His young stepmother walked forward a few steps and nodded. “Go on and hold her hand, David. She needs comforting, and she certainly responds to you.”
He looked back to Miss Cantrell, who now stretched both arms toward him. Instead of climbing onto the recamier with her as he wanted, he followed Phoebe’s suggestion. Miss Cantrell’s fingers felt warm, slender and soft, attesting that she had never needed to labor for her living. But he had already appraised her as gently born. Her speech had distinctly educated tones, though obscured by that strange American accent.
She sighed and closed her eyes, apparently content with holding his hand. He felt absurdly disappointed, as though she might have urged him to snuggle up beside her and sleep. He watched her porcelain face for several minutes more until the even rise and fall of her blanket-covered breasts indicated she had drifted off again.
Clearing his throat, he said to Phoebe, “You did give her too much laudanum, though I believe the effect is beginning to fade.”
The marchioness drew closer. “You don’t think the drug will harm her, do you?”
He shook his head, eyes still focused on the patient. “No, I have seen soldiers sleep off far worse laudanum stupors than this. I believe she will recover by evening, though she’ll likely have a beastly headache for a day or two, especially since she hit her head yesterday. I trust you tended her injury?”
“I would have, had I discovered one, but from what I can tell, she escaped her ordeal unharmed. I believe she received a good scare but nothing more.”
“You found no blood, no lump on her head?” He set down Miss Cantrell’s hand and moved to examine her scalp, but the thought of taking such a liberty unnerved him, and he pulled back. “I suppose she might simply have been in shock. She undoubtedly appeared so, or . . .” He trailed off, unwilling to propose she might be mentally unsound.
“We won’t know the whole story until she is well enough to tell us herself.” Phoebe smiled gently. “Your presence has calmed her greatly. Perhaps you could speed her recovery if you stayed with us for a few days.”
He threw a startled look at her, but her face revealed no signs of cunning. Slowly, he shook his head. “No, Phoebe, you cannot pull the wool over my eyes quite so easily. I see through your well intentioned but misguided motives. You will not convince me to stay in my father’s house.”
“I had thought about the gate house, actually.”
“Nor on his property.” He stood and turned away from her.
“David, I’m not asking this simply for Harold’s sake. I truly need you to help with Miss Cantrell. You know I’m tired these days, hardly up to nursing her as I ought to do. She responds to you, trusts you. She is obviously quite frightened of something, and for some reason your presence comforts her.”
He sighed and closed his eyes. “I know there is more to this than you contend.”
“But you will stay and help me? I need you.”
He glanced down at Miss Cantrell’s peaceful face, then at Phoebe’s childlike eyes. How could he refuse Phoebe, the one person he considered family? If his motives ran any deeper than that, he had no inclination to explore them. “Very well. Tell Solebury I’ll be staying at the gate house for a few days--against my better judgment.”
“And we can expect you to dine with us here at the manor house tonight? I hope Miss Cantrell will be on her feet by then and can be persuaded to join us.”
He shrugged, his own acquiescence surprising him. “I suppose I may as well come to dinner. Better to suffer his lordship’s company for an hour or so than try to find decent fare in the village.”
She clasped her hands together in front of her chest. “Excellent. I will inform Cook and ensure the gate house is made ready for you. And, by the way, I’m expecting a call from your old army comrade, Lieutenant Harlowe, so you may as well come to tea also.” She walked from the room, a sly smile playing at her lips.
“Minx,” he muttered when she left earshot. He looked back at Miss Cantrell, who stirred in her sleep. “But perhaps the more bewitching sprite lies here.”
Unable to resist touching her hair any longer, he took up a thick lock in his hand. He might have held a bolt of silk, for all of its exquisite texture.
Twirling the tresses around his fingers, he couldn’t deny being drawn to the lovely stranger, though mystery women normally held no allure for him. His own dubious position in society provided enough uncertainty in his life. He liked to know precisely where the women he knew stood--usually somewhere in the demimonde.
He studied Miss Cantrell’s classically formed profile, attempting to make out her character. Her easy, artless manner demonstrated none of the coyness of a debutante, and he had already ruled her out of the working class. She lacked the boisterous ways of the actresses and opera singers he knew, as well as the guile of a courtesan. Into what notch did she fit?
And why should I trouble myself to wonder?
he asked himself, frowning. Wherever she stood in the world, her position would surely prove more sound than his. He might even point that out to her if she showed any further inclination to harm herself.
He let her glossy hair slide from his fingers and took a step back from the recamier, gazing on her one last time. Damn the little hoyden for flaunting her wet, lithe body before him in such an ingenuous way that she
must
have suffered from a head injury, despite having no lump. Damn her for sleepily beckoning him into her arms today. Damn the chit, in short, for making him want her so badly . . . in a way he could never have her.
CHAPTER THREE
Leah woke with a start, springing up into a sitting position. Disoriented, she scanned the formal decor of the room. Detailed wallpaper, probably hand-decorated, covered the walls with Oriental scenes. The furniture looked antique--though in perfect condition--including the hard, backless sofa where she lay under a heavy comforter. In a nearby fireplace, a blaze flickered and crackled, heating the room surprisingly well. A coat of arms hung over the mantel, the name “Traymore” scrawled beneath the crest.
Oh, yes, the sitting room at Solebury House
–the setting for the one nightmare she hadn’t been able to shake. Apparently, she hadn’t dreamed up her accident at the spring.
She wiped perspiration from her forehead and traces of tears from her cheeks. Her head throbbed, but her mind had begun to clear from the upsetting images that had haunted her all night. And morning, she thought, noting the brilliant sunlight that speared through the windows.
Swinging her legs over the side of the couch, she set her bare feet on a thick Persian rug. As she stood, a pain pierced her skull, but her legs held out to support her. She made her way past the fireplace and stopped in front of a window, looking out at the grounds.
A horse-drawn carriage pulled away from the house. Though she guessed the vehicle must be part of a historical enactment, something about the sight made her nervous. As she watched the wheels churn up puffs of dust, she realized what: the dirt driveway again, when she remembered it being paved. Evidently, her night of fitful sleep had failed to put an end to her hallucinations.
Had her brush with death done permanent damage to her brain? Her mind
seemed
to be working normally. She could focus on a single subject without losing concentration. Her thoughts seemed to flow logically. The dreamlike stupor she’d been in all
night had definitely lifted.
A costumed gardener passed the window, dragging a wooden cart full of seedlings, and she marveled at the detail of the portrayal. Every aspect of the scene reflected a past age, giving her an eerie sense that instead of watching a depiction--or hallucinating, for that matter--she really had gone back in time.
She forced a laugh at herself. Her nightmares must have affected her more than she realized. One or two had revolved around the theme of time travel.
“Miss Cantrell, I am so glad to see you up and about,” a feminine voice said from behind her.
Leah turned to see the pregnant woman who had helped her the day before. Today she wore a different dress, though one much like yesterday’s costume. The flower-specked white skirt section started just below her breasts, curving over her protruding abdomen and falling straight down to the floor. A sheer vest-like overdress covered the whole outfit for an effect of casual elegance.
“I am Lady Solebury,” she said, dropping a little curtsy. “I daresay you may not recall our meeting yesterday.”
“I . . . I remember a little.” Gathering that she faced the marchioness David Traymore had mentioned, Leah found herself offering an awkward imitation of her hostess’s gesture. “I’m sorry if I’m not greeting you correctly. I’m an American and not used to addressing nobility.”
Lady Solebury smiled. “And I am not entirely accustomed to being addressed as such, having married Solebury less than a year ago. Before that, I was plain Miss Sheffield. But you did very well, especially considering the ordeal you have been through. I hope you feel somewhat more yourself today?”
“Yes, somewhat, thank you. I . . . I’m very sorry to be such an inconvenience. I can’t believe I fell asleep on your couch--and for the whole night, too.”
The marchioness looked down at her feet, which peeked out under her gown in shoes resembling ballet slippers. “I fear I had something to do with your fatigue. I put a little laudanum in your tea to calm you, but I must have given you too much. I do apologize and hope you can pardon me.”
“Oh . . . sure,” Leah said, stunned to hear the drug had been laudanum. Wasn’t that some sort of old-fashioned opiate? She guessed that in England they might still have drugs outmoded in the U.S.--but opiates? Maybe they used the name laudanum for some modern alternative. In any case, whatever she’d been given had knocked her for a loop.
“I’ve had a chamber made up for you,” her hostess said with a shy smile. “I would have moved you into a proper bedroom earlier, but I loathed to disturb your sleep. I hope you are not in such a hurry to leave that you won’t allow me to show you a bit of hospitality. My maid has laid out some clothing for you to borrow, and I thought you might like a bath drawn and something to eat.”
Surprised by the woman’s extraordinary kindness, she took a moment to think about whether she should accept or try to get back to London immediately. Jeanine would be worried, but she
could call her and explain what had happened at the spring. Considering the tricks her mind had been playing on her, staying put for awhile seemed the sensible thing to do.
Before she could answer, the weight of a lingering gaze drew her attention toward the door to the hall. Her devilish-looking rescuer, David Traymore, stood in the doorway, appraising her with fathomless black eyes. The intensity of his stare made her breath come quicker.
Following the path of her gaze, Lady Solebury spotted him, too. “David, I’m glad you looked in on us. As you can see, Miss Cantrell is feeling better.”
He bowed stiffly, his expression mask-like. “I’m pleased to hear it.”
Oh, he’s a cold one
, Leah thought, even though he had saved her from drowning and brought her up to the manor house to recover. Then she remembered the tender play between him and his horse, and her opinion softened. Not cold, she amended, but very guarded.
“Miss Cantrell, do you remember my stepson?” Lady Solebury asked. “Mr. Traymore.”
“Yes, of course.” She recalled her new English manners and dipped an amateur curtsy. “Thank you again for rescuing me.”
He nodded but let out a snort of laughter. “Pleased to be of service. The role of hero is such a novelty.”
“Indeed?” Lady Solebury shot back at him, putting her hands on her hips. “How prematurely you have forgotten the time you spent at war.”
He gave her a rueful smile but let her comment pass.
The marchioness looked to Leah and said, “I fear my stepson is a bit wild in his ways, but I assure you he has a heart of gold. Oh, and speaking of gold, I have something of yours.” She went to a jar on the mantel and dug inside, offering the contents to Leah. “Molly found this in the pocket of your shift.”
Leah held out her hand, and her ladyship placed a coin in her palm. The golden face, scratch-free and sparkling, read “GEORGIVS III.” How had the coin she’d thrown into the spring ended up in her pocket?
But, on second thought, this couldn’t be the same coin. Not even a nick marred King George’s portrait, and the gold gleamed beyond what polishing could have achieved.
Yet she had a strong sense it
was
the same coin, transformed--just like the driveway had changed from pavement to dirt . . . and, now that she recalled, the house interior from shabbiness to splendor.
At the thought of those hallucinations, her hand began to tremble. The coin slipped through her fingers and landed on the carpet with a dull plunk.
“What is it, Miss Cantrell?” David Traymore stepped forward and stooped to pick up the coin, examining the face with a frown. “Is something wrong?”
A rush of terrifying images assaulted her, some from her nightmares, some from the waking horrors she’d experienced. She saw the changes in the springhouse, the disappearance of the big oak tree, and the horse-drawn carriage pulling up the drive. Vague visions from her dreams took shape: the spring surrounded in fog and a spirit forming in the mist to tell her that her wish would be granted. Her
wish
?
Her gaze fell on the coin David held, converted from a battered antique into gold that could have been minted yesterday instead of . . .
Suddenly, she remembered speaking aloud at the spring:
“The only thing I wish is that I knew who the coin belonged to and whether they got what they wanted.”
Was this the wish she would be granted? No, she’d only dreamed up that water sprite--but her accident at the spring had been real.
She stared at David and Lady Solebury, who both waited for her to respond. “What is . . . what is the date?”