A Country Flirtation Read online

  He suspected she was concerned about his ability to mount the stairs, but he whispered, “Are you hoping for a farewell kiss?”

  She glanced up at him sharply as a blush stole quickly into her cheeks. “No, of course not! I—I only wished to make certain you didn’t tumble down the stairs. I still can’t believe you didn’t retire to bed hours ago.”

  His stomach felt wiggly, like jelly, and his legs were trembling.

  When he said nothing, she clucked her tongue. “I thought as much.” She then stunned him by sliding her arm about his waist and drawing his arm over her shoulders.

  He was relieved to settle some of the weight of his body against her, even if but just his arm. He let out a sigh. “You are right. I should have sought my bed shortly after dinner, but I so wanted to be with your family tonight.”

  She helped him mount the first step. “Slowly will win the day, m’lord,” she said softly.

  He obeyed her. They took the stairs one step at a time. One step. One step.

  “Did you enjoy the evening?” she asked. One step.

  “Enormously.” Another step.

  “Your cousin is delightful company.” Another.

  “Indeed. But the truth is”—another step—“I have never seen him so”—another step— “animated.”

  The progress was slow, but she kept him enlivened by complimenting Alby’s expressive abilities and his willingness to do whatever was asked of him. Ramsdell was breathing hard.

  “Just a few steps more, seven to be exact.”

  “I’m ‘fraid it might as well be a hundred. Am I hurting you?”

  “Not a bit,” she said brightly.

  “What a whisker,” he retorted, drawing in a huge breath. “I daresay your shoulders are aching with the strain.”

  “You offend me,” she responded, teasing him. “I told you before, I am a very strong female.” He was not humbugged. She might be smiling, but her teeth were clenched.

  He laughed. “Only three more.”

  “Two.”

  “One.”

  His breath came out in a long swoosh. “Thank God.” He wanted to release her, but he knew very well he would fall down in a heap if she let go of him. She seemed to understand—that deuced quality that had been dogging him from the first. She understood so many things, even the fact that he had to leave, that he couldn’t court her with even the smallest hope that a union between them would result. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  In silence, he ambled slowly down the hall toward his bedchamber, his arm still heavily upon her shoulders.

  When he reached his room, she opened the door still holding his waist fast and shoved it wide with the toe of her slippered foot. Marchand was quick to rise from the chair by the bed. His face fell as he took in his master’s obvious condition.

  Marchand would have cried out, but Constance was before him. “Look what I had to drag all the way up the stairs and all because he must be polite and do the pretty among my sisters.” Marchand blinked, and still opened his mouth to speak, but again Constance cut him off. “No, no. It will be of no use at all to reprimand him. Just put him to bed as quickly as you can.”

  Marchand finally took up her hints and pinched his lips tightly together. He guided Ramsdell to the wing chair. Constance released him, and he flopped into the chair with a heavy thud. He closed his eyes. His face was ashen with fatigue.

  “Good-night, Ramsdell,” she said.

  He opened his eyes and extended his hand to her. She placed her hand in his, but he addressed Marchand first. “You may begin prying off my boots. Don’t worry, Miss Pamberley has already seen my feet, so she will not fall into a fit of the blushes at the sight of my stockings.” He was smiling through his tiredness.

  To her he said, “Thank you for a lovely evening and for all you’ve done. I intend to leave quite early, with Charles, so this must be good-bye.”

  Marchand paused in his struggle with the tight-fitting boots and glanced up toward Constance before quickly resuming his most difficult chore. She could see that he was pleased.

  Constance squeezed his hand. “Good-bye, then, Lord Ramsdell, may your life be full of surprises and . . . and excellent conversation.”

  Ramsdell held her gaze for a long time, pinning her hand in a tight clasp. His eyes misted with something close to tears.

  Constance smiled tremulously, and when the tears welled up within her chest, she finally withdrew her hand and walked quickly from the room. She did not hesitate, but went straight to her bedchamber, falling instantly across her bed and sobbing into her pillow for a hard quarter of an hour as the pain of the separation flowed through her.

  She wanted to crawl into bed and sleep away her sadness, but she remembered that she had not yet bid good-night to her mother, who would be expecting her. She dipped a square of linen into the basin of water on her chest of drawers and sat in a chair with the damp cloth pressed to her eyes. She didn’t want her mother to see her unhappiness.

  Finally, when most of the redness and swelling was gone, she left her bedchamber and stole into her mother’s room. She saw at once that her mother was asleep, and was ready to leave, but her eyes opened suddenly and she blinked, quite purposefully. Constance went to her bedside immediately and tended to her, asking if there was anything she needed.

  Her eyelids fluttered. Constance swallowed. Her mother wanted her to talk. She knew her parent well enough to presume that she had detected her sadness and asked if that was what she wanted to know. A single steady blink followed.

  Constance’s shoulders sagged, and she pressed a hand to her face. In a quiet voice she told of her blossoming affection for Ramsdell and of the hopeless nature of what she believed to be his returned affection for her. She saw tears of sympathy in her mother’s eyes, which was her undoing. She let the tears flow once more, and though her mother had lost the use of her arms and hands, still Constance picked up her mother’s hand and held it to her own cheek.

  Little sobs escaped her several times and probably would have continued had she not felt a faint movement of her mother’s fingers against her cheek. She drew back and stared at the thin, gnarled digits as though they had become living snakes.

  “Did you move your hand, Mama?” she asked, astonished. She glanced at her mother and saw a single steady blink, then heard her groan a single harsh groan as her lips moved ever so slightly.

  Constance stared at her mother for a long while. The doctor had said she could regain her facility at any time, or never, during the remainder of her life. Why now? In seven years there had been not a single movement or the smallest sound, but now she had moved her fingers and somehow forced air through her vocal cords.

  “Oh, Mother,” she said, fresh tears flowing down her cheeks now. “I must get the others—”

  But Mrs. Pamberley’s eyelids fluttered, then she blinked twice quite firmly and moaned again.

  “All right. Whatever you wish. Whatever you wish. Mama, when did you start feeling your hands and using your voice? Yesterday? Two days ago? Five?” Only with five was there a single blink.

  “Oh, Mama. How marvelous. How utterly, utterly marvelous. I can’t be sad now.” She chuckled. “You’ve saved me.” Then she watched as her mother’s lips twisted into what she knew was a smile.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Constance arose and dressed on the following morning with a light heart. The grief she had felt at parting with Ramsdell had quickly been replaced by the extraordinary knowledge that her mother was showing signs of recovery. She made her bed, still unable to credit the truth. She placed a hand to her cheek where she had felt her mother’s fingers stir, and a melody rose in her chest.

  She might have broken into song, but the sudden rise of male voices stopped her before the first strain of “Fly Not Yet” struck the air.

  She paused in fluffing a pillow and listened. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs. She recognized Ramsdell’s voice. But he was gone. He said he would be leaving before first light. She
could not have been mistaken in that.

  A joy suddenly rose up in her heart and exploded into a thousand prickly, teasing sparks of pleasure. He was not yet gone. She could see him again, speak with him, touch him perhaps, one last time before he left Lady Brook forever.

  She quickly checked her appearance in the looking glass, not to determine if she was fashionably gowned—for she was not—but to make certain that her hair was tidy and her morning gown of plain blue calico did not show any tears or conspicuous worn patches. Fortunately, the fabric was still reasonably woven together, and she left her bedchamber on a light tread.

  She was a little surprised when she stepped into the long hallway and saw that her sisters, their heads covered in mobcaps, were peeking from their doorways and exchanging looks of shock and curiosity. Only then did she realize that something untoward was happening.

  Marianne, sharing the room next to Constance’s, queried, “What is it, Constance? Why are Lord Ramsdell and Alby shouting at each other?”

  “I don’t know,” she responded. She paused in her footsteps and listened in earnest this time. Good grief! The cousins were arguing with such force that she was certain the plaster in Ramsdell’s bedchamber must be cracked by now.

  She quickly made her way to scratch on the door, then entered the chamber without permission or ceremony.

  Both men paused abruptly in mid-shout. Ramsdell’s expression was mulish beyond permission and Alby’s face was flooded with color. The latter moved to the window and remained there with his arms folded across his chest, staring down at the rose garden and the maze.

  Ramsdell sat fully clothed in the wing chair in the same place Constance had left him the night before, his face blazing with rage. He turned his glossy beaver hat agitatedly in his hands.

  “My lord.” She greeted him softly with a nod. To Charles she said quietly, “Mr. Albion.”

  Alby shot a quick, volatile glance, whereupon she straightened her shoulders slightly and cocked her head at him. “You have disturbed our home, which I’m sure could not have been your intention when you arose this morning.”

  The rebuke was softly but clearly spoken, which brought Charles turning toward her and bowing stiffly. “I beg your pardon, Miss Pamberley. It will not happen again.”

  Lord Ramsdell watched him from narrowed, unhappy lids before he also offered his apologies. “Our—my conduct was unconscionable. I do beg your pardon.” He scarcely met her gaze. She had never seen him so distressed.

  “Where is your man?” she asked.

  Ramsdell spoke to the floor. “Marchand is waiting in my town coach on the drive. He has been doing so for the past hour. We were preparing to leave—”

  “You were preparing to leave,” Alby broke in, his tone quiet but firm.

  Ramsdell clenched his fingers about the brim of his poor hat and clamped his lips shut. He was clearly beside himself and did not speak for a long while. After a moment in which

  Constance watched his teeth grinding away rather methodically, he said, “I will tell you again, Charles, you are my cousin, and I will not tolerate your Banbury tale a moment longer about not knowing who you are or who I am. I insist you gather your things together—or let Marchand attend to it—and leave with me on the instant.” Only then did he glance at Charles, his face hard as marble.

  Alby, however, apparently had other ideas, and turned to face him fully as though prepared to do battle once more. “Whether I am your cousin or not is something I cannot dispute since I do not recall my name or my relationship to anyone. What I do know, however, is that I am not leaving Lady Brook until Miss Pamberley tells me to, or until I recall with complete confidence precisely who I am. I am happy here, happier than I have ever been, and the mere thought of leaving Lady Brook causes me great pain.”

  Constance had never seen Charles Kidmarsh so adamant before, nor apparently had Lord Ramsdell. She had previously suspected that Charles was shamming it, but now she was not so certain.

  Ramsdell turned to Constance for support. “Will you tell him to leave with me, for his sake as well as for mine?”

  She saw the haunted look in his eyes and believed with her whole heart that he was not thinking about Charles at all, but about himself. This knowledge made her decision an easy one.

  She took a deep breath and plunged in, “No, m’lord, I will not. Mr. Kidmarsh—Alby—came into my house because of that wretched bend in the lane, and from that moment on I have felt deeply responsible for him. I can see that you are distressed, but I will not allow him to leave unless either he wishes for it or until Dr. Kent deems it best, given his protracted loss of memory. As it happens, I am all too well acquainted with Dr. Kent’s opinion on this subject, and ever since your accident I have come to rely most strictly on his judgment.”

  Ramsdell’s expression grew mulish once more. “Dr. Kent may attend to him at Aston Hall. As for your sense of responsibility, I will say only that I think you are being absurd. Any obligation you owed my cousin ended once I arrived at Lady Brook. You know very well it did.”

  “I know nothing of the sort. Besides, you don’t seem to be taking into account that your cousin suffered a blow to the head that might possibly have caused some permanent injury. Dr. Kent has had considerable experience with such cases, which was why Dr. Deane summoned him to Lady Brook in the first place. I know his mind on this subject, for I once tried for over an hour to persuade him to allow Alby to be moved to Dr. Deane’s house in Four-Mile-Cross. He would have none of it, insisting that the patient’s contentment in cases like Alby’s was the primary factor in a complete recovery. He insisted he remain in my house until he regained his memory.”

  “There is only one flaw in your tidy history,” he said piercingly, rising to his feet somewhat unsteadily. “You don’t believe Alby’s memory is in the least deficient.”

  She glanced at Alby. “Yesterday I had serious doubts, but today I must confess that I see nothing in his eyes, or in his expression, that tells me he knows himself to be your cousin.”

  Ramsdell threw up his right arm in exasperation. “Leave it to a woman to be swayed by a beautiful face and . . . and good breeding,” he retorted nonsensically.

  Constance could only smile as she watched him, a little swirl of affection rising in her chest. “You have spoken the truth,” she said, “more than you know, I think.”

  He glanced at her, startled. She could see that he was completely taken aback by her remark. He scrutinized her face for a moment, and she saw a slow realization dawn on him as he came to understand she was speaking of him and not of Charles.

  His demeanor changed as though she had pricked a large soap bubble with a very sharp needle. “The deuce take it,” he said. He sat down in his chair again and, settling his elbow on the arm, propped his chin up with his hand. “I can’t battle the pair of you. I shall send for Dr. Kent and then we shall have this matter settled once and for all.”

  “I believe that would be for the best, given the circumstances.”

  Charles moved forward and looked down at Ramsdell, holding his gaze steadily. Constance could see that he was trying to work something out in his mind, but what?

  “You are my cousin,” Ramsdell stated, but in a kinder tone than he had heretofore been employing.

  “So you say,” he returned slowly. Before Ramsdell could offer a retort, Charles turned to Constance and again offered his apologies. “I promise you I shan’t engage Lord Ramsdell in another shouting match while under your roof. And now I must beg leave to withdraw, since your mother has been waiting for me this quarter hour and more.”

  “Of course,” Constance said softly. “And again I thank you. Your efforts on her behalf are appreciated more than you’ll ever know.”

  He smiled at that and quit the room.

  Once the door was shut, Ramsdell, his brow furrowed with worry, said, “I should leave Lady Brook—now. I know I should. But I have been his guardian for so long—”

  “I had thought,” Const
ance began slowly, “that the bulk of the coddling came from your staff and your aunt. I’m beginning to think I was mistaken.”

  He glanced up at her sharply. “Whatever do you mean?” His tone was abrupt.

  “I know very well that you do not hover over him, but you are always there to rescue him from his scrapes and to follow him on his adventures to make certain he’s safe. Were I Charles, I would take pains to lose my memory as well.”

  He appeared ready to argue, but she lifted a hand and said, “I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that, and though I can see you wish to argue your point, I must demur. I have

  numerous tasks to attend to this morning, so if you will excuse me, I’ll leave you to sort out what must be done next. You are welcome to remain at Lady Brook for as long you wish, as is Mr. Kidmarsh. Please, make yourself at home and . . . and perhaps I’ll see you at nuncheon. If you choose to leave, well, we have already said good-bye.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ramsdell fumed the entire morning, a circumstance that robbed him of much of his precious energy. He informed Constance by way of a formal missive that he had sent for Dr. Kent and that he would not be leaving Lady Brook until Charles went with him. The response she scribbled hastily made no reference to his staying, or even her interest that he was, but, rather, indicated that Stively, her head groom, and Jack, the stable boy, had brought down a buck in the home wood not an hour past and that Cook would soon be putting a haunch of venison on the spit for dinner. Wasn’t that fortuitous? Her exact words.

  He laughed for the first time in the course of a rocky morning. How like Constance to get over rough ground lightly by speaking of venison for dinner, when she knew damn well he was furious about having to stay and wanted nothing more than a reason to brangle with her.

  Besides, he did not want to be beholden to her, and he hated trespassing on her kindness. But worse, staying at Lady Brook meant he risked becoming more attached to her than ever. Damn and blast!