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Chapter 20
Eliza felt the warmth and softness of a strange but welcoming bed long before she opened her eyes.
She was too afraid to find herself staring into the eyes of Mr Bramley, and to learn that she had in fact married him when she’d been insensible, and that now she was beneath the covers beside her bridegroom.
When she sensed the presence of someone in the room, she was even more determined to delay the inevitable and for a long time she lay curled up in a ball, too miserable and terrified to move, her mind racing over what might have happened to her.
Finally, a chair scraped on the wooden floor, and she whispered, “Mr Bramley?”
“No, Miss Montrose. It is I—”
“Mr Patmore!” she exclaimed, sitting up so suddenly that the covers fell away from her chest, revealing far too much exposed bosom in a fine cambric nightgown that was too big for her.
“How—? What are you doing here?”
“This is my house.”
He was sitting in a relaxed fashion, one leg crossed over the other, on a chair placed at right angles to the bed. Behind him, the window looked onto a lovely garden in riotous colour. Eliza didn’t think she’d ever seen a room as charming. On the right wall was a lineup of charming watercolours of various flowers.
He must have registered her admiration for he said, “My sister, Verena, painted those. As you can see, she loves flowers. This was her room before she was married.”
“And this is your house?”
He nodded. “And Jack is with the horses. He alerted us of your arrival in the middle of the night, in case you don’t recall.”
Eliza tried to gauge his feelings from his expression. “Jack. So you know.” A tremendous shame overcame her. “You must think—”
He cut her off, his tone level. “It doesn’t signify what I think, Miss Montrose. You came here to find your son. Jack is your son, I gather. During your journey, you fell from your horse. We’ve tended to the cut above your eye. The main thing is that you’re well and can soon be on your way.”
If he had been a casual acquaintance, his words would have sounded just the right reassuring note. The smile he gave her was one he might have given any female visitor or friend.
She covered her face with her hands and tried not to cry. He didn’t want her. She couldn’t believe how devastated she was, when for so long she’d been pushing him away. Now she realised the true depth of her feelings. “I’m not going to marry Mr Bramley,” she whispered, not looking at him.
He rose. “I gathered not. He was, after all, your conduit for having access to the boy. Not that you mentioned that to anyone, of course. Careful deduction on the part of the Lady Fenton, and then my falling in line with her scheme, established that.”
“You’re leaving, now?” Eliza couldn’t bear it.
“You need to rest, Miss Montrose. I was merely here to ensure that you took your medicine and were reassured as to how matters stood.”
She stared at him, not knowing what to say until the words came out in a small voice, “How do they stand?”
“Jack is here, and you will come to no harm while you are under my roof.”
And you no longer wish to marry me, Eliza thought, sliding beneath the bedclothes and turning her face to the ceiling.
Rufus had to take three steadying breaths once he was outside her bedchamber door before he could muster the internal resources to attend the various business items that required his attention.
“Don’t forget the young lady’s correspondence,” Mrs Dorley reminded him. He’d given her a vague story about how Miss Montrose had come to land in his stables. He was sure she didn’t believe him, but it didn’t matter.
“Of course not. I’ll deliver them this afternoon after she’s had time to rest.”
He didn’t want to go back, and yet it was an agony to resist. Let her stew behind those doors, and repent of having so used him so ill. She’d allowed him to fall in love with her; allowed him to believe she’d have him. Yet all she could direct her thoughts towards was the boy.
He sent Jack to visit with a bunch of flowers he picked from the gardens. Walking slowly past the door, he heard their chatter within. Or at least, the boy’s chatter. But he didn’t intrude.
Much later in the afternoon, he steeled himself to pay another visit, taking the letters addressed to Miss Montrose that had been sent in the envelope together with the response to his own enquiry.
She was slightly feverish, he was concerned to note, and she begged him to close the curtains as the light was hurting her eyes. Rufus thought he should send for the doctor, but she said she didn’t need one. Then she asked him to read what her aunt had penned to her. “My eyes are sore, Mr Patmore. Like my heart.”
