Page 18 of The Wordsworth Key (Regency Secrets #3)

Chapter Ten

‘I feel like I’ve been given a stay of execution,’ said Dora, striding away from the cottage at great pace, taking the footpath to Grasmere.

Jacob hurried after her, feeling likewise. ‘Please forgive this morning. I couldn’t stop Arthur from coming. You would think he had better things to do but he’s got it into his head that my father’s dying wish is to see me settled.’

‘And I am not part of the settlement for you?’

‘Oddly, I think he is partially reconciled to the idea that we might be in business together.’

‘But not that we are– as we are? Oh, why does everyone want to get inside our bedroom?’

‘Not everyone, darling, just an annoying older brother who thinks he knows better.’ Jacob wished she would just marry him so that part of the matter could be dismissed, but it was too soon to press the matter.

‘He’s no puritan. If I were keeping you as my mistress, he would never raise the subject with me.

He would merely expect me to keep you hidden away as he does his own amours. ’

‘But if I’m parading around London with you unchaperoned and refusing to accept what is laughingly called your protection…?’

‘Then the ancestors are rolling in their tombs. He even used my father’s funeral to thrust eligible young ladies in my path.

No doubt he did the same for my sister Felicity with male specimens.

He is not subtle.’ Jacob looked back. They were out of sight of the cottage and the burden fell from his shoulders. ‘Dora?’

She turned and smiled enquiringly, her dark curls tickling her cheeks, neck and forehead in a way that made him want to trace each lock with his lips. ‘What?’

He held out his arms. She hurried to fill the empty space that he had in his centre. His arms closed around her.

‘Thank God for you,’ he whispered. ‘I kept thinking about you– what you would think of the funeral, my thoughts about my father, I even promised my godfather to introduce you.’

‘And I missed you so much. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.’ She squeezed him. God, she felt so good, smelled so wonderful, the perfume of her hair and skin…

‘Let’s not be parted again,’ he murmured, brushing her curls lovingly. They were so soft, her complexion sun-kissed and glowing, her eyes so full of humour. She made him feel like a sundial bathing in her sunshine. It was always Dora o’clock when he was with her.

She sighed, then ruined the romantic moment by snorting. ‘Sorry about Ruby.’

‘That was priceless– the viscount and the actress making toast together. She’s pregnant?’

He heard a muffled chuckle. ‘Well spotted, Dr Sandys.’

‘The father?’

‘Not in the picture.’

‘What’s her plan?’

‘To keep the child. She’s proved surprisingly maternal. I would’ve imagined she’d hand it to a foundling home, or find a childless couple to adopt it, but she is determined to be a good mother.’

‘I applaud her.’

‘Don’t get me wrong– so do I. It’s just that she’s surprised me.’

‘And she’s very brave. Perhaps we could set her up in a cottage near here when we go back to London?’

Dora leaned back in his arms, her brown eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘Ruby left in a village? We’d return to smoking ruins.’

‘You think she’d prefer London?’

‘I think she will be delighted if we make that suggestion.’

‘Good, let’s do so then.’ Ruby seemed low down on their list of problems, the crisis not being imminent.

‘Now to this business of the manuscript. What’s our next step?

’ They began walking again, but this time hand in hand.

The sun dappled the wooded path leading down the hill to Grasmere reminding him that they were supposed to be on holiday.

‘This is not the Lakeland excursion I planned for us.’

‘But isn’t it more us than demurely sketching scenes or taking tea at Bowness?’

He huffed a laugh. ‘True.’

‘I think we must interview Barton’s friends– the names and addresses on that list. I was hoping you would undertake this element.’

‘Naturally.’ He wouldn’t send Dora off on her own to talk to a herd of young bucks on holiday– that was a recipe for disaster.

‘I spoke to Mr Coleridge’s boys.’ She recounted the amusing interview the day before, the reason why they had been on her list and the grounds for eliminating them.

‘They were probably horrified that you suspected them of studying during the summer,’ chuckled Jacob.

‘After our condolence call on the Wordsworths, we’ll walk back on the other side of the lake to Rydal Hall.

If you wouldn’t mind talking to the servants to see if they’ve noticed anything like the lost manuscript in the visitors’ rooms, I’ll see if I can track down those three myself. ’

‘I can do that.’

‘On the way home, I’ll also tell you about a new enquiry Alex has taken on. He has asked for our assistance.’

Dora wrinkled her brow. ‘But we can’t leave for London just yet.’

‘It has a local aspect.’ They entered the village of Grasmere, the tall square tower of the church and the houses gathered around it like chicks under a hen’s wings.

‘Oh, in that case. What’s it about?’

‘Murder.’

The vicarage attempted to be cheerful with its fresh whitewash, but it was hemmed in by the graveyard, dark yew trees and dreary damp gardens.

It wasn’t a healthy spot, thought Jacob, sitting too low in the valley.

It was also right on the road so that any privacy was destroyed by the passing of carts, carriages and the curious.

No wonder the curtains on the front were drawn.

‘Ready?’ asked Jacob, squeezing Dora’s hand for a final time.

‘As I’ll ever be. Is my bonnet straight?’

He adjusted it, not because it was astray but because he wanted to touch her. ‘There. Perfect.’ He tapped gently on the door. A baby was crying inside but it was quickly hushed.

The door opened and Dorothy stood in the entrance, looking much more careworn than her usual spritely self.

‘Oh, you came. Dr Sandys, I’m happy to see you again. And Miss Fitz-Pennington.’ She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘Do you have news?’

Dora leaned closer. ‘We are making progress, but no news yet.’

‘We’ve come to offer our condolences,’ Jacob said in a louder voice, noticing someone crossing the corridor behind Dorothy.

The lady turned, catching sight of the door closing. ‘I fear my brother would not like to meet anyone new at present, Miss Fitz-Pennington.’

‘I quite understand,’ agreed Dora. ‘I have no wish to intrude.’

‘But Dr Sandys, I think he would welcome a visit. It has been so very hard for him– to leave a house with five healthy children and to come home to find dear Catherine already buried. And Mary…’ Dorothy’s voice broke and she swiped a wrist across her eyes. ‘She can’t get out of bed– doesn’t eat.’

Dora reached out and pressed the lady’s forearm. ‘Come. Let’s go into the kitchen and you can tell me all about it.’

Dorothy let out a sob then collected herself. ‘I’m making pies, hoping to tempt their appetites.’

‘Then let us make them together.’ Dora steered the lady towards the kitchen. ‘I’ve no doubt Dr Sandys knows his way to Mr Wordsworth’s study.’

The ladies closed the door behind them and Jacob went to the study entrance. He tapped. How many grieving parents had he had to call on in his career? Too many.

‘Wordsworth? It’s me– Sandys.’

A gruff voice bade him enter. The poet’s room was little more than a cabin with two inadequate bookshelves.

Wordsworth, by no means a large man, was crammed at his desk, papers and notebooks stacked neatly but in teetering piles.

Silvering hair receding far up his brow, he’d smoothed the little that was left over the crown.

Aquiline nose, hooded, deep-set eyes, he had the look of a Roman philosopher, a Cicero or Plotinus.

Only a white neckerchief relieved the unrelenting black of his clothing.

‘Sandys, thank you for calling in.’ Wordsworth stood and held out a hand. It was cool to the touch, a little waxy. Jacob associated that feeling with patients who were in shock.

‘Wordsworth, I am so very sorry to hear about Catherine. A light has gone out in our little community.’

The poet nodded but, evidently, he didn’t dare speak on that subject. Jacob sensed that would open the floodgates. ‘My sister mentioned you too are bereaved?’

‘My father died a few days ago– after a long illness.’ The man was clearly in need of distraction from his own grief. ‘Would you care for a stroll?’

Wordsworth glanced at the window, longing in his expression. ‘But Mary… she’s not well.’

‘Your sister is here, and my friend is with Dorothy, able to help if Mary needs anything. I believe you can be spared for a short walk to the lakeshore.’

The poet did not need more persuasion. Taking a walking stick from the stand next to the front door, he led the way across the paddock that separated the house from the shoreline. They skirted the churchyard wall. Wordsworth looked that way only once.

‘She lies near the gravestone we raised for my brother,’ he said. ‘I find some comfort in that. She’ll always be near us. We’ll all be there eventually.’

‘That is a comfort. We put my father to rest in the family crypt at Levens, alongside my brother and sister. My parents lost them in early childhood too.’

‘Ah. What a sadness that was for them.’

‘It doesn’t help with the first bitter pangs, but in time it may be consoling to know that you are not alone in your grief.’

Wordsworth swung his stick at a nettle, clearing the path. ‘When someone you love dies, there is something cut out of your life that cannot be restored. And yet, as we discovered with my brother John, you must go on for those that are still living.’

‘There is no choice, is there?’

‘Thank goodness for Willy. He is the only one of us too young to understand. His prattle keeps us going. I hope he will say “we are five” when someone asks him about his brothers and sisters, and never forget Catherine.’