Redeeming Lord Ryder. Maggie Robinson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ odd sound, like an animal in a trap. She felt a prickle of anxiety. There was nothing obstructing her mouth to account for the odd, squashed noise. Was her throat damaged in the accident? Once she’d had a dreadful cold and had sounded like a man for a week. She and Frannie had laughed over it.

      What had she wanted to say to the woman, anyway? She forgot.

      It didn’t really matter. Help would come soon. She closed her eyes and slept, even if she was upside down.

      And dreamed that she was the screaming woman herself.

      Chapter 1

      From the journal of Mary Nicola Mayfield

      December 13, 1882

      I have been in Puddling now for two months to the day, and nothing is changed.

      Nicola sat back and wiped her pen nib. What more was there to say?

      Aye. That was the rub. She couldn’t say anything. Still.

      The scar at her hairline was barely noticeable now—her fringe performed its duty admirably. Yes, her collar bone ached when it rained, but that was a minor inconvenience. But she could not speak, no matter how many times she opened her mouth.

      The accident had been more than nine months ago. Nicola had recuperated at home with her parents for seven of those months, until they had all been at their wits’ end. Her hand had cramped from writing her thoughts and wishes until her family couldn’t bear to read them anymore.

      Her mother cried constantly; her father was nearly as silent as Nicola was. When a cottage became available in the secret spa, Puddling-on-the-Wold, her parents jumped at the chance to send her there.

      To get rid of her, really, in the prettiest place imaginable.

      The village was known to work miracles on difficult relatives with difficult problems. Nicola wasn’t the usual kind of Guest—she didn’t imbibe too freely, gamble, break engagements in fruitless rebellion, disrobe in public, flunk out of school, or do any of the naughty things that drove parents to disown their disreputable children, or children to hide their cringe-worthy parents.

      She just couldn’t talk, and her parents were exasperated.

      She knew they loved her—they’d spent a small fortune they didn’t really have on specialists. Doctors had poked and prodded at her. Inserted vile tubes down her throat. She’d worried sometimes that her jaw would remain locked open as they gazed into the dark depths of her windpipe. Her tongue had endured sharp needles; her tonsils were removed as a precaution.

      More surgery had been discussed; one doctor went so far as to want to shave her hair off so her brain could “breathe.” Thank heavens her papa had drawn the line there. Nicola was fond of her hair. It was long and gold and her one true beauty.

      The rest of her was unremarkable, except, of course, for her lack of speech. Had she different parents, she might be in an asylum now, locked up with people who couldn’t make sense. Nicola’s wits were perfectly intact, but she was miserably mute, and her parents were desperate to help her.

      Not at home in Bath anymore, though, which was just as well. She’d drunk enough of the foul-tasting water there in hopes of a miracle cure. And Richard lived right next door. After he’d broken their engagement, it had only caused her mama to cry harder. Nicola had been suffocated under her parents’ concern and despair for her. Even Richard had been ashamed, but as an ambitious young MP, how could he marry a girl who couldn’t campaign for him?

      No, not a girl. A woman. Nicola was twenty-six, long past her girlhood. She didn’t even really mind that Richard had cried off. While she had liked him very much and shared his political goals, it had never been a heart-fluttering love match. Marriage to him had seemed a practical arrangement to both their families, and she did so want her own children. It was not enough to be a fond aunt to Frannie’s little boys.

      Nicola had waited years for Richard to establish himself. But evidently he couldn’t wait a few months for her to speak again.

      She picked up the pen. I want to talk. Dr. Oakley seems to think that if I have a positive attitude, my speech will return.

      But how could she be positive? It was almost Christmas, and her parents were going to Scotland to stay with Aunt Augusta, her mother’s widowed sister. Frannie, Albert, and the boys too. Nicola would be alone in her little cottage with only Mrs. Grace for company.

      Her housekeeper had been extraordinarily kind, had coddled her from the moment she was picked up at the Stroud station. It was the first time Nicola had been on a train since the accident, and the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation governors had suggested she get over her anxiety by making the trip from Bath by rail. Rather like getting back on the horse after a fall, she supposed.

      But Nicola had been worse than anxious. Much to the other passengers’ disgust, she’d vomited repeatedly, and by the time she’d arrived she was so weak she could barely stand up. She’d been put to bed for a week, only getting up to play the church organ for a local wedding when the vicar begged her to.

      Music was her one release, and her father had donated a small piano for Stonecrop Cottage. She played for hours, when she wasn’t staring at the blank pages of her journal.

      She was meant to write down her thoughts and worries. Dr. Oakley or the elderly vicar, Mr. Fitzmartin, would then discuss them with her during their daily visits. Sometimes she would pray, the only time she didn’t feel self-conscious about being silent.

      Nicola snapped the journal shut and tucked it into a pigeonhole in the little desk. She had no further thoughts today, nothing that she hadn’t already written for the sixty-one days she’d been present in Puddling.

      The parlor was a bit cramped now with the piano, but it was cheerful, with a bright fire burning in the hearth. Mrs. Grace had gone home a little early for the day, pleading a headache. She’d left Nicola a chicken pie in the ice box for her supper. Raspberry tarts too—she’d already cadged one as they were cooling. If she wasn’t careful, Nicola would return to Bath several stone heavier.

      If she returned. She didn’t want to be a burden to her parents. Perhaps she could stay here. Not in this cottage, of course; it belonged to the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation. But she’d come into money of her own—a settlement from the accident. Guilt money. Her papa had written to her when he sent the piano. As a prominent Bath solicitor, he had negotiated hard on her behalf. The amount was enough to purchase her own home and keep her in modest comfort for the rest of her life if she was careful.

      And why wouldn’t she be careful? Nicola had always been conservative. She’d never been frivolous; she only owned two ball gowns that were refurbished on a yearly basis with new lace or ribbons or both. Richard had admired her frugality, for he earned very little in his own law practice and did not stand to inherit a fortune like some members of the House of Commons. Her mama had not been so sanguine, but Nicola simply wasn’t much interested in evening clothes.

      She didn’t need her ball gowns for Puddling. Life was purposefully quiet here, so Guests could recuperate. But now that the steep streets were coated with a dusting of snow and a slick of ice underneath, she could use a new pair of boots.

      It was part of her prescribed routine to walk around the village for at least an hour a day, and the exercise was becoming a touch treacherous. She would write to Mama and ask for some better footwear, СКАЧАТЬ