by Jo Beverley
She shed the sacks and rug, dropping them in a tidy pile in the corner. She stepped out of her shoes and abandoned them, too. She grabbed a towel and rubbed her face and hair, feeling the circulation coming back to her skin. But the rest of her was still so chilled.
As he had said, she needed to get out of all these sodden clothes. She couldn’t! Then she sternly reminded herself that she was dedicated to pure reason. It made no sense to preserve her modesty at the cost of her life. But she had better do it quickly before her host returned.
She struggled her way out of her gown. She couldn’t manage the lowest button with cold fingers, and so in the end she tore it free. The poor gown was done with anyway. That only left her shift and cotton stockings. The stockings were quickly done with and she rubbed her damp legs vigorously with the towel, gasping with pain and relief as the circulation began again.
She saw the way her wet shift clung to her legs and giggled. Some dashing women were said to damp their skirts. She’d certainly gone to extremes in that regard. That reminded her that a young man was going to return at any moment and she was standing here as good as naked.
With a little cry she wrapped the blanket around her but it had scarcely touched her when she realized that it would only get wet from her wet shift. It might be her last bastion of modesty, but it would have to go.
She tore it off and frantically wrapped herself tentlike in the blanket. But that would never do. Her arms were imprisoned inside and if she moved, the whole thing gaped down the front. Ears straining for sound of her host’s return, Amy wound the blanket around her body beneath her arms and tucked the end in securely. It was, she told herself, as decent as any gown except for her bare shoulders. She took up two of the small towels and tucked them down the back of her “gown,” then crossed them over at the front and tucked the ends in under her arms like a fichu.
There was a small mirror on one wall and Amy peered into it. Her outfit actually looked very respectable. It wasn’t of course, but it was the best she could do, and if her host was a villain it surely didn’t matter what she was wearing.
She was still a mess. Though her hair was merely wet, her face was streaked with mud. She tried the pump at the sink and found it worked. She scrubbed at her face until it was clean.
Then she allowed herself to go over to the stove.
The warmth washed over her, making her feel dizzy. There were two chairs there and Amy sank into one. She rested her feet on a convenient footstool close to the stove and held out her hands to the warmth, shuddering with the relief.
Hell might be pictured as flames, she thought, but this was surely heaven. She took a towel and rubbed at her hair, then tilted her head toward the heat. For once the crop was useful; it should dry in no time. As she ran her hands through it to speed the process, she looked around thoughtfully.
It was a very plain kitchen. There was the stone sink with the pump and a bucket underneath to catch the drainings. In the center of the room was a deal table and four chairs. To her right were the cupboards she had seen through the window, their contents hidden behind closed doors. Against the far wall stood a dresser with some pottery plates and cups upon it and three silver tankards. They struck her as strange in such a simple household.
But then her host did not belong in this place either.
It was not these things which struck her most, however, though she could not quite decide what did.
After a moment she realized. There was no aroma. She’d never before been in a kitchen without the smell of food. There was nothing cooking on the stove and, she would guess, hadn’t been all day. There were no herbs hanging from the beams, no strings of onions and garlic.
The only sign of food at all was a loaf of bread on the table, along with a crock of butter and some cheese. Was that all her host ate? Perhaps he, too, was a victim of sudden poverty.
Amy became aware of hunger. She longed for some bread and cheese and a cup of hot tea.
There was a blackened kettle keeping warm to one side of the hob, but Amy had no way of knowing where the tea-making things were, if indeed the house could afford such a luxury. Besides, it would be overbold to make so free with someone else’s kitchen.
Amy wished her host would return quickly, but then she recalled her state of dress. She might be fully covered but she felt half naked. Moreover, she realized, all her clothes were in that muddy pile in the corner. She no longer had any real clothes fit to wear.
She heard the back door slam and booted footsteps in the passageway.
3
HARRY SHOOK OFF THE CAPE and hung it up, grimacing at the muddy trail into the kitchen. Was it better to clean muddy floors when wet, or was one supposed to leave them to dry like clothes? He hoped the latter. Firkin had been given the day off, and with this weather he’d likely not bother to come back before tomorrow.
Harry sat on the bench and used the bootjack to pull off his wet boots, then put on his slippers.
He wondered who his unexpected guest was. She’d spoken like a lady but that worn-out old cart and the worn-out old horse in the shafts argued at the best genteel poverty.
He supposed she was a penny-pinched spinster of uncertain years and was now in a state of the vapors about being alone with a daring rogue. Well, he’d be charming to her and soon reassure her. He had a gift for charming females of all ages.
Reassuring smile in place, he walked into the kitchen.
And stopped dead.
Sitting beside the practical, mundane stove was an angel in a blanket, looking up at him with huge blue eyes.
Suddenly it registered. Frightened eyes.
Instinct took over. With scarce a moment’s hesitation he said cheerfully, “Your nag’s taken care of. I moved her into the stables, rubbed her down, and gave her a feed.” He swung the kettle over the heat. “I’m sure you can use a cup of tea. I’m afraid I’ve not much food. Just bread and cheese and a Melton pie.” He braced himself and looked at her. Still an angel, but a lot less frightened.
He risked a smile. “Would you like some?”
She smiled back. He could feel his heart begin to pound. He’d seen a lot of lovely women, but he’d never seen one as beautiful as this. Vague notions of fairies and bewitchment began to dance in his head, but he dismissed them. She was all too obviously flesh and blood, and here he was in a situation where it would be positively caddish to show how he felt.
It was an effort to keep the calm smile in place but he made it.
“I would like a piece of pie,” she said softly. Her voice was as well bred as he’d thought and very musical.
He went and cut a slice of the pie. “Do you want to eat it there?” he asked.
The angel stood warily, holding on to the blanket. Harry watched, fascinated, unable to suppress the wicked hope that it might come loose and fall. But it stayed secure. With the cream wool down to the floor and the white towels over her shoulders the young woman looked like an Egyptian goddess except that Egyptian goddesses did not have clear blue eyes and an aureole of spun-gold curls.
She sat at the table and started in on the pork pie, her hunger confirming the fact that she was blessedly human. Harry made the tea, using the time to strengthen his self-control. When he was sure he could treat the vision like his aunt Betty, he carried the pot to the table, along with two cups, a pitcher of milk, and the sugar bowl, then sat opposite. If all he could permit himself was a feast for the eyes, then at least he’d make the most of it.
“I must apologize for the state of the hospitality,” he said lightly. “We only have one servant here and he’s gone off to visit his sister. He was supposed to be back tonight, but with the weather he won’t bother.”
“We?” she asked, startled.
“It’s all right,” he reassured her. “They won’t be back either. They’ll have racked up somewhere.” He saw her relax and was pleased at how she trusted him. He just hoped he could prove worthy of that trust. “Coppice Farm belongs to my friend, Terance
Cornwallis,” he explained as she ate. “I’m staying here for the season with another friend, Chart Ashby.”
“Meltonians,” she said with a trace of anxiety.
Harry could understand that. The avid hunters were little enough trouble when the scent was up and the hounds running, but if weather canceled the hunts, boredom often led to mischief.
“Not really,” he said. “Meltonians are the great guns, the top of the trees. We’ve a way to go yet.” Now that it had brewed, he poured tea into their cups. “I would like it if you would give me your name.”
She was startled, which certainly did nothing to mute the effect of her eyes. She had clearly not thought that he did not know her. “Amy de Lacy,” she said readily. “Of Stonycourt.”
His first impression had been correct. She was a lady. A wild thought began to take possession of his mind. If he had to marry, why not marry an exquisite creature like this? Then he’d be entitled to look at her as much as he pleased and discover if the form beneath the blanket was as promising as it appeared.
He took a breath and stopped his imaginings before they appeared on his face. “I’m afraid I don’t know the area very well,” he said. “Is Stonycourt near here?”
She sipped from her cup of tea and gave what seemed to be an excessive sigh of pleasure. “About five miles away, over the Lincolnshire border.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
Surprisingly, she colored. That did nothing for his control either. She looked like a naughty, tempting cherub. “I…I was supposed to be picking up some layers. We didn’t expect such weather.”
“No one did, or I doubt even my hunting-mad friends would have gone out.”
She tilted her head to one side, and there was a glint of teasing humor in her eyes as she said, “And are you not hunting mad?”
He laughed. “Caught, by Gad! Don’t tell anyone.”
“Certainly it’s a heresy among men,” she agreed.
“It’s not that I don’t like the sport,” he assured her. “It’s just that I’m not mad for it. There’s nothing like a fine run on a clear crisp day, but to be slogging along on a soggy one is something I can do without.”
Amy was feeling most peculiar. It was not just the rain and the cold followed by dry and warmth; it wasn’t even the fact she was sitting here most unconventionally dressed, alone with a gentleman; it was the way he was behaving.
It wasn’t that he was unaware of her looks—she’d seen a betraying flicker or two of astonishment. That didn’t bother her, for without vanity her mirror told her every day that a person would have to be blind to not notice her beauty. But there was no heat in his eyes that made her want to hide, nor adoration to make her squirm. And he’d not said one word that could be construed as flirtatious.
It was like talking to Jasper.
It was wonderful.
She dared to tease again. “Did you read the comment of William Shenstone that the world may be divided into people that read, people that write, people that think, and fox hunters?”
He grinned. “He’d be strung up for that, these days.” He reached for the teapot and refilled their cups.
He was a handsome man, Amy thought, and handsomer when he laughed. She wasn’t used to looking at men—she was more accustomed to avoiding them—but now she cautiously indulged a desire to study him.
He had light brown curly hair, hazel eyes, and a clean-cut face, but that wasn’t the measure of his handsomeness. It was more the play of expressions on his face, particularly the teasing twinkle that could brighten his eyes and the way those eyes crinkled when he smiled. He was a man who was not afraid to smile.
She finished the last of her pie and tea and refused his offer of more. “When do you think I will be able to leave?” she asked.
“There’s no way of telling,” he said. “It’s still throwing it down, and the roads will be in a terrible state even when it stops. I honestly don’t think your horse would make it five yards in this, never mind five miles. I’ll lend you one of ours if you want but we’ve only regular saddles. I’d come with you, of course, but it would still be a devil of a ride. Will your family be very worried?”
“I suppose they will,” said Amy, “but it would be madness to go out just yet.” She looked up anxiously. “But all the same, I can’t spend the night here.”
He smiled, and that warm smile allayed her anxiety like a potion. “For all that it’s so dark out, Miss de Lacy, that’s just the storm. It’s not quite three yet. There’s plenty of time. If the worse comes to the worst, we’ll walk over the hill to Ashridge Farm. The Coneybears will make you welcome, and your reputation will be safe there.”
Amy frowned thoughtfully. “This obsession with nighttime isn’t very rational, is it? After all, there’s nothing to stop us—” She caught her breath and stared at him. This wasn’t Jasper.
“Not very rational, no,” he said calmly, though she could see the twinkle in his eyes. “But as that’s the way the world sees it, that’s all we need to deal with.”
“That’s not quite the way the world sees it,” she pointed out firmly. “There could be trouble just about me being here, especially dressed like this.”
“But you look charming. You could set a new fashion.”
Harry almost added that a beauty such as she could wear sackcloth and set a fashion but realized in time it would be a mistake. It really was incredibly difficult to treat this woman as if she were a sister. He didn’t even have any sisters.
He pulled up a mental image of Chart’s boisterous sister, Clytemnestra, and tried to think how he handled her. Just as if she were a boy. He realized his companion was speaking.
“It would have the advantage of economy,” she agreed dryly. Then she frowned. “I have also to be concerned, however, about what I am to wear when I leave.”
Harry was startled. He looked at the muddy pile which was her clothing. “And the only spare clothes in this house,” he said, “are men’s.”
“That would stir up the dust,” she said. She was trying for a blasé tone but her anxiety showed through. “If I return home in any change of clothing, questions are sure to be asked. I do not wish to cause you any embarrassment.”
Harry was considering that this might be the time to propose to her and soothe her fears, but his instinct told him it would not be a good idea.
She rose and went to inspect the muddy pile. “I think I’d better try to wash the dress.”
“I can’t imagine it will do any good.”
She looked a reproach for such negative thinking. “What other choice do I have?”
Skeptically, Harry pulled out a tin tub and put it on the table. “I think this is what Firkin does the wash in if he does, but we have a woman in once a week for such things. What else do you need?”
“Water,” Amy said. “Hot would be best, but I think we must make do with cold. There’s no time to heat any if this is to be washed and dried. I need soap. I don’t suppose you have any borax?”
“Not as far as I know.” Harry passed over the bar of soap, then applied the pump and filled a bucket with water. As he poured it in the tub, Amy was paring fine strips off the soap into a dish full of the last hot water from the kettle.
Two buckets of water half filled the tub, and Amy poured in the liquid soap. Then she picked up the muddy lump which had been Beryl’s blue stripe cambric and carried it at arm’s length to the tub. Being careful not to splash herself, Amy sloshed the dress around and the water grew very muddy, very quickly.
“Good Lord,” said Harry. “It’s blue.”
“Was,” Amy said sadly. “It was my sister’s favorite dress.”
Harry was about to ask why she had been wearing it, especially on a mundane trip to pick up hens, but held his tongue. His original assumption of poverty was doubtless correct, and there could be all sorts of embarrassing reasons for the act.
He watched as she picked up the dress and banged it down, working out the dirt as best as
she could. There was something strangely erotic about this delicate-looking beauty up to her elbows in suds. Perhaps it was seeing the silky roundness of her arms proving to be so capable.
She stood up with a sigh. “I think we’d better try fresh water.”
Harry obediently tipped out the dirty water and filled the tub again. He’d never even considered the matter of laundry before, and here he was taking an active part. It was obvious that Amy de Lacy was familiar with the process. More evidence of abject poverty.
He imagined this poor family come down in the world and living in a cottage with only one good dress between them. It doubtless explained Miss de Lacy’s self-possession while dressed so strangely. Perhaps, he thought—allowing his imagination full rein—they all wore blankets at home while waiting for their turn with the dress.
She was going to be overwhelmed when he asked her to marry him. He would provide all the comforts of life for her destitute family, and she would fall deeply in love with him.
“Do you have just the one sister?” he asked as she worried over the dress with the bar of soap, trying to get out some of the dirt around the hem.
“No, two,” she answered readily. “Beryl’s my older sister and Jacinth’s my younger.”
“Do you have any brothers?”
“Just one. Jasper.”
He made the connection. “Beryl, Jasper, Jacinth, all living at Stonycourt. Your parents must have been of a humorous disposition.”
She looked up with a rueful smile. “Whimsical, at least.”
“They should have called you Sapphire.” It was out before he could stop it.
She looked slightly disappointed in him but merely said, “Or Aquamarine.”
“How did you escape with Amy?”
“Simple good fortune,” she said, once more bent to her work.
In the end she had to accept that she’d done all she could. The gown was now blue and the stripes could be seen, but there were heavy dirt stains fixed in the material, particularly around the hem. Amy hauled the garment out of the water and wrung it out as best she could, which wasn’t very well. “I don’t suppose you have a mangle,” she said.