Page 48 of The Dreaming Beauty
Once inside the milliner’s, he discovered his mother and Simon arguing over the best color of gloves, and he sighed. He had hurried for no reason.
“Ah, Marcus. Tell Mother what gloves to buy so we can be done with this and return home.”
Marcus shook his head as he came up beside them. “Just buy them both. You know you will anyway.”
“Should I?” His mother studied both a crème pair with embroidery at the end and a champagne satin. “I do believe taking them both is the only solution.” She swooped them up and bustled past Simon to take care of her purchases.
Marcus put his hand out to stall Simon. “You will never guess who I just ran into.”
“Miss Tansy?” Simon took a step toward the door.
Annoyance flashed through Marcus once more. Why had her name fallen from his brother’s lips so easily? “I was referring to your old nursemaid. She calls herself Nurse Jones and is staying with the Fairchilds. She believed I was you, so she is not exactly in her mental prime.”
“Nurse Jones?” Simon’s brow furrowed. “All I recall is Nurse Philips.”
“Nurse Philips.” Marcus nodded. “She was a strict one, wasn’t she?”
Simon leaned against the table with the gloves display. “I could have had an earlier nurse, but I would wager the woman made up the connection.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She is mad. You said so yourself. Every nurse in England wishes she could claim to have been the nurse to a duke. Her employment would be set for life.”
“I suppose it makes sense.” Marcus hardly remembered those early years, so he could not say for certain which theory was right.
Simon clapped Marcus on the back. “Don’t think too much about it. Everyone thinks my position enviable, but frankly, it is a burden. Now I can add a senile nurse to my list of unwanted connections.” He smiled, but the strain in his eyes belied the truth of his feelings. Simon was still not ready to accept the responsibilities he was born to.
When they stepped outside, a breeze licked at Marcus’s skin, reminding him of the storm from the night before. It was only then that he remembered Tansy’s errand to the sawmill. He should have offered his assistance. He wasn’t the duke, tied down with social obligations. Yes, he still had his own responsibilities, but they were not the same. No, the reason he had not rushed to help her that instant was because he knew he was digging himself a hole already where she was concerned. He was supposed to be avoiding her, and clearly, he wasn’t succeeding as well as he ought to be.
His mother preferred to go to town first thing in the morning when the least amount of people would be there, so after their errands in town, the day was still young. He said goodbye to Simon and his mother and then rode out to assist the tenants with any damage they’d acquired. One roof needed repairing, but the Andersons had already begun the job. The mason in town had previously agreed to come repair some wear to the outer structure and happened to arrive just before Marcus left. He jumped in to help, and together they finished by midafternoon.
He mounted his horse and hesitated when he reached the road. There was time enough for one more stop, and all he could think about was Rose Cottage. Why could he not leave well enough alone? Why was he drawn to that place? To her? He had a career to pursue, a fortune to marry into, dreams to understand, and a family who needed him to remain firm in his emotions.
His horse danced as he debated what direction to go. It would not do. A simple neighborly stop would settle him. He would lend a hand and return home in a trice. He returned to the Andersons to borrow a bucket of clay from the mason, on the off chance that Rose Cottage had also received structural damage, then nudged his horse toward the cottage. He was still fighting an internal battle when he arrived, his eyes drawn to the large tree their man, Thomas, was chopping into firewood.
Marcus swung down, secured his horse, and let himself through the gate. He followed the sound of voices and discovered Mrs. Wood and Mrs. Palmer on the side of the house, lining up the wood.
“Oh, it’s you.” Mrs. Palmer stripped some smaller branches from a larger one, her voice weary.
Mrs. Wood had a bit more warmth to her tone. “Good day, Mr. Taylor.” She dusted her hands on her apron and smiled. “I am afraid we are not in the position for a social call just now.”
“I am here to help. What can I do?”
Mrs. Wood wiped a bead of perspiration from her brow, the creases around her eyes more pronounced than ever. “We had hoped to avoid asking for assistance, but we will be most grateful to have your help.”
Guilt pressed into his abdomen. If he had not made this trip about Tansy, he would not have hesitated in coming sooner. “I am here now, so you and Mrs. Palmer go inside and rest.” He reached over and gently took the branch from Mrs. Palmer’s hands.
She did not fight him, nor did Mrs. Wood. In fact, their relief was evident. He thought he heard the sound of a hammer against wood from beyond the veil of willow branches, but he ignored it and went to aid Thomas. Many times since going off to university, and later as a young professor, he’d appreciated the large staff at Ashbury Court, but acting as a steward had been increasingly eye-opening. Here, more than ever, the plight of these women without money and manpower pulled at him. He should not have avoided them for so long. They weren’t his responsibility, like the tenants, but they were his friends, which should mean something more. When they had needed him most, he had been caught up in his own concerns. Well, not any longer. He tossed his coat aside and rolled up his shirtsleeves, determined to help them.
Chapter 23
The sound of an axsplitting wood reverberated through the willows. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. As the tempo increased, so did Tansy’s mounting frustration. She hunched over the pieces of wood she had nailed together, her patience on its last thread. Sharp ends of the nails, far too long for the depth of the wood poked through at all sorts of odd angles, but at least it was standing. The wood pegs had been useless. She had broken one already in her pitiful attempts to do anything with them. With careful fingers, she tried to adjust the walls to make them more of a square shape, and in an instant, the whole thing fell in on itself.
“Oh, rubbish!” Tansy growled.
Daisy picked up the misshapen structure, its different-sized walls lying flat against each other instead of in a recognizable shape. “Is this supposed to be a house?”
Reigning in her annoyance, Tansy asked, “Can’t you tell?”
