LITMIR.BIZ

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But she could not speak, no matter how many times she opened her mouth.

      The accident had been more than nine months ago. Nicola had recuperated at home with her parents for seven of those months, until they had all been at their wits’ end. Her hand had cramped from writing her thoughts and wishes until her family couldn’t bear to read them anymore.

      Her mother cried constantly; her father was nearly as silent as Nicola was. When a cottage became available in the secret spa, Puddling-on-the-Wold, her parents jumped at the chance to send her there.

      To get rid of her, really, in the prettiest place imaginable.

      The village was known to work miracles on difficult relatives with difficult problems. Nicola wasn’t the usual kind of Guest—she didn’t imbibe too freely, gamble, break engagements in fruitless rebellion, disrobe in public, flunk out of school, or do any of the naughty things that drove parents to disown their disreputable children, or children to hide their cringe-worthy parents.

      She just couldn’t talk, and her parents were exasperated.

      She knew they loved her—they’d spent a small fortune they didn’t really have on specialists. Doctors had poked and prodded at her. Inserted vile tubes down her throat. She’d worried sometimes that her jaw would remain locked open as they gazed into the dark depths of her windpipe. Her tongue had endured sharp needles; her tonsils were removed as a precaution.

      More surgery had been discussed; one doctor went so far as to want to shave her hair off so her brain could “breathe.” Thank heavens her papa had drawn the line there. Nicola was fond of her hair. It was long and gold and her one true beauty.

      The rest of her was unremarkable, except, of course, for her lack of speech. Had she different parents, she might be in an asylum now, locked up with people who couldn’t make sense. Nicola’s wits were perfectly intact, but she was miserably mute, and her parents were desperate to help her.

      Not at home in Bath anymore, though, which was just as well. She’d drunk enough of the foul-tasting water there in hopes of a miracle cure. And Richard lived right next door. After he’d broken their engagement, it had only caused her mama to cry harder. Nicola had been suffocated under her parents’ concern and despair for her. Even Richard had been ashamed, but as an ambitious young MP, how could he marry a girl who couldn’t campaign for him?

      No, not a girl. A woman. Nicola was twenty-six, long past her girlhood. She didn’t even really mind that Richard had cried off. While she had liked him very much and shared his political goals, it had never been a heart-fluttering love match. Marriage to him had seemed a practical arrangement to both their families, and she did so want her own children. It was not enough to be a fond aunt to Frannie’s little boys.

      Nicola had waited years for Richard to establish himself. But evidently he couldn’t wait a few months for her to speak again.

      She picked up the pen. I want to talk. Dr. Oakley seems to think that if I have a positive attitude, my speech will return.

      But how could she be positive? It was almost Christmas, and her parents were going to Scotland to stay with Aunt Augusta, her mother’s widowed sister. Frannie, Albert, and the boys too. Nicola would be alone in her little cottage with only Mrs. Grace for company.

      Her housekeeper had been extraordinarily kind, had coddled her from the moment she was picked up at the Stroud station. It was the first time Nicola had been on a train since the accident, and the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation governors had suggested she get over her anxiety by making the trip from Bath by rail. Rather like getting back on the horse after a fall, she supposed.

      But Nicola had been worse than anxious. Much to the other passengers’ disgust, she’d vomited repeatedly, and by the time she’d arrived she was so weak she could barely stand up. She’d been put to bed for a week, only getting up to play the church organ for a local wedding when the vicar begged her to.

      Music was her one release, and her father had donated a small piano for Stonecrop Cottage. She played for hours, when she wasn’t staring at the blank pages of her journal.

      She was meant to write down her thoughts and worries. Dr. Oakley or the elderly vicar, Mr. Fitzmartin, would then discuss them with her during their daily visits. Sometimes she would pray, the only time she didn’t feel self-conscious about being silent.

      Nicola snapped the journal shut and tucked it into a pigeonhole in the little desk. She had no further thoughts today, nothing that she hadn’t already written for the sixty-one days she’d been present in Puddling.

      The parlor was a bit cramped now with the piano, but it was cheerful, with a bright fire burning in the hearth. Mrs. Grace had gone home a little early for the day, pleading a headache. She’d left Nicola a chicken pie in the ice box for her supper. Raspberry tarts too—she’d already cadged one as they were cooling. If she wasn’t careful, Nicola would return to Bath several stone heavier.

      If she returned. She didn’t want to be a burden to her parents. Perhaps she could stay here. Not in this cottage, of course; it belonged to the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation. But she’d come into money of her own—a settlement from the accident. Guilt money. Her papa had written to her when he sent the piano. As a prominent Bath solicitor, he had negotiated hard on her behalf. The amount was enough to purchase her own home and keep her in modest comfort for the rest of her life if she was careful.

      And why wouldn’t she be careful? Nicola had always been conservative. She’d never been frivolous; she only owned two ball gowns that were refurbished on a yearly basis with new lace or ribbons or both. Richard had admired her frugality, for he earned very little in his own law practice and did not stand to inherit a fortune like some members of the House of Commons. Her mama had not been so sanguine, but Nicola simply wasn’t much interested in evening clothes.

      She didn’t need her ball gowns for Puddling. Life was purposefully quiet here, so Guests could recuperate. But now that the steep streets were coated with a dusting of snow and a slick of ice underneath, she could use a new pair of boots.

      It was part of her prescribed routine to walk around the village for at least an hour a day, and the exercise was becoming a touch treacherous. She would write to Mama and ask for some better footwear, something suitable for a clumsy mountain goat.

      Nicola knew she was treated differently than some of the other Guests had been. Apparently it was forbidden to contact the “Outside World” by mail or telegram or anything else during the course of one’s stay here. But letters flowed freely back and forth to Bath, not that she had very much to report.

      Nothing ever happened in Puddling. There were five intertwining streets, and Nicola knew every house and shop, all five of them, by now. Everyone had been so welcoming. She was often stopped and given biscuits or balls of yarn or books by the friendly villagers and their children. She wished she could say thank you, but had to make do with her most sincere smiles.

      Oh, she was feeling sorry for herself, and that was pointless. She’d go out for a short second walk, not too far. The sun would set over the Cotswold Hills in about an hour, but fresh air would do her good. Bring roses to her cheeks, which the mirror told her were as pale as the moon. Then she’d put her pie in the oven. Eat. Wash her dishes. Get on her knees. Go to bed.

      How boring it all was.

      Which it was meant to be. Evidently the Puddling governors believed that a strict routine was the key to recovery. No excesses of any kind. Which suited Nicola, as she was not an excessive sort of person.

      Although the cottage had a small generator—and all sorts of modern conveniences, for it was the newest and most luxurious of the Guest residences, which wasn’t really saying much—she was a little afraid of it. She preferred the golden glow of lamp oil instead of the harsh, erratic electric light. She extinguished the lamp on the desk and banked the fire. Her fur-lined coat hung on a hook by the front door, and she slid her stockinged feet into her old shoes.

      A brisk gust of wind almost knocked her down in the front garden. The koi she’d seen in the autumn were asleep under a skim of ice on their pond,

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