Page 74 of Gallant Waif
“I’ll wager she has,” muttered Jack sourly.
“Perhaps Miss Farleigh will have her own ideas about that,” suggested Francis. “She may not wish to leave here.”
“Not wish to leave here!” Mr Phillips was astonished. He glanced around the shabby room. “Not wish to live in a fine London house, to go to balls and routs? Why would she not?”
“Why not, indeed?” murmured Jack. “If you will excuse me, I must go upstairs and have my man see to this curst leg.”
He stumped wearily upstairs, almost relishing the distraction of the pain of his leg. He stopped at the door to Kate’s room and stood there for several minutes. There was something to be said for purely physical pain, after all. An hour or so of massage, a half-bottle of brandy and it was cured.
Neither of those remedies would help the other sort of pain. In fact, they only served to intensify it; massage invariably conjured up the memory of the time when Kate first laid her small, strong hands on his leg, kneading, stroking, caressing…And as for brandy—there was neither pleasure nor forgetfulness for him in getting drunk now, for the very scent of alcohol recalled that night when she had stormed into his sanctuary like a small avenging angel, smashing all his decanters and bottles. He would never forget the look on her face that night…nor what occurred afterwards…the pleasure, the madness, the bitterness.
He had to let her go. She had no future with him. Not now. Not since she had become a rich woman. She might have agreed to take him on in exchange for a home, shabby as it was, for security, for his protection for the rest of her life. He hadn’t dared to speak of love. That would have remained his secret. But a home—that might have been enough for a girl who had lost everything. That and the promise of a family. To an orphan, the promise of a family might have been appealing.
None of those things held any significance now. She didn’t need to marry now—she could choose. She would go up to London and choose. He would never ask her now—he would not have her think him a fortune hunter. He cursed the Delacombe inheritance. He cursed Mr Phillips. Had the man not arrived when he did, Jack might have had her agreement to wed him already. And he would have wasted no time, would have had her to the village church the very next day.
He glanced up and down the corridor, then leaned his ear against her door and listened. Nothing. He could smell the beeswax she had used to polish the timber panelling. Beeswax. Another reminder of Kate. Reluctantly he brought his cheek away from her door, and headed towards his room. There were flowers on a side table in the corridor, small, insignificant blue things in a mass of green spiky stuff. He bent down to smell them, closing his eyes in anguish. They smelt of Kate’s hair. This must be rosemary, then. He pulled out a sprig, crushed it in his long, strong fingers, and inhaled the fragrance.
“Carlos.” He absent-mindedly tucked the sprig of rosemary into his shirt.
“Sí señor.”
“Do something about this blasted leg, will you?”
“At once,señor.”
As Carlos clattered downstairs to heat the massage oils, Jack began to shrug off his coat. He paused for a moment, then stepped back into the hallway. He gazed down at the vase of fragrant greenery. Carefully he picked it up, carried it into his room and set it down beside his bed, where the morning sun would catch it.
“No, it is very kind of Lady Cahill, but now that I am able to support myself there is no need for me to go to London.”
“But Lady Cahill was most insistent—” The elderly lawyer tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. The heiress was being extremely difficult. He had tried every persuasion, painted pictures of the marvellous things she would see and do, of the shops, theatres, concerts and balls, of the cultural wonders, the famous places and people she would see. Nothing had the slightest effect.
Mr Phillips cast a tense look at Mr Carstairs. Her ladyship’s grandson had observed the entire argument, arms folded, looking sardonic and bad-tempered. He had said not a word so far.
Mr Phillips felt very put out. Having a romantic soul underneath his dull exterior, he had envisaged himself as a kind of knight, who would escort the lost princess back to her rightful milieu. Only the princess was unaccountably resistant and unfemininely sharp of tongue and wit, and nothing he said could move her.
And, what was more, he thought, with a growing sense of injustice, when he had told her of the immense fortune which was at her sole disposal she had reacted quite as if she had other things on her mind. When he had repeated himself, thinking she was too overcome to take it in, she had replied, “Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. It is very nice, thank you.”
Nice! Mr Phillips might be a mere solicitor, but there was something downright insulting about referring to such a huge fortune as “nice’. He began yet another attempt to persuade her, but his remarks were cut across by the harsh, deep voice of his client’s grandson.
“I’ve had quite enough of all this nonsense. Kate, you are going to London and no argument. Carlos!” he called, moving to the door.
“Sí,Major Jack?”
“Tell Martha to have Miss Kate’s things in that carriage within the hour. She and Mr Phillips will accompany Miss Kate to London, to my grandmother’s house.”
“She will do no such thing!” snapped Kate, meeting his eyes for the first time.
He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “No, you are right, of course. Carlos, tell Martha to pack only what she and Miss Kate will need for the journey. They will be purchasing all new clothes and what-have-you in London.” He ignored Kate’s gasp of indignation. “Oh…Carlos, have the girls pack some food and refreshments in a basket in case Miss Kate gets hungry on the way.”
“Do no such thing, Carlos!” said Kate in a voice ringing with indignation.
Carlos met her gaze sheepishly. “I am sorry,señorita,but I must obey Major Jack.”
Jack laughed at her infuriated exclamation, a harsh, humourless laugh. “I see I am still master in my own house,” he said dryly.
“Yes, but you are not my master and I refuse to do your bidding!”
“I’m not asking you to do my bidding,” said Jack coldly.
