Song From the Sea (8 page)

“The practicalities of my situation are perfectly clear to me, Lord Vale. I am a woman on my own who needs means to support herself. I am more than capable of discovering those means for myself.”

“May I make so bold as to ask you why you are so determined to be stubborn on this matter when I have offered to help you in any way that I can?” He folded his arms across his broad chest and regarded her with curiosity. “Most women in your circumstances would be happy for a helping hand, and yet you refuse anything but my temporary hospitality. I find your attitude difficult to fathom, although I will admit that I admire your tenacity on the matter of your independence. You are a most unusual woman, Miss Magnus. I cannot help but wonder if you have something to hide.”

Callie paled and her head began to pound with an agonizing fury. “I have nothing to hide, my lord, nothing at all,” she said, clutching her hands on the arms of her chair until her knuckles went white. “I have told you everything that is necessary for you to know. Beyond that, this is my business alone.”

Before she knew it, he'd jumped to his feet and gathered her up in his arms. Carrying her over to the bed, he gently laid her down. “Forgive me,” he said softly, pulling a blanket over her. “I have thoughtlessly overtaxed your strength. Please don't concern yourself with anything but recovering your health. Everything else can wait, Callie. Don't trouble yourself any further—you have nothing to fear. You are safe here.” He smoothed a hand over her hair. “Sleep now if you can. Dr. Hadley will be in later to see you.”

Callie managed to nod, then gratefully closed her eyes.

“Would you like some laudanum to ease the pain?” he asked, in that deep, gentle voice.

“No … no, thank you,” she murmured. “I don't like it.”

“Good girl. Nasty stuff, laudanum. I took it once when I broke my arm as a boy and it had to be set. I vowed never to let myself be dosed again. There's nothing worse than not being able to keep one's thoughts together.”

How right you are
, Callie thought. She vaguely registered the draperies being drawn against the light and the relief of the cool darkness that surrounded her.

As she drifted off to sleep she pondered the contradictions in Adam Carlyle's character. In one moment he could be cool and calculating, and in the next, kind and caring. She really didn't understand him at all.

“I tell you, Nigel, I don't understand the girl at all,” Adam said, swinging a leg over his gelding and settling in the saddle. The bridge on the road to town had been flooded by the storm and he wanted to see what would be needed in the way of repairs. “Today I saw a completely different side to her. She's stubborn beyond belief, especially where the matter of her independence is concerned. I have to admire her pluck, as foolish as it is under these circumstances—I can't think of another woman I know who would turn down all offers of help, most especially from someone of my station.” He turned the gelding's head around and waited for Nigel to finish adjusting his stirrups. “The usual silly miss would have jumped at the opportunity to take what she could, but not this one. She didn't want a thing from me other than to be allowed to recover and go on her way without interference.”

“She gave you no reason?” Nigel asked, coming up next to Adam. They left the stable yard at a comfortable walk.

Adam shrugged. “She told me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business. That's as far as I got before she turned white as a ghost and I had to put her to bed.”

Nigel glanced over at him. “I sincerely hope you didn't browbeat the poor girl.”

“Browbeat her?” Adam said with indignation. “I was perfectly civil. I went so far as to put myself at her disposal. Her
disposal!
I can't think what came over me.”

He didn't add that he'd been completely taken aback when he'd entered the room and seen Miss Calliope Magnus sitting by the window, her hair washed and simply arranged, the sun shining on it so that it appeared the color of spun moonlight. A faint pink tinge colored her pale cheeks, her skin as delicate as porcelain. He hadn't realized until that moment that she was so lovely. He supposed he hadn't expected to see her looking so—so normal. She'd almost behaved in a normal fashion as well. Almost. He still couldn't believe that she'd dismissed him so completely. He was not accustomed to being dismissed, and the feeling didn't sit comfortably.

“I think you were very good to have offered your help,” Nigel said. “I cannot think of any rule that mandates she accept it, though.”

“The rule of common sense, which is a quality entirely lacking in Miss Magnus,” Adam retorted. “I refuse to let her march out of this house into a life which would make anyone miserable when I can do something about it.” He urged his gelding into a trot and Nigel did the same.

“I don't think you have any choice, Adam. She's not your ward. You have no legal say over what she decides to do, as admirable as your concern is.” Nigel hesitated for a moment. “Tell me, what has changed your mind? Yesterday you were in a hurry to be rid of her.”

Adam didn't have a good answer. He didn't really know himself. Mulling the question over, he decided that his reason had something to do with not leaving any unfinished business behind when he went, but he couldn't tell Nigel that. “I thought about what you said,” he eventually replied. “I went to all that trouble to rescue her, so I might as well go to the trouble of seeing her safely settled. She doesn't know the first thing about life in England, how things are done here. She has some featherbrained notion that life as a lady's companion will give her independence.

I tried to explain the reality of the situation, but did she listen? Of course she didn't.”

Scanning the upcoming bridge with a practiced eye, he decided the damage wasn't as bad as he'd feared, and that came as a relief. Two trees had come down and some cleaning up would be required to remove the mud and debris. Miss Magnus's affairs were not going to be so easy to sort out. “I don't know, Nigel. I still think she's hiding something, but for the life of me, I can't think what it is. I intend to get to the bottom of the mystery, though.”

“All in good time,” Nigel said. “As I said, you must gain her trust. She has no one else now but you to depend on, and from what you said, she's not the sort of woman who falls apart at the drop of a hat. If you're right about her hiding something, she must have good reason for keeping her own counsel.” He pulled his horse to a halt and surveyed the bridge. “Not so bad. The foundation will need some shoring up, but all in all I'd say we were lucky. It's a shame, though. I'm always sorry when we lose elms. They're such a noble tree.”

“I begin to believe that you're a sentimentalist,” Adam said, dismounting and slogging his way through the mud. “Have Kettridge organize a team to clear this mess away and tell him in future not to be such an alarmist. I want to get back to the house and change my clothes. Dr. Hadley is due soon and I'd like to have a word with him.” He looked down at his soggy boots with a grimace. “Plimpton will not be happy with what I've done to his precious leather, but that's the least of my worries.”

“I agree,” Nigel said in an enigmatic fashion. “You have many other matters to contend with. The foundation will hold, Adam. The foundation will hold.”

“Where
can
that girl be, Harold? It's been a full week now and still not a word from her!” Mildred Carlyle, who preferred even her closest friends to address her as Lady Geoffrey, glared at her son as if he was supposed to produce Callista Melbourne like a rabbit out of a hat.

“I have no idea, Mama,” he said, fed up with the entire subject. His mother had been harping unceasingly for seven days. “I'm not to blame for her missing her ship. She's bound to write and let us know when she's rebooked her passage. After all, we have all her belongings. She can't go long without those.” He turned the page of his newspaper and began to study the racing forms.

“But what do you
think
, Harold?” Mildred marched across the room and stood in front of him, her hands planted on her bony hips. “I would be most obliged if you'd look at me when I speak to you. Really, you can be most irritating. Your future is at stake and all you can do is bury your nose in the papers.”

Harold didn't respond, busily making a mental list of the horses he planned to back. It was a good thing his mother didn't know about the tidy nest egg he'd made by borrowing from the household accounts for the last five years.

“Pay attention, boy!” Mildred swatted Harold's knee with her fan. “If you want to do something useful, you can find a way to open those trunks. Maybe there's a clue inside as to where she's gone. I couldn't find a single thing inside her valises except hopelessly outdated clothing—one would think her father would have spent some of his fortune on attiring the girl correctly—but perhaps the trunks contain something more fitting for an affianced girl.” She tapped her finger against the corner of her cheek. “At the very least there might be a letter.”

Harold lowered the newspaper and glared back at his mother. “I don't think Miss Melbourne would have left a letter inside a trunk explaining that she was planning on missing her sailing. She probably decided to spend a little extra time in Paris or some such place and simply forgot to inform us.”

“That's what I meant, you fool, a letter from someone whom she might have stopped off to visit. It's the name and address I want.” Mildred tightly pursed her lips. “If your father was still alive, he'd do as I told him. He wouldn't just sit there like a useless bump on a log. Honestly, Harold, anyone would think you didn't want the girl's fortune. I'm depending on it, you know—we could buy a large property far more suitable to our position and live extremely comfortably. My nerves are taxed from scrimping and saving.”

“Yes, Mama,” Harold said obediently, wishing she would cease her whining. What did she expect him to do? Go haring off to Europe to try to find the girl? “As I said, she'll show up sooner or later and then I can conclude matters. I can't marry her for another two months as it is, not until my mourning period is finished. Don't trouble yourself so. Once we're married you'll have everything you want.”

“Everything I
should
have had. If your father had been a more practical man and pursued his business affairs with diligence, we wouldn't be in this predicament. How he managed to lose his entire inheritance I'll never know.”

“If Adam had been a gentleman and made a proper settlement on us in return for all we did for him, we wouldn't be in this predicament, either. As it is, I am forced to marry a girl who Papa said was raised with none of the usual social graces.” He regarded his mother sourly. “I am making an enormous sacrifice, Mama. Miss Melbourne will probably turn out to be an embarrassment to me and all my friends.”

Mildred smoothed down the front of her black bombazine dress and picked an imagined speck of lint from it.

“I should think that you'd be a little more grateful, Harold.” She spoke petulantly. “Your father and I came up with the perfect solution to put us back in funds and you only complain. The girl can be managed once I get my hands on her. All you have to do is to bring her to the point, and I expect you to put some serious effort into courting her, for she is under no legal obligation to marry you. All we have is an agreement between your father and hers that the match would suit.”

“I do
know
that, Mama,” Harold said impatiently.

“Yes, but she might not,” Mildred replied equally impatiently. “I am hoping that she believes everything to be contracted already, and if she doesn't, I shall lead her in that direction should she show any signs of balking—
which
she should not,
if
you do your job properly.”

“Yes, Mama,” Harold said, wishing his mother would stop kicking up such a dust. He knew exactly what he had to do, although the very thought of having to court an ill-behaved nobody from the back of beyond exhausted him. At least the girl would be so grateful that he was gracious enough to overlook her advanced age and lack of manners that she wouldn't put up any resistance to his suit.

“Just you keep that in mind. After you're married you can do whatever you please.” She sniffed. “I am the one who will be saddled with her, but I have never shirked my duty.”

“No, Mama,” Harold said, wondering if it was coming up to teatime. He fancied crumpets and cream and some of those nice seed cakes.

“Look at all those years I raised your ungrateful cousin and never complained, not even when it was your father who should have had the marquessate. If Adam had died at birth as the doctor said he was supposed to, my life would have been entirely different—and yours. You would have been the marquess these last four months. It's all Adam's fault.”

“Yes, Mama,” Harold said, for once agreeing with her. He might not agree with her on many things, but when it came to Adam, they were of like mind. They both loathed the ground he walked on. Adam Carlyle had been nothing but a thorn in his side for as long as he could remember.

“I suppose it's still not too late,” his mother said, perching on the edge of a delicate Louis Quinze chair and fanning her scrawny bosom. “Adam might meet with some misfortune. Bad luck runs in that family: first Anna died giving life to the brat, then Leon succumbed to influenza only nine years later, and just look what happened to Adam's wife and son, if that doesn't prove me right.”

“Too bad Adam wasn't in the woods that day,” Harold said with a sneer. “He might have met with the same unfortunate fate.”

“He might also have prevented it, Harold,” Mildred pointed out. “At least Ian's death put us back in direct line of succession. I cannot tell you how perturbed I was when Adam married that ridiculous woman and produced a son, of all annoying things to do. Had I known Ian wouldn't live to see his fifth birthday, I could have spared myself a great deal of unhappiness. Well. It just goes to show that one never knows when disaster will strike. Perhaps Adam won't reach his thirty-fourth.”

“One never knows,” Henry said, not wanting to discuss the subject any further. Talking about Adam always gave him indigestion, and he didn't want to unsettle his stomach before his tea.