Mariel (16 page)

“Not if the truth is told.” She winced as she lowered the ruined sleeve along her arm. Meeting Phipps's eyes squarely, she stated, “Ian and I were doing nothing illicit, if that is what you are suggesting.”

Phipps's mouth became a straight line of disapproval. “I did not suggest that, Lady Mariel. Others will. How could you be so foolish?”

“Something in our food put us to sleep.”

“To sleep?” The older woman could not hide her horror. The thought of her charge curling up next to a man she was not married to insulted her most Victorian sensibilities. “Lady Mariel, you will not be able to show your face beyond these walls again.”

Mariel scowled as she untied her petticoats. “My face and I will continue as we have in the past. I am alive. Ian is alive. That is all that should be important. If I had not shown him the cave where my great-grandparents triumphed over their enemy, we might have drowned on the beach. That strip is covered totally by high tide water at this time of the moon.”

Phipps mumbled something and flounced out of the room, her insulted dignity evident. Untying the stiff ribbons of her underclothes, Mariel wanted to shout after her. She knew it would be useless. Phipps considered reputation to be of the ultimate importance. On this one thing, they had argued often in the past.

Sinking into the lusciously warm waters of the tub, Mariel closed her eyes to savor the heat. She wanted it to ooze all the way to the center of her bones. Only the sting in the cuts on the soles of her feet broke into the perfection. She ran her hands along the ceramic and delighted in the luxury of this bath tonight.

A knock on the bathroom door roused her from her half-slumber. When Phipps informed her the doctor had arrived, Mariel called that she would be out in a moment. Rinsing the soap from her hair, she hurried from the tub. She pulled a dressing gown over her. The loose garment would allow the doctor to examine her shoulder.

Hobbled by her sore feet, she went to greet the doctor. Dr. Sawyer did not smile as she walked unevenly toward him. His broad jowls, accented by his wide sideburns, quivered with barely suppressed emotion. Dark eyes appraised her clinically, and his frown deepened. As he motioned for her to sit on the settee, his sparse silver hair glistened in the lamplight.

“Lady Mariel, the reverend is unfamiliar with the dangers of the Cloister beach. His ignorance I can forgive, but how could you have been so foolish?”

“Please, doctor,” she said tiredly. “Miss Phipps has already regaled me with my idiocy. I will tell you what I told her. There was some impurity in our picnic food, which made both Ian and me ill.”

His rage vanished as if with the flip of a switch. “Ill? How?”

“Tired, dizzy, sick to the stomach. Just a general malaise. We lost our battle with it in the tidal cave. When we felt better, the water was too high to escape. We had to wait for it to lower.” She carefully said nothing about the unspeakable sin of falling asleep so innocently in Ian's arms. Dr. Sawyer would be as unaccepting of that as her companion had been.

“Hmm …” He added nothing to that, but ordered her to show him the soles of her feet. Opening his bag, he pulled out a salve and lathered them generously, then he bandaged them until she was sure she would not be able to feel the floor through the many layers.

Phipps added from the shadows, “Her shoulder also, Dr. Sawyer. I understand she struck it when they were coming out of the crevice.”

Examining her through the thin material of her dressing gown, he frowned. He apologized before asking her to loosen the robe so he could see the shoulder. She tried to submerge the blush rising along her skin as his fingers moved competently along the curve of her shoulder and across the front of her chest. As soon as he was finished, she pulled it closed again.

“I think you have only bruised it, my lady. I can feel no broken bones. If it continues to bother, I can send you to the city for a Roentgen ray picture of the bones. I believe there is a technician in Liverpool.”

Emerging from the shadows, Phipps stated, “No, doctor. I will not allow such. I have heard of those so-called X-ray photographs. People have been burned badly by exposure to them.”

Dr. Sawyer nodded. “I agree. I think soaking the shoulder in epsom salts and warm water will suffice. The Roentgen rays have not yet proven that their value is greater than the risk.” He looked directly at Mariel as he ordered, “Rest, Lady Mariel. No more larks on the beach or about the shire until that shoulder is better. Do you understand?”

“Of course, doctor.” She smiled at him, knowing she had no intention of being quiet simply for a bruise on her shoulder.

In spite of his wish to intimidate her into listening to his suggestions, he could not help returning her smile. He admired Lady Mariel. More than anyone else, he understood the tragedies she had suffered. He had arrived in Foxbridge shortly before the typhoid epidemic that had killed her parents. He had been called to the house the night her twin died and often in the horrible years before then. What he knew of the Wythes, he spoke of to no one else. That Lady Mariel had survived with this resiliency impressed him.

“Very well, my lady. I am going to check on our adventuresome parson now. I suggest you go to sleep. Do not hurry to rise in the morning.”

“Soon,” she promised. “First, I want to relax with a cup of hot chocolate to take the last of the cold from me. The water is frigid this time of year.”

When the doctor chuckled and went to the room down the hall, Phipps offered to go for the cup for her lady. Mariel thanked her, but asked her to bring it to the solarium. At that moment, she did not feel like sleeping. She was not tired, for she had slumbered for hours during the afternoon.

She was not surprised to see many of the household staff waiting in the room when she entered. With pleasure, she soothed their concerns. That her disappearance had caused this much worry surprised her. She had known the Wythes were well loved by their servants, but had never expected this outpouring of emotion.

Within minutes, she was sitting on the sofa and laughing with them over her misadventures. Her voice faded as she heard the distinctive sound of Ian's cane on the stone floor of the hallway. She stood as he limped into the solarium. Aware of the others around them, she did not rush to throw herself in his arms as she wished. Instead she asked, “What do you think of this reception?”

In the same light tone, he said, “More than I expected.” Phipps arrived with a tray. She handed him a cup of steaming chocolate and urged him to drink it. He took a sip, but did not remove his eyes from Mariel. Dressed in a mauve silk dressing gown with her hair in dark waves along her back, he wondered if anyone could be more desirable than this blithe spirit.

“Reverend,” repeated Phipps insistently before he realized she had spoken to him once.

“Yes, Miss Phipps?”

“Please sit down. You must be exhausted. If you will give me a list of what you need, I can have clothes brought for you from the parsonage.”

Tightening the belt of the too wide smoking jacket he wore over trousers which did not reach his ankles, he shook his head. Lord Foxbridge's wardrobe had yielded little to fit him. This was the best available. He placed the barely touched cup on a table. “There is no need to put yourselves out like this, Miss Phipps. If I can impose on one of our rescuers to give me a ride into the village, I will—”

“Nonsense!” she retorted. “Neither you nor Lady Mariel are stirring from the Cloister until you are rested. I cannot understand why you chose today to go to the beach. It is barely spring. If you do not take care, you may catch your death of cold.”

Mariel put her hand on Ian's arm as she moved to stand next to him. “Orders,” she said with a light laugh. “I have learned it is better not to argue with Phipps when she uses this tone.”

Much later—long after all of the searchers had left to seek their own homes and hours since they had washed the salty crust from their skin, the adrenalin of their adventure having seeped away to leave them so exhausted they could not think of moving—Ian found himself alone with Mariel. Phipps had reluctantly gone to bed when she could stay awake no longer, but had left no doubts that the two would be well chaperoned by the staff of the house.

He smiled at that thought and regarded Mariel with her feet hidden beneath the silk folds of her robe. She reclined on a settee. He rested his feet on a hassock as he stared at the dance of the flames on the hearth.

“I should go home.”

“In the morning,” she murmured. “It must be nearly dawn already. You are welcome to stay here to sleep, Ian.”

He smiled. “Yes, I would say you have the room. Now I can understand why you welcomed the idea of bringing Rosie to live with you. Did you ever get lonely here all by yourself?”

“Yes.”

At her strangely terse answer, he lifted his head from where it leaned on his fist. All fatigue vanished when he saw her sorrowful expression. Softly, he said, “You still miss your twin sister?”

“It sounds odd, but I do. When she died, it was as if a part of me did, too. Not that I always liked her. Sometimes I hated her. We were sisters, after all, and she was as strongwilled as I am. Maybe it comes from being together before memory begins.” Suddenly, she sat up and said in a tight voice, “I don't want to talk about this, Ian.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't pity me!” she cried. “Disagree with me, call me a fool, hate me, but never pity me!”

He rose and sat next to her on the settee. Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he drew her trembling body back against his chest. “Mariel Wythe, I can't imagine pitying you. Nor can I think of a time when I could hate you. What I want is to learn more of you, sweetheart, and to taste the honeyed warmth of your lips.”

“Ian!”

He paused as he was bending to kiss her when he realized a younger voice had called him. His mouth became as round as his eyes when he met Rosie's smile. He moved to greet the child who had called him by his first name, but she glanced past him.

“Mariel!” With a sob, she rushed forward to throw her arms around the dark-haired woman's neck.

“It's all right, baby,” soothed Mariel as she stroked the trembling child. Even as she repeated the phrase over and over, she shrugged her shoulders in response to Ian's unspoken question. Why Rosie suddenly called him something other than “Reverend Beckwith-Carter,” she could not guess. Her eyes widened as Rosie whirled out of her arms and looked at Ian in indecision.

With a laugh, he motioned for her to come to him. As her exuberant form bounced toward him, he laughed. “What are you doing up so late?”

“So late?” demanded Rosie. “It's morning.”

The adults looked toward the western facing windows, but no lessening of the dark had forewarned the sun rising on the other side of the house. When the child asked if he was staying for breakfast, Ian smiled.

“Of course. How could I resist such a wonderful invitation to have a meal with two of the loveliest ladies in Foxbridge?” He sat her on his good knee and asked quietly, “Are you sure you want me to stay?”

She nodded. “I'm sorry, Ian. I prayed you would go away and leave us alone. Last night, I was afraid you had gone and taken Mariel with you. Miss Phipps told me my wishes would not come true, because only loving prayers are answered. She told me I was foolish to think Mariel would love me less just because you are her friend. She told me you could be my friend, too.”

“I would like that.” He smiled and tweaked her nose. “I would like to have a special friend named Rosie.”

Mariel said quietly, “Rosie, go to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Puhle we would like breakfast as soon as possible. Ian needs to get his sleep if he is going to preach later this morning.”

With a yelp of enthusiasm, Rosie raced away to seek out the cook, who spoiled her more than anyone else in the house. In her wake, Mariel put her hand on Ian's arm. He drew her into his embrace.

“I never suspected …” She shook her head in disbelief. Just when she had thought Rosie would never accept Ian, she welcomed him to the Cloister.

“What is the old saying? ‘An ill wind blows no good'?” He smiled. “Surely there must be one about the sea washing unexpected treasures onto the shore after a storm.”

“I'm sure there is something like that.” She smiled as he reclined her head back against the hardness of his arm.

He pressed his mouth over hers. His hand sliding along the silk of her robe discovered her softness, which was hidden beneath her daytime clothes. As he sought deep within her mouth for her delight, she tightened her grip around his shoulders. The treasure Mariel had found on the beach today she did not intend to lose again. In the twilight of the dawn, she could not guess how she would have to fight to keep what she had discovered.

Chapter Eight

Ian rubbed his nose as he heard Mrs. Reed greet someone in the foyer. The tickle did not ease. Fighting it, he smiled as he saw the man at the study door. “Come in, Mr. Turner,” he urged. He turned his head when he could control the oncoming sneeze no longer. “Excuse me. I think I caught a cold after taking a chill on the beach below Foxbridge Cloister. Come in. What can I do for you today?”

The senior member of the church board did not respond to the warm welcome. His granite-like square face refused to crumble as he gruffly stated, “May I sit, Reverend Beckwith-Carter?”

“Of course. Shall I send for tea?”

“No, I shan't be long. What I have to say should be said quickly.”

The smile fled from Ian's face as he gauged his guest's nervous demeanor. Mr. Turner was concerned about something. What could be worrying him, Ian did not attempt to guess. It was clear he would learn the truth soon enough. He placed his pen on the desk and put the stopper in the bottle of ink. He wondered if he would have a chance to catch up on his correspondence. A letter from his mother demanded his attention. He had not written to her in more than a fortnight. Each time he began this task, someone interrupted him.