Marjorie Farrell (25 page)

“Your heart!” she said, frightened the strain of her return had brought on an attack.

“My fingers,” he replied, and she let go, and they both laughed, breaking the unwonted intimacy between them.

* * * *

Nora stayed only a few days more, and left Moorview one morning smiling and crying at the same time. Her father and Lady Evelyn, as well as many of the servants, stood by the door to wave her off. She had gotten the marquess to promise to visit London during the Season. Her half-brother would be able to join them, and Nora looked forward to meeting him and introducing Miranda to her newfound relatives.

She went in her father’s coach; he had insisted, and she had not protested. It would make for a more comfortable and restful ride. In fact, it seemed to her that she slept much of the way home, napping in the coach, or much of the time in a daze that felt like sleep. Often, even on short journeys, she found herself using the time to plot her next book, letting the voices of her characters rise and fall like waves. But on this trip her mind was blank as she gazed out the window for hours, watching the countryside roll by, watching the rain run down the window, or looking at the innyards with little interest, despite the comings and goings of travelers, which usually stimulated her imagination.

When she finally reached Hampstead, she felt she was being pulled back into a life she hardly remembered. She sent the coachman and groom back immediately, and then crawled under the quilts of her own bed and slept the rest of the day and the night through.

She awoke to the sound of wind and rain. She was glad she had returned right away, for the rain beating at the cottage was mixed with ice. In Northumberland it would have been snow. She huddled under the quilts for a while, letting herself become accustomed to being home. Yes, it
was
home. Moorview welcomed her, but here was where she had found a life, had made her own way. She pulled on an old wool wrapper, thrust her feet into worn shearling slippers, and went downstairs, feeling more awake than she had in days.

She brewed herself a pot of tea and unwrapped the remnants of a small loaf of bread she had carried from the last inn. She had to drink the tea black, because she had no milk in the larder.

She would have to brave the weather later on and get milk and butter and vegetables. At the moment, however, she was delighted to be here in her own kitchen, warmed by the fire and the drink in her hands.

She wandered through the house later, opening the shutters and tossing out some flowers that she had left in vases, in her rush to leave. By midmorning, however, she was ready to go out, whatever the weather. She pulled on her oldest brogues and her heavy wool cloak that was almost waterproof and made her way to the village, happy to be filling her basket at the market. She also bought a ready-made loaf and buns at the baker’s, since she knew she wouldn’t get to any baking until tomorrow.

On the way home, she turned into Holly Bush. Joanna was sure to be in, and she wanted to tell her friend she was back and that the trip had been, after all, the right thing to do. Joanna’s housekeeper pulled her in out of the rain and sent her right into the morning room, where a fire burned warmly in the grate.

“Miss Baillie’s writing, but I’m sure she’d want to see you, Mrs. Dillon.”

Before Nora could protest, she was gone and a few minutes later Joanna was with her, enfolding her in a warm hug.

“It is so good to have you back, Nora,” she said as she let go.

“It is good to be back,” and as she said it, Nora realized just how much she meant it.

“Come, sit down and tell me all. I will ring for some sherry in honor of your return.”

The sherry warmed Nora and relaxed her as she told Joanna of her travels.

“You were right, Joanna,” she said after she had recounted the essentials. “It was important for me to go home. I was very moved to see my father again. I understand his actions and my feelings better than I did twenty years ago. He
did
mourn my mother, although he married again, and he
did
love me, although I didn’t feel it at the time.”

“I knew there had to be some explanation for your not hearing from him.”

“Who knows what my life would have been had I received his letter asking me to come home?” mused Nora. “I most certainly wish I’d known he wanted me. But what would I have been there but a dependent daughter? I have made my life here, and, you know, Joanna, I feel it no tragedy that my life was changed by a misdirected letter.”

“No, you’ve grown into a fine woman, one who found her calling as a mother and an artist.”

“Hardly an artist, Joanna,” protested Nora. “I am content to be a plain novelist. My work is hardly comparable to yours, after all.”

“We shall see what happens with it in the future, my dear. Now, what of Miranda? Do you think she will be eager to meet her new family?”

“I think she will be thrilled with her new grandfather. Their visit in the spring should ease the way for all of us to go back for a few weeks in the summer.”

“It is satisfying to have a happy ending in life,” exclaimed Joanna, “particularly since I am often writing tragedies!”

“Well, this is all your doing, Joanna. Had you not encouraged me, I should never have had the courage. I feel like I have had a piece of my past returned to me. I will still miss Miranda, but feel more prepared to build a new life for myself.”

“Do you see yourself alone in this new life?” Joanna queried. She was curious about Nora’s feelings for the viscount. She was aware of his frequent visits, and whenever she had seen them together, had been struck by their apparent compatibility.

“Oh, I imagine so,” Nora answered, blushing for some strange reason. “I am too old for romance.”

“One is never too old for romance, my dear. I had rather thought the viscount was becoming a good friend.”

“He is, Joanna, but nothing more,” Nora replied, suddenly very busy with smoothing her dress as she got up to leave.

Well, well, we shall see, thought Joanna as she stood at the window and watched Nora go down the path. You deserve a little romance, my dear.

Sam had spent the weeks of Nora’s absence trying not to think of their last meeting. He succeeded for the most part, for he was caught up in both estate and political responsibilities. He saw Miranda and Jeremy frequently, and from time to time inquired about Nora. But Miranda had heard nothing from her mother. On the one hand, the mails were slow, and Nora might not have written at all, thinking that she might be home before her letters would. On the other hand, Sam worried that something might have happened to her. What if she had decided to stay in Northumberland? What if she had met someone there? Sam would get caught up in his worry for her, and then find himself getting furious all over again. If she had only let me send her in my chaise, he would think.

One morning, some three weeks after Nora had left, he paid an early call on Miranda and Jeremy and found both of them getting ready to ride to Hampstead. Miranda had received a short note from her mother the day before, saying she was at home. “At last,” said Miranda. “I cannot wait to see her,” she told Sam as she pulled on her gloves. “You do understand if we do not stay for your visit, Sam?”

“Of course,” answered the viscount. He could not admit to the great feeling of relief and anticipation he felt at the news of Nora’s return.

“Do you want to come with us?” Jeremy asked.

“Oh, no. I think Miranda should see her mother first. I will be seeing Nora soon, I am sure.”

* * * *

Sam waited a week, but did not see Nora at Lavinia’s musicale or during any morning calls he made to the young couple. On his third disappointing visit, he heard that Nora had sent a note excusing her absence. “She seems to have caught a bad cold,” Miranda told Lavinia. “I do hope it does not turn into anything worse. I cannot get out there until tomorrow.”

“Perhaps I might ride out there this morning,” Sam said, trying not to sound too much like an eager twenty-year-old.

“Oh, would you, Sam? I would be so relieved.”

Nora had not felt quite so ill in years. After Miranda’s and Jeremy’s visit and her tale of her journey home, the two young people had left. Later in the day, Nora had quite suddenly become nauseated, and after retching up all her luncheon, had taken to her bed with chills and fever. The nausea, thank goodness, did not last, but the fever and its accompanying weakness had reduced her to tears more than once. When Joanna’s maid knocked at the door to deliver some homemade pear conserve, Nora was able to totter down and ask her to wait while she scribbled notes, one for Joanna, asking her to send Tilly again in the morning, and one to Miranda, explaining her absence from Lavinia’s.

The next morning when she awoke, she was at last without a fever and lay there grateful for her recovery. The last week had been a kaleidoscope of sleep and fitful dreams, day and night blending into one. For the first time her head was clear, and she was at home in Hampstead, rather than wandering, crazed, from Northumberland to Edinburgh.

She fell back into her first dreamless sleep, and awakened again just before noon. She was not hungry, but she was thirsty and the pitcher next to her bed was empty. She pulled on her old wrapper and managed to get halfway down the stairs before collapsing on the landing, afraid she was going to faint, unable to go further even when she heard someone at the door.

That was where Sam found her, clinging to the banister and trying to stand, in order to get down and let him in. He had called and knocked and finally decided he’d better just walk in, in case she was in need of help or unconscious, for, he realized, they really had no idea how much worse her cold might have gotten.

There she was, pale as death, great circles under her eyes, hair a mare’s nest, trying to get herself downstairs. When she saw him, she sat down and leaned her head against the railing, saying weakly: “Oh you did let yourself in. I am afraid I just couldn’t make it down by myself.”

Sam came up the stairs and sat down next to her. He felt her forehead and was relieved to find it cool.

“Oh, the fever is finally gone,” she whispered. “And I am feeling so much better. In fact, I was coming down anyway to get some barley water, when I felt faint and decided to rest awhile. Then I heard you, but I am weak as a kitten,” she said half-apologetically.

“Let me carry you back to bed, Nora.”

“Oh, please, no…”

“Now, don’t tell me you can do it yourself, woman.”

Nora was too weak to respond to his remark. “No, it is only I have spent all week in bed. I need a change of scene. Could you help me to the parlor sofa, Sam?”

Sam put his arms under her knees and said gruffly, “Put your arms around my neck, Nora,” and he scooped her off the stairs and deposited her on the sofa. “Have you got some sort of coverlet? It is too cold for you to be in here.”

“There is an afghan on my bed. Oh, dear, it is in such disorder up there…” Her voice trailed off.

“No matter,” said the viscount, and was back in a minute, with the old multicolored afghan she had crocheted years ago when Miranda was little. He tucked it around her, and only with the greatest effort kept himself from holding her to him.

“Let me get a fire going in here for you.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Nora leaned back, watching him start a lovely little fire in the hearth. She closed her eyes against the bright flames, not quite strong enough to look directly at them, and felt him sit down next to her.

“Are you all right, Nora?” he asked, and she felt his hand gently push the hair back from her face. She did not trust herself to look at him.

“Yes. May I ask you for one more thing, Sam?”

She thought he might have said “anything,” but it was hard enough to get her request out. She felt she was crumbling inside as she said, “Could you get me a drink from the kitchen? Barley water for now.” She grimaced.

A simple request, but it took everything out of her to ask. When he returned, however, she had pulled herself up a little and tried to comb her hair with her fingers.

He handed her the cup, and saw her hands shaking as she reached for it.

“Let me,” he said quietly, and helped her guide the cup to her lips.

“I have been so thirsty,” she whispered.

“Who has been taking care of you?”

“Oh, Joanna sent Tilly over a few times to see how I was.”

“And you, no doubt, sent her away? How did you get water ?”

“Tilly would get me some, and I was able to make it down the stairs a few times and brought up as much as I could.”

“Did no one else come by?” Sam asked, appalled by how alone she had been.

“Oh, no,” she replied after a few swallows of water. “With Tilly coming, I was fine.”

She raised the cup to her lips by herself, and the cup shook, spilling barley water on both of them.

“Oh, I am sorry, Sam,” Nora said, concerned for his breeches and trying to wipe them with the end of the afghan.

“It is nothing, Nora,” he said quickly, and then saw tears pouring down her cheeks.

“I am very sorry,” she sobbed. “It is just that I feel so weak. I am so sorry you found me like this.”

Sam shifted so he was sitting next to her, and pulled her head onto his shoulder. He stroked her hair and she sobbed even harder.

“Nora, Nora, what is it, my dear?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, feeling humiliated, but unable to stop herself from crying.

Sam made soothing noises as though she were a child, and eventually the shuddering stopped. He moved a little, and Nora clutched at him convulsively. “Don’t leave me alone for a while, Sam. I am sure Tilly will stop in today, but if you could stay until she got here?”

“I won’t leave you alone, Nora,” he replied. He wanted her to look at him, but she kept her face buried in his waistcoat.

“I won’t leave you, my dear,” he said, “but I do want to make sure you have enough wood for the fire. I will be right back.”

Nora let him slide her head back on the sofa pillows, not willing to look him in the face after such weakness. She heard him go out for the fuel, but had fallen into another convalescent nap by the time he returned.