by Galen, Shana
“It was a very good sermon, sir. Truly the inspired word of God. I do hope if I continue to work with Mr. Pope, I might encourage him to attend services on Sunday.”
Mr. Higginbotham frowned. Pru realized her mistake, but it was too late to backtrack. “I cannot help but think how grateful Lord Beaufort will be at the change in his son. Mr. Payne says the earl is a generous man,” she said, wincing a bit at her own boldness.
Mr. Higginbotham stared at her for a long moment. At first Pru thought he might be assessing the veracity of her words, but then she realized he was probably listing all of the repairs to the church and vicarage he might undertake if the earl decided to repay the vicar for his kindness in allowing Pru to help his son. The vicar was silent for so long that Pru was about to suggest she retreat to the kitchen for the broom, but then the vicar’s eyes sharpened.
“This is all very well, but it does not address the problem of you being at Wentmore with two gentlemen and no one but Mrs. Brown to chaperone. I have known Mrs. Brown for two decades or more, and she is a fine, upstanding woman, but she is not a suitable chaperone. She is all by herself there and can hardly manage the house, much less keep an eye on you and those gentlemen.”
“But—”
“Your parents were quite clear when they gave you into my care that you do not have the best judgment in matters pertaining to men.”
Pru felt her cheeks heat. She was embarrassed that her parents should share such information with the vicar but not surprised. The heat in her cheeks was more likely due to anger that even at the age of three and twenty she was being treated like a child. It occurred to her that this would be her fate for the next fifteen or so years unless she married, which was unlikely, but even then she would be placed under the care and supervision of her husband.
It was times like this that she had the urge to run away and live free. She dreamed of a cottage in the clearing of a woods where she might sleep as late as she liked, read all day if she wished, and sing all the bawdy songs she knew at the top of her lungs.
But because she was three and twenty, she realized one could not live on books and songs alone. One needed coin to eat and keep cottage roofs from leaking, and so running away was not a very practical solution.
Better to fight for what little freedom she had here.
Pru thought of poor Mrs. Brown and the awful fare she served Mr. Pope. She had wanted to speak to Mrs. Blimkin this morning about recommending merchants to stock the kitchens at Wentmore. But what if Mrs. Blimkin were able to oversee the task herself? “What about Mrs. Blimkin as a chaperone?” Pru asked.
The door to the kitchen swung open. “Me? I am a housekeeper, not a chaperone,” Mrs. Blimkin said from the doorway where she had obviously been standing on the other side listening.
“You are also an excellent cook, Mrs. Blimkin. I had the opportunity to sample some of Mrs. Brown’s cooking last night, and it is barely edible. She could use your assistance.”
“No doubt she could, but Matilda Brown has never been one to take any sort of charity.”
“But your charity would be all for Mr. Pope. You would be chaperoning me so we could help him.” Pru looked at the vicar. “Think how pleased the earl will be.”
“He might be grateful,” the vicar said rubbing his chin, which Pru had learned meant he was considering something carefully. “What do you think, Mrs. Blimkin?”
“I think this one”—she pointed at Pru—“talks fast and says what she thinks we want to hear.”
Pru’s eyes widened in what she hoped was a look of innocence. “Mrs. Blimkin, I have not said anything untrue. Mrs. Brown is an awful cook, and Mr. Pope does need help. And you would be a suitable chaperone.” This was not as true as the other two statements. Mrs. Blimkin had never married or had children and probably did not know the first thing about chaperoning young ladies. But then Pru was not really a lady and did not need a formal chaperone.
Mrs. Blimkin looked at the vicar, who looked at Pru and then back at Mrs. Blimkin. He might be an old bachelor, but he knew enough not to involve himself in household matters. “I leave the decision to you, Mrs. Blimkin,” he said, rising. “I have work to attend to. Miss Howard, if Mrs. Blimkin cannot accompany you then I will expect you to come straight home after your visit with Mrs. Northgate.”
“Yes, sir.”
He rose and retreated to his library, closing the door. Pru looked at Mrs. Blimkin, who looked back at her.
“Now you’re trying to get me shot as well?”
Pru rolled her eyes. “He won’t shoot you.”
She sniffed. “He shot that Scotsman, and he liked that man, by all accounts.”
“If he so much as looks in your direction, Mrs. Blimkin, I will jump in front of you.”
“Why?”
“To save you, of course.”
The housekeeper waved her hand. “No, I mean, why do you want to go to Wentmore so much? Do you see Mr. Pope as some sort of romantic hero? One of those brooding lords from those gothic novels you read?”
Pru started to deny it, but there was a grain of truth in Mrs. Blimkin’s supposition.
“Just as I thought. I want no part of it.”
Pru jumped to her feet and caught Mrs. Blimkin’s arm before she could return to the kitchen. “That’s not all there is, Mrs. Blimkin. Mr. Pope needs us.”
“Us?”
She made a circling motion. “All of us—the town, the people. I know I can help him.”
“From what I hear, he is beyond help.”
“Oh, Mrs. Blimkin. Please. I want to help and what else is there for me? Sitting in the vicarage every night reading sermons?”
“Pretending to read sermons.”
Pru pretended she hadn’t heard that. “Sweeping clean floors? Writing letters to my parents when it’s unlikely they will ever write me back?”
Mrs. Blimkin sighed. “I told him not to take you in.” Her gaze flicked to the closed library door where the vicar had secluded himself, as usual. Pru was startled at this admission.
“You told Mr. Higginbotham not to take me?”
“Young girl like her, I said, girl who has seen the world, I said. She will wither and die in a place like Milcroft. It might be different if you had people here, but you have no place.”
Pru raised her head. “I like to think I am making my own place, carving it out for myself.”
Mrs. Blinkin raised her brows. “So then who am I really helping? Have you thought about that? Perhaps it’s not Mr. Pope who needs help. Perhaps it’s you.”
And with that, she passed into the kitchen, leaving the door swinging in her wake.
Ten
Due largely to what he considered harassment on Clopdon’s part, Nash found himself washed, dressed, fed, and upright before the noon meal. Nash tried to eat the food Mrs. Brown put before him. It was not too vile if he doused it liberally with salt. The pounding coming from the workmen still made him flinch, but he was determined not to hide under his bed or in his dressing room.
Instead, he wandered the house. Upon hearing voices from below stairs, he went to investigate and learned Clopdon was interviewing footmen. Nash rather wished he would interview cooks, but he thought it unwise to give the valet any more ideas. Instead, Nash left Clopdon to his interviews—there seemed little other choice—and made his way back upstairs. He could hear Mrs. Brown speaking to someone at the door. His heart sped up even though he knew it was far too early in the day for Miss Howard to call.
“I understand that, Mr. Forester, but you will have to call another time.”
Forester. Why did that name sound familiar? Forester...
“You’ll have to allow me to speak with him sometime, Mrs. Brown. I get no reply from the earl and something must be done before winter or Mr. and Mrs. Smith will starve.”
“What is the problem?” Nash asked, moving into the vestibule so he could be seen.
“Mr. Pope!” Mrs. Brown said. “I thought you would be...” She didn’t fini
sh, but he knew what she thought. He would be cowering from the noise. Indeed, it was all he could do not to flinch visibly at the hammering.
“I am feeling better today, Mrs. Brown. Mr. Forester, I believe?” He nodded at the shape in the door. “You are my father’s land steward, is that right?”
“Yes, sir. If I might come in, I wanted to discuss one of the farmers with you. He has been ill and has fallen behind in rents.”
The hammering from the workmen seemed never-ending, and Nash had an idea. “Shall we step outside and walk a bit?” he asked.
Silence. Finally, Forester said, “If you prefer, sir.”
Nash would have done anything to escape the noise of the workmen. He took his overcoat and stepped into the cool air, happy to move as far away from the house as Mr. Forester and he could walk. When he returned, he knew all about the harvest, the crops that had done well, those that had failed, the farmers who were lazy, and those who were ill. The Smiths seemed to fall into this last category. The husband had been bed-ridden with an illness for much of the summer and had not been able to work the land. The family was now behind in rent and had little food stored for the winter. Forester realized he was expected to evict the Smiths, but he had written to the earl to plead for forbearance and had yet to receive a response.
Nash hardly thought his opinion merited any weight. He was about to be evicted himself—in a manner of speaking. But he told the steward to hold off and to do what he could for the family in the time being. He hadn’t promised to write to his father, but the act had been implied. Nash wondered how he was supposed to advocate for the Smiths when he couldn’t even advocate for himself.
It seemed hours passed before the clock chimed five and the hammering ceased. And then it seemed more hours passed without Miss Howard arriving. Mrs. Brown served some sort of meat for dinner, but whatever it was had been charred past all recognition, and Nash did not eat it.
Where the devil was Miss Howard? Was she not coming? Had he scared her off with his behavior the evening before? If that was the case, why had she implied that she found his attentions pleasing? Perhaps she’d changed her mind. Perhaps...
He thought he heard the sound of a horse’s hooves. But Miss Howard came on foot, did she not? Nash went to the foyer and tried to appear as though he was not waiting for a knock on the door. But he was waiting, and none came. Finally, he heaved a sigh and started for the stairs and his room. Miss Howard was clearly not coming today.
And then, halfway up the stairs, he smelled something that made his mouth water. He turned his head and made his way slowly back down, following the scent to the dining room. “There you are,” came Miss Howard’s voice. “I am sorry we are late,” she said, sounding breathless. Nash moved through the door and inhaled deeply. He smelled potatoes and fresh baked bread and spices.
“Mrs. Blimkin insisted on baking a tart. I don’t know why when she had already prepared enough for an army. We had to borrow Mr. Langford’s dog cart to carry it all and ourselves. But we are here now. Have you already eaten? If so, I can have Mrs. Brown put this away—”
“No!” Nash would have snatched the dish out of her hands if he’d been able to see it.
“Are you feeling quite well, Mr. Pope? You look...” She paused. “Quite presentable.” But he heard the warmth in her voice. She might not have intended it, but she sounded as though she approved of how he looked. Perhaps Clopdon was not so bad.
No, Clopdon was a nuisance, but he could be born. Especially if his ministrations made Miss Howard’s voice lower in that fashion.
“I have not eaten,” he said. “What did you bring?”
“Shepherd’s pie. I thought I told you that. Would you like a piece?”
He wanted the entire pie. “Yes. Do you mind serving?” If the pie was put in front of him, he would likely eat it right from the plate.
“Of course. Please sit.”
He did and heard her rattling about until she located a plate. She set it before him and then placed a fork, knife, and spoon where he could easily find them.
“I hope you will join me.”
“Oh! I...yes, thank you.” More rattling and more flatware set on the table. He could see the shape of her, and he thought she moved with efficiency. The food was soon before him, and Nash almost groaned at the smell. For months, the alcohol he’d consumed had dulled his appetite. Mrs. Brown’s cooking had not helped. But he felt like a starving man who could not wait another moment to taste something edible. He lifted his fork—or it might have been a spoon—and began to eat.
“You have a much better appetite than you did yesterday,” she remarked.
“My compliments to Mrs. Blimkin,” he said between spoonfuls of creamy mashed potatoes, savory carrots, and delicious crust.
“The vicar has decided I need a more suitable chaperone. Mrs. Blimkin has agreed to come with me and oversee the kitchen while we work. I promised him our lessons would only take a few days more. If you don’t mind, we might come earlier tomorrow.”
Nash was simply surprised that he only had a few days with Miss Howard. For some reason, he had assumed she might come every day for...well, until he did not want her to come. But he supposed once he mastered the night writing, there would be no more need for her to come.
He set his spoon down, his appetite diminishing somewhat at the prospect of not seeing Miss Howard. “You can come as early as you like. Payne hired a valet and the man will probably wake me up at the crack of dawn.”
“I think Mrs. Northgate will be offended if I do not visit with her and at least attempt to work on my dress.”
“Ah, yes. The dress.” He lifted his spoon to eat more of the pie. “How long does it take to make a dress?”
“A few days, I imagine, but I have never made one and Mrs. Northgate makes me take out half the stitches I sew, so it could be years at this rate.” She sounded more amused than frustrated, so he smiled.
“Wait a moment,” she said, sounding concerned. Nash reached for his pistol. He’d ordered Clopdon to return the ammunition, but he had not loaded it. Now he wished he had.
“I could be mistaken,” she went on, sounding calmer. “But was that a smile?”
Nash let out the breath he’d been holding. There was no crisis, no danger. He’d been overreacting. Again.
“You’ve seen me smile before,” he said, eating another bite of the pie. He would have eaten more, but he feared he would be ill. Instead, he pushed the plate away.
“It’s a rare occurrence,” she said. “But if my poor sewing is the thing to make you smile, I shall recount my failures more often. I like seeing you smile.”
Nash wasn’t certain what to say in response. He would have liked to make a flirtatious remark. The old Nash, the Nash before the injury, would have done so, but he didn’t feel like that Nash any longer. He cleared his throat. “Are you finished? Should we begin the lesson?”
“We should. Do you want to retreat to the library again?”
“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. He did not want to be reminded of his youth and his father again tonight. “Here is fine.”
“Very well. Let’s see if you remember the chart. Can you tell me what letter is in position one-four?”
She went on this way for some time, making certain he knew the letters and positions of the first row thoroughly. Then she moved on to the second row. Memorizing that row was simple enough. Nash realized at this rate he would be done with the lessons in no time. Then Miss Howard would no longer need to come.
“You’re not holding my hands tonight,” he said, interrupting her.
“You seemed to be doing well enough without me holding your hands,” she said.
“Perhaps I could do even better.”
“Mr. Pope, do you want me to hold your hands?”
He shifted. He’d never had such awkwardness with a woman before. He wasn’t certain how to behave or what to say or do. “Not if you should object,” he said, finally.
Her warm h
ands covered his and clasped him tightly. “Why should I object?” she said, squeezing his hands. “Now, shall we imagine that third row of the chart or is that too much for one evening?”
It was not too much. Nash would have done anything to keep her there beside him and touching him. “I could learn another row,” he said, but he didn’t want to talk about night writing anymore. Not now that she was holding his hands.
“Are you such a poor seamstress?” he asked before she could bring up the letters of the third row of Barbier’s chart.
He felt her hands tense slightly as though in surprise. “Why should you ask that?”
“I just wondered why the good Mrs. Northgate would make you take out so many stitches. I find it hard to believe there’s something you aren’t competent in.”
“Ah, that.” He could all but hear her smiling. He wondered what she looked like when she smiled. He wondered what she looked like period. Was she as pretty as she seemed to him? He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone as surprising and patient and calm as Miss Prudence Howard. He was certain it would not be long before he said or did something that drove her away.
“I am not a bad seamstress, but Mrs. Northgate is quite particular, and she insists on adding ruffles and bows and flounces. I’ve never sewed anything so fancy and delicate, but she says they are necessary to set off the flaws in my...er—to make the dress look as well as can be.”
“You don’t need ruffles and bows to look beautiful,” he said. Even as the words left his mouth, he was surprised by them. He was not the sort of man given to complimenting women. He was not the sort of man to compliment anyone. Not now. Perhaps he had been once. Once he had been the picture of the perfect gentleman. But it had been merely a picture. He was a killer and he supposed now he looked like one.
To his greater surprise, Miss Howard laughed. He pulled his hands away. “I’ve amused you?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but I am not beautiful. No one has ever called me beautiful in my life.”
Nash was familiar with most ladies’ habit of pretend modesty.