Redeeming Lord Ryder. Maggie Robinson

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СКАЧАТЬ wasn’t prepared to leave his chivalrous stance just yet. “I’ll walk that way with you. My cottage is down the lane from Stonecrop. But of course, you know that.”

      Oakley got into his coat and clapped a hat on his wispy white hair. He picked up the medical bag that sat on a bench in the front hall.

      “Aye. Settling in, are you? I’ll come over tomorrow to give you an examination. Should have come this afternoon, but the day got away from me. Three cases of purulent sore throat, one broken finger, and twins born over in Sheepscombe to boot. I haven’t even had my lunch yet, but it will be dinnertime before I get anything in my stomach.” He locked up his house and they were on their way.

      “I don’t want to hold you from your important obligations. An examination’s not necessary. I’m perfectly well,” Jack lied.

      “So you say. But I can see you haven’t been sleeping. You were cagey when you applied to come here at the last minute, but anyone can tell it’s not for the clean air and good plain food.”

      Jack tried to open his eyes wider to look more awake, but he had a feeling nothing would trick this old fellow. “I just needed a change. A quiet place to think.”

      “We can’t help you if you won’t help us.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “We usually have an extensive file on each of our Guests. You’re a bit of a mystery, Lord Ryder. We only allowed you to come since our Christmas season is slow. Most Guests want to be with their families at this time of year. Of course, after January, our applications triple. Familiarity breeds contempt, I reckon.”

      A mystery? That made Jack sound far more interesting than he was. He had not been precisely forthcoming when he’d filled out the endless paperwork, though. There had been no mention of the railway accident and his part in it, and he preferred to keep it that way. He was frankly tired of trying to explain what he felt every waking minute. Nighttime too.

      “Quite a racket you all have going on here. Popular place, is it?”

      The doctor came to an abrupt stop. “Do you doubt our efficacy? There are scrapbooks touting our success stories.”

      “But I don’t expect I’ll ever get to see them. That would be a breach of confidentiality, wouldn’t it? Pesky ethics.” Jack knew his law and had read every word of the contract he’d signed. Everything about Puddling and its famously successful Program was hushed up, and one virtually took a vow of silence to be here. Mrs. Grace fit right in naturally. “Come along. Mrs. Grace is in pain.”

      The doctor shot him an odd look but shuffled down the hill as fast as was safe for an elderly fellow.

      Impatient, Jack went faster. He decided he’d go home in a minute, once Mrs. Grace was settled with the doctor. He entered the cottage without knocking and found his charge still on the sofa, bare feet stretched out, trying to smile. Her inappropriate shoes were laid neatly on the floor, her woolen stockings rolled into them.

      “Dr. Oakley’s just behind me. Does it hurt very badly?” He could see himself that her ankle was twice the size it should be. He should have packed it in ice before he left.

      She rolled her eyes at him. They were blue, fringed with short thick lashes that were slightly darker than her hair.

      “You think I’m making too much of this, don’t you? Well, I’m not. I hate to see people in distress.” Animals too. He was too softhearted by half. Growing up, he’d mended wings and paws, and as an adult, he’d refined medical instruments that might even be in Oakley’s bag.

      She fluttered her hand at him, motioning him away. Through the parlor windows, Jack could see the doctor coming up the path, puffy breaths of cold air preceding him.

      “All right. I’m going. But if you need anything, just let me know.”

      A roll of the eyes again.

      “You can write me a note. You have a housekeeper, yes? She can give it to mine.” Somewhere in the Puddling literature, Jack had read communication was cut off with one’s family while one stayed here. That was fine—he didn’t want to talk to his mother for the next six or seven years or so. He loved her, but was tired of hearing her plans for him, which usually contradicted any of his own. But the powers that be couldn’t object to Mrs. Grace getting in touch with him, could they? He was only a few doors down. If she could holler, he might even hear her if the wind was right.

      Maybe she was a widow. A young one. Although she was not in mourning. She wore a simple yet à la mode blue gown trimmed with darker velvet piping. He could see now that she’d discarded her coat that her figure was slight. Unexceptional. She certainly had not been difficult to carry up a hill. Of course, Jack was fit. Prided himself on it. His father had turned to fat before he was forty.

      Jack believed in an active mind and an active body. Of course, nothing much stopped his mind and hands from whirring along like a clockwork. No wonder he couldn’t sleep, and it had only gotten worse this year. That old doctor had cottoned onto that in a trice.

      Oakley huffed in and set his bag on a table. “Now, my dear, this young man tells me you had a spill. The right ankle, yes? Raise a finger if my manipulation pains you too much.” He looked up at Jack. “Thank you for your assistance, but I think my patient needs some privacy.”

      Jack stared at Mrs. Grace’s ankles. Really, what was the fuss about catching a glimpse of something so bony and unappealing? He’d much rather see—

      “Of course. Do remember I’m right down the lane if you need anything. Good afternoon.”

      Jack ducked under the lintel and left the cozy cottage. Stonecrop was nicer than his. But he hadn’t come to Puddling for the architecture or décor. In two hundred and twenty six steps, he’d opened his door and sought out his housekeeper, Mrs. Feather, in the kitchen. She stood over the stove, stirring something that did not smell entirely divine.

      “What’s for dinner?” Lunch had been less than divine too. And breakfast? The oatmeal had been so thick it could have been used as wallpaper paste.

      “Soup, my lord.”

      “And?”

      “Soup, my lord.”

      “Yes, I heard you the first time. What’s the second course?”

      She turned to him, holding the wooden spoon aloft as if he’d been naughty and she longed to smack him. Which she probably did after twenty-four hours’ acquaintance. Jack sometimes had that effect on people.

      “Perhaps you don’t understand. Have you not read your Welcome Packet? The Puddling diet is a simple one, designed to cool your blood.”

      “My blood’s already frozen—I’ve been outside for two hours wandering about your little burgh. Really, just soup? No bread or cheese?” he asked, utterly without hope.

      “No, my lord. And fine, fresh well water, of course.”

      “Of course.” Jack enjoyed his liquor as much as the next man. But he knew after a longer-than-brief period of overindulgence after the accident that he wouldn’t find consolation in a bottle. “I don’t suppose there’s any dessert?” He could have sworn he caught the whiff of raspberries in Mrs. Grace’s cottage.

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