, Mr. Carlyle. I can assure you that his lordship will not be pleased to find you here when he returns.”

Harold didn't bother to reply to this insult. He was shaking so hard with rage that he couldn't have spoken if he'd tried. He climbed back onto the box, gave Gettis one last filthy look, and turned the carriage around, starting down the drive again feeling like a dog that had just been kicked and was running away with its tail between his legs. As if that wasn't bad enough, he knew his mother was going to kick him just as hard when he got home. She'd told him to do something, hadn't she? She'd told him to take care of things. What the devil was he supposed to do now?

As he rounded the corner that led past the stables and then down the rest of the long drive, he drew the horses to a walk, a brilliant idea occurring to him. He pulled off the driveway and into a small clearing and hid the carriage behind a copse of trees.

He'd be damned if he went home having done nothing at all to get his own back. Harold thought hard. Adam had gone off with the coachman and the two head grooms. There'd be hardly anyone about.

He smiled maliciously as he slid off the box and made his way over the small path that led to the back of the stables. Crouching down behind some bushes, he looked carefully. There was no sign of any activity. He ferreted around in the bushes and found exactly what he was looking for: a dried burr. Perfect.

He made a dash for the door of the tack room and gingerly opened it, peering around. All was quiet. It took no time at all to find the peg where Adam's saddle hung, for it was clearly marked, and he would have recognized the make of Adam's favorite saddle anyway. The man never varied in his habits. The saddlecloth had been neatly folded under the saddle, ready to pick up in one easy movement.

Harold lifted the saddle and carefully tucked the burr between the folds of the saddlecloth where it wouldn't be seen. All that was needed was the pressure of Adam's weight coming down on the saddle and the burr would go straight into the horse's tender flank. That would be that. No horse would sit still for that sort of treatment, and with any luck, Adam would be completely off guard when the horse went berserk.

If Harold's plan worked, Adam would be badly thrown. With any real luck, he'd break his miserable neck.

Next stop for Harold: Stanton Abbey, the marquessate firmly in hand.

Harold replaced the saddle exactly as it had been, and crept back out of the tack room. He tittered all the way back to his carriage and laughed himself silly most of the way home.

19

G
ettis finally tracked Callie down in the rose garden. “My lady, I am sorry to interrupt you, but your, er, your belongings have arrived. I thought you might like to know.”

Callie jumped up. “My trunks?” she said with delight. “My cases? Oh, Gettis, how absolutely wonderful—Where are they now?”

“They have been taken upstairs to your new room. I asked that they not be unpacked, as I wasn't sure if you wouldn't rather go through them yourself and decide where you'd like everything put.”

“Thank you, Gettis,” Callie said, deciding the day couldn't get any better. “I'll go straight up and have a look.” She brushed the dirt off her gardening gloves and pulled them off, dropping them into her basket next to her pruning shears. “Will you tell his lordship when he returns that I'll be upstairs?”

“Certainly, my lady. Allow me to take your basket for you. I will put it in the solarium.”

Callie handed it to him and practically ran into the house and up the stairs, and she had to remember to turn left instead of right as she was accustomed to doing.

The trunks sat to one side of the large, sunny bedroom, and the cases were neatly laid out on the bed. She looked at them with anticipation.
Her
trunks.
Her
cases. She could scarcely believe it. Here was something concrete from her past. She had no idea what lay inside them, but whatever they held, whatever she found, those things would belong to her and tell her about the person she'd been.

With shaking hands she opened the first case and gently laid the lid back. Clothes, she saw, the outline of clothes wrapped in tissue; a pair of horn-backed hairbrushes lay tucked between the top folds. Something flat and oblong, also wrapped in tissue, lay next to the hairbrushes, and she picked the little package up and unfolded the tissue with trembling fingers. It was a pen-and-ink sketch of a man with long side-whiskers, and a serious but gentle face, whose eyes seemed bright and intelligent behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. He held a book in one hand, and his expression seemed to be one of good-natured patience for the artist.

Callie choked back a sob. She knew without a doubt that she was looking at her father's image. Her heart felt as if it had just been sliced open, and all the grief she'd felt in her dream came pouring back as if a dam had broken.

“Papa,” she whispered, running her fingers down his likeness as if she could somehow feel his essence. “Oh, Papa … how very fine you look. And oh, how—how I miss you.” She held the sketch against her heart for a long moment, taking deep, slow breaths as if that could quiet the pain.