Regina Scott (10 page)

L
ying on the couch in the music room that night, watching the fire dying in the grate, Trevor thought he finally understood the nature of Blackcliff Hall. It was a giant maw that sucked in unwitting victims, chewed them thoroughly and spat them out in pieces. No matter that he’d tried to be a gentleman about leaving it behind. He could not escape now until his ankle healed. Someone, something, seemed determined to keep him here.

He’d have almost suspected Gwen Allbridge, except she was such a caring physician. Her hands on his ankle had been sure, her advice sound. And she was a far more comforting sight beside him than the best Edinburgh-trained physician in London.

“Where did she learn her skills?” he had asked Mrs. Bentley when his housekeeper had brought blankets and pillows to the music room to keep him comfortable on the chaise that night. He and Rob
Winslow had agreed that moving him for the time being was inadvisable.

“Miss Allbridge is likely to become the village midwife now that her lovely mother has passed on,” Mrs. Bentley replied, gently draping a blanket over his injured leg and moving to pick up a pillow.

“A shame my foot wasn’t about to give birth,” he teased.

The housekeeper shoved the pillow behind him with considerably more force than he thought necessary. “Miss Allbridge and her mother nursed everything from a colicky colt to a crippled miner. There isn’t a family in Blackcliff that hasn’t a reason to wish her well.”

“Yet she still finds time to help her father manage the estate,” he marveled.

“Gwendolyn Allbridge is what keeps Blackcliff together, sir.” She pulled back and eyed Trevor sternly. “We should all be thankful she’s so giving.” Her smile was forced. “And will you want anything else this night?”

Trevor had the feeling that he wasn’t going to get it even if he asked. Instead, he thanked the housekeeper and sent her on her way, then settled back on the chaise.

It was a difficult night. First he found it hard to relax, remembering how he’d come to this pass. Had it been only a shadow on the stair, perhaps from one of the suits of armor? Then why had the statue been waiting for him? Had there been someone in
the house who had fled to avoid capture, or had that someone been trying to lure Trevor into a trap? At least all the activity in the house had likely scared off the perpetrator.

He also found rest a long ways off because of his body. Gwen had been right—his spine, his rear end and one shoulder ached from his roll down the stairs, and his ankle throbbed. Though Rob Winslow helped him shave the next morning, Trevor knew he must look the worse for wear. His right boot was a loss; he could only hope the village of Blackcliff boasted a cobbler who could make him a new pair. Perhaps if Trevor sold some of the chairs in this room, he could pay for them.

He made himself eat the excellent breakfast his housekeeper served him only because she stood there watching him the entire time. After he swallowed the last bite of the poached eggs and bacon, he thanked her for her trouble and sent her about her duties.

But the quiet of the music room quickly bored him. The room was dimly lit by a few candles in sconces along the far wall. Situated as he was, he couldn’t have reached any of the portfolios of music if he tried, and he wasn’t sure what he would have done with them had he succeeded.

It was warm enough with the newly made fire, but with the curtains drawn there was little to relieve his mind of his aches, either physical or financial. When Gwen poked her head in the room later
that morning, he must have looked as desperate as he felt, for she rushed to his side.

“Are you in pain?” she cried, depositing the bundle she’d been carrying on the carpet with a thud. “I left instructions to give you chamomile.”

Before he knew what she intended, she’d rested her hand on his forehead, as if checking for fever. The cool touch sent a jolt through him, and he leaned back from it. “I’m fine, Miss Allbridge. I don’t need medicine like some invalid.”

She rolled her eyes as she drew back her hand. “There’s no shame in taking medicine when it’s needed.”

“I didn’t need it,” he insisted.

She tsked and bent to look at his ankle. He felt his muscles tensing, preparing for the pain when she touched it and forced them to relax. But her fingers were gentle.

“The swelling is going down already, thank God,” she reported. “But you won’t be on your feet for a few days.”

This time Trevor did groan.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” she said as she straightened. She drew up one of the little gilt chairs and seated herself beside him. “You are clearly a man of action. So, I brought you a few things to pass the time.” She picked up her bundle and set it on her lap.

Why did he feel like a child on Christmas morn,
hoping for a present on the table? He had long outgrown such childish hopes.

There was a decided twinkle in her dark eyes as she pulled a long brass tube from her bundle.

“A spy glass?” Trevor eyed it with interest.

“We’ll open the drapes,” she promised as she handed it to him. “From here you should be able to see halfway up Blackcliff Fell. You wait—I imagine you’ll find a veritable parade. Deer, birds, rabbit, perhaps even a fox.”

“How delightful,” he drawled.

Gwen shook her head. She was wearing a simple cotton frock of a dark russet, patterned in cream flowers. The color brought out the fire in her hair; the drape, just under her bosom, emphasized the curve of her figure.

“Don’t think you can win the prize for worst patient,” she scolded him. “Colonel Umbrey bore that distinction.”

Trevor snorted. “Small wonder, stuck in this house.”

“Oh, yes, stuck in a warm, sound home with good food and people at your beck and call. Such a difficult life, I’m sure.”

It was not the place but the time that concerned him. “I’ve had worse.”

“Really?” She looked utterly unconvinced, but he was not about to explain his odd upbringing. “Well,” she continued, “perhaps this will take your mind
off it.” She pulled out a large book, with a crimson leather binding and gilded lettering along the spine.

Trevor took it eagerly, then sagged when he saw the title. “The Bible?”

She frowned. “Certainly the Bible. What better comfort can there be?”

A fortune in gold? His birthright acknowledged? A real estate within a day’s ride of London? Any of those would have eased the pain inside him more than this heavy tome.

“I suppose it would be useful to prop up my ankle,” he said, trying to find something kind to say.

She seized the book and pulled it back onto her lap. “You know, sometimes I’m not sure when you’re teasing me. But I’ll tell you what. You lean back, and I’ll read to you. What’s your favorite passage?”

Did he have a favorite? Did he even know a passage to recommend to her? His mother had few books at her house, and he was certain none of them had been a Bible.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. “You choose something.”

“The whole point is to comfort you, sir,” she said, rather primly, he thought. “What stories did your mother read you as a child?”

“The scandal sheets,” he said before he thought better of it.

“The scandal sheets?” Instead of shocked, she sounded genuinely puzzled. He opened his eyes, trying to think of a way to explain the cheap papers
carrying gossip about the finest families to those who could barely afford the penny price to read them.

But her brow was clearing. “Oh, of course. First and Second Samuel are rather scandalous.”

Was that a blush on her cheeks? In a moment, she’d be as red as Ruth Newton. What exactly was in that book? “What did your mother read you?” he asked, curious.

She smoothed her hand over the fine leather. “She was partial to the Psalms, especially the happy ones. She was that kind of person—happy, busy, full of joy and life. She loved everyone around her, and they knew it.”

“You are much like her, I think,” he murmured.

“Oh, I hope so.” He heard the tremor in her voice.

Remembering clearly hurt, yet he envied her. What must it be like to be raised by a mother who sincerely cared? Who was admired for the good she did rather than the body she offered to those who paid well?

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “Has she been gone long?”

“Just over a year.” She sucked in a breath as if trying to steady herself. “Forgive me, Sir Trevor. I seem to be a watering pot this morning. And I came here to cheer you. What about the story of David and Goliath? A rousing adventure ought to suit you.”

He’d listen to the entire book if doing so would
bring back the smile to her face. “That would be greatly appreciated.”

She nodded, smile returning though still a little strained. “It’s not the scandal sheets, I fear, but I’m not up to reading them today.” Blush returning, she bowed her head over the book and rustled the gilt-edged pages as she sought her place.

Trevor rested his head on the pillow and listened to her clear, warm voice read the story. The words were a little old-fashioned and formal, but Gwen’s animation made the pictures come alive in his mind. And though he quite enjoyed the story of young David besting the mighty warrior, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on that book and find out just what Gwen Allbridge considered scandalous enough to blush over.

Her plan was working. Gwen could feel it. Despite the pain in his ankle, Sir Trevor was smiling more, and more genuinely. She had caught no sign of his polite face. Mrs. Bentley reported that he ate better, too.

Whenever Gwen visited, and she made a point of visiting frequently, he regaled her with stories about the creatures he’d seen out the window, the stories he’d read in the Bible. Blackcliff was finally weaving its spell over him, and she had every hope he would succumb to it.

Nevertheless, over the next three days, she kept up her campaign to win him over. She had the best
cooks in the village send up delicacies for his table. She invited Mrs. Petersham, an accomplished pianist, to come play for him, and Mr. Thornton, who had a fine baritone voice, to come sing. Mr. Eastley the cobbler came to measure him for a new pair of boots and clucked over the state of his ankle.

She scoured the library for other interesting books he might like to read. She allowed her father to visit only when he could offer some new reason to praise the estate or enlist Sir Trevor’s aid to solve some minor problem.

She was a little worried about leaving her father to his own devices, but he moved about the Hall with surety as if knowing what needed to be done and taking pride in doing it. She sent up a prayer that his work would keep him too busy to go looking for other solace.

She managed to locate Colonel Umbrey’s ivory-and-ebony chess set in a cupboard in the schoolroom, but she knew she wasn’t the person to challenge Sir Trevor. Instead, she dragged David Newton to the Hall to play. Ruth accompanied her brother, and Gwen helped Mrs. Bentley by laying out the tea things for the group on one of the tables Rob Winslow had been persuaded to carry to the music room.

“I’m glad you came, Newton,” Sir Trevor said after he’d beaten the minister in remarkably few moves. He was still confined to the chaise longue,
but Gwen was hoping he might be able to move about the lower floors by the next day.

The room had become more comfortable but definitely more crowded. Two leather-bound chairs from the library stood next to the chaise to allow visitors to converse easily with him. A decorative table inlaid with teak flanked him on either side to hold his entertainments, and a lap desk rested on the floor where he could lift it when he wished to review or compose correspondence.

David and Ruth had dressed their best for the visit. The minister was in his Sunday suit, all black with a pristine white cravat and somber gray-striped waistcoat. Gwen was determined to ask Ruth about the pattern for the dusky-green wool gown she wore with its puffed upper sleeves and graceful hem. It quite put Gwen’s cotton gown in the shade. Ruth’s blush had yet to fade from Sir Trevor’s praise as she’d entered.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you a few questions about the Bible,” Trevor said to the minister now as Gwen poured tea and handed it around.

David Newton raised a brow. “Oh?” He glanced at Gwen and Ruth as if hoping they might melt away. “Well, I suppose I can be of some help. What exactly is troubling you?”

“The amount of violence, terror and mayhem,” Sir Trevor replied with a slight frown.

“Oh!” Ruth cried, one hand going to her mouth and saucer shaking in the other.

Sir Trevor inclined his head toward her. “Forgive my plain speaking, Miss Newton, but that is exactly my point. One does not expect such things from the Holy Word. Yet it’s filled with stories about ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Saving the world’s animals from a flood, escaping some Egyptian king right through the sea, fighting off giants.”

He made it sound as if all these were new to him. Gwen frowned in surprise, but David Newton smiled.

“Ah, the Old Testament,” the minister mused. “Yes, I imagine it does seem a little tumultuous if you’ve had a steady diet of the epistles. But you’ll find the Old and New Testaments go hand in glove when you’ve looked a little deeper.”

Sir Trevor nodded thoughtfully, then held out his plate to Gwen. “Might I trouble you for another of Miss Newton’s excellent buns, Miss Allbridge? Your friend is truly gifted.”

She was happy to oblige, though Ruth flushed beet and stammered her thanks. But Gwen noticed Sir Trevor was far quieter after that, and it wasn’t long before the Newtons made their excuses and rose to leave.

“An interesting gentleman,” Ruth murmured to Gwen as Gwen walked with her to the door. “He seems to be settling in.”

Gwen squeezed her arm. “I think so, too.”

Ruth’s look softened. “And you enjoy his com
pany, I think. Be careful, dearest. He’s said nothing about making Blackcliff his seat, has he?”

“No,” Gwen admitted. “But he will. How could he do otherwise with all the fine company we’ve given him?”

Ruth’s honey-colored brows gathered. “Very easily, I imagine. We are what some might call rustic. A gentleman like him may not appreciate that.” She flushed red again. “Forgive me. I just don’t want to see you disappointed.”