Gallant Waif

by Anne Gracie

  Jack froze, his breath caught in his chest. Slowly he straightened. His hand crept up to his right cheek, to where she had touched him. As they had done a thousand times before, his fingers traced the path of the ugly scar.

  He grimaced and left the room.

  The thunder of galloping hooves woke Kate at dawn next morning. She stared around the strange room, gathering her thoughts. It was a large chamber. The once rich furnishings were faded, dusty and worn.

  She sat up, surprised to find herself fully clad except for her shoes. How did she get here? She recalled some of the previous night, but some of it didn't make sense. It was a frightening, familiar feeling.

  Kate could have sworn she saw her brother Jemmy last night. She vaguely remembered his poor, ravaged face look­ing intently into hers. Only that could not be, for Jemmy lay cold and deep in a field in Spain. Not here in Lady Cahill's grandson's house. She got out of bed and walked to the win­dow, shivering in the early morning chill.

  The view was beautiful, bare and bleak. The ground glit­tered silver-gilt with sun-touched frost. Nothing moved, ex­cept for a few hardy birds twittering in the pale morning sunlight. Immediately below her window was a stretch of rough grass. A trail of hoof prints broke the silvery surface of the frost.

  Her eyes followed the trail and widened as she saw a riderless horse galloping free, saddled, reins dangling around its neck. It seemed to be heading towards a small forest of oaks. It must have escaped its restraints. She could sympa­thise. She too would love to be out in that clear, crisp air, galloping towards the forest, free and wild in the chill of dawn. How she missed her little Spanish mare and her early morning rides, that feeling of absolute exhilaration as the wind streamed through her as if she were flying. Dawn was the only time she could ride as fast and as wildly as she liked. Her father was never an early riser.

  Turning, Kate caught a glimpse of herself in the glass that hung on one wall. She giggled. It looked as if she'd been dragged through a haystack backwards. Wild brown curls tumbled in every direction. The veriest gypsy urchin—how many times had she been called that? Swiftly she pulled out the remaining pins from her hair and redid it in her customary simple style. She brushed down her clothes, pulling a wry face at the wrinkles. She looked around for a pitcher of water with which to wash, but there was nothing in sight.

  Walking softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping household, she left her room and went downstairs in search of the kitchen. There was not a soul around. A house of this size should surely have many servants up and about their duties at this hour, in preparation for when their master woke.

  The more she saw, the more Kate goggled with surprise. What kind of establishment had Lady Cahill brought her to? The floors were gritty underfoot. Dustballs drifted along skirting boards and under furniture. The furniture, no longer fashionable, was covered in a thick layer of dust. The early morning sunshine was barely able to penetrate the few grime-encrusted windows which were not shrouded by faded curtain drapery. She shuddered at the number of cobwebs she saw festooned across every corner—she loathed spiders. Every­thing spoke of neglect and abandonment, yet the house was, apparently, inhabited.

  This shabby, dirty, rambling house did not at all fit in with the impression given to her by Lady Cahill's manner, clothes, and servants. It was her grandson's home. Why did he not command the same sort of elegant living his grandmother so obviously took for granted? Kate shrugged. The mystery would be solved sooner or later; in the meantime she needed hot water and something to eat.

  Finally Kate discovered the kitchen. She looked around in disgust. The place was a pigsty. The floor hadn't been swept in weeks, there was no fire burning in the grate and cold ashes mingled with the detritus on the floor. The remains of past meals had been inadequately cleared away and piles of dirty dishes lay in the scullery.

  It might be the oddest gentleman's establishment she'd ever had the doubtful privilege of visiting, but here was one way she could earn the large breakfast she planned to eat. Kate rolled up her sleeves and set to work. It was ironic, she thought, clearing the ashes from the grate and setting a new fire—the misdeeds of her youth had given her the one truly feminine skill she possessed.

  The only time Reverend Farleigh had spoken to his hoydenish daughter had been when she'd misbehaved. Kate's crimes had been many and various: climbing trees; riding astride—bareback—hitting cricket balls through windows; coming home in a straggle of mud with skinned knees, tan­gled hair and a string of illegal fish. Her father had soon learned it was not enough to confine his wild and errant daughter to her bedchamber—she simply climbed out of the window. He'd learned it was more effective to give her into the custody of the housekeeper, who'd set her to work, clean­ing and cooking.

  The youthful Kate had despised the work, but years later she'd become grateful for knowledge generally considered unnecessary and unbecoming to a girl of her class. It had proven invaluable. Most girls of her station in life would have recoiled with genteel disgust at the task she faced, but Kate's experiences in the Peninsula War had inured her to the hor­rors of filth and squalor.

  This kitchen was nothing compared to some of the un­speakable hovels where she and her father and brothers had been billeted during Wellington's campaigns. In those hovels, the Vicar's impossible daughter had discovered an ability to create a clean and comfortable environment for her family, wherever they were. And had glowed in the knowledge that for once she, Kate, had been truly needed.

  Her skills were needed here, too, she could see.

  Almost an hour and a half later Kate looked around the room with some satisfaction. The kitchen now looked clean, though the floor could do with a good scrub. She'd washed, dried and put away all the crockery, glasses, pots and pans. She'd used sand, soap and water to scrub the table and benches. And she'd even taken her courage in both hands, tackling the worst spiderwebs and killing two spiders with a broom. A fire now burned merrily in the grate and a huge iron kettle steamed gently. She poured hot water into a bowl in the scullery and swiftly made her ablutions.

  A rapid search of the provision shelves unearthed a dozen or so eggs. Kate checked them for freshness, putting them in a large bowl of water to see if they sank to the bottom. One floated; she tossed it out. A flitch of bacon she found hanging up in the cool room. And, joy of joys, a bag of coffee beans. Kate hugged them to her chest. It had been months since she had tasted coffee.

  She roasted the beans over the fire, then used a mortar and pestle to crush them, inhaling the aroma delightedly as she did so. She mixed them with water and set it over the fire to heat. She sizzled some fat in a pan, then added two thick rashers of bacon and an egg.

  The floor did need scrubbing, Kate decided. She would do it after breakfast. She went to the scullery to fetch a large can of water to heat. The largest can she could find was wedged under a shelf, stuck fast. She tugged and pulled and cursed under her breath, then the heavenly aromas of bacon, egg and coffee reached her nostrils. Oh, no! Her breakfast would be ruined! She raced into the kitchen and came to a sudden halt.

  Lady Cahill's grandson sat at the table, his back and broad shoulders partly towards her. He was tucking into her break­fast with every evidence of enjoyment.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Kate gasped crossly.

  He didn't stop eating. "I'll have another two eggs and four rashers of bacon. And some more of that excellent coffee, if you would be so good." He lifted his empty cup without even turning to face her.

  Kate stared in growing indignation.

  "More coffee, girl, didn't you hear me?" He snapped his fingers impatiently, still not bothering to turn around.

  Arrogance obviously ran in the family too! "There's only enough for one more cup," she said.

  "That's all I want." He finished the last bite of bacon.

  "Oh, is it, indeed?" Kate said, pulling a face at his im­pervious back. The exquisite scent of the coffee had been tantalising her for long enough. She'd cleaned
and washed his filthy kitchen. All morning her mouth had been watering in anticipation of bacon and eggs and coffee. And he'd just walked in and without so much as a by-your-leave had de­voured the lot!

  "There's only enough for me," she said. "You'll have to wait. I'll make a fresh pot in a few minutes."

  He swung around to face her. "What the deuce do you mean—only enough for you?"

  Jack was outraged. To his recollection, he'd never even heard a kitchen maid speak, let alone answer him back in such a damned impertinent manner. And yet who else would cook and scrub at this hour of the morning?

  She stared defiantly back at him, hands on hips, cheeks flushed, soft pink lips pursed stubbornly. One hand moved possessively towards the coffee pot and her small chin jutted pugnaciously. She was a far cry from the pale, exhausted girl he'd met by candlelight the night before.

  Despite his annoyance, his mouth twitched with amuse­ment—there was a wide smear of soot reaching from her cheek to her temple. She stared him down like a small grubby duchess. Her eyes weren't grey, after all, but a sort of greeny-grey, quite unusual. He felt his breath catch for a moment as he stared into them, and then realised she was examining his own face just as intently. He stiffened, half turned away from her, keeping his scarred side to the wall, and unconsciously braced himself for her reaction.

  She poured the last of the coffee into her own cup and proceeded to sip it, with every evidence of enjoyment.

  Jack was flabbergasted. He was not used to being ig­nored—let alone by a dowdy little maidservant with a dirty face. And in his own kitchen! He opened his mouth to deliver a crashing reprimand, but she met his eye again and some­thing held him back.

  "I think I've earned it, don't you?" She gestured at the sparkling kitchen.

  He frowned again. What else did kitchen maids do but clean and scrub? Did the chit expect to be thanked? Did she realise who she was addressing? He opened his mouth to inform her, then hesitated uncertainly, a novel sensation for Major Carstahrs, late of the Coldstream Guards.

  How the devil did one introduce oneself to a kitchen maid? Servants knew who one was, and acted accordingly. But this one didn't seem to know the rules. And somehow it just didn't seem right to roar at this pert little urchin when only a few hours before he had held her in his arms and felt just how frail she was. Despite her effrontery.

  He cleared his throat. "Do you know who I am?"

  "Lady Cahill's grandson, Mr Carstairs, I presume?"

  He grunted.

  Why had he mentioned it? Kate looked gravely at the tall dark man leaning back in his chair. He didn't look particu­larly out of place in the kitchen, sprawled at the large scrubbed table, his long booted legs crossed in front of him. He was very handsome, she realised. Maybe he felt it would not be appropriate to eat in here with her when they had not been properly introduced.

  "Would you rather I brought your breakfast to another room? A breakfast parlour, perhaps?"

  His scowl deepened. "I'll eat it here." Long brown fingers started to drum out an impatient tattoo on the wooden surface of the table.

  "Please try to be patient. I'll finish my coffee, then cook enough bacon and eggs for both of us."

  Jack stared at her, debating whether to dismiss her in­stantly or wait until she'd cooked the rest of his breakfast. The egg had been cooked just how he liked it, the bacon had been crisped to perfection and she did make the best coffee he'd tasted in months. But he was not some scrubby school­boy, as she seemed to imagine—he was the master of the house!

  Jack's lips twitched with reluctant amusement. His man­servant's cooking had, he perceived ruefully, seriously un­dermined his authority and his resolution. The men in his brigade would have boggled at his acceptance of this little chit's effrontery, but they had neither drunk her coffee nor looked into those speaking grey-green eyes. Nor had they carried her up a flight of stairs and felt the fragile bones and known she had been starving. He couldn't dismiss her—he could as soon rescue a half-drowned kitten then kick it.

  She sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. He stiff­ened awkwardly as her gaze fixed on his face.

  "So," she said, "it was you in my bedchamber last night."

  His mouth tightened abruptly, his face dark with bitter cyn­icism. What was she going to accuse him of?

  “When I woke up this morning I couldn't quite remember how I got to bed. I thought I remembered seeing Jemmy, but now that I see you, of course, that explains it."

  Kate didn't notice the stiffening of his body and the way his eyes turned to flint.

  "Jemmy caught a bayonet wound, too, in just the same place, only his became terribly infected. Yours has healed beautifully, hasn't it?"

  She stood up, stretched luxuriously and smiled. "Isn't cof­fee wonderful? I feel like a new woman, so I'll forgive your barefaced breakfast piracy and cook some more for both of us."

  He stared at her in stunned silence. Who the devil was this impertinent, shabby, amazingly self-possessed girl with the wide, lovely eyes? And how could she recognise a bayonet wound and, what was more, refer to his shattered cheek so calmly when every other blasted female who had laid eyes on it had shuddered in horror, or wept, or ostentatiously avoided looking at him? He had the evidence of his own mirror that it was not a pretty sight.

  And, he thought, watching her slight body move compe­tently around the kitchen, who the devil was this Jemmy she kept mentioning? Jemmy with the scars, who was not, ap­parently, out of place in her bedchamber!

  They were just finishing the last bacon and eggs and cof­fee, when the outside door opened and in walked a dark, stockily built man. He took one comprehensive look at Kate and smiled, a dazzling white smile which lit his swarthy face.

  "Senorita.''

  Kate smiled slightly and inclined her head. He sniffed the air and let out a long, soulful sigh. "Ah, coffee."

  Kate chuckled. "Would you care for a cup, sir?"

  "The senorita is very kind." The white smile widened in the dark face and he bowed again.

  Kate dimpled. “Then please be seated, sir, and I will fetch you a cup directly." She went to fetch the coffee pot.

  The two men began to converse in Spanish. Kate slowly stiffened. Three years in Spain and Portugal had resulted in a certain amount of fluency in both languages. She could understand every word the men said. And she was not im­pressed.

  "So, Major Jack, who is the little brown mouse with the pretty eyes, the terrible clothes and the dirty face?"

  Kate peered at her reflection in a spoon, then scrubbed at her face with a clean dishcloth.

  "Damned if I know, Carlos. Some servant of my grand­mother's." His tone was indifferent, bored.

  A chair scraped on the floor and footsteps came towards her. Kate bent over the pots, then jumped nervously as a warm hand touched her lightly on the shoulder. She turned quickly and found a pair of dark blue eyes regarding her from a great height, a glimmer of amusement in their depths. Did he find it amusing to give her a fright? Or had he noticed the clean face? She blushed.

  "If you would be so good. . ." He waved her aside, bent, took a burning twig from the fire, lit a cheroot and returned to the table, limping heavily.

  "Jumpy, isn't she, the little mouse?" said Carlos in Span­ish.

  Kate could almost feel the shrug of the broad shoulders. "Skinny too."

  "Probably hasn't had a square meal in a good few weeks," the deep voice agreed. "I don't know what my grandmother could want with such a little waif."

  Kate flushed in mortification. Was it that obvious?

  Carlos continued, "Pretty, though. Those eyes are beauti­ful. Needs some meat on her bones yet. Me, I like a woman to feel like a woman."

  Jack Carstairs grunted. "You think too much about women."

  "Ah, Major Jack, do not say so, you, with your fine hand­some face and wicked blue eyes that all the ladies sigh over."

  Jack's hand went unconsciously to the shattered cheek.

  "Ah, Major Jack,
that little scratch will never make you safe from the ladies' attentions. It will only—"

  "Hold your tongue, Carlos," Jack snapped brusquely.

  There was a short silence. Kate pushed some more sticks into the fire, her face rosy.

  "Yes," Carlos continued, "that little bird is as flat as a board at the moment, but with some of your good solid En­glish beef in her the curves will grow—oh, yes, they will grow most deliciously."

  His soft laughter washed over Kate's rigid body. How dared they discuss her like that? She was no innocent, not any longer, but they did not know it.

  No one who had travelled with an army could retain the total innocence of men that was so necessary for an unmar­ried English lady. Still, for most of that time she'd had the protection of her father and brothers and the broader protec­tion of the soldiers who knew them. Kate had walked freely among the troops, tending wounds, writing letters to loved ones and doling out soup and cheerful greetings, secure in the knowledge that not one of them would offer her the sort of insult that she was now having to endure in the home of a so-called English gentleman! Even if it was in a foreign tongue.

  Of course, given how she had left the Peninsula, she should be inured to this sort of insult by now—but these men knew nothing of that. And she was not inured to insult and never would be!

  Carlos's voice penetrated her consciousness again. "And when those curves do grow, Major Jack, I will be there to worship them. I, Carlos Miguel Riviera."

  "That's enough!" Jack's voice was suddenly harsh. "You'll do no such thing."

  "Ah, Major Jack. . ." the other smiled with dawning com­prehension ". . .you fancy the little mouse yourself, do you?"

  "Not at all," snapped Jack furiously. "I have no interest in tumbling scrawny kitchen maids. But I won't have you sniffing around her. She's. . .she's my grandmother's servant and you're not to go near her, understand?"