His and Hers Page 7

  Come? She had just mustered a scathing, or at least very warm, response to being treated like a family pet when he began talking. "Miss Bellingham is the youngest of one son and four daughters. Her brother, Thomas Bellingham, is a respected author who has enjoyed much success. Her three sisters have all married, with"— he paused, looking at a point in the distance—"some success. Mary, however, is quite plain of feature. A serious creature. Unusually timid."

  Jane absorbed this picture, in the context of the mid-1800s. Mary probably spent a lot of time alone. "So she began to write."

  He nodded. "There was speculation, for a time, that she might be a suitable vicar's wife," he remarked. "But the vicar discovered, to his dismay, that she did not possess a truly pious disposition."

  "Really?" Jane liked her better already.

  "Her parents were exceedingly disappointed. And, of course, concerned for her soul."

  "Oh. Well. Of course." A pang of sympathy went through her. In the twenty-first century, with her less than pious disposition, Mary could have been producing reality shows, running for office, graduating from law school and setting up practice. In this century, she was a lonely spinster who could write only about the love she would likely never experience.

  James tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. He glanced to one side, then the other, and dropped his voice. "There was another suitor, some years ago."

  Jane dropped her own voice. "Gossip. That works." She pressed closer to him. "So what's the story?"

  His expression turned uncomfortable and he let loose of her hand. "I do not engage in idle chatter."

  "No. I—Right." She shook her head. "But it isn't idle if it's something helpful to know." Her words began to run together. "And it would be helpful. The more I know about her life, the better. I'm her heroine. The one she put here for a happy ending—"

  "Which can only be accomplished with a suitable hero," he interjected, brightening.

  "Uh… Yes." She gave a slow nod. "A romance would be a little pointless with only one person." Although she wasn't so sure James didn't think it was possible.

  "Miss Bellingham does not author romance," he said with some disdain.

  He'd crossed a line with that one. If Jane knew one thing, it was that the world would be a pretty bad place without romance, or at least the hope of it. The stack of romance novels next to Jane's bed attested to it She stopped, putting her hands on either side of her corseted waist. "Exactly what do you think you're the hero of, James, if not a romance?" She was going to have to go out on a limb here and hope Mary wasn't writing a horror story.

  He blinked, looking confused. "A work of fiction, of course."

  "A work of fiction where the romance between—well, us—is the central part of the story, as I understand it."

  "Yes. Well." He shifted from one foot to the other. "The struggle to claim a birthright is a compelling story, one that our author seeks to tell."

  An action hero, that's what he longed to be. She was sure of it. "Do you see guns being fired here, James? Things blowing up?"

  His expression turned hopeful. "The story is yet unfolding—"

  "I don't think so. I think Mary Bellingham has something to prove. To the vicar, her parents, her brother. Whoever else is on her list. And she's going to prove it with a romantic story."

  "Enough," announced James. "I shall not discuss the innermost details of Miss Bellingham's life any longer. She would not wish it to be so."

  If James had the author's ear, Jane suspected he bent it some lobbying for guns and action scenes. "How is it you know all about her?"

  Now he looked at her as though she were a child who needed the most basic explanation. "I am," he said with a bow and a patient but relatively cheerful sigh, "the hero."

  The house was huge and dark. A cavernous place with long, narrow hallways. Not the most welcoming of places, but Jane couldn't sit quietly in her room and wait for creative inspiration to strike Mary.

  She still hadn't found the wishing stone, though she'd retraced what she thought was her every step. If she had enough time to think about that, she might succumb to a panic so intense that Mary would throw her straight out of the heroine role and into one playing a scullery maid. Or worse.

  Her feet carried her along the long halls even before she'd given them permission. Her eyes watched for signs, for clues that the walls were made of paper or smoke, ready to blow away at a moment's notice. Her new life, her very existence was contained in the pages of a book. She felt like Alice in Wonderland. Or Marty McFly.

  Something wasn't right. Or, it was more right than it ever had been. One thing for sure: everything was upside down.

  She turned into a hall that led to another wing, her funny little boots making the only sound. Paintings lined the walls of this one, with elaborately framed depictions of men and women in formal poses. She stopped before one, her attention caught by the heart-shaped face and fragile mouth of a young woman in a sweeping white gown. Jane looked closer. The eyes that gazed back at her were gentle, tentative. As though their owner longed to be anywhere but sitting for this portrait. The hand that rested on a chair had the pinky finger extended out, stretching toward escape.

  Had she ever roamed these halls? Wait. Had she actually ever lived or did she also exist only in Mary Bellingham's imagination? Jane pressed two fingers to her forehead and resumed walking.

  "Out!" cried a voice from a room nearby.

  Jane halted midstep. A door to her left opened and a woman emerged, carrying a tray. From behind her, a silver dish sailed through the air, hitting the wall with a clang. The woman didn't glance toward Jane as she hurried along in a click, click of shoes along the floor and disappeared around a corner.

  A few seconds later, a quavering male voice added, "And do not return until I send for you."

  By the time Jane reached the open door, she was walking on the balls of her feet, keeping her shoes silent A quick intake of breath and she darted past the door, only to slip and have her feet come down so hard that she had to slam her hand against the wall to keep from sprawling across the floor.

  At least she'd tried to pass by unnoticed.

  "Who's there?" the voice demanded.

  Two choices. She could run like hell down the hallway and hope that Mary took up her pen again very soon, or she could answer… and then run like hell down the hallway.

  "Reveal yourself!" A coughing fit followed the command.

  Jane took a cautious step backward, aiming her gaze to the left to see inside the room. A gray-haired man lay against snowy-white linens, nearly engulfed by an enormous bed. As she watched, more coughs wracked his body.

  She raised her voice to ask, "Are you all right? Do you need a drink of water?"

  Impatiently, he motioned toward a table with a pitcher and a glass. After a brief hesitation, Jane made her way across the room. She handed him the glass and waited while he drank in noisy slurps, gripping the glass until his knuckles whitened.

  When he had finished, he focused a faded blue gaze on her. "Well?" he asked.

  "I—urn… Hello?" She took the glass.

  He heaved a wheezy, impatient sigh, laying veined hands on the covers. "Your manner of speech. Decidedly…"

  "American."

  "Humph." He didn't look pleased. "Introduce yourself."

  "I'm Jane Ellingson."

  His chin dropped and, beginning at her toes, he looked her up and then down again. "Ah, yes. You have been presented to James."

  Presented? As though she was Thanksgiving dinner? She could practically feel her backside turning a golden brown. "I've met him."

  As his head sank back against the pillows, Jane regretted her cool tone. He looked bad, with deep shadows around his eyes and his skin deathly pale. Sympathy rippled through her. "How do you know James?"

  He struggled to sit higher in the bed. "I am Benton Dempsey. James is my son."

  The dying father. Wonder what it would be like to have an author decide you had to
die to carry out a plot-line. Now she really did feel sorry for him. "Can I do anything for you?"

  A shake of his head. "I have had quite enough assistance for one day, thank you. That woman shall kill me yet, I swear it."

  Jane followed the direction of his gaze, toward the broad wooden door. "Is she the one taking care of you?"

  "If you choose to look upon it such." His exhale was la-bored. "It would be far more truthful to say she seeks to put me in my grave."

  Jane chewed on her bottom lip, not sure how to answer.

  "You believe she would have little to do to make it so." Another coughing fit. When he had finished, he looked up at her for confirmation.

  Instead, she decided to change the subject. "This room is furnished beautifully," she said politely. With heavy brocade curtains and large pieces of dark, intricately carved furniture, it had a distinctly masculine air. The four-poster bed dominated most of the room and despite his obvious illness, Benton Dempsey gave the impression of holding court in it.

  "Such things matter little when one is never again to leave the room." A smile flitted across his features. "It is perhaps fitting punishment, after all." He gestured with one hand. "Sit."

  He didn't leave room for argument and, besides, it was hard to turn away from a provocative statement like that one. Jane dragged a chair to the bed and sat with a rustle of silk skirts, folding her hands in her lap. "Fitting punishment for what?"

  His eyes fluttered shut. "The reckless indiscretions of youth." She watched as his mouth relaxed into what seemed to be a familiar hard line, then nearly jumped when his eyes opened and he added, "How do you find my son James? Is there a match to be made?"

  How did she find him? Did it matter? She was hoping Mary knew best in this case. "James." She hesitated. "He's—I'm sure he's everything I should be looking for."

  "That he is," Mr. Dempsey agreed. "Breeding will out."

  "Breeding," she repeated.

  "My wife, Lydia, came from a fine family. The Worthington's. London born and bred. She was, however, frail for the demands of a country life." He shook his head, which brought on another coughing fit. When he had finished, he wiped his mouth with a small white towel and said, "Lydia was a most delicate creature."

  "Was?" Jane ventured.

  "She died some months ago." His mouth quivered.

  "I'm sorry."

  "I have instructed James that he is to take a wife with a sturdy constitution. One who will bear him many children."

  Many children? A), Jane was not a womb machine to be offered up for marriage based on her ability to churn out children, especially in a time before birth control had been invented. B), she was pretty sure the bearing of children wasn't the subject of any normal conversation in Victorian England, let alone between two virtual strangers. And C)—

  "How is your constitution?" Mr. Dempsey inquired.

  "My constitution is just fine. But I'm not a horse. And I'm not up for auction to the highest bidder." She glared at him.

  He did his best to glare back and then, to her surprise, broke out in wheezy laughter. "A horse," he chortled before going into another fit of coughing.

  This time, it lasted long enough that she gave him a few careful thumps on the back and then raised the glass of water to his lips. "It's not that funny."

  At last, the coughing stilled and he lay back against the pillows, the corners of his mouth turning up in an at attempt a smile. "You remind me of someone," he said.

  "Hopefully someone you like."

  The smile disappeared. "You would do well to mind that impudent tongue."

  A tongue that either tied itself up in knots or ran off on its own and got her into trouble, that she had. But impudent? A new one. "This person I remind you of… Did she have an impudent tongue?"

  He looked at her for a long moment. "It was long ago." His expression turned wistful until he realized the lapse and settled the creases of his mouth back into the hard line.

  Jane dropped down to the chair, folding the yards of fabric under her. She looked at one wall, at the other and then behind her, fidgeting with her hands. Benton Dempsey didn't move. "Tell me about Curran," she asked.

  "Kindly divulge why you wish to know."

  She lifted a shoulder. "I'm curious. And you don't have much else to do."

  A short, wheezy cough that could have hidden a chuckle. "You have not the slightest inclination to temper your words."

  "One of my best qualities," she answered. But only a few seconds passed before she acknowledged, "Although some people think it's a fault."

  "I venture to say your parents have quite despaired of you. How am I to trust you will make a suitable wife for my son James?"

  Question of the day. She decided to ignore it. "We were talking about Curran?"

  "Curran."

  "Yes."

  "Very well. Since you hold me captive in my own bedchamber."

  "You called me in. I was walking down the hall. And I can keep walking down the hall."

  Though his brow furrowed, Dempsey's expression didn't quite reach a frown this time. He looked away. "Curran has the Devil in him." His slight grunt didn't make it sound like an entirely bad thing.

  "That part must have come from you."

  He chortled. "Far from the truth, I fear. Though it would have served him well to have more of his father in him."

  "It came from his mother?"

  He was silent so long, Jane wasn't sure he'd heard her question.

  At last he said, "She was filled with fire. With hair as black as the night and eyes to match."

  Jane leaned forward in her chair, encouraging him to continue. After a few minutes he said, "Curran is possessed of the same foolish determination that drove her. And it drives him still. I have done my best to temper him, to entreat him to understand—"

  "Understand what?" Jane prodded.

  "That he has no claim. I am a generous man and brought him here to live when his mother died." Benton Dempsey's words gained momentum, like a train picking up speed. "Yet that has no bearing on the claim of his brother as the rightful heir to the estate. No claim whatsoever."

  "Who is the oldest?"

  His eyes narrowed. "Curran had reached one year at James's birth."

  "What about Violet?"

  Now he turned to look at Jane. "A spinster. Yet her brother will allow her to spend her days here."

  "And will he also allow Curran to stay?"

  The man's forehead creased. A deep, menacing V formed in his skin. "That is for James to determine," he barked.

  "Because one was born to your wife and the other was not."

  A fit of coughing consumed him. "Miss Ellingson," he said when it had gone, wiping his mouth again, "you may take your leave."

  "You loved her," Jane pressed. "Curran's mother."

  "I have fulfilled my vow to his mother, to allow her son to be raised at Afton House, despite the entirely justified objections of my wife." He slapped a shaky hand on the covers. "I owed it not to anyone, yet I gave that promise and suffered the consequences." With a heavy sigh, he added, "Curran must now seek his own fortunes."

  "He's your son." The injustice shouldn't matter to her, but it did.

  "Is it your custom, Miss Ellingson, to engage in such intimate conversation with all men you meet upon their deathbeds?"

  "You don't look that close to Heaven to me. I can only hope I'm doing so well when I'm on my deathbed."

  A grudging nod signaled his acceptance of the observation.

  "So we've established that you love all your children."

  "I have tired, Miss Ellingson. I implore you to take your leave."

  "Not so fast." She was on a roll. "So why can't you tell them the estate needs to be split equally between James, Violet and Curran?"

  "You know little of which you speak."

  "But you don't speak. Not to them, anyway. About what needs to be done."

  One hand flew upward. "Out!"

  Probably a good idea.
She might not duck as well as the maid. When she reached the door, she turned back to the figure on the bed. "I enjoyed meeting you."

  A bony finger aimed straight at her. "You shall ensure you bring only honor to this family."

  And then that tongue that seemed to get her into trouble at the worst of times tripped all over itself to say, "You're out of luck on that one. If I could ensure I'd bring only honor to any family, I wouldn't have wished myself here in the first place."

  Chapter 7

  When the author's hand next took over, Jane found herself sitting in the parlor with a china cup in her hand, lifting it to her mouth. In the next moment, she tasted strong tea.

  "Oh, my dear Jane, all of the arrangements that have gone into planning for our visit," twittered Mrs. Hathaway. "I hear there is to be another lovely dinner party this evening. It is all so very exciting."

  Jane lowered her cup. "Indeed," she murmured. "Violet must be quite near exhaustion, yet not a word of complaint crosses her lips. She is a devoted sister."

  Her aunt looked to her left and her right, though there was no one else in the room, and leaned forward. "She is fortunate her brother will allow her to remain here," she said in a loud whisper.

  "I am quite certain Mr. Dempsey would have it no other way." Jane watched herself set the cup down and fold her hands in her lap. Demurely. Sweetly. "He depends upon her."

  "When he takes a wife, he will depend upon her," her aunt said with a firm nod. "Leaving the sister quite at odds. Were Mr. Dempsey to wed anyone with a selfish nature, Violet would find herself in a most precarious situation." She shook her head and then brightened. "But that is not likely, Jane, as we well know he is likely to write your father for permission any day now."

  "Aunt Hathaway, I should not wish to presume such a thing. I do not know Mr. Dempsey's intentions." A big part of Jane inwardly sighed at the statement, wishing she'd taken this approach with Byron. If she had, he never would have tiptoed out of the apartment, shoes in hand, scared to death by her sudden proposal of marriage. So, she told herself, pay attention. Mary Bellingham might know something here. I should not wish to presume such a thing. Repeat three times slowly.