Page 13 of The Ones Left Behind
“There is nothing you can do. I will be bedridden for weeks to come and only time will tell what the damage is.”
“I am certain we can arrange for changes of scenery throughout the day so you need not fret.”
“I am not fretting,” he retorted.
She brought her face down to his level. Goodness she was lovely especially when she was angry. Her amber eyes took on a deeper hue and nearly flashed fire at him. “You most certainly are fretting and hurt and angry, which you are entitled to be, but do not give up yet.” She stood up straight and put her hands on her hips. “Will there be anything else for now?”
“You are not my servant,” he growled. She turned to walk towards the door.
“We will see about that. I am certainly not leaving now.” She shut the door quickly behind her before he could reply. He certainly could not go after her and argue, but he needed to think. He did not want her out alone again, and she was certainly stubborn enough that she would not take his money now that she had said as much. At least she was here for now and that was one thing less for him to worry about. He would let her think she was the deuced housekeeper until he was well enough to argue as her equal and convince her otherwise. Besides, it just felt right having her here again. He had been hurt by her defection to Peter, but had spent years pretending he was happy for them—trying to behave as though nothing had changed. If only he had stood up to his father. Instead, he had purchased a commission and followed Peter and Kitty to Spain.
He cursed. Lying in bed for another month was going to kill him. He had never been able to sit still and despite the pain, he longed to move about. Perhaps Kitty was right that he could be moved. He wondered if he could use crutches, as he had seen some of the amputees using. For now, he swallowed the contents of his glass in one long drink, hoping that it would dull his pain and numb his thoughts and that he would wake up after the bone had healed.
* * *
Caringfor Matthias in a sisterly way again would be one of the hardest things Kitty had ever done. She had never stopped loving him, but had done her best to leave those feelings behind when she’d married Peter. The old Earl had been correct that she had cherished dreams of wedding Matthias. She had thought he reciprocated her feelings. She had been wrong, but no matter, he needed her now and she needed him, although in an entirely different way. And now her eyes were open to the harsh realities of life. The past was the past and they had to move on with their lives. They were family, after all. Her actions needed to concentrate on helping him heal and distracting him from his inability to move. As children, he had never been able to sit still for long.
She went to fetch a bonnet and pelisse, determined to do something good for Matthias. When she went to the stables to ask for a trap or gig to drive herself to the village, an argument ensued. Unless his lordship gave permission, she would be driven by a groom. Kitty sensed a long struggle ahead of her to convince the servants she was one of them. The head groom, Swann, (she could not think of anyone less aptly named), remembered her and politely reminded her she had been brought up a lady right there in that house. There was no objection to her driving the gig, he went on, but it was more than he dared to let her go without protection.
One battle at a time, so to speak, she told herself. As long as she was allowed to stay and go to the village without having to walk, she would not press her luck.
It was a perfect summer morning, the dew still not fully evaporated. The lush green carpet of vegetation and fully leafed trees emitted a fragrance that was eminently summer. Bluebells and daisies blanketed the meadow beside the road as they left the gates of the Close and turned towards the village. It had been so long—close to five years now? Would anyone recognize her here? A lot can change in five years, but she doubted the entire village had left or passed away in that time.
After a drive of perhaps a mile and a half, the gig pulled into the quintessential English Village, as Kitty had come to think of it after the years on the Peninsula where stucco and tile roofs were more common. She revelled in the familiar thatched roofs and white stone of her youth, still surrounded by ivy and the bright blooms of summer.
The butcher and the baker were on the left-hand side, the blacksmith and village shop on the other. The church’s spire could be seen further down the high street beyond the White Horse Tavern and Inn. A rush of emotions swept over her, much like when she had stood at the gates of Thackeray Close, but for some reason she had had less doubt of her acceptance there. Certainly, everyone had known of her marriage to Peter and everyone would know of his death as a military hero.
“You may set me down here, Thomas,” she said to the young footman who had not quite grown into his height as they neared the inn. She suspected he would enjoy spending his time there, waiting for her. “I will return here when I have finished my errand.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, tipping his hat to her.
She decided her best form of attack would be to call at the rectory. She knew that Mr. Henderson had called since Matthias’s return, but without knowing her status, Kitty had kept her presence quiet. Now that Matthias knew she was there and would not make her leave—at least for the nonce—she would no longer remain hidden.
She lifted the knocker on the door and let it drop, remembering the afternoons she had spent here with Peter and Matthias. They had been receiving tutoring in Latin and she had been allowed to tag along. Kitty discovered she had acquired more knowledge than she would have imagined while on the Peninsula. It came in very handy, when having to learn to speak Spanish.
It seemed so long ago… the familiar smells of baking and old leather-bound books reached her through the windows. The door opened to an elderly housekeeper.
“Mrs. Jones?” Kitty asked, pleased to see a familiar face.
The woman looked at her carefully then recognition crossed her face. “Miss Kitty? I mean, Mrs. Gordon?”
“It is I. Is Mr. or Mrs. Henderson in?”
“The missus is. The Rector be out making calls. Come on in to the drawing room and I will let her know you’re here.”
“Thank you,” Kitty said as she was shown into the room. Nothing seemed to have changed except for some fading and wear. The Turkish carpet, with its geometric shapes and bold hues of red, dark blue and gold, was still the same, if less vibrant. She had spent hours trying to count them and determine what the strange shapes were when she was a child, on the occasions she had come with the Countess to sewing groups for the parish poor.
“Kitty?” an elderly voice asked from the doorway.
“Mrs. Henderson.” Kitty walked over with her hands outstretched to greet the gentlewoman. Something was different besides her now grey hair and wrinkled face. She was straining to see. Kitty grasped her hands and squeezed.
“Forgive me, my sight is failing. I am so pleased you have returned home.”
Home. There was that strange, almost foreign word again.
“Please be seated. Mrs. Jones is bringing tea.”
Once they were seated on a sofa with their tea, Kitty was unsure where to begin.
