CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Don’t let anyone ever make you feel unworthy, Rosalind. Fear. That’s what makes people do and say unkind things.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
Lud, he was bored. So very, very bored.
Rosalind sat beside him reading aloud a Gothic novel. The choices of literature he’d been offered, were firstly, a poem about the Lady of the Lake, which sounded a bit cold and wet for today; secondly, a book calledSense and Sensibilityby another lady but it didn’t sound as though it had enough action for his tastes; or thirdly, the Gothic novel set in Scotland.
It seemed to involve lots of delicate ladies creeping around a large castle whilst some ghoul-like creature chased them. He’d chuckled uproariously at one particular point when a maiden had swooned for no good reason that he could discern, but Rosalind had glared sharply and told him it wasn’t a comedy.
He was so bored.
“‘She screamed, a piercing shrill sound reverberating around the room, but the ghoul just laughed satanically. The maide’–”
“Probably deafened the poor ghoul,” he bemoaned. “How many maidens are there left?”
“Three. Now be quiet.”
He’d been harangued into staying in bed all of yesterday and today, despite arguing that he was a doctor and knew his own pain. He’d been outvoted by everybody, including Stone, who had reminded all and sundry that, in Lucas’s own words, he was a surgeon and so couldn’t diagnose properly – he never thought that would come back to bite his own arse.
As a consequence, he’d agreed to two whole days, but it was now mid-afternoon on the second day and he was bored rigid.
Early in the morning, he had been able to check his pockets whilst pretending to do his ablutions: the handkerchief was still there. He’d discovered it near to where Miss Risley’s body had been found, buried under leaves which Goliath had kicked up. People lost handkerchiefs every day but although filthy, dark rusty stains were still visible on the cheap cloth. The initial P was stitched rather badly in the left-hand corner. He’d tried asking Stone about the initial but no one had come to mind and anyway, it could be a given name – they’d have to make a list when he was allowed up.
Around luncheon, he’d been watching Rosalind read and to alleviate the tedium had decided to come up with a list of all the wicked things he’d like to do to her. That had gone quite well until he’d been forced to shove another blanket over the bed in case she noticed. That then resulted in more fussing about catching a chill. Rosalind’s cosseting had, for all of two hours, been glorious, but now he chafed with the inactivity.
Another maiden had fallen prey to the ghoul and he smothered a smile. He wasn’t quite sure why she liked it so much. If Rosalind met a ghoul, he was certain she’d bash him over the head with a candlestick or poke his chest until it had holes.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” he interrupted. It was meant as a light-hearted question but for some reason, her face went pale and serious eyes surveyed him.
“If…if I told you that I once met someone who said they could talk to them, what would you say?”
He opened his mouth. His first response would have been they were slightly touched in the head, but he sensed there was something deeper – she looked so solemn. He gave the question more consideration.
“As I have said before, there are many things we do not understand. I…don’t discount anything, not any more.”
She nodded intently.
“Are you enjoying the book?” he asked.
“Yes,” she paused, biting her lip, “purely for amusement. I don’t believe ghouls would chase these maidens around. I would have thought they’d have better things to do.” And she smiled, breaking the sober atmosphere. Bending her neck, she continued reading and Lucas just listened to the sound of her voice.
It was soothing: a soft, perfectly pitched tone with the occasional northern inflection. He couldn’t wait to speak to her properly about his feelings. She may not reciprocate them as deeply, but he’d be damned if he’d let his pride stand in the way. He wasn’t, however, going to declare himself whilst stuck in this sickbed.
He was also still coming to terms with the fact that she didn’t seem to mind the scars. The housekeeper had bustled Rosalind out of the room when he’d had his bath earlier but he’d seen her eyes lingering on his nightshirt-clad body before she’d left. Rosalind’s face hadn’t held disgust or horror: she’d looked…interested.
God, he’d have to put such thoughts away, as otherwise he’d be re-arranging the blanket again.
He concentrated on her words.
“‘The ghoul chased the maiden through the passageway; she could feel the tips of his bony fingers touching her flowing hair and’–”
“How can she tell his fingers are bony? Hair can’t feel,” he grumbled.
Rosalind snapped the book shut. “You’re just like a little boy. Honestly, what would you prefer to be doing?”
Lucas grinned and crooked his finger. “Lean closer and I’ll whisper it in your ear, delicate maiden.”
