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“Oh heavens!”
“Jessup? Are you all right?” Lucia called through the open door down the hallway.
They had made love and then Jessup had excused himself to use the necessary. He was a dear man. He refused to use a chamber pot in her presence and always bundled up and traipsed outside, no matter how cold it was or how hard it was snowing. Lucia was far more practical. She just went out into the hall and squatted over the chamber pot there.
“Jessup?” she called.
“Oh dear. Oh my,” he repeated.
“Jessup, what is it?” She slid out of bed, pushed her feet into her boiled-wool slippers and walked to the doorway.
Jessup stood halfway down the hall bundled in his nightshirt, stockings, night robe and a striped green and white stocking cap, his hands clasped as if in fright.
“What’s wrong?” Lucia asked. “Are you ill? Are you injured?”
“I…I’m terribly embarrassed.”
She looked him up and down, wondering if he had had some sort of accident. It happened at their age if something didn’t sit right on their stomachs—a sour bit of cabbage, a bad piece of pork. “Have you need of the washbowl, love? Some clean undergarments?” she asked, not in the least bit offended.
He looked up at her, horrified. “Certainly not!”
“Then come to bed, Jessup! A man could freeze to death out here,” she snapped, watching her breath as it rose in white puffs in the hallway.
“I…I cannot.”
“What do you mean you cannot?” she demanded, lowering her hands to her hips as she stood in the doorway of his bedchamber. She’d just gotten toasty warm in the bed and now her feet were cold again. “Jessup, I’m losing my patience with you. I can very well go home, you know, and sleep in my own bed.”
He still hadn’t moved an inch in the hallway. “I’m very sorry, love.”
“Jessup, what’s wrong?” She took a step toward him.
“Don’t!” he cried, throwing up one hand. The point on his knit cap swayed wildly.
“What’s wrong?” She could see nothing. No hole in the floor. No nail sticking up. She could smell no smoke. “Jessup, you have to tell me,” she implored. “Why is the menace here, my love?”
He glanced away. “I’m mortified.”
“Tell me,” she insisted.
He closed his eyes. “You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“Emma always laughed.”
“Jessup Stowe, are you comparing me to your dead wife?” She shook her finger at him. “Because if you are, I can tell you right now I’m going to pack up my clothes and my personals and be out of your way for good within the hour.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He opened his eyes, putting out both hands apologetically. “I’m sorry, Lucia.”
“Now stop being ridiculous and tell me what’s wrong.”
He was quiet for a moment and then he pointed to his right. “A mouse.”
She looked and, sure enough, there in the shadows, along the floorboards, was a tiny gray mouse huddling against the molding.
Lucia had to cover her mouth with her hands to keep from laughing. “You’re afraid of mice, Jessup?”
“Since childhood when I was bitten on the toe while in my cradle.”
