Поэзия – мелодия души. Михаил Бомбусов
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Название: Поэзия – мелодия души
Автор: Михаил Бомбусов
Издательство: ИТРК
Жанр: Поэзия
isbn: 978-5-88010-559-5
isbn:
“I believe she wanted to find some toys and playthings for Miss Juliet. I told Mrs. Clairbourne that she should have asked permission of you first, sir, but she did insist that it was all perfectly harmless.” The slight edge to his tone spoke volumes of his feelings on the matter. Wadsworth and Mrs. Clairbourne had long ago declared an uneasy peace when it came to the running and management of Kellridge, yet every now and again, that competitive spirit showed through once more. Paul suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. It did no good to stoke the fire.
“I’ll go and have a look. Do hurry and tell Jim about the town coach. I want to leave at dawn.” Paul followed the butler out of his study and hastened—without breaking into a run, which might give more weight to the situation and thus more fuel for Wadsworth’s tiff with Mrs. Clairbourne. What sort of things did they have tucked away in the attic? There was no telling. He climbed the back staircase with a growing feeling of unease. The last time they had done any great shifting up there was after Juliana left for Italy.
The door to the left of the stairs stood open, so he ducked inside. Daylight streamed in from the dormer windows, and dust motes danced in the sparkling sunlight. Paul drew his forefinger along one of the trunks and noted the gray smear of dust. For an attic, it was rather clean. 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.
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