Page 5 of West End Earl
“They’re good men. Because of Cal, I can eat. And he passes along clothing so I don’t have to worry about a tailor. I alter everything myself.”
“Good to see one of your wifely skills is coming in handy,” John said. There could be no mistaking the utter lack of teasing.
Phee shot him a look at the same time Arcott barked with surprising strength, “That was uncalled for. Apologize.”
“Sorry, Phee,” John mumbled to his clasped hands.
“If your apology isn’t sincere, then I have no use for it. Do we need to discuss something, John? Vicar, I hate to bring tension to your bedside. We can take this outside.”
Vicar Arcott tightened his grip. “Stay. You two have always bickered. It’s a comfort to hear you together again, as it should be. John, ask her.”
“Ask me what?” She wasn’t feeling particularly generous toward John at the moment. Verbal jabs were not the way into her good graces, no matter how long-standing their friendship.
Sighing, John stood reluctantly from his stool. Gripping only the tips of her fingers, he said, “Ophelia Hardwick, would you do me the honor—”
Phee jerked away, sending her chair clattering behind her. “Hell no! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, thank God.” John sank onto his seat. People usually reserved that amount of relief for escaping a death sentence.
An urge to kick the stool out from under him nearly overwhelmed her. Instead, Phee righted her own chair and glowered at the supine man in the bed. “Did you encourage this?”
“I have to make this right, Ophelia. God is calling me home soon. How can I rest in peace if you aren’t safe? You’re like a daughter to me.” A single tear trailed over Arcott’s papery cheek, and the fight drained out of her.
“You’ve already made things right by me, Vicar. Don’t you see? I wouldn’t be here, alive and well, if it weren’t for you.”
“We erected a lie on consecrated ground. Every time I pass Adam’s headstone with your name, I apologize to him and the Lord. But I can’t apologize enough, can I?”
Guilt pounded at her with cruel fists, but that was her burden to bear, not the vicar’s. The man may have salvaged some good from the situation, but she’d caused it to begin with. Phee wiped a second tear from the old man’s cheek. “No boy of thirteen should die. It’s not fair. He drowned, and there’s nothing we can do about that. Your quick thinking saved me from a living hell. Not only the one I lived with Uncle Milton but also the one he’d arranged for me. Everything you did—lending the weight of your influence to hurry the burial, guarding Adam so the doctor didn’t examine him naked, and then keeping my secret—all that worked for the greater good. If not for your tutelage, I never could have returned to boarding school as my brother and kept up. And at the end of the year, when I turn twenty-five and Uncle has to hand over my inheritance, I will have the means to start over somewhere else as a woman. America, or the Continent. Somewhere. You say you can’t apologize enough, but I can’t thank you enough.” A new year, with a new life and a new name in a new country.
Phee glanced over at John. “I owe both of you a debt I can never repay. Thank you, John, for attempting to protect me, however misguided. I know it was your father’s idea, but I appreciate that you were willing to saddle yourself with me. You’re a loyal friend. But you’re also an arse.”
John laughed, shaking his head. “You’d be lucky to land a gent like me.”
Her earlier irritation at him slipped away. No wonder he’d been grumpy and making comments about her lack of wifely skills—he’d been envisioning a loveless future with her.
“No woman wants a man who’s in love with someone else. I’ll never be Daisy.” He’d had eyes only for the delicate blonde for as long as she could remember. Still did, judging by the vibrant blush visible at the mention of her name. “Marry her, if she’ll have you. If she’s as sweet as I remember, you have a greater chance of survival with her, anyway. Lord knows I’d smother you in your sleep within a week.”
With a grinning nod, John accepted her verbal peace offering. “I’m sorry I made that crack about you sewing your clothes. ’Tis a fine coat.”
She smiled. “Cal is a bit of a dandy. I always replace the buttons with more sensible ones. But the gold and silver ones bring a fair price. When the time comes, I’ll have a tidy nest egg in addition to my inheritance.”
“Will you stay here, or shall you take a room in the village?” John asked.
“I have a few days before I need to return. I’ll make a pallet and stay here if you don’t mind. Uncle might hear of it if I stay at the inn.” She’d slept worse places than a floor, more than once.
“Take John’s bed. He’s been sleeping in here all week anyway,” Arcott said.
“He’s right. I’ll sleep in here. Father, are you hungry? Mrs. Courtland stopped by earlier with a cottage pie.”
“Feed Phee. Girl needs some meat on her.” The fading reply from the bed left her and John exchanging a look.
In the kitchen, John served two generous helpings of the cold meal onto plates, then another portion so small it would barely feed a child.
“Does he only eat that much? He’s so slim, I worry,” Phee said. At John’s amused glance, she rolled her eyes. “I know. Pot calling the kettle black. But I’m skin and bones by nature—your father isn’t.”
“He eats a few bites once or twice a day. Not much else for weeks now. That’s one reason I think he’s not long for this world.”
Tucking a cloth over the cottage pie, Phee set it in the larder and poured three glasses of milk. The utensils were exactly where they’d always been; the kitchen hadn’t changed in the sixteen years since she’d first set foot in it. The butcher-block counter still smelled of the same oil the vicar, and now—she assumed—John, used every month to seal the wood. There was a bottle back in her room she kept for whittling, and the scent reminded her of home each time she opened it.
