All the boxes and trunks lined the walls with military precision. He glanced across the room.
“Miss Siddons?” He spoke in a regular, measured tone of voice. No use in sounding belligerent or ruffled. That would only get Becky’s hackles up again. “Where are you?”
“I am over here.” A scuffling sound caught his ear, and he followed it over to the left rear corner of the attic. Becky was hunched over a trunk, her pretty white dress smudged with dust, and a long trail of dirt marking her cheek. Beside her rested a pile of ancient playthings—dolls, jumping jacks and blocks. His mouth quirked in ruthful recognition—even a puzzle he’d spent hours assembling when he was a boy.
She clicked the lid of the trunk shut and faced him squarely. “Please don’t be angry. Mrs. Clairbourne gave me her permission.”
She seemed almost afraid, and yet her eyebrows held that same defiant arch. His heart dropped a little as he took in her bedraggled dress and widened eyes. He didn’t want Becky to fear him or to think ill of him. If only they could recapture those brief, fleeting moments on the moor when they were comfortable with each other. For some reason, which he did not care to examine, he found himself drawn toward Becky. Of course, he must always maintain his mastery of his household—but couldn’t he do so while befriending Becky? Couldn’t they reach a truce, as Wadsworth and Mrs. Clairbourne had?
“I’m not upset.” He sank onto the floor beside her, heedless of the dirt. “Just...surprised.” He picked up the puzzle and began rearranging the pieces. “You’re in the right, you know. I had no thought in my mind of playthings. I made her room up as I would for an adult guest. ’Twas a sore mistake.”
“Well, no harm done, and I am happy to have plenty to do.” She cast a shy smile his way and reached for a doll. “I shall clean everything up and have it ready for her once she comes.”
“Good plan.” A sudden urge to tell her everything about Juliana struck him. What if he told her the whole sordid tale and unburdened himself to her about his own failings? It might be a relief to share the painful past with someone.
He tamped the urge back. That was weakness. That was folly. He was master of Kellridge and of his own feelings and emotions. His past transgressions were his own to bear, and he must do so alone.
The cold frost that served him so well settled back over him as he clicked another piece of the puzzle in place. “I leave tomorrow. As I said before, do let me know if there is more that I can do. I’ll send some proper toys from London. Not these worn, cast-off old things.” He chuckled dryly and rose, dusting off his trousers. “Be sure to lock everything back up when you leave.”
“I will.” She gazed at him with an inscrutable look in her eyes. “Godspeed, Mr. Holmes.”
He gave a brief nod and walked back out of the attic. He was doing the right thing. He was doing the only thing he could. His duty was done, and now he would fling himself back into London and the season and all its dubious delights as his reward.
Each step echoed through the quiet, still house as he descended.
There was emptiness in his life that only a strategic retreat to London could fill.
Funny how deep and vast that emptiness had grown in just the past few days.
Chapter Six
T he weather was nothing short of abominable. One of those late spring showers that soaked a man to the bone and made mud of the most navigable roads. Rain ran in rivulets down Paul’s hat as he waited for the carriage to be pulled round, and he drew his overcoat closer to drive out the damp. The sooner they were started, the better. Perhaps they could make it as far as Derby before changing horses. The carriage plodded into view, its slow pace causing his pulse to quicken.
“Don’t spare the whip,” he remarked curtly to his driver as he placed his foot on the board. “We want to get ahead of this weather if at all
“Miss Siddons?” He spoke in a regular, measured tone of voice. No use in sounding belligerent or ruffled. That would only get Becky’s hackles up again. “Where are you?”
“I am over here.” A scuffling sound caught his ear, and he followed it over to the left rear corner of the attic. Becky was hunched over a trunk, her pretty white dress smudged with dust, and a long trail of dirt marking her cheek. Beside her rested a pile of ancient playthings—dolls, jumping jacks and blocks. His mouth quirked in ruthful recognition—even a puzzle he’d spent hours assembling when he was a boy.
She clicked the lid of the trunk shut and faced him squarely. “Please don’t be angry. Mrs. Clairbourne gave me her permission.”
She seemed almost afraid, and yet her eyebrows held that same defiant arch. His heart dropped a little as he took in her bedraggled dress and widened eyes. He didn’t want Becky to fear him or to think ill of him. If only they could recapture those brief, fleeting moments on the moor when they were comfortable with each other. For some reason, which he did not care to examine, he found himself drawn toward Becky. Of course, he must always maintain his mastery of his household—but couldn’t he do so while befriending Becky? Couldn’t they reach a truce, as Wadsworth and Mrs. Clairbourne had?
“I’m not upset.” He sank onto the floor beside her, heedless of the dirt. “Just...surprised.” He picked up the puzzle and began rearranging the pieces. “You’re in the right, you know. I had no thought in my mind of playthings. I made her room up as I would for an adult guest. ’Twas a sore mistake.”
“Well, no harm done, and I am happy to have plenty to do.” She cast a shy smile his way and reached for a doll. “I shall clean everything up and have it ready for her once she comes.”
“Good plan.” A sudden urge to tell her everything about Juliana struck him. What if he told her the whole sordid tale and unburdened himself to her about his own failings? It might be a relief to share the painful past with someone.
He tamped the urge back. That was weakness. That was folly. He was master of Kellridge and of his own feelings and emotions. His past transgressions were his own to bear, and he must do so alone.
The cold frost that served him so well settled back over him as he clicked another piece of the puzzle in place. “I leave tomorrow. As I said before, do let me know if there is more that I can do. I’ll send some proper toys from London. Not these worn, cast-off old things.” He chuckled dryly and rose, dusting off his trousers. “Be sure to lock everything back up when you leave.”
“I will.” She gazed at him with an inscrutable look in her eyes. “Godspeed, Mr. Holmes.”
He gave a brief nod and walked back out of the attic. He was doing the right thing. He was doing the only thing he could. His duty was done, and now he would fling himself back into London and the season and all its dubious delights as his reward.
Each step echoed through the quiet, still house as he descended.
There was emptiness in his life that only a strategic retreat to London could fill.
Funny how deep and vast that emptiness had grown in just the past few days.
Chapter Six
T he weather was nothing short of abominable. One of those late spring showers that soaked a man to the bone and made mud of the most navigable roads. Rain ran in rivulets down Paul’s hat as he waited for the carriage to be pulled round, and he drew his overcoat closer to drive out the damp. The sooner they were started, the better. Perhaps they could make it as far as Derby before changing horses. The carriage plodded into view, its slow pace causing his pulse to quicken.
“Don’t spare the whip,” he remarked curtly to his driver as he placed his foot on the board. “We want to get ahead of this weather if at all
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