Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(49)

She was met at the front door by Mrs. Clocker, who was taken aback by her attire. “Why, Miss Hathaway . . .” the housekeeper faltered, “you’re wearing . . .”

“Yes, I’m so sorry, I know I’m not presentable, but I came in a dash. Albert appeared at Ramsay House today, and I’m delivering him back to you.”

“Thank you,” the housekeeper said in a distracted manner. “I hadn’t even noticed he was missing. With the master not himself . . .”

“Not himself?” Beatrix was instantly concerned. “In what way, Mrs. Clocker?”

“I shouldn’t say.”

“Yes you should. I’m the perfect person to confide in. I’m very discreet—I only gossip to animals. Is Captain Phelan ill? Did something happen?”

The housekeeper’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Three nights ago, we all smelled smoke coming from the master’s bedroom. The master was drunk as David’s sow, and he had thrown his uniform onto the fire in the hearth, and all his medals with it! We managed to rescue the medals, although the garments were ruined. After that, the master closed himself in his room and began to drink steadily. He hasn’t stopped. We’ve watered his liquor as much as we dared, but . . .” A helpless shrug. “He will talk to no one. He won’t touch the dinner trays I sent up. We sent for the doctor, but he wouldn’t see him, and when we brought the pastor yesterday, he threatened to murder him. We’ve been considering the idea of sending for Mrs. Phelan.”

“His mother?”

“Dear me, no. Mrs. Phelan the younger. I do not think his mother would be of any help.”

“Yes, Audrey is a good choice. She’s levelheaded, and she knows him well.”

“The problem,” the housekeeper said, “is that it would take at least two days for her to arrive . . . and I fear . . .”

“What?”

“This morning he asked for a razor and hot bath. We were frightened to give it to him, but we daren’t refuse. I half wonder if he won’t do himself harm.”

Two things were immediately clear to Beatrix: first, the housekeeper would never have confided so much in her unless she was desperate, and second, Christopher was in terrible pain.

She felt answering pain, for his sake, piercing beneath her own ribs. Everything she had told herself about her newfound freedom, about the death of her infatuation, was revealed as an absurdity. She was mad for him. She would have done anything for him. Anxiously she wondered what he needed, what words might soothe him. But she was not up to the task. She couldn’t think of anything wise or clever. All she knew was that she wanted to be with him.

“Mrs. Clocker,” she said carefully, “I wonder if . . . it might be possible for you not to notice if I go upstairs?”

The housekeeper’s eyes widened. “I . . . Miss Hathaway . . . I don’t think that would be safe. Nor sensible.”

“Mrs. Clocker, my family has always believed that when we are faced with large and apparently impossible problems, the best solutions are found by the insane people, not the sensible ones.”

Looking confused, the housekeeper opened her mouth to disagree, and closed it. “If you cry out for help,” she ventured after a moment, “we will come to your aid.”

“Thank you, but I’m certain that won’t be necessary.”

Beatrix went inside the house and headed to the stairs. As Albert made to follow her, she said, “No, boy. Stay down here.”

“Come, Albert,” the housekeeper said, “we’ll find some scraps for you from the kitchen.”

The dog switched directions without pausing, panting happily as he went with Mrs. Clocker.

Beatrix went upstairs, taking her time. How many times, she reflected ruefully, she had sought to understand a wounded wild creature. But it was another matter entirely to penetrate the mystery of a human being.

Reaching Christopher’s door, she knocked softly. When there came no response, she let herself inside.

To her surprise, the room brimmed with daylight, the late August sun illuminating tiny floating dust motes by the window. The air smelled like liquor and smoke and bath soap. A portable bath occupied one corner of the room, sodden footprints tracking across the carpet.

Christopher reclined on the unmade bed, half propped on a haphazard stack of pillows, a bottle of brandy clasped negligently in his fingers. His incurious gaze moved to Beatrix and held, his eyes becoming alert.

He was clad in a pair of fawn-colored trousers, only partially fastened, and . . . nothing more. His body was a long golden arc on the bed, lean and complexly muscled. Scars marred the sun-browned skin in places . . . there was a ragged triangular shape where a bayonet had pierced his shoulder, a liberal scattering of marks from shrapnel, a small circular depression on his side that must have been caused by a bullet.

Slowly Christopher levered himself upward and placed the bottle on the bedside table. Half leaning on the edge of the mattress, his bare feet braced on the floor, he regarded Beatrix without expression. The locks of his hair were still damp, darkened to antique gold. How broad his shoulders were, their sturdy slopes flowing into the powerful lines of his arms.

“Why are you here?” His voice sounded rusty from disuse.

Somehow Beatrix managed to drag her mesmerized gaze away from the glinting fleece on his chest.