Mr. Gavenor finished his plateful of stew and potatoes in silence, then frowned at the amount left on her plate. “I am full, sir,” she explained. A little nauseous from the headache, and considerably smaller than the giant, who had not taken their size difference into account in his serving portions.
“You are a dainty little thing,” he observed. He ladled more stew onto his own plate and said, with every evidence of satisfaction, “And apples for after.”
It had been tasty and filling, but hardly an elegant meal. Rosa had managed much better when her larder had been full, which reminded her of her latest grievance against Pelman. “I was going to make a custard, but the milk is all gone.”
He cocked a brow. “You had a cow?”
“Goats. Three goats; two nannies, one with a kid at hoof.” A female, which she had planned to keep to expand the amount of milk and cheese she could sell.
“No goats here,” Mr. Gavenor said. “Just the hens.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You had no room for the goats in that horrible hovel?”
It is a horrible hovel, but what choice do I have? Resentment made Rosa’s voice sharp, “Mr. Pelman insisted the goats belonged to you, Mr. Gavenor, so I suggest you apply to him for their return.”
“I see.” He took her plate and his through to the scullery, came back with two bowls, and busied himself with serving the apples. She waited for further comment, but he said nothing. He sees? What does he see? A great deal, she was beginning to think. Behind that still, calm face, a busy mind weighed facts and drew conclusions.
She accepted her apple, and enjoyed the mix of sweet and tart.
“Which was your bedchamber when you were here, Miss Neatham?” Mr. Gavenor asked, once he had cleared his bowl. Rosa looked up, startled by the broken silence.
“I will take your trunk up and make up the bed. You sit here and keep your ankle up.”
He had brought her trunk?
“The back room on the left, overlooking the vegetable garden,” she said. “I do not know what to say. ‘Thank you’ seems so inadequate.”
Mr. Gavenor shrugged off her gratitude. “My fault you fell. My responsibility to make sure you and your father are cared for.”
He took her bowl into the scullery then returned to give her orders, emphasizing his points with his fingers. “No moving. No putting more stress on that ankle. Do not even think about doing the dishes. I want you well and gone as soon as may be, Miss Neatham. How is your head feeling?”
“The willow bark tea helped,” she prevaricated. Sore, and I will be glad to be in bed.
“Another cup before bed,” he suggested. “I will put the kettle on before I go upstairs.”
He suited action to words, then left her alone in the kitchen with her thoughts and a final warning about staying in one place and not moving her ankle.
Gruff, but kind.
Chapter Seven
The storm returned in the night, and they woke to persistent rain.
Bear carried Miss Neatham downstairs and set her up in the parlor with a book to read and strict instructions not to move. She proceeded to fret herself to flinders, though she tried not to show it. Each time he went in to ask her where to find something, or to bring her something to eat or drink, or just to check that she was following instructions, he could read the anxiety about her father on her open face.
He’d seen her bite back words all morning. “When will you go to the village?” she did not say, but the question was written clearly for Bear to see—a supposition she confirmed with her deep sigh of relief when he said, “The rain looks as if it is clearing. I’ll go down to the village now, Miss Neatham. I have a few things to buy, and I will check on your father.”
It felt good to stretch his legs. He’d chosen the bed chamber with the largest bed, but the bed was narrow and short for a man of his frame. Still, he’d slept in worse. The mattress was comfortable enough, and the linen clean, if much mended. Evidence of the night’s storm met his eyes all along the road, in deeper puddles and streams, downed tree branches, and flattened crops. He’d be wise to plan for more rain to come, and should buy what they needed while he could.
Miss Neatham had clearly been a provident housekeeper, for the house was fully stocked with all the staples, but they could do with the milk she had mentioned last night and some fresh bread. He’d buy more meat, too. He could not help but draw the conclusion that her financial situation took a dire turn for the worse thanks to Pelman’s intervention on his behalf.
He would have to see how the situation could be corrected. Also, he needed to find out if Mrs. Able was available for another week or so. Otherwise, Miss Neatham would go home to that horrid little hovel and put her ankle at risk by looking after the old man herself.
In the village’s main street, straw had been laid on the worst mud patches, but the steep alley to Miss Neatham’s abode was scoured into treacherous ruts, so he kept to the sides where a few inches of relatively dry ground gave his boots better purchase.
The quavering voice of the old man raised in a shriek distracted him from his focus on his footing. “Help! Murder! Help!” Neatham shouted.
Probably nothing, Bear concluded as he hastened his steps, leaping the puddles on his way to the door. When he burst in the door, not bothering to knock, he heard the sound of a slap, and Miss Pelman’s voice hissing, “Keep your mouth shut, you filthy old man, or you’ll get another one.”
Bear slowed so he could ghost up the stairs, setting each foot down gently but with all haste until he stood in the shadows of the hall, peering into the room where Miss Pelman bent threateningly over the bed where Neatham cowered. The stink of bodily wastes filled the room, and Bear’s heart turned over with pity.
In the corner, Mrs. Able snored, an empty gin bottle lying on its side by her feet. The fire he’d lit the night before was nothing but embers, but the room was warm enough.
“I won’t be cleaning you up, and don’t you think it,” Miss Pelman told him. “Even that fool Gavenor wouldn’t expect it of me. Now eat this breakfast so I can tell him I’ve looked after you.”
“I want my Rosie,” Neatham whimpered.
“Your Rosie is dead, and a good thing too,” Miss Pelman told him. “She was a whore like her sister, and so is her daughter. Hah! Try to hit me, would you? Take that!”
Before she could return Neatham’s ineffectual swing with a blow of her own, Bear moved swiftly into the room and grabbed her raised hand.
“No, Miss Pelman,” he said.
She turned, twisting under his restraining hand, perhaps more quickly than she intended because her face was still contorted in rage before she consciously smoothed it into a polite smile. “Why, Mr. Gavenor. I did not expect you. Have you walked all the way here again? How conscientious you are. I do admire a responsible man.” The simper she tried looked utterly out of place on her face.
“Miss Pelman, I suggest you leave.” He managed to hold on to his temper, but only just.
“Leave, Mr. Gavenor? But I was giving Mr. Neatham his breakfast. I am sorry to say that Mrs. Able is indisposed, and I was sure you would wish me to help out.” She assayed a smile.
Bear took a deep breath. “I have been listening to you abuse this poor, sick man, and I want you out of here.”
“Out,” Mr. Neatham agreed. “Not you, lad. Pelman’s little girl, if that’s who she really is. You can stay, whatever-your-name-is. You’re the boy who was here yesterday. Lord Hurley’s valet. You helped me get dressed.”
Miss Pelman opened her mouth to object, but Bear took a step away from her and roared, “Out!” She jumped and scurried toward the door, saying over her shoulder, “You are making a bad mistake, Mr. Gavenor.”
Left alone with Mr. Neatham and the sleeping Mrs. Able, Bear regarded Mr. Neatham carefully. Now what?
“Lad,” Mr. Neatham said, his voice dropping into a confidential whisper, “Lad, I have a bit of a problem. Hurley and I—we must have dipped a bit deep last night, and I’m
afraid I’ve… Things are a bit of a mess, and my legs don’t seem to want to work.”
It would not be the first time he’d served a friend so. “That’s all right, Mr. Neatham. We’ll have you cleaned up and comfortable in no time.”
He’d left a bucket of water in the fireplace, and when he checked, it remained half full of warm water. Good enough. Now for some rags to wash the old man, and clean clothes to change him into.
Mr. Neatham, happy with his own explanation for Bear’s presence, chatted cheerfully while Bear washed him. “You’re a big fellow. Haven’t been a valet for long, have you? Army, I’m guessing?”
“You would be right, sir. I’ve been army since I was a boy.”
“You’re doing very well, mind,” Neatham reassured him. “And Hurley’s a good man to serve. Pays well, and reasonable in what he asks. What’s your name, lad? I didn’t quite catch it.”
Perhaps the poor soul would retain a simpler name. “Most people call me Bear, sir.” Even his own family, back in the dim past, when he’d been a child. In fact, the nickname had been bestowed by his sister, two years his elder and shorter than him, before he was out of skirts. His mother had told him so, many times. “She called you Bear, because you were big and slow and clumsy. You still are, Bear.”
Mr. Neatham accepted the nickname with a grin that took years off his age. “Bear, is it? Well, I can see why, a big fellow like you.”
***
The rain had set in again before Bear arrived back at Rose Cottage. He’d told the innkeeper’s son, Georgie, whom he’d hired with the gig, the same vague story about Miss Neatham staying in the place where she’d been injured, adding that he’d offered to make sure Neatham was cared for, and was taking the man back to Rose Cottage where Bear’s servants would see to him.
The fabrication was not quite a cloak of respectability, but it was the best he could do, and spoilt as soon as they drew up at the cottage and Miss Neatham looked out the window of the parlor.
With one eye on Georgie, who was attending to the horses, he made shooing motions, and she withdrew into the shadows.
He carried Neatham into the house, taking him into the study and settling him on a couch.
“You make yourself comfortable, Mr. Neatham. I’ll just finish bringing in the luggage.”
The journey had tired the old man, and his eyelids drooped even as Bear left the room. Good. Now, if Miss Neatham could contain her impatience for a short while longer, they might brush through.
Georgie stood in the entrance hall, gaping around, holding the first of the bags and pillowcases that Bear had stuffed with as many of the Neathams’ possessions as he could find. They would not be going back to that hovel, if he had anything to say about it, and he expected the neighbors, starting with Mrs. Able, to lift anything not nailed down as soon as he left the shack.
“Just put them in the corner, Georgie. My man will sort them later.”
The illusion of a house full of servants was probably a lost cause, now that Georgie had set foot inside. He could only hope the youth was both stupid and suggestible.
They trudged in and out of the rain, until the gig was offloaded, and the pathetic heap of belongings sat dripping in its own puddle in the corner.
“Thank you.” Bear handed over the agreed florin, and Georgie took it, bit it, and put it away somewhere about his person. He then put out his hand again.
“Bit more to it, Mr. Gavenor, weren’t there? Reckon another of those would be fair.”
“You have what we agreed, Georgie. I’ve paid your father for the horse and gig, and a florin to you to drive it.”
Bear’s scowl didn’t bother the boy. “Thing is, Mr. Gavenor, I reckon you don’t want me telling folks what I saw as I drove up. Who I saw, I should say. I reckon that’s worth another florin.”
In a moment, the lad was up against the wall, dangling by the throat from Bear’s large hand. “I don’t pay blackmail, young man. You will keep your tongue between your teeth, or I shall find you and rip it out. Do we understand one another?”
He dropped the lad, who choked an agreement and scurried out the door.
Bear sighed. There was not a snowball’s chance in hell that young Georgie would keep the titillating piece of gossip to himself. Bear shrugged. He could do nothing about it.
Chapter Eight
Rosa listened, her ear pressed to the door. Mr. Gavenor would castigate her for not having her foot up, but she wouldn’t mind that. He’d brought Papa here!
Papa’s arrival would not save her reputation, which had been tenuous before someone revived the old rumors about her aunt, and was now in tatters, but his presence eased her mind. She restrained a fever of impatience by the time George from the inn achieved his rapid departure. As soon as she was sure he had really departed, she hobbled into the hall.
“You should have your foot up,” Mr. Gavenor growled.
“How can I ever thank you? How is my father?”
“Sleeping, Miss Neatham. I put him on the couch in the study. If it will make you feel better, you can settle yourself in there while I tidy up a bit.” He glared at the pile of packages in the corner as if their condition represented a personal affront.
She took in the little pile of bags and pillowcases. “Oh dear.”
“Yes.” Mr. Gavenor twisted his mouth and bowed his head. “I am sorry. There was no way to bring them without things getting wet, and I did not trust your neighbors not to break down the door and strip the house bare once I left.”
“Of course. You are right.” Rosa had not meant to sound critical. “I could not be more grateful, and a little water will not hurt.”
He looked up at her from under his brows. “I wrapped the books and put them as safely as I could in your father’s trunk. Anything else that might be damaged by water, too.”
Right. To work then. “Towels to take up the worst of it, and then we can spread the clothes and linens to dry in the spare bedchamber. Fortunately, we do not have a lot.” She reached the heap, lifted the items on top and began to sort them into things that were barely damp, things that could easily be wiped dry, and things that would require wringing out and then hanging.
Mr. Gavenor hovered over her, his hands opening and closing as if he could barely keep himself from picking her up and carting her off to the parlor.
“Miss Neatham, I insist that you sit down. If you must help put all of this to rights, I will bring the things to you.”
“Perhaps you could bring me a chair, then, Mr. Gavenor,” she suggested, “so that we don’t spread puddles through the rest of the house.”
For some reason, her request tickled his sense of humor. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile, and his eyes gleamed before he strode off to the parlor and returned with two chairs. “One for your foot,” he explained, positioning them. “I will fetch some towels.”
“The old patched ones from the bottom shelf, please,” she commanded, and was rewarded with another amused glance.
***
A bossy fairy. He had never imagined such a thing, but he rather liked it. He knew where he stood with Miss Neatham; somewhat higher than Pelman and cockroaches, but considerably lower than her father and the missing goats. She was unlike any Society lady he’d ever met. In fact, if she reminded him of anyone, it was his great aunt, another no-nonsense lady who said what she meant and did not try to cajole or manipulate him. Unless the grumpy note left with her will was manipulation.
“Do not be a fool and avoid marriage just because the examples you have seen are poor. And do not avoid women because of your mother. She was a stupid woman, and a selfish one. She made my nephew unhappy, and she made you miserable. I have left my house to your daughter, great-nephew, so find a decent woman you can be happy with and grow me an heiress. A legitimate child, if you please. I am not encouraging immorality.”
I tried, Aunt Clara. I tried.
The lawyer who had brought him Aunt Clara’s will had explained he could challenge
the provision, since he had neither wife nor child, but Aunt Clara had been the only person in his family to care whether he lived or died, and surely it was not too much for her to ask him to marry. He would have to try again, and he dreaded the idea.
Together, he and Miss Neatham sorted their way through the Neatham’s possessions, him handing her things to fold or to dry, taking others out into the covered porch so he could wring as much water as possible from them.
“I owe you an apology, Miss Neatham,” Bear said, after a while. “I asked Pelman to find me somewhere to stay close to Thorne Hall, which led to you being turned from your home.”
She looked up from the trinket box she wiped, startled. “You did not know I existed, I imagine.”
“I did not. But I know now, and feel some responsibility.”
She tipped her head slightly, her brow creasing. “You have been very kind, Mr. Gavenor, but you are not responsible for me. It seems we must share this roof, at least until I can make other arrangements. Let us just leave it at that. That pile of linen in the buckets? There is a drying rack in the lean-to off the stable. Would you fetch it when next the rain stops, and set it up in the spare bed chamber?”
Bear had expected financial demands, or the command to leave her house immediately, or even (if Pelman’s hints held any truth) a proposition that he take the part of protector, a role into which Pelman had been trying to bully his way. No. That was just a fantasy of his base self. He would lay odds that she was nearly as innocent as she appeared.
Chapter Nine
Over the next three days, they fell into a routine. Mr. Gavenor refused to allow Rosa to look after her father at night, but carried them both downstairs to the parlor each morning. Rosa sat close enough to attend to the invalid when he needed a drink or to have his chin wiped, to talk or read to him, to continue with the sewing in the work basket Mr. Gavenor had carried home on his first trip, and to carry out the little tasks she begged Mr. Gavenor for while her father slept.
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