by Emily Larkin
She was good at being happy, Mayhew thought. Good at taking things in her stride. Today she’d missed a stagecoach, become separated from her luggage, traveled with pigs, fallen over in a muddy turnip field and again in a ford, and now she was wearing a coarse, country dress that didn’t fit her—and she was happy.
Most young ladies would have had the vapors given any one of those events, let alone all of them, but Miss Culpepper hadn’t. She hadn’t even complained. Not once. Instead, she’d laughed.
Right now she was chuckling as Mrs. Penny described the time her children—three daughters—had decided to wash the hens. “A bigger mess you never did see. Feathers everywhere. Wet as fish, they all was. Wet as fish.”
Mayhew watched the dimples come and go in Miss Culpepper’s cheeks. He watched her sip cowslip wine and nibble bread-and-butter. She was enchanting. Utterly enchanting. The most enchanting female he’d ever met, and even though she was a colonel’s daughter and he was merely a lieutenant, a tiny seed of hope flowered in his breast.
The Pennys had a nephew in the 2nd Regiment of Foot, and they asked about the Peninsula campaign. Mayhew told them stories of Spain and Portugal and France, and then he said, “But Miss Culpepper’s been further afield than I have. Tell us about South America, Miss Culpepper.”
She did. And then she told them about Constantinople and Russia, about chandeliers dripping with diamonds and plates made from gold, and she told them about dining with the tsar and dancing with princes.
The Pennys listened, openmouthed. Mr. Penny forgot to chew on the stem of his pipe. Mrs. Penny forgot to knead her dough.
Mayhew listened, too, and quietly let go of the hope that had flowered in his breast. To think that a colonel’s daughter would marry a lowly lieutenant was foolish. To think that a diplomat’s daughter who’d danced with princes and supped with the tsar might marry a lowly lieutenant wasn’t merely foolish; it was laughable.
“Lordee,” Mrs. Penny said, when Miss Culpepper had finished. “I’m quite betwattled! To think that you’re sittin’ at me own table, and you’ve dined with royalty.”
“Your cowslip wine is better than anything I had in Russia,” Miss Culpepper assured her.
Mrs. Penny went pink with pleasure.
“Do you miss diplomatic life?” Mayhew asked, even though he already knew the answer. Of course she missed it. She missed it so much that she was taking steps to return to it. As companion to Sir Walter’s daughters, she would move in diplomatic circles again. She’d rub shoulders with attachés and ambassadors, and before very long a diplomat destined for a lifetime of dining off golden plates would snap her up.
“No.” Miss Culpepper shook her head, a decisive movement that set her ringlets dancing. “It’s army life that I miss.”
“It is?” Mayhew said doubtfully.
She nodded.
“Why?”
Miss Culpepper frowned and gave the matter some thought, and even frowning she was enchanting. “Life is plainer in the army. Simpler. More real.”
“More uncomfortable,” Mayhew pointed out.
Laughter flashed across her face. “A great deal more uncomfortable!” The amusement faded, and Miss Culpepper’s expression became serious. She looked down at the scrubbed wooden tabletop and circled a knot with one fingertip. “I know this will sound silly, but . . . I think I like to be a little bit uncomfortable. If one is forever wrapped up in luxury, one forgets to appreciate things like being warm and dry and fed. You never forget to do that when you’re following the drum. When you have food, you’re happy for it. When you have a dry bed, you’re happy for it. When you don’t have lice or fleas or saddle sores, you’re happy for it.”
She rubbed her fingertip back and forth, tracing the grain of the wood. “Army life is frequently dirty and disagreeable, and sometimes it’s terrifying and sometimes it’s heartbreaking, and I know it’s not sensible of me to miss it, but I do. It made me feel alive, and not only that, it made me feel glad to be alive.”
There was a long moment of silence while they all digested her words. Mayhew heard the fire mumbling in the kitchen hearth. He heard Mr. Bellyrub purring. He heard a rooster crowing outside in the yard. And while he heard those things, hope began to cautiously flower in his breast again.
Miss Culpepper liked army life.
Mr. Penny removed his pipe from his mouth. “Ye’ve a soldier’s heart, lass.”
“I do,” Miss Culpepper said, with a rueful laugh. “But alas, I can’t be a soldier.”
You could be a soldier’s wife, Mayhew thought.
He glanced at his pocket watch, which had fortunately survived his impromptu dip, and saw, with a sense of shock, that it would be dark in two hours.
He tilted the watch toward Miss Culpepper, letting her see the time.
Her lips tucked in at the corners, a tiny, regretful movement, and he realized that she wanted to remain in this cozy kitchen as much as he did.
“We must be going,” Mayhew told the Pennys. “Miss Culpepper needs to be in Twyford by nightfall.”
All became hustle and bustle. Miss Culpepper gathered up her clothing and retired to dress. Mayhew gathered up his clothing and retired to dress. His shirt was dry, his rifleman’s pantaloons merely damp. His jacket was rather more damp, as were his boots, but Mayhew was used to wet jackets and wet boots.
When he returned to the kitchen, the kittens were already in their basket. “I took them outside,” Miss Culpepper told him cheerfully. “They both did their business, and Mrs. Penny has put butter on their paws, so they’re perfectly content.”
“Thank you,” Mayhew said. He went out into the yard and discovered that the sky was dark with clouds. He also discovered that Mr. Penny had harnessed his cob to the gig again. “I’ll take ye to the Morestead bridge,” the farmer said. “It’s but a mile to Twyford from there.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Mayhew said, with another glance at those threatening clouds. He reached into his pocket and fished out a shilling.
“Put that bob away, young feller,” Mr. Penny said. “No need to pay me. I’d take ye all the way to Twyford if I could, but ol’ Dobbin here won’t cross the Morestead bridge.” He clapped the cob on the shoulder. “Took a fright there ten year ago and ain’t crossed it since.”
Mayhew laughed, and put the shilling back in his pocket. He heard footsteps behind him and turned. It was Miss Culpepper. “Mr. Penny has offered to drive us to Morestead,” he told her. “From there, it’s only a mile to Twyford.”
Chapter Seven
It was nearing twilight when they reached Morestead. The gloaming hour. That was a word Willie had always loved: gloaming. It sounded a little magical, a time of lingering daylight and long shadows and dusk slowly deepening in the hollows.
Morestead was too small to be called a village. It possessed a small church, a crossroads, a bridge, and that was all. The gig slowed as they approached the bridge, going from brisk trot to slow walk to complete standstill. The horse planted its hooves firmly, put its ears back, and refused to take another step.
Lieutenant Mayhew laughed. “I see what you mean.”
“Aye,” Mr. Penny said, around his pipe stem. “Stubborn as an ox, our Dobbin. Ain’t no doin’ nothin’ about it.”
Mayhew jumped down from the gig and held up a hand to Willie. She took it and jumped down, too.
“See that spire?” the farmer said, with a nod to the west. “That’s Twyford, that is. Ye’d best walk fast, though. I don’t like the look of them clouds.”
“Thank you,” the lieutenant said, lifting down the kittens’ basket.
“There’s another ford, jes’ round the corner, but there’s a footbridge alongside. Don’t fall in, now.”
The lieutenant laughed, and so did Willie. “We shan’t,” she assured Mr. Penny.
“Thank you,” Lieutenant Mayhew said again. “We’re very much obliged to you. You’ve been prodigiously kind, you and your wife.”
The farmer chewed on
his pipe and looked both pleased and bashful. “Godspeed.”
By the time they’d crossed the humpbacked little bridge, the gig had turned around and was headed back towards Winnall. Willie watched it out of sight. “There are some very nice people in the world.”
“There are.” The lieutenant smiled down at her. “Come now, let’s get to Twyford before it rains.”
They turned right at the crossroad, walking briskly. No sound came from the basket. The kittens were snugly asleep.
Willie saw a line of oak trees ahead, and behind those, a church spire. Twyford.
She took a deep breath and set herself to enjoying this last mile of her journey—the gloaming, the mud and the puddles, the hedgerows on either side of the lane, the fields beyond that, the clouds heavy with approaching rain, the warm summer’s breeze. And most of all, Lieutenant Mayhew’s company.
“Here’s the ford,” he said.
“Yes.” Willie eyed it as they approached. The ford was shallower than the one they’d fallen in, but wider and a great deal muddier.
“Footbridge,” Mayhew said, with a tilt of his head.
Footbridge was perhaps too fine a word for that single, warped wooden plank, but at least their footwear wouldn’t get wetter than it already was.
The lieutenant went across first, carrying the basket. He paused at the end of the plank, then took a long, leaping stride. He set the basket on the ground and turned to back her. “Have care, Miss Culpepper. It’s wobbly, and there’s a great puddle at the end.”
Willie picked up her skirts and stepped onto the plank. It was a little wobbly, but not enough to upset her balance. She crossed quickly—and discovered that the puddle at the far end was not only larger than she’d thought, but also most unfortunately situated, precisely where she needed to step.
“Take my hand,” Lieutenant Mayhew said.
Willie took hold of his outstretched fingers. “If I fall short, it’s no matter. My shoes are still wet.”
She jumped, but she didn’t jump quite far enough. Her left foot landed in the puddle, and it wasn’t merely a puddle, it was a hole.
Willie went in it up to her knee, lost her balance, and sat down. Fortunately, she let go of the lieutenant’s hand, so she didn’t pull him in, too. Muddy water enveloped her to the waist.
“Miss Culpepper!” Mayhew exclaimed, and he looked so aghast that Willie had to laugh.
“Are you all right?” he asked anxiously, crouching.
“Perfectly,” Willie said, and then she shook her head and laughed again, because honestly, what else could one do when one had just sat in a muddy puddle in front of a man one was attracted to? She gave him her reticule and took his hand.
Mayhew helped her to stand. Water streamed off her. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
“My pride has received a mortal blow,” Willie told him. “But other than that, I’m perfectly well.” And then she put her weight on her left foot and discovered that she wasn’t perfectly well. She couldn’t hide her wince.
The lieutenant saw it. “You’re hurt?”
Willie bit her lip, and then confessed, “My ankle.”
Mayhew picked her up as if she were a bride being carried over a threshold, crossed the lane to where there were no puddles, and set her down on the grass verge. “Let me see.”
Willie sat silently while he knelt and unlaced her half boot and removed it. “Where does it hurt?” he asked.
Willie pointed.
Mayhew examined her ankle through her muddy stocking, probing with his fingers, testing the joint. There was no levity on his face now; his eyebrows were drawn together, his eyes slightly narrowed, his mouth a flat line. This was his serious face, Willie realized. His soldier’s face.
“Does it hurt when I do this?” he asked, and flexed her ankle, watching her face as he did so.
“No,” Willie said, and thought how very nice his eyes were. Quite the nicest eyes she’d ever seen. And then she scolded herself for mooning over Lieutenant Mayhew’s eyes while he was examining her ankle. If one thing was certain, it was that at this moment he was not mooning over her. Not while he was kneeling in the mud and holding her foot in its wet, filthy stocking. If anything, he was probably annoyed at her for being so clumsy.
Willie shook her head at herself.
“What?”
“Just telling myself off for being so clumsy.” She wrinkled her nose and attempted a joke: “This will teach me not to try to impress people with my athletic prowess.”
He grinned at her. “You were trying to impress me, Miss Culpepper?”
Willie felt herself blush. “No, of course not.”
The lieutenant’s grin widened, and she had a horrible feeling that he didn’t believe her, but he said nothing. He returned his attention to her ankle, rotating the joint carefully. It hurt, but not too much.
Willie told him that, and then she said, “I think it’s just a sprain.”
“So do I.” He released her foot and sat back on his heels. “Thank God. I was afraid you’d broken it.” He smiled ruefully at her. “Today has been a chapter of accidents, hasn’t it? One catastrophe after another.”
“They’ve been trifling catastrophes,” Willie said. “Not full-grown ones.”
Mayhew cocked his head. His smile changed, becoming faintly playful. “Kitten-astrophes?”
Willie’s heart actually skipped a beat. How was it possible for a man to be so attractive? Especially when kneeling in the mud uttering appalling puns? But attractive he was. Incredibly attractive. Not because of the symmetry of his features, but because of the boyish tilt of his head, the twinkle in his eyes, that impish smile.
Willie tried to pretend that she wasn’t flustered. She shook her head at him, uttering a chuckle that absolutely did not sound breathless, and said, “Allow me to inform you, Lieutenant, that puns are not your forte.”
He shrugged, unabashed. “It made you laugh.”
“Because it was so bad.”
Mayhew grinned at her, and then his expression sobered and he climbed to his feet. “I’ll run ahead to Twyford and fetch a carriage. You can’t walk half a mile on that ankle, let alone a mile.”
“I might be able to,” Willie said.
The lieutenant looked doubtful, but he helped her to stand—and Willie took a few steps and discovered that her ankle actually did hurt rather a lot. She tried not to wince, but she knew that she had winced—and she also knew the lieutenant had seen it. “You’re not walking to Twyford,” he said, in a voice that brooked no argument.
“No,” Willie said, with a sigh.
A puff of warm wind gusted along the lane. In its wake, a fat raindrop hit the ground. Plop. A moment later, came another one. Plop.
Plop. Plop.
Mayhew frowned, and looked around. Willie looked around, too. She saw trees and hedgerows and that distant church spire, and on the other side of the nearest hedgerow, a small barn.
The lieutenant saw the barn, too. He picked Willie up and set off for it at a brisk pace.
“The kittens,” Willie protested.
“I won’t let them get wet,” Mayhew said. “I promise.”
A few raindrops pattered down while he carried her—plop, plop-plop—erratic and desultory, vanguard of the approaching storm. Willie eyed those dark clouds as Mayhew rounded the end of the hedgerow and headed across a rutted stretch of muddy ground, but it was difficult to pay attention to clouds or raindrops or even sprained ankles while Lieutenant Mayhew was carrying her. He was so strong. So steady on his feet. He smelled of wet wool. Perhaps it could be argued that one damp woolen garment smelled like another, but her nose told her that his green jacket smelled of soldier, and the familiarity of that scent brought a rush of homesickness.
“Roof looks sound,” Mayhew said, when they reached the barn.
The barn was small and dark and smelled of hay and turnips, even though there were no turnips that Willie could see. There was a lot of hay, though. Several piles o
f it.
Mayhew crossed to one pile, crouched and settled her carefully atop it, then said, “Won’t be a moment,” and headed back to the ford at a jog. Two minutes later he returned, panting, with the basket, Willie’s half boot, and her reticule. He set all three items down. Outside, wind gusted, rattling the shutters.
“I’ll run in to Twyford,” Mayhew said. “Are you cold? The storm’s almost upon us.”
Willie shook her head. “It’s a warm wind.”
“Even so, take my jacket. It’s not dry, but it’s dryer than what you’re wearing.”
Willie wasn’t at all cold, but her gown was soaked from the waist down, and part of her shawl was, too, so she made no protest when he peeled off his jacket. Mayhew crouched and settled it over her shoulders, not with brisk indifference but gently and almost tenderly, as if her comfort was important to him. As if he cared about her.
Willie slipped her arms into the sleeves and felt emotion tighten her throat.
The jacket was far too large, damp and heavy and warm from his body. The soldier smell of it was strong—and that made her throat tighten even further.
Mayhew looked at her, an anxious crease on his brow. “How do you feel? Warm enough?”
Willie didn’t quite trust her voice. She pulled the jacket closed at her chest and nodded.
“Good.” He stood. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Should be less than twenty minutes.” But he didn’t depart. He stood looking down at her, frowning. “I don’t like leaving you on your own, Miss Culpepper.”
“I’ll be perfectly fine,” Willie said firmly.
His frown deepened. She saw conflict on his face, saw that he truly didn’t want to leave her, saw how much it worried him—and saw, too, that he knew he had to if he was to help her.
“Go,” she said.
Mayhew hesitated a moment longer, then gave a curt nod, and as he nodded the wind gusted so strongly that it made the shutters bang against the walls and sent scraps of hay dancing madly across the dirt floor. On the heels of that mighty gust of wind came a burst of rain. Heavy rain. Very heavy rain. A downpour, in fact.