Captain Durant's Countess(7)

After tying Phantom to a bare sapling in front of the house, he strode down the path and knocked on the door. Ginny wasn’t expecting him, as he usually visited on Sundays. Most of the time she was too ill to attend church services, but the earnest young vicar stopped by Sunday afternoons and she seemed to take comfort from his visits.

Reyn had endured the homilies and platitudes over tea for his sister’s sake, but was not convinced God was watching out for any of them. If anything, the Old Boy must have lost patience with him years ago, when he could not sit still in church to save his life. His mother had swatted him after he looked up at the ceiling one Sunday and said during a lull, “That’s enough, God. I want to go home.” Some in the congregation had tittered; most had not. But it was not long afterward that his parents were evicted from the manor house they leased and had moved to yet another parish where Reyn endeavored to say nothing but “Amen.”

Molly, the maid of all work he’d hired, opened the door and blinked in surprise. “Good morning, Captain. It’s not Sunday.”

Reyn doffed his hat. “I trust you’ll let me in anyhow, Molly. Is Mrs. Beecham about?”

“She’s upstairs with Miss Virginia. They neither of them passed a peaceful night, I’m afraid.”

“How bad was it?” Reyn asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“Mrs. B. worried she’d cough up blood this time, but she didn’t, praise God. Cook’s gone out to get a beefsteak to build up Miss Virginia’s strength.”

Beefsteak probably would not help, but Reyn was grateful to his family’s longtime loyal cook and the other two women who attended his sister. He’d been lucky to get them through Mr. Ramsey’s London List. When he’d explained to the newspaperman why he was applying for the Kelby job, the man had worked a miracle, finding the cottage and the nurse and maid. Ramsey had taken pity on him then, but was not so happy with him now.

Reyn followed Molly up the narrow stairs, ducking his head. The cottage was sturdy, though built a century ago when people must have been considerably shorter—or knocked unconscious regularly by the low beams. Reyn heard his sister gasp for breath, then the comforting murmur of Mrs. Beecham before he entered the little bedroom.

Ginny was propped up against half-a-dozen pillows, her face gray, her dark curls damp beneath a lace cap. To his mind, she was much too young to wear a spinster’s cap, but she might never live long enough to be anyone’s bride.

Poor Ginny. She was just twenty-two, and had spent half her life in poverty and illness. He’d escaped when he was barely more than a boy, but he should have given her a thought before he ran off to enlist.

“Reynold!” Her face lit at the sight of him, but then the coughing spasms began. Her little terrier Rufus thumped his tail, but remained in Ginny’s lap.

“Captain Durant, this is a surprise. But a welcome one.” Mrs. Beecham patted Ginny’s face with a dry cloth. Despite the open window and the breeze wafting through it, beads of sweat shimmered on his sister’s forehead and throat. “Do you want me to leave the two of you alone?”

“If you don’t mind. I promise I won’t tire her too much.” Reyn pulled a chair up closer to the narrow bed and rubbed the dog’s ears. “Good morning, sweetheart. Don’t try to talk. Promise?”

Ginny bit a lip and nodded. Her eyes were fever-bright beneath dark brows as formidable as Reyn’s. She resembled him greatly, from the curl and color of her hair to her long, straight nose to the dimple in her cheek. Where he was handsome, she was handsomer still, or would have been if her pallor did not betray her. But she’d never had a season to show off her dark good looks, never danced, never flirted.

And never would. Reyn restrained himself from punching one of her pillows. It was so unfair. She’d done nothing to deserve her fate. Their parents had died in a house fire two years ago while he was still in Nova Scotia. Ginny had not succumbed, but her lungs had been so damaged the doctors who treated her were not optimistic she would ever fully recover.

It was really a miracle she was still here. She had never been strong, even before the accident, catching cold with every shift of the weather, struggling to breathe in London’s wet yellow fog. He’d been foolish to think the recent move to Richmond might make a difference.

But it had only been two months. He had money for better doctors now, better food, better care. Their old cook Mrs. Clark had done the best she could with limited resources until he’d come back a year ago. The woman was a saint, a better mother to Ginny than Corinne Durant had ever been.

“I may have to go away on business for a little while, Gin. Not far, though, just outside Guildford. If you need me, I can be back here in a trice.”

“Business?” she whispered. “What sort of business?”

“I told you not to speak.”

She grinned up at him. “I never follow orders.”

Nay, she hadn’t. Reyn had had a willing accomplice in his younger sister as they made mischief for their parents. She’d been a lively little girl before he’d gone away. Before her asthma became so troublesome. The damage to her lungs made those earlier breathing difficulties seem like child’s play.

“Have you a promise of a real job?” Ginny had not been happy to learn that Reyn was earning his living by gambling as their parents had. In her eyes, Reyn should have been doing something respectable—clerking for some great man or seeking a position as a steward. The fact that he had trouble tallying up numbers larger than the ones to count the points in his hand was unknown to her. He was good with figures in his head; it was just the sitting down to tote them into neat columns that defeated him. The damned numbers would not stay where he put them no matter how careful he was.

He managed his money well enough now that he had some, except for the purchase of that unfortunate waistcoat. He’d have to make it last and hope for more luck, as any avenue of gentlemanly employment seemed blocked for him by his vexing stupidity.

No. He was not stupid. Just . . . different.

“Yes. A real job. I’m to help an old earl clean out his attics.”

She pinched his coat sleeve. “Don’t bam me, Reyn.”

“It’s the honest truth. The man wants an accounting of the treasures he has up there before he sticks his spoon in the wall.”

“That sounds exciting! I wonder what you’ll find.”

“Loads of dust and probably dead mice, love. Over the centuries, I gather his ancestors brought back everything that wasn’t nailed down from three continents. Perhaps I’ll discover the Holy Grail.”

“I wish I could help. I’d love to see such things.” She gave him a wistful look, then turned her attention to Rufus, who snorted happily on the counterpane as she scratched his belly.

“Perhaps I’ll sneak something out for your inspection.”

“Don’t tease. You wouldn’t want to lose this position, Reyn. Perhaps the earl will keep you on permanently.”

Reyn couldn’t imagine such a thing, but he nodded and joined her in indulging Rufus. He had wondered at first if the dog might upset her breathing, but the comfort the little animal provided seemed worth the risk.

“Rufus hasn’t had a proper run since you were here Sunday.”

Reyn took the hint and scooped the dog up. “It will do us both good to get some fresh air, then,” he said, kissing his sister’s damp forehead. Some days she was well enough to leave her bed and take the animal out herself, but today was not one of them.

Once outside in the walled back garden, he plopped Rufus on the grass to do his business and picked up a handful of acorns, rolling them around in his palm. The oak in the center of the lawn was stripped, brown leaves curling on the ground.

Reyn had not been impressed with the recent English autumn. He missed the breathtaking fall foliage of Nova Scotia. After Waterloo, he’d spent almost four years with what was left of his regiment in Canada. He’d not much cared for the ocean crossing, but once he was there the blunt natural beauty of the place had awed him. The primeval forests, rough Atlantic coastline, and abundant wildlife—even the winter hardships—had touched something within him.

Canada had nothing like the manicured countryside of Kelby Hall. That civilized place had made him feel like a savage. Everything about the estate was managed, from the formal gardens to the geometrically clipped yew hedges to the uniformity of the pea stones on the drive. The long façade of the house itself, with its glowing honey-colored stone and scores of windows, was designed to intimidate. Rumor had it that one of the Kelby earls rebuilt the original dwelling to please Queen Elizabeth, who had been a frequent guest.

Reyn had seen nothing but the enormous entry hall and the library on his visit. He’d felt dwarfed by the high coffered ceilings and long windows. Somehow the rugged cliffs and roar of the ocean on Cape Breton did not frighten him quite the way silent, elegant Kelby Hall did.