Gallant Waif

by Anne Gracie

  "Of course I will help you, child. Try to put the whole horrid business behind you. You found yourself in a difficult situation, but you conducted yourself with honour as a true Christian lady. I am sure that both your father and your mother would have been very proud of you. I know I am."

  Tears spilled from Kate's eyes. Kindness, she suddenly found, was so much harder to withstand than cruelty. The old woman gathered the girl into her arms and held her tightly for a moment or two.

  "Lady Cahill, you see—"

  "I see nothing at all at the moment," Lady Cahill inter­rupted, wiping her eyes. “This dratted face paint has run and I refuse to do or say another word until it is repaired. Fetch my maid to me, and in the meantime go and wash your face and comb your hair. Return to me in twenty minutes."

  Kate stared at her, dumbfounded. Suddenly laughter began to well up inside her and she sat back and laughed until the tears came again.

  Sympathy and warm, wicked humour gleamed back at her from the admittedly smudged face of the old woman. "That's right, my girl. A good cry and a good laugh. That's what the doctor ordered. Now," she continued briskly, "fetch Smith­ers to me and go and wash your face. You look a sight!"

  Later that afternoon Kate helped the old lady climb into her travelling chaise, and stood in the driveway, waving her off. Lady Cahill had promised to "do what I can to help Maria's gel', and Kate felt sure that she would find her a position as a children's nurse in some quiet, pleasant house­hold.

  In return, Kate's job was relatively simple—she had to put Mr Jack Carstairs's house in order. That was well within her capabilities. She might not enjoy housework very much, but there was no doubt that Sevenoakes was badly in need of attention, and there would be real satisfaction gained from restoring a ramshackle house to a graceful residence. And her old nurse, Martha, was to come and live here. That would be wonderful, thought Kate. Martha was a dear and would keep Kate from feeling too lonely. Martha had also known and loved Jemmy and Ben.

  Moreover, Kate thought, mentally ticking off her advan­tages, she was surrounded by lovely countryside and could go for long rambles whenever she wanted to. In fact, she could do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted to. She was her own mistress and she meant to enjoy that rare free­dom while she had it. And she was needed.

  Kate had no doubt whatsoever that Lady Cahill's grandson needed her skills, and that once he saw how much easier his life would be with Kate as housekeeper he would be grateful. Perhaps she could also use her healing skills—possibly even help him to strengthen his injured leg and reduce that dread­ful limp. They might even become friends, she thought op­timistically. To be sure, he had proved a trifle autocratic and difficult to get along with at first, but that was largely her own fault for teasing and tricking him.

  Kate felt sure that Jack Carstairs would prove to be exactly like Papa and the boys and all the other men she had ever known—as long as his surroundings were clean and com­fortable and his stomach was full of good cooking, he wouldn't care what she did.

  Carlos grinned as he heard the sound of his master's voice raised yet again, this time from the direction of the breakfast-room. He crept closer to peer in at the open window.

  "I've told you before, I won't have you scrubbing floors!" The deep, angry voice was raised in frustration.

  "Ah, yes, I'd forgotten your preference for dirt." Kate's voice was dry.

  "Oh, don't be ridiculous!" snapped Jack.

  "Then what would you have me do?" she retorted crossly. "You can see for yourself that these floors need scrubbing. Someone must do it and you know perfectly well that Martha is too old to do such a task. I am young and strong and, no matter what you may say, if something needs scrubbing, then I will scrub."

  "It is not fitting!"

  "Now you are being ridiculous!" Kate said, exasperated. "Tell me, what is fitting for a housekeeper? When I take down the curtains to wash them, you roar and forbid me to do it! If I clean the windows, so I can see out of them instead of gazing at a view of dirt, you appear out of nowhere and bellow that it is not for me to be doing that! Your interference is quite insupportable! Please, Mr Carstairs, go away and let me get on with my work!"

  "I said, I will not have you scrubbing! Look at you, you're a mess! You've got dirt on your chin, a smudge of something else on your nose and your hair is falling all over the place!"

  "Oh, yes, mock me for doing honest work!" Kate scrubbed furiously at her face with one hand, dashing curls from her eyes with the other.

  "You missed a spot." He reached out and flicked her small tip-tilted nose, his lips twitching with reluctant amuse­ment.

  Kate made an infuriated noise and returned to her scrub­bing, ignoring the man standing in front of her.

  "I said I won't have you scrubbing."

  Carlos grinned. He knew that tone. There would be fireworks if Senorita Kate didn't do as she was bid. He moved closer for a better view, then ducked hastily as a bucket was flung through the window.

  "Oh, for goodness' sake!" exclaimed Kate. "How very childish!"

  Carlos's eyes widened. To answer back to Major Jack! In that mood! And call him childish! Carlos cautiously raised his head to look in again, then ducked as he noticed his master striding towards the window. Desperate not to be caught eavesdropping, he dived into a nearby bush.

  "Carlos!" yelled Jack, thrusting his head out of the win­dow. "Carlos!"

  "Er. . .si, Major Jack," mumbled Carlos, sheepishly emerging from the bush.

  "What the devil are you doing down there?"

  Carlos opened his mouth. "Er. . ."

  "Oh, never mind. There's a bucket out there somewhere. Fetch it and fill it with hot water. Then get in here and scrub this floor. On the double!"

  Carlos's mouth drooped. "Si, si, Major Jack, at once," he muttered. Scrubbing! Again! Dolefully he fetched the bucket and headed for the scullery. Scrubbing was no job for a man! Senorita Kate wanted to do it, so why did Major Jack not let her do it?

  "On the double, I said!" came the bellow from the win­dow.

  "Si, si, at once, Major Jack." Carlos scurried away to do his master's bidding.

  Kate got to her feet. She could not scrub without water, and in truth she would be relieved to have Carlos do it—she loathed scrubbing. In any case, she could do nothing while Jack Carstairs stood guard over the scrubbing brush.

  She glared at his handsome profile, in two minds about his bossiness. He had no business interfering with her work. On the other hand, he kept saving her from chores she hated. It was very confusing. Papa and the boys never minded what she did. Jack Carstairs was almost a stranger, and yet he was oddly. . .she could only call it protective.

  That reminded her. "Er. . .Mr Carstairs," she said diffi­dently.

  "What the devil do you want now?"

  "I. . .I want to thank you."

  Jack's head whipped around in amazement.

  "Yesterday I found Carlos in my room."

  Jack's brows snapped together.

  "He said it was on your orders."

  Suddenly Jack knew what she was going to say. "Oh, that," he mumbled gruffly, and turned to go.

  Her hand on his arm stopped him. "He was there to clean away all the cobwebs and kill any spiders. And I believe you told him to do the same with all the other rooms. It was a very kind and thoughtful gesture and it would be remiss of me not to thank you, and I do so, very much."

  Jack felt a rush of warmth as he looked down at the sweet face. He gazed into the clear eyes and felt the soft pressure of her hand on his arm. He could smell that faint elusive scent she had, unlike any lady's perfume he knew of, but oddly familiar, nevertheless.

  “What is the name of that perfume you wear?'' he asked abruptly.

  Kate dropped his arm and stepped back a little. Jack was annoyed to see a faint trace of wariness in her eyes.

  "I wear no perfume. I cannot afford it."

  "But I can smell it whenever I stand close to you, some faint fragrance.
"

  Kate blushed slightly. "It's only rosemary."

  "Who?"

  "The fragrance you have noticed. It is rosemary, a herb. I make a rinse of it for my hair, and put sprigs of it in my clothes to keep them fresh. It grows plentifully and is free and I am very fond of its scent. Obviously I am too lavish with it," she said defensively. Definitely too lavish, she thought, if he could talk to her about the way she smelled.

  He stared at her thoughtfully. "No, not too lavish. It's very nice."

  "Carlos. That farm you visit," said Jack later that after­noon.

  "Farm?" said Carlos cautiously.

  "The one you visit so frequently. The one with all the daughters," said Jack impatiently. "I want you to go there at once."

  "Si, Major Jack." Carlos brightened visibly. "Bring back a couple of girls." Carlos goggled at his employer.

  "Wipe that ridiculous look from your face, you fool! I want those girls to come here to work."

  Carlos hesitated. "To scrub, you mean, sir?"

  "Yes, and whatever else needs doing. Miss Farleigh cannot do all the work that she seems to think necessary."

  A grin split the dark face. "Si, Major Jack! I will fetch them at once!" Carlos moved with alacrity.

  "And, Carlos—" His master's voice halted him. "There will be no fraternising with the wenches while they are em­ployed here, understand?''

  "Si, Major Jack," sighed Carlos dolefully.

  He headed off towards a nearby cottage where the unfor­tunate farmer had seven daughters to feed, clothe and some­how marry off. There would be no trouble in persuading two of them to come and work for a gentleman like Major Jack.

  Trudging across damp, muddy fields, Carlos gradually brightened. He might not be allowed to fraternise with the girls, but at least he would no longer have to demean himself scrubbing floors. And, if Miss Kate had a couple of girls to help her with the work, she would not be making Major Jack so angry all the time.

  "What the devil do you mean, you wouldn't wear them?"

  “Mr Carstairs, you must realise that I cannot accept cloth­ing from you." Kate's tone was mild but her chin was de­fiantly high.

  "Why the devil not?"

  "It isn't proper," said Kate composedly. "And besides, I have sufficient clothing for my needs here. Martha brought the trunk containing my things."

  "Balderdash!" he exploded. "You are the stubbornest fe­male it has ever been my misfortune to meet! You know perfectly well that those rags you wear are fit only for burn­ing!"

  Kate bit her lip on the retort that had risen to her tongue. There was some truth in his statement. The trunk containing all the clothes she had worn in Spain, as well as all her father's papers and things, had been lost when she had been captured by the French. The clothes she'd left in England were from a time when she was a young, carefree girl. Faced with total poverty, Kate had sold all clothes with any claim to fashion and style. Those that remained were old and worn and now dyed black for mourning.

  "My clothes may not meet with your approval, sir, nev­ertheless, they are perfectly adequate for my position."

  "That they are not! You are my grandmother's ward!"

  "No, Mr Carstairs, I am housekeeper here!"

  Jack ran his hand through his hair in frustration. The chit opposed him at every turn! "Do you think I wish it said that I pay you so poorly that you cannot afford to dress like a civilised human being?''

  "As you have no visitors and virtually no contact with anyone, I cannot imagine that anyone will have anything to say about it, so it need not concern you," Kate retorted. "Besides, you do not pay me at all."

  "Not for want of trying!"

  "Mr Carstairs, I was put in this position by your grand­mother, not you. It has nothing to do with you, and you must see that I could not accept money from you under any cir­cumstances. Your grandmother and I have an agreement, and that is my last word on the subject." Kate turned to walk out of the room, but Jack caught her arm and pulled her close. He glared down at her and spoke in a low and furious voice.

  "All right, Miss Katherine Farleigh, then here is my last word—if you won't accept a wage and you refuse my offer of new clothes, then I'll have no alternative but to dismiss you!"

  Uncomfortably aware of his firm grip on her arm and the proximity of his warm body to hers, Kate had to force herself to look up at him. For a moment of two she stared into his glittering blue eyes, only a few inches from her own. She felt his hand tighten and her pulse quickened at the suddenly intent look in his eyes. His effect on her was most unset­tling—she had to fight it. She pulled free of him, and brushed down her skirt, buying a few seconds in which to compose herself, aware that his unnerving gaze had not altered.

  "You cannot dismiss me. You haven't the power."

  "The devil I haven't!"

  He took a few steps towards her. Kate retreated rapidly to the door. "My agreement is with Lady Cahill, not you, and only she can dismiss me." She poked her tongue out at him, then slipped out the door and down the stairs as fast as she could.

  It was a kind offer, Kate thought, but he knew as well as she did that it would be most improper for him to buy her clothing. A man only did that for his wife. . .or his mistress. Kate bit her lip. It was probably the grossest hypocrisy for the ex-mistress of a French officer to be quibbling about such a thing. But it was precisely because she was so vulnerable to accusation that she had to maintain the highest level of propriety.

  Propriety was a frail web of protection at best, but without it she would be crushed. Propriety was what kept her feeling like the Reverend Mr Farleigh's daughter instead of a fallen woman. Without it, she would never be able to go about her daily work with a light heart, feeling free to tease and pro­voke Jack Carstairs if she felt like it, defying him when his bossiness became too provoking and arguing with him if she disagreed with his pronouncements.

  She was thinking a little too much about Jack Carstairs these days, she realised. He was the first thing she thought of when she awoke. . .and the last, before she went to sleep. Even their frequent quarrels she found exhilarating. And, even when he was infuriating her with his interference, deep down she could not help feeling touched by his concern for her. . .warmed by it. And feeling warm feelings towards him in return. . .such feelings were dangerous.

  Nothing could come of them. She would only hurt herself if she allowed herself to weaken. If—no, when he learned about her background, Jack Carstairs would be no different from any other man.

  Jack glared at the closed door and clenched his fist at it, swearing softly. The chit had defied him yet again, blast it! But she wouldn't get the better of him this time. She might think she had won the battle, but Major Jack Carstairs knew it was just a preliminary skirmish. And he had served under the Beau, the Marquis of Wellington, the ultimate master at turning retreat into victory.

  A slow smile appeared on his lean face and he limped towards the writing desk, sat down and began to pen a letter to his grandmother.

  Chapter Six

  "Senorita Kate," called Carlos from the hallway. "Some­thing here for you."

  Kate stepped back from her task, and glanced around her with some satisfaction. With the aid of Millie and Florence, the girls from the farm, she had wrought a remarkable im­provement in the room. The old, mismatched furniture looked infinitely better, gleaming softly from vigorous applications of beeswax. The dusty curtains had been taken down and laundered and brilliant late autumn sunshine streamed through the newly washed windows. The oak floor was freshly polished, and the old Persian carpet had been taken out and ruthlessly beaten until the rich colours glowed.

  Housework might not be Kate's favourite activity, but at least it showed results she could be proud of. The room looked warm and inviting, a far cry from when Lady Cahill had snorted at it so disparagingly. All that was needed now was a bowl of flowers or leaves. Perhaps she could find some in the tangled garden. Kate gathered up her cleaning rags and stepped into the hall.

>   "What is it, Carlos?"

  "These arrive for you, senorita." He gestured towards a large number of bulky packages resting on the long hall table.

  "For me?"

  "You like me to carry them upstairs for you, senorita?" Carlos offered politely. These days he treated her with the utmost respect. Once he might have thought her a skinny little mouse of a thing, with her huge greeny eyes and her shabby clothes, respected only because he was ordered to. But no one who had seen this little creature coolly stand up to his master would need to feign respect. Carlos had not forgotten the coffee pot, either.

  "That would be very kind of you, Carlos," Kate mur­mured abstractedly, puzzling over these unexpected and mys­terious items. She followed him upstairs to her room, her arms full of parcels, and he even more heavily laden.

  When he left, Kate opened the packages, slowly at first, then faster and faster, her head in a whirl. They contained everything she could ever think of needing. A wonderful warm merino pelisse. No cold winter wind would dare pen­etrate that to send her shaking and shivering. Dresses, in fine warm cloth, the colours dark—lavender, grey, black and a beautiful soft dove—nothing to offend her state of mourning.

  And underclothing, some of fine, soft linen, trimmed with lace, some of silk and satin, the like of which Kate had never in her life seen or felt. Surely it would be positively sinful to wear garments such as these exquisite things next to your skin? As for the nightgowns and chemises—they bore no earthly resemblance to the patched, sturdy, voluminous gar­ments Kate had worn most of her life.

  She stared dumbfounded at the tumble of lovely things spread out across her bed. Jack had bought them, of course. He hadn't listened to a word she'd said. . . But, oh, they were so beautiful. It had been so long since she'd had anything new, and these were of the finest quality. She wouldn't wear them, but it wouldn't hurt, surely, to hold them up against herself and look in the mirror and imagine, just for a moment, that they were hers.