On Sparrow Hill (9 page)

Berrie’s eye often went to Daisy during the prayers. The girl could not seem to pray except with turmoil.

“If you please, God and saints above—Lord, help me.” Daisy’s whispered words came once again today as Berrie said, “Amen” during their evening chapel time in the dining room.

Berrie eyed Daisy curiously. “Is there anything I can help you with, Daisy?” she asked gently.

“Me, miss?” The breathless words came quickly, alarm in her eyes.

“Yes. I wonder if something’s troubling you and if I might help. Or if I’m not equipped, perhaps direct you to find a way for someone else to help.”

“Oh, miss!” Tears tumbled down Daisy’s freckled cheeks and she made no attempt to hide or brush them away.

Berrie stood from her seat at the table to pull the girl into a comforting embrace. “It’s all right, Daisy. Whatever’s troubling you, we’ll make it right. What is it?”

She gasped. “Oh, I daren’t say!” Tears fell freely from watery eyes.

Mrs. Cotgrave, who sat with a student on each side just as Berrie and Daisy had, cleared her throat. “You might take Daisy to the hall for your discussion, Miss Berrie,” she quietly suggested. “Tears are as contagious as the sniffles in a room such as ours.”

“Oh no, ma’am,” Daisy said, taking her handkerchief and wiping her face. “I’m right, quick as that.”

She sniffed once and produced a smile. Perhaps the few students who noticed the interchange might have believed it an honest one.

“If you want to talk about anything, you’ve only to come to me,” Berrie said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Daisy nodded, then reclaimed her seat and turned her attention to the girl beside her. Although she appeared finished with the topic, Berrie glanced at Mrs. Cotgrave again, who appeared every bit as puzzled.

It was difficult to be bothered by Daisy, even if she was inscrutable. She was kind to everyone, hardworking, and apart from prayer time, usually cheerful. If Berrie could draw one complaint, it was that she tried too hard to do a good job.

One thing was certain: Berrie must learn what was at the bottom of Daisy’s prayerful distress. She knew the girl was Catholic, but it didn’t seem to be a difference in theology. Berrie really didn’t know the girl well enough to assume that was the only reason for the obvious ache in her prayers.

Oh, to have the wisdom of the Lord, to know how to respond when the staff became as difficult to understand as those she was trying to serve.

11

* * *

Beneath the rumble of an afternoon thunderstorm, Rebecca zipped the larger of the two pieces of luggage. She pulled it off the bed and placed it near the door to her suite, then looked around. Her tour jackets could remain. Many of the books on the shelf were hers, but those too could stay for now.

She would be back. She just wouldn’t be living here any longer.

Lightning drew her glance out the window. Her heart had transformed to a whirligig since Quentin had kissed her last night, but logic smashed the memory each time it reappeared in her mind. Leaving was without a doubt the only thing to do. She could certainly handle her position as a day job instead of living under the same roof as Quentin.

She picked up her purse, gripped a suitcase in each hand, then slipped the smaller of the two beneath her arm in order to pick up the envelope she’d left on her bedside desk. She could slip it under his door, but he might be there at this time of the day and spot it immediately. That wouldn’t do. She hoped to be gone before he knew she’d left.

She would leave it with Helen. As awkward as it might be to let the housekeeper and her husband know Rebecca was moving to the village, it must be done. Today.

On the ground floor, she left her luggage near the veranda door and found Helen in the kitchen, the first place Rebecca searched.

“Hello, Helen,” Rebecca said. “I’ve come to ask a favor of you.”

Helen looked up from the vegetables she was chopping. “Happy to help.”

“I’d like you to give this letter to Quentin after I’ve left. There’s no hurry. You can give it to him at dinner if you like.”

“Going somewhere, miss?”

“Actually I’ll be staying in town,” Rebecca said in as casual a tone as she could muster. “I’ll still be working here, performing all of my normal duties. I’ll simply be staying in town, probably for the summer.”
Or for however long Quentin is in residence
.

“You—you’re leaving the Hall?”

“Only temporarily, and only for the evenings and nights. I’ll return each morning and be in my office at the usual time.”

“But that doesn’t seem very efficient, miss, not with that lovely room of yours upstairs. Is there something wrong with the room?”

“No, no. It’s just a temporary measure, Helen, nothing to worry about.”

Rebecca turned away then, because if she didn’t she might be expected to explain in more detail, and that she wouldn’t do. She hurried from the kitchen, through the ballroom, and to the veranda, the quickest route to the garage.

The rain was cold; thick and heavy drops bounced off her hair and shoulders as she crossed the yard. She might have waited for a reprieve in the weather but feared Helen would deliver the note too quickly. And if Quentin knew, she was fairly certain he’d try to talk her out of it—a task she didn’t doubt could be easily accomplished.

The hatchback of her mini was so small she could barely fit the two suitcases into the folded backseat. She’d forgotten to remove a box of books she’d been given by her father recently, and her second suitcase wouldn’t fit until she shifted the box to the front. With a bit of adjustment she finally manipulated the suitcase inside, closed the door, then slid into the driver’s seat. At last she backed out of the garage only to skid to a halt. Something—or someone—was coming up behind the car, and they’d nearly collided.

Quentin.

She rolled down the window.

“What are you doing?” He looked more alarmed than surprised.

She pulled the car back under cover of the garage, next to Quentin’s Maserati. But she didn’t get out, even when he opened the door.

“Did Helen give you my letter?” she asked. “It explained everything.”

He wiped the side of his face with one equally wet forearm, then pulled her envelope from his pocket. It sagged in front of her, dampened by the rain.

“I only glanced at it. Helen said you’re moving to the village.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Why? Didn’t I prove last night that I’m capable of being the gentleman? It’s not as if I followed you to your room.”

Oh yes, he had. In her mind, at any rate. Stiffening, she averted her gaze from his confused one. “There is no reason I can’t come and go like the rest of the staff.”

“Rebecca—”

She shook her head, drawing a hand from the steering wheel to hold up a palm against his protest. “Please don’t say anything except that you approve.”

Quentin let go of the car door, raising both hands. “Well, I don’t approve. Not at all. I thought you would at least let us explore the possibility of a relationship, Rebecca. One where you define the rules. Remember?”

She nodded. “Then this is the first one: we cannot possibly stay under the same roof.”

“Because of what people would say if they knew we’ve become . . . friendly?”

“No. I don’t care much about gossip.”

He appeared momentarily pleased, then frowned. “You’re worried that I would take advantage of living under the same roof?”

Rebecca couldn’t help releasing a smile, small though it was. If she let him know the extent of the joy she’d felt since the moment he kissed her, there would be no enforcing a single rule. Still, she had to tell him the truth. “No, Quentin. It’s that I trust myself so little.”

He started toward her but she held up a hand again, and to her relief he stopped. “I couldn’t sleep a bit last night,” she confessed. She paused, looking past him to the puddles on the gravel just outside. It was then she saw that he wasn’t wearing any shoes, just white cotton socks turned gray from the rain and mud. She wondered if his feet were cold. Even as she told herself to stay put, she wanted to jump from the car and into his arms. She gripped the steering wheel again. “This will never work, you know.”

He folded his arms. “I didn’t sleep much either, but I came up with an entirely different opinion. I see every reason to proceed.”

She shook her head. “I wonder if you see only one reason, and it’s clouding all the reasons to stop.”

Quentin laughed. “Because I want you? Yes, that is one of the reasons. Not the only one.” He reached down, gently tugging one of her hands from the wheel. “Can we go inside? discuss this? Helen is making dinner. Let’s eat together.”

She shook her head. “Dinner is an hour away. You cannot change my mind, you know. I’m going.”

He tugged again. “But not right now. Wait until after we’ve eaten. Let’s see if we can’t come up with another solution. You haven’t commuted to work since you started this job. I see no reason to have you doing so now.”

Rebecca stood at last, knowing the moment she did he would pull her close and every resolve she held was in danger of being lost. She let him kiss her once, tasting leftover rain on his lips, the faint, familiar scent of his pine soap blending with the outdoor air.

She pulled away when he tried to kiss her again. “This is why, Quentin,” she said breathlessly. “I should be driving down that lane this very moment, and instead I’m here kissing you.”

“And it’s exactly where we both want to be.”

He would have kissed her again, but she put both hands on his chest, shaking her head. “You’re proving my point precisely, Quentin. Let me go, or drive me to the inn. Now.”

Slowly, he slid his hands from around her waist, momentarily tilting his head forward in an acquiescent salute. “There,” he said. “Now come inside.”

Quentin started to move, but his eye must have been caught by the suitcases stuffed in the back. “You really were serious, weren’t you?” He opened the door wider, reaching into the backseat.

His movement distracted her from responding. Instead, she asked, “What are you doing?”

“Bringing in your luggage.”

Rebecca leaned on the door, but he stopped it from closing. “I said I would come in to discuss my moving out, Quentin. I didn’t say I was staying.”

He let her shut the door, sending a half smile at the same time. “You’ll make me or poor William Risdon come back out in the rain for this later, when I can take it now?”

“I’m not staying, Quentin.”

He leaned closer, so close she thought he might kiss her again. He stopped short. “Yes, Rebecca, you are. One way or another.”

“If I didn’t know better, Quentin,” she whispered, “I’d say a woman should be downright frightened by words like those.”

He leaned against the side of the car, folding his arms again. Perhaps he was chilled after all, standing there in wet socks. “It’s a good thing you know me well enough, then. What I meant was that if anyone must move out, it should be me. I come and go anyway, and the cottage is only a few miles up the road.” He touched the side of her face, pulling back the strand of hair that persistently fell on her face. “My father made the trip often between here and there before my parents married.”

“What will you tell your mother? She thinks you’ll be staying here the summer. You told her the other night about the bird wanting your company.”

He winked. “Maybe I’ll bring him to the cottage with me.”

She laughed.

“I plan to tell her, though.”

“About . . . the bird?”

He shook his head. “You know what I mean. That you and I will be seeing each other.”

“No, Quentin. We have to talk first. This isn’t a good idea, not any of it.”

He leaned closer again. “I’m going to kiss you now, Rebecca. And when I do, if you can keep yourself from kissing me back, maybe I’ll believe you.”

He started to move, so she took a step back, admitting defeat with the shake of her head. “All right, I concede there is something . . . strong between us. But I’m convinced it won’t work, and until you can convince me otherwise I really think we ought to keep this between ourselves.”

“Too late. Helen likely suspects something’s up by the way I flew after you.”

Rebecca looked down once again at his soaked feet. “We’ll have to tell her this isn’t something we want the rest of the staff knowing about.”

He opened the car door again to retrieve her luggage. This time she didn’t stop him.

“Secrets are hard to keep, Rebecca. Especially if anyone spots me following you around. And don’t tell me they won’t notice something,” he added standing in front of her with both pieces of luggage, “even if you ban me from the Hall.”

“It could come to that.”

“No, Rebecca, it won’t. We’ll close the place down before that happens.”

She didn’t doubt he meant it.

12

* * *

I must say, Cosima, the days here in Ireland disappear faster than any day I have spent at home. (And I must admit, far more satisfactorily than waiting for a suitor to leave a calling card, whom I should only drive away with my bayonet tongue anyway.) I know not whether to call myself a student or teacher, as I am learning so much. I watch the staff teach simple carpentry, basket weaving, even cobbling. My own classes have evolved from language to an arts class of some sort, as we try to identify familiar objects and colors through my pictures and then let the children try to create their own. It is exhilarating! Katie is a surprisingly gifted artist. I will ask her to draw something specifically for you and send it with the next post.

It is late each day when I write my letters to you. I have taken up the habit of walking the circumference of the manor house after everyone is abed, just to be sure all is well. I do so love the night air and welcome the quiet after a long day of hooting, whooping, squalling, and babbling (charming though some of those sounds can be!). With my exhaustion comes a sense of accomplishment. I know we have much to do, so much ahead of us, but the days end in peace. I am about to take my walk now.

Cosima, I fully intended to settle in for the night after my stroll, perhaps adding a word or two more to this letter, but was interrupted. Because of that interruption, I am fully awake with more than enough energy to tell you what just took place. I cannot believe it!