The Ghost and Jacob Moorhead (18 page)

Verity stiffened. “How could I possibly love a man like Jacob who debauches himself and drinks to excess and how am I supposed to know what else?”

“Who no longer drinks? Who has done everything he can do to see Mary safe? Who has organized and overseen and worried and fretted and—” She stopped when Verity held up her hand.

“Enough. It is true I cannot make the man he
seems
to be fit with the man we
know
him to be.”

“Or perhaps the man he was in London was not so bad as rumor had it? Perhaps he had fallen into bad ways and even when bored with them hadn’t thought of a way out of his rut?”

“You would say he has changed? Instantly? That he will not return to his old…entertainments?” Her sarcasm was cold and clear as a chunk of ice.

So it was to Verity’s surprise that Jenna nodded. “I truly believe he has put that life behind him. I know he is interested in the estate, in learning to guard it well and in the healthy country life he can live here. And,” said Jenna, her voice softening, “I think he has begun to develop hopes he may do so with you at his side.”

Verity’s mouth tightened.

Jenna sighed. “I am not asking that you instantly agree to wed him, my girl, but that you put your prejudices behind you and look at the man you see here, the living man, the actions of
this
man, his hopes for the future, the emotions driving him
now
.”

In turn, Verity sighed. “Very well. I will try. But I’ll not wed where I cannot trust,” she repeated, stating the words firmly. She turned on her heel and left the room, closing the door with just a bit of a snap.

“How will it end?” asked Jenna.

As it will
, was the response.
Let us forget the younger generation and think only of ourselves for a time
.
Ah
,
my Jenna
,
my love
…

Jenna laid her head back and, a tiny smile playing around her lips, listened to her lover make verbal love to her, the only kind in which they could, for now, indulge.

* * * * *

Verity, still in something of a temper, met Jacob coming toward her aunt’s room. “You,” she said with something very close to loathing.

His brows arched up under the curls falling over his forehead. “What have I done now?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She grimaced. “Nothing at all.”

After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Then there is something I should have done?”

Verity glanced at him, a trifle surprised by his question. “No, why should there be?”

“Verity, my dear, you do not look at a man as you looked at me unless you are very angry with him. So what have I done—or not done—to rouse your anger?”

Verity couldn’t think how to respond. She could hardly tell him her aunt had done as much as
order
her to wed him. That was out of the question. She could hardly tell him she wanted—oh, how she wanted—him to be the man he could be and not the man he’d once been.

“Verity?” He reached for her, tugged her near and held her close, settling her head against his shoulder, a hand holding it there, and then…just held her.

After a moment she struggled until he allowed her to move free of him. “Why did you do that?”

He blinked. “I don’t exactly know.” Then he frowned. “You seemed to need comforting perhaps?”

“What an odd thought. Why the devil would I need comforting?”

“I don’t know, do I? That’s where this conversation began, I think. Something has angered you. Something I’ve done or haven’t done. But if you refuse to tell me then I cannot change it, or fix it, or somehow make it right for you.”

She laughed. “Why would you
want
to make anything, whatever it might be, right for me?”

“Because I cannot bear it when you are angry with me,” he responded.

“That…sounded sincere. Are you…” she hesitated a moment and then rushed on, “the sort who must have everyone like you?”

“Why would anyone think everyone should like one?”

“Well, if it isn’t that…”

“It is that I want
you
to like me.”

Verity felt herself tense. What could he possibly mean by that?

“You, Verity. I want
you
to like me.” After a moment when she still didn’t respond, he smiled—but there was a sort of sad note there also. “Is it so impossible to like me?”

“No.” She gave in as she said what was on her mind. “Not if I could believe the man you seem to be is the man you are.”

He started to respond, shut his mouth, frowned, tipped his head a trifle to one side, eying her—and finally asked, “Did that make sense?”

Verity bit her lip. “Probably not. I’ve got to check with the housekeeper. I’m late as it is.” She turned away.

“Verity.”

She paused but didn’t look around.

“Think about what you just said and see if you can put it into words I will understand.”

“It isn’t important.”

“Oh, but it is.”

“Important?”

“
Very
.”

That had her swinging around to stare at him.

“
Very
important, Verity.”

She believed him but she didn’t know why. And there was no way she could possibly continue what was becoming far too tense a conversation. “The housekeeper…” she said and hurried on her way.

Jacob stared after her. A faint tight smile tipped just the corners of his mouth. “Ah, my stubborn little love…” The half smile faded. “But then, it is rare that attaining a goal easily makes one feel it worthwhile and attaining your…affection, my dear, is, I am beginning to think, a very worthwhile goal indeed.”

She was long gone when he turned and continued on his way to Jenna’s room.

Verity’s mind wandered more than once during her daily discussion with the new housekeeper who had finally reached some sort of truce with Emma. The woman had Jenna to thank for that of course. Emma’s ears still turned red every time she thought of the scold she’d received—but she still preferred Jenna’s ways to Mrs. Brownley’s newfangled notions. Fortunately her rigid spine and little rebellions were of a nature they could be ignored.

“I think that is all,” said the housekeeper and rose to her feet.

But she didn’t sound quite certain and Verity stared after her. She shook her head, sighed again and wondered why she spent so much time worrying about everyone else when she had her own problems to concern her. She looked down at the desk. Open in front of her were the accounts she must check. There were vases needing flowers. There were the wounded to check—although all three of the men, even Rube, seemed to be doing well. Heaven only knew what else she had to do before she would be free to find the solitude to think of her own problems.

* * * * *

Lester McAllen sent a footman to Mary, requesting an interview. Mary, who had just finished helping Rube eat his lunch, responded that she would meet Lester in the winter garden where Rube, now he was recovering, insisted she must take exercise each afternoon—but not until she was assured the garden was unoccupied by anyone else and that the walls were guarded while she was inside.

Mary found the whole situation perfectly normal, a life she’d lived for the last few years, but Lester, finding her waiting patiently in the hall outside the door to the room from which she would exit directly into the garden, didn’t know that. He frowned as he approached her. “Lady Mary, you needn’t have awaited me here in the hall.”

Mary explained.

Lester’s brows rose. “But this is appalling. I know of the recent attempt to kidnap you but I was unaware this has been going on for so long. Is there nothing to be done about it?”

She chuckled. “Nothing but that I take care that I
not
be taken.” There was a tap at the door from inside the room. She opened it. “All clear?” she asked the guard who had checked the garden and the room she must pass through to reach it. Soon she and Lester were strolling the paths. “I am surprised to see you here,” she said, casting him a teasing glance.

“I was acting the fool when you met me in India, was I not?”

“Oh yes. And I will admit that despite my lectures, I was sure you’d decided to remain foolish. What changed your mind?”

“You did.”

“Nonsense. When we parted you were determined to live out your life there in Madras—which, given how badly your health had deteriorated, would not have been so very many years. Now it is a decade later, you are in England and looking hale and hearty. I can have had nothing to do with that.”

“It took another bout of fever and a long recuperation in the cool of a hill station, where your words kept coming back to me. I had saved enough to live a comfortable life. Moreover, I’d received word from England that my godfather left me a rundown estate that badly needed someone’s hands on the reins. And most important…” He paused, stalking on several more steps. There was a choked quality to his voice when he resumed. “When I stopped to really think about it, I’d no real desire to commit suicide, as you accused me of doing by ignoring all the signs—the frequent illnesses, for instance.”

“So you came home. And the estate?”

“Productive now, comfortable but not so large as to be a burden,” he responded promptly. “I’ll never be able to thank you for all you did.”

“I did nothing,” she repeated firmly. “Tell me about the estate.” That was also said in a tone that clearly stated she’d listen to no more comments concerning her part in his decision to return to England.

He told her. Occasionally a story made her laugh. Once she turned to him and placed a hand on his arm, looking up at him. He put his hand over hers and squeezed gently.

Melissa, watching from a first-floor window, felt tears welling. Anger followed the tears. He’d no right to treat that woman with the tenderness he refused to give her. No right to withhold forgiveness when she’d done nothing for which she needed forgiving.
Oh well
,
perhaps the life I led after I married
?
Perhaps for that I need forgiveness
.
Even though the marriage was utterly intolerable
.

Besides, other women led that…interesting…sort of life and were not taken to task for it. Others did not have to pay again and again for wanting to find someone who would love them—even just a little. The anger faded and the tears returned. Then, angrily, she wiped them away.

He
’
s mine
, she thought, turning again to the window and torturing herself by watching the easy communication between the two strolling the garden paths below. “Somehow I’ll make him admit it,” she whispered. “Somehow…”

The two entered the house and, for some time, Melissa continued staring at the empty garden. While she stood staring blankly, considering ways of convincing Lester he should treat her more kindly, a movement caught her eye.

Jacob
. The sight of him jolted her back to the real world. She’d been paid—not well, but
paid
—to seduce Jacob and take him away from the estate. “But he won’t even talk to me, so how can I?”

She watched for a bit longer.

“I don’t want to,” she muttered. “I don’t.
I want Lester
.” She turned away from the window and began pacing, thinking, planning—and discarding each and every plan, afraid Lester would see through her machinations and look at her in the scornful way she found so hurtful. Heaving a tremendous sigh, she turned back to the window.

Miss Verity entered the garden, saw Jacob and hesitated, almost turning back—but too late. Jacob smiled, came toward her, his pace changing from a stroll to a firm stride. Melissa watched him come to her, watched him hold out his hand, gesturing, obviously suggesting they walk together.

She pretends to hesitate
, thought Melissa, the snide notion rising from what she herself might do when pretending coyness she didn’t really feel. Melissa nodded, a firm nod of affirmation, when, still hesitating, Verity put her fingers on the offered arm. Melissa felt a hot burning sensation and realized it was jealousy.

“But I don’t want him… I don’t,” she repeated as if trying to convince herself. She blinked, a vision of Lester filling her mind. The picture was replaced by one of Jacob—and back and forth until, reaching up, she ran the fingers of both hands into her hair, closed her fists and tugged. “I don’t want him. I don’t,” she insisted. “So why do I feel this way?”

And, once again, that sensation of loneliness swept up and through her, feeling like a huge weight bearing her down. She collapsed onto the nearby chaise lounge, tears running down her cheeks. One fist beat at the upholstery. The other clutched the edge of a pillow. The hot tears coursed down and dripped. What finally caught her attention was the fact that her nose was about to drip. She jerked up and searched her clothing for a handkerchief.

The door opened as she used it, a loud, crude and unladylike usage. Still holding the delicate linen to her face, she looked over her shoulder…and the bitter thought ran through her mind.
Of course
.
I look my worst
,
so it is Lester
.