Song From the Sea (14 page)

O
nce Callie had the limited freedom of the outdoors her health began improving by leaps and bounds, as if sunshine and fresh air were all she needed to mend her body. Her headaches came fewer and farther between and her strength increased daily. Her mind was another matter, for that showed no inclination to oblige her with any concrete memories, and at night she slept dreamlessly.

She tried not to be troubled by the void in her brain, convinced that with time and patience some small memory of her life was bound to return, and once the process started, it would be like winding up a ball of yarn that had bolted away. She was infinitely grateful to both Adam and Nigel, neither who had plagued her with any more questions regarding her past. They treated her like a younger sister whose company they took for granted but paid no particular mind to. When he could spare the time, Adam would walk with her and she enjoyed their brief conversations together, but he'd been more and more busy of late with the spring planting, so as often as not she went out on her own.

Over the last fortnight she'd become accustomed to dining with them in the evenings, and although the conversation ranged freely over a number of subjects, the majority of talk centered, as now, on Stanton affairs.

She looked across the dinner table at Nigel, who was debating the subject of crop rotation and which fields best to leave for summer grazing, his hands waving about animatedly as Adam listened in his usual careful fashion to Nigel's opinions.

Callie also listened avidly, drinking in everything she could, although she did her best to create the impression that she paid no attention at all. She didn't want Adam to think that she would presume to pry into his affairs, knowing that he had an aversion to people sticking their noses in his business, but she really was fascinated by the details of running such a large concern. In a peculiar sort of way, by learning as much as she could about Stanton and its running, she felt at least she was a part of
something
, however little she really belonged.

Looking down at her plate, she decided that if she had her pick of anywhere to belong to, Stanton would be her first choice. She'd become fond of the staff, who treated her with kindness and gracefully let her intrude in their inner sanctum. Cook was obliging enough to allow Callie to sit at the huge wooden table in the kitchen and watch her prepare meals, explaining with great gusto the virtues of English cooking and how she went about creating its marvels.

“See here, my dear, a nice light hand with the pastry can be the making of the dish. You must roll the dough out like so …” Great clouds of flour flew at this point all over the table, Cook, and Callie. “And fold and roll
again
.” More flour flew and the rolling pin progressed like an advancing army over enemy terrain. Callie adored Cook.

Even Gettis, who at first had seemed like a stiff martinet to her, his dignity worn every bit as starched as his butler's uniform, had unbent his reserve enough to reveal that he had a dry sense of humor and enjoyed telling very bad jokes—Callie always knew when one was coming because he'd clear his throat and begin rocking on his tiptoes. “Er, did I tell you, Miss Callie, that I met a farmer in the market the other day who carried an armful of hares? I undertook a bargaining session with him, thinking to present Cook with the hares to prepare for dinner, but discovered during the course of our conversation that I could not possibly bring the
hares
home, as his lordship is a confirmed Tory, and the farmer clearly embraced the
Whigs
….”

As awful as his jokes were, Callie always laughed, mostly because he looked so pleased with himself.

She also adored Nigel, who always had a smile on his face and a kind word on his lips, as well as a highly developed sense of the ridiculous. At times, though, she thought she caught him watching her with an odd, speculative expression, as if he were an entomologist and she a particularly fascinating species of insect. Eventually she brushed that idea aside as sheer fantasy, for whenever she met his eyes he grinned at her unselfconsciously as if he found her a perfectly delightful female and he was no more than an admiring male.

She'd even—almost—become fond of Adam. As long as she kept her physical distance from him, which seemed to require a space between them of at least a foot, preferably two, she managed to keep her senses about her. She couldn't help but admire his powerfully built figure and striking good looks, but she appreciated his physical attributes in the same way that she might appreciate a handsome thoroughbred or … or a particularly fine statue. She felt quite sure there was nothing shameful in such an aesthetic admiration, only she wished her cheeks wouldn't burn and her stomach go hollow whenever she indulged in her aesthetic admiration.

As for his character, he couldn't help his acerbic nature, she'd decided, although she did have to admit that he'd mellowed considerably since her first encounter with him. He hadn't scowled at her once in the last two weeks.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, she amended, glancing over at him and quickly looking away before he caught her staring at him. He had put his foot down in no uncertain manner two days before at breakfast when she'd told him that she planned to go walking in the woods that morning.

“You will most certainly
not
go walking in the woods,” he said, his face darkening. “You have plenty to keep you busy close to the house.” He stirred sugar into his coffee with unnecessary force.

“I think you're being entirely unreasonable,” she said stubbornly, for she longed to explore the mysterious forest and discover what wonders it might hold. There were bound to be all sorts of flora and fauna she'd never seen before. “I wouldn't go far, Adam. Couldn't I just go in a little way?”

“You are not to set even one toe in the woods,” he replied, equally stubbornly.

“But why? I can't see what harm I could possibly come to. There aren't likely to be outlaws hiding in there. The days of Robin Hood are long gone. In Ravello I used to be able to go where I pleased.”

“Do not think to argue with me, Callie,” he said, his expression hardening. “As long as you live under my roof you'll do as you're told.”

“You're behaving like a worried mother hen, even worse than Mrs. Simpson,” she snapped. “I'm not a child, you know.”

“Sometimes you make me wonder,” he said. “If you don't wish to be treated as a child, then don't behave like one.”

“You are impossible,” she cried. “I've obeyed your every wish!” In fairness she briefly paused to run over a list in her mind, and decided that she really had. “I've even put up with the footmen you set to shadow me when I go out on my own—do you think I don't see them hiding behind trees and statues? Michael and Henry must feel every bit as much an idiot as I do, all of us madly pretending we don't see each other.”

Adam's full mouth twitched, but the thunder left his face. “Until I am certain that you are done with your headaches and dizzy spells you will have to put up with your watchdogs. However, I do apologize. You were not meant to be aware of their presence. I shall have to instruct them in the art of invisibility.”

“Invisibility? A deer could see and hear them coming a hundred yards away.”

“I am not concerned about the safety of the deer,” he said, spreading a thin layer of marmalade over his toast. “I am, however, concerned about yours.”

Callie dug her heels in. “I cannot see how I could get into any trouble.”

“I can imagine any number of ways that you could find trouble. You seem to have a talent for it.”

“Oh, that is unfair,” Callie said, looking down. “Just because I happened to slip and fall off a ship—”

Adam's snort of laughter cut her off. “My point exactly.”

“Oh, all right, there was that,” she conceded, “but that was an accident. I'm not entirely incompetent.”

“No … you do seem to have a talent for talking to insects. Harry Orris tells me that the troublesome hive has settled down nicely since you gave the inhabitants a lecture.” His eyes danced with amusement and Callie blushed. “The next thing I know you'll be running off with the fairies.”

“I might enjoy having a chat with God's creatures every now and then, but that doesn't mean I've gone fey. Lots of people talk to their animals. You talk to your horse all the time. I've seen you.”

Adam glared at her, but she knew his heart wasn't in it. She knew because she'd begun to learn his expressions and to see far beyond what he intended her to see. Adam Carlyle might think himself as inscrutable as the Sphinx, but she knew better. Behind that enigmatic façade was a man with a kind heart and emotions that ran deep, she was sure of it, even if at times he could be the most unreasonable man alive.

She sneaked another glance at him. His focus was still entirely on Nigel, his beautifully shaped hands lightly poised on his knife and fork as he murmured a reply, something about turnips and the western acreage. She realized that she'd lost the thread of conversation, but she didn't mind, happy to admire his striking profile. Every inch of his bone structure spoke of breeding, from his straight, narrow nose to his squared chin and chiseled jawline. Of all his features, though, Callie found his eyes the most fascinating.

She could read his mood as clearly as the weather, depending on their shade. So far she'd catalogued azure for sunny skies, a paler aquamarine when frost threatened, a deep sapphire for approaching turbulence, and dark gray for thunder with imminent lightning. Then there was that color she couldn't name, a shade somewhere between slate and navy blue. At that point his lashes usually lowered halfway, giving him the lazy look of a cat that had cornered a mouse and was feigning complete boredom before pouncing. She'd learned to take that as a reliable cue to leave.

Tearing her gaze away from him, she released a little sigh, wishing that his eyes didn't turn that undefined color quite so often. Pretending indifference was a most annoying habit and she always felt as if he'd had the last word, even when he'd said nothing at all. She glared down at her plate, thinking how unfair his tactics could be.

“Is there something amiss with your roast pork, Callie?”

She jumped when she realized that Adam had broken off his conversation with Nigel and was addressing her. “No—no, it's delicious.” She hoped he couldn't see her heightened color.

“Then why are you regarding it as if you'd like to kill it all over again?”

“I would
never
kill a pig,” she said indignantly, neatly slicing the last of her meat and pushing the remainder of her beans onto her fork for good measure. “Pigs are highly intelligent. I wouldn't expect you to know this, but they make very good pets,” she said when she'd swallowed.

“They make very good bacon, too,” Nigel said with a grin. “Then again, I am particularly fond of crackling and Cook does such a good job, don't you agree?”

“You are both impossible,” Callie said. “The way you talk, birds are only meant for shooting and fish for angling and—and cows and pigs and sheep and chickens for slaughtering.”

“I think that's a very unfair statement, don't you?” Adam said, exchanging a look of amusement with Nigel. “We do keep cows for milking and hens for laying and we even shear the sheep for wool many times before we slaughter them. I don't see how you can fault that.”

“You might be surprised to learn that there are many people in the world who are content to live on fruit and vegetables and grains,” Callie said, placing her fork and knife on the side of her plate, having tremendously enjoyed her roast pork.

“Ah, but they're not Englishmen, are they?” Adam said. “If one's going to rule an empire one must have a steady diet of meat, preferably red. It stiffens the sinews, summons up the blood …”

“This is not Agincourt and you are not Henry the Fifth, Lord Vale,” Callie retorted, wiping her mouth with her napkin. “Nor are you a tiger.”

“I am deeply disappointed,” Adam said. “You have cut me to the quick.”

Callie looked over at Gettis, who stood at attention by the sideboard. She couldn't tell if his watery eyes were a result of suppressed amusement or a spring cold. “I think you had better bring bandages straight away, Gettis,” she said. “Lord Vale is in danger of hemorrhaging from his possibly mortal wound.”

“My wound is only metaphorical, Gettis,” Adam said. “I think it might be healed by a nice blancmange.”

Gettis bowed, motioned to the footmen to clear the table, and vanished into the kitchen, a series of muffled sneezes coming from behind the closed door.

“Poor Gettis does suffer with hay fever this time of year,” Callie said, taking a sip of wine. “If you would only allow me to go into the woods, I am sure I could find the proper herbs to make him a nice tisane.”

Adam's amusement abruptly vanished and he shot her a look of daggers drawn. “I would thank you to leave the subject alone,” he said tightly. “We have a perfectly good herb garden behind the kitchen. If you cannot find what you need there, ask Roberts, the head gardener.”

Callie knew she'd gone too far, but she didn't know why. She glanced over at Nigel, who didn't meet her eyes. “I shall do that,” she said quickly, immediately regretting her tease. “Roberts is most wonderfully informative. Yesterday he showed me how to transplant geraniums. It is one of my favorite flowers …”

A few minutes more of chattering and she had managed to dispel the tension in the room, but as she slipped into bed and blew out her candle later that night, she couldn't help but wonder what dark secret the forest held. She knew she hadn't imagined Adam's deep agitation both times the subject had come up, and tonight Nigel's face might have been carved from stone when she mentioned it. She knew it was none of her business. She was no more than a temporary houseguest. Soon enough she'd be gone and she'd probably never see Adam or Stanton Abbey again. She certainly had no right to go against his wishes.

But what danger could the woods possibly hold to make both men look so grim and Adam so adamant that she stay well clear?

Rolling over on her side, Callie tucked her palm under her cheek and sleepily gazed out the window into the night sky. Mrs. Simpson did not approve of Callie's habit of sleeping with the draperies drawn back and the window pushed halfway open, but Callie would not be moved. Fresh air was life's blood to her, and she refused to be stifled while she slept.