“What on earth are you doing, Mr. Mason?” Miss Doyle regarded his actions.
He smiled, feeling caught out. “I thought I might have had some biscuits. We have been traveling until yesterday. I secreted them away.”
“His mood turns foul if he does not get to eat,” said Nigel. “As such you’re very likely to find an apple or some other small victual on his person.”
Her expression softened but did not blossom into a smile. She said, “I cannot fault you for that. And there seems to be rather a lot for you to feed. The meals would need to go much farther for you than they do me.” As though shocked at her own forthrightness, she brought fingers to her lips. “Pardon me. I have not spoken to another soul for days.”
Despite himself, Charles laughed. She was both beautiful and quick-witted.
The sound appeared to unnerve her.
“It is quite all right. Look, if the thought of sitting indoors does not appeal, we could venture into the garden. I saw space for a fire.”
He was sure that an area near the garden had once been devoted to a bonfire for some purpose or other. It was so cold that the temperature was nearly the same inside and out. Wherever they ended up having their conversation, a fire would be necessary.
“I…” she was uncertain for the first time in their sight. “I do not wish to be seen by anyone.”
“It is still quite early,” said Nigel. “And this is such a desolate village. How many live here?”
“But a fire might draw people.”
Charles took a step closer to her and she sprang back.
That, paired with her unexplained presence in his father’s house, made him fear the worst.
People do not hide themselves away, he thought, without reason. In particular, a woman probably would not do it unless she had no other choice.
He held up his hands in surrender and kept his eyes fixed on hers. “Whatever has happened to you, perhaps we can help.”
In the guttering light thrown by a woefully short candle stub, he watched her hesitate. “I do not know if you can.”
“Neither will we, unless we learn more.”
“I fear it may not sway you to my cause.”
Hands still up, Charles tried again to take a step in her direction. Behind her was a wall with some wooden shelves for kitchen wares. This time, she did not startle.
“Give us the chance to decide for ourselves,” he said.
He trusted her with an abrupt certainty. More than that, he had encountered all manner of people who, for one reason or another, felt cornered. Some of them did not merit empathy and were mired in circumstances brought about by their own arrogance or malice. He thought of his old employer.
But there were some who merely needed to be met with kindness. He thought of his present employer and his lady wife.
“Why should I trust you?”
He huffed a gentle laugh. “You have no reason to trust either of us at all. But I think you’d like a full stomach and a chance to bathe.”
The latter thought was inappropriately intriguing. He pushed aside the thought of her nude in bathwater.
Her resolve ebbed.
“It has to be a better prospect than sitting here in the dark by yourself,” said Nigel, from closer to the door. He had often followed Charles’ lead in most things, wishing to emulate his big brother. Charles was thankful that he did so now. Miss Doyle had nowhere to go, but he did not want her to bolt. “We can go to the inn and perhaps Mr. Lester can oblige us. That’s much better than a fire out of doors in this weather. Then we may become better acquainted over a meal.”
Charles nodded. He still looked at Miss Doyle. There was no flicker of recognition in her face at the mention of Mr. Lester. The way she spoke made her sound as though she was from nearby. If she was hiding, that quality might hinder her efforts. He was pleased that the name did not seem to faze her. “What do you think, Miss Doyle?”
She did not answer him for a moment.
Then, she said, “Very well, Mr. Mason.”
Chapter Eight
Moving out in the open felt like a threat. But she tried her best to appear calm. Just because she was going with these strange men to the local inn did not mean she had kelp for brains.
Really, if anyone did see the three of them, they would be the ones who would fall under suspicion first. They were dressed in travel clothes and she was certain that she looked as though she had been kept in someone’s cellar for six months. Any logical person might believe she was being abducted.
Now there was an idea. She might be able to go back to the Danvers without harm to her reputation if she claimed these men had taken her. Of course, that opened up the potential for a different kind of damage to her reputation—but if fate continued to treat her as it had before, the prospect of marriage would not be part of her future. She would not need to worry about everyone believing she had been compromised by rascals.
No, I cannot do that, she thought. She could not stop her mind from jumping from topic to topic, but she did not have to fuel such unethical thoughts about lying. Although she did not know them, Mr. Maclean and Mr. Mason had been nothing but decent.
She would run from them if she had to but, for the moment, she would be patient. Besides, as she stood near Mr. Mason, she had to acknowledge the pull between them. She knew it was not because he was the first person to be kind to her in a fortnight. This was different. It felt inevitable.
They reached the inn after a quick walk from the house, and she recognized it from when she had arrived.
Walking slightly ahead of her and Mr. Mason, Mr. Maclean said over his shoulder, “I shall inform Mr. Lester of our—his—third guest.”
If she were not mistaken, he viewed this as some kind of adventure. He appeared a handful of years older than her. He was no more than thirty.
Mr. Mason was more subdued in comparison, but she would not guess he was much older than that.
Mr. Maclean hurried inside.
Florence hated that her walking was curtailed by her own fatigue. It seemed her legs were as tired as the rest of her. Perhaps it was the lack of food.
But Mr. Mason slowed with her. For a man with such long legs, it must have been awkward to slow his pace or narrow his gait.
Some small and untended part of her did appreciate the little gesture of courtesy.
“You can tell us as little or as much as you wish,” said Mason, turning his head toward her, gazing down into her face. His burnt umber eyes were somber. She inferred that he had witnessed his fair share of the world, for his calm demeanor could have only come from experience.
It was not the sort of thing that could be earned without struggle.
However, she had no doubt he felt the attraction between them, too. Now that they had paused in walking, he studied her lips, eyes flickering across her face. His own parted and the tip of his tongue strayed to his lower lip.
Under other conditions, she would have been gratified and intrigued. Right now, those feelings vied with her exhaustion and trepidation. She could not be dreaming of kissing.
“I worry that it will not seem urgent to either of you.” With a sigh, she said, “I have wondered a handful of times in the last fortnight whether I am justified at all in my actions, or I behaved too impulsively. I may have ruined my own future, never mind Mr. Danvers ruining it.”
She had said too much. She blinked at Mr. Mason. His expression allowed for a hint of pity.
They went inside before he spoke. “Then, we shall try to help you sort through things until you decide what is right.”
She warmed to the thought.
The way she’d uttered “Mr. Danvers” spoke more eloquently than any of her words.
Perhaps because he had been thinking of his own father and mother’s potential circumstances, he was quickly hostile to this Mr. Danvers.
It seemed plain enough to him that she was hiding from someone who had taken advantage of her. He had seen enough of the prior duke’s con
quests to understand her desperation.
Should I have Mr. Lester send for a doctor? he thought. A healer? He was sure there was someone, or several someones, who could tend to ailments and injuries. The question was how quickly they could arrive.
Aside from that, he had to remember that Miss Doyle wanted no one to know where she was. He did not seriously think that anyone was seeking her, or she would have been found. But she was scared and that fear had to be treated with compassion.
She might also be insulted if he called for a physician.
He looked at her as unobtrusively as he was able. The winter light cast her in far better illumination than the old bit of candle that she had somehow managed to light. Under dust, her hair was an amber tone. The dress she’d clearly been wearing since she absconded was a darker fawn than he’d thought. Or it was just soiled.
She had no winter coat—she might not have fled without one, but she had forgotten to wear it outside in the unexpected arrival of two strange men—so he’d given up his own. It draped around her frame with much room to spare both in width and length.
Miss Doyle only took it after demurring that she was not so cold. But Charles would not have allowed her to decline it. In the dress and a plain bonnet, she was shivering.
As soon as she began displaying such discomfort, it became obvious to him that he would do anything to alleviate it.
He hadn’t reacted that way to a woman before, and his duties left him with little time to entertain someone. Besides, in spite of thinking about what he might be like as a husband and father, he’d never seriously thought about marriage.
That, on this late December morning in a place far from his own customs and routines, seemed patently short-sighted of him.
Without warning, his heart had decided for his brain that he’d protect – and wanted to have – this woman.
Chapter Nine
“You’d best eat slowly,” Mr. Lester had said to her, after Mr. Maclean had explained in brief her reason for being there all alone.
An hour after eating more than she had for days, she saw his point. It was either that she was full, or that she was warm. Her body felt vaguely ill.
She tried to retain straight posture as she and her newfound champions, Mr. Mason and Mr. Maclean, conversed in the inn’s sitting room. It offered a view of the little bay outside, but more rain obstructed the sight. On a clear day, it would have been beautiful.
“We have told you why we came here,” said Nigel. His eyebrows rose. He was trying to lead her to tell her story. She now knew briefly of their family situation and had new sympathy for Mr. Mason, who sat to her left. Without wishing it to be obvious, she looked at him without turning her head.
She wondered if he took after his late father, for Mr. Maclean was pale with light hair and gray eyes. The differences in their statures was marked. Still, she saw similar ways of moving and speaking, although Mr. Mason had an accent amalgamated from where he’d settled. Perhaps he did not want to sound like he was from Glasgow.
Then there was the matter of what he had done for a living before he’d become a valet.
She would bet her eyeteeth that he was not the usual type—she had not spent time around any titled people, but she’d been around enough servants and hired staff to listen to those who had.
Valets simply did not look like Mr. Mason. They also did not carry themselves with the grace of… an assassin who is never caught, she thought.
“I will say,” she said to Mr. Maclean, “that it was not for a pleasant reason.”
“Well, that is clear,” he said.
She glowered.
“I think what my brother means to say is that we understand that you are desperate,” said Mr. Mason. He seemed used to playing the diplomat.
Far from mollified, but soothed, she said, “My village is not far from this one. I grew up in this area.” They were rapt upon every word she said. “When something… happened to me, I thought that I could hide in Ullinn House because it has a reputation. Even before it was empty, there were rumors of a ghost.” Florence did not wish to speak on that very much.
She did not believe it for an instant but, all the same, it was not respectful of the living to blether on about it.
“Then,” she said, “after Mr. Mason passed, I heard that no one was living there and that Mr. Mason’s man of business was struggling to locate his heir.”
“So you… deduced that it could still be a hiding place. Protected by superstition and circumstance,” said Nigel.
She nodded and perceived that the floor tilted a little with the movement of her head. She ignored the sensation. “Yes. I didn’t expect to be there for longer than a few days, but to tell the truth, I was… taken by… fear and… melancholy. I did not know what to do. I’ve no family to return to, and my bosom friend is still in our village, but she has a family of her own now. Times are rather bleak, as you may guess from the state of…” she glanced at the worn beams above their heads. “Well, everything. I dare not impose upon Mary.”
She did not add that Mary might face consequences for harboring her, even if it was worrying over how to feed her.
Mr. Mason listened. When she finished speaking, he said, “I shall help you. We shall.”
“How?” she asked. She did not mean to sound so brusque and rude. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“I hardly think it’s something you’ve done.”
The words were a quiet, protective reassurance that would have fit a lover rather than an acquaintance that looked so lost as her.
They made Mr. Maclean peer at his brother.
Florence could not quite tell what Mr. Maclean was thinking or what he saw in Mr. Mason’s face, but she gleaned that it was singular.
“Of course,” said Mr. Maclean. “The house. How long do you think it would take for someone to make it habitable?”
Mr. Mason deferred to her, of all people. “You have spent more time in it than me,” he said. “What’s the state of the place? Structurally, I mean. If it is sound, I’m sure we could ask Mr. Lester if he can recommend someone to clean at least a handful of the rooms.”
Stunned that he asked her, Florence said, “I did not make a full tour, but nothing seems compromised. There was no damp or rot that I saw.”
“Good, then I see no reason why we might not make use of it if we can. Failing that,” said Mr. Mason to Mr. Maclean, “we can stay here.”
With indignation supplanting her shock, Florence said, “Wait, you cannot expect that I shall reside with two men who are not family and still—”
“Perhaps we were family friends, Miss Doyle. If the Masons and the Doyles are both local.”
Mr. Mason was teasing in that wry way of his again. She shuffled closer to him as though compelled by a string tied between them. “It may be all right for you not to think about the implications…”
“But?” said he, raising his black eyebrows. “I do not think we have much of a choice. Even if you wished to return to Glasgow with us, you couldn’t walk here from Ullinn House without tiring. We would have to wait.”
“It… it is nearly the new year. Surely you cannot delay with a stranger at such a festive time.”
“Until I received news that I was to inherit something, I planned on spending it entirely alone.”
The thought saddened her, not that she knew why.
Florence felt Mr. Maclean’s eyes on her, on them.
She did not take hers from Mr. Mason’s. “Oh. Well, I don’t suppose it is the same in England. Mr. Danvers’ wife is from—” She stopped speaking when his name left her lips and Mr. Mason’s face was ominous as overhead thunder. “My employer’s wife is from York. She said that when she first married and moved to her husband’s home, the amount of effort spent on the new year, on Hogmanay, instead of anything else was surprising.”
“We aren’t going to send or take you anywhere until you have recovered somewhat.”
She tried something else. “What of
your work? The duke?”
“I’m sure I’ll be missed but he has an entire household. I shall write to him immediately. Besides, your concern does you credit, but I expected to be gone at least three weeks.”
This Lord Valencourt must have indeed been generous. She shook her head again. Now the room, as well as the floor, spun. “I am not an invalid.”
“No, Miss Doyle,” said Mr. Maclean. “But I suspect that you have been through much. Whether or not you believe it is so.”
She almost managed a reply, but her tongue was unexpectedly, impossibly heavy. It would not work.
Her eyes seemed to close, or the room became shadowed.
The last thing she recalled thinking as she slumped toward Mr. Mason, who was still sitting quite close, was, I hope he does not think I am being weak. Or brazen.
Chapter Ten
“Charles, what happens if someone she knows comes looking for her?” He was too busy thinking to reply quickly enough for his brother’s taste. Nigel refrained from snapping his fingers under Charles’ nose, but he leaned across the dining table for emphasis. “It may not happen, but it could. Her friend, perhaps. The one she mentioned. Mary, if that was what she said the name was.”
It had been at least two weeks since she’d been heard from, so Charles knew Nigel thought he had a point. Charles disagreed. “I do not think she is important enough. To be frank. I think there’s simply one more man out there with hurt pride and a black heart. You know Miss Doyle is not rich. There’s no reason to assume she’s being followed or… hunted.”
The thought made his temper much shorter.
“That’s true,” said Nigel.
“Yes. We should defer to her. Her fear is real, even if the logic is not sound.”
Nigel nodded, taking this in. “Do you think she is all right? Physically.”
“She…”
They looked at each other. It was not a pleasant topic, but Charles saw what Nigel insinuated.
“She got away before anything dire could happen,” said a quiet woman’s voice.
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 82