‘Now then—Mr Lingard,’ said Jane briskly—for she had established the injured man’s name. ‘How far are we from your farmhouse?’
‘Not more than half a mile,’ he replied. ‘First lane on the left. My missus will be worriting, for I should have been home an hour since.’
Mr Kendal, following a hurried conversation with the coachman, returned with a plan. ‘We shall attempt to pull your cart out of the ditch,’ he said.
‘I am exceedingly grateful to you, sir,’ the man managed.
He was clearly in pain, and needed to be in his own bed. The sun had finally slipped below the horizon, and it was becoming colder and darker by the minute.
The men lifted the injured farmer out of the way and Jane stayed with him while they heaved at the cart. Eventually, and in a sudden rush, they managed to get the left wheel out of the ditch.
‘Now, Mr Lingard,’ she said calmly, ‘they shall lift you into the back of the cart.’
He groaned at this, knowing any movement would hurt. Mr Kendal and the coachman were as careful as possible, but poor Mr Lingard could not help but cry out. As soon as they had settled him in the flat bed of the cart Jane immediately climbed up beside him. There were beads of sweat on the man’s forehead, and his hands were bunched into tight fists.
‘Now, then...’ She spoke soothingly, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. ‘We shall have you home in no time.’
A still figure was hovering at the edge of her vision. She lifted her head from her charge to observe Mr Kendal, eyeing her with a raised eyebrow and a gleam of humour in his eye.
‘Miss Bailey.’
‘Yes, Mr Kendal?’
‘Are you expecting me to drive this cart?’
‘Well,’ she replied tartly, ‘you can hardly expect me to do it!’
‘And yet...’ he spoke slowly ‘...I somehow think if the need required you to do so you would be equal to it.’
She snorted. ‘A plain cart and a placid horse? Of course I would! But my place is here, with Mr Lingard. The postilion shall follow with the carriage.’ She held up her hands. ‘Is it not plain that is what we must do?’
He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Miss Bailey, you are an extremely managing female!’
‘Thank you, Mr Kendal.’ Her eyes danced.
‘That was no compliment.’
‘Oh, I know.’
She threw him a dazzling smile and he shook his head and climbed into the driver’s seat, gathering the reins. She could tell he was amused even by observing the back of his head and the shape of his shoulders.
She grinned, conscious of a strange feeling of delight. Then the cart moved off, the injured farmer groaned, and she returned to her task.
Chapter Seven
‘Another day in this blasted carriage!’ Mr Kendal looked cross. ‘Apologies, Miss Bailey, but I felt all night as though I were still moving.’
Once again they were travelling, and today would mark the midpoint of their journey. It had been late when they had left the Lingard farmhouse, and the day had, in truth, felt interminable.
This morning Mr Kendal had ensured there were blankets for both of them in the carriage. And Jane was grateful for the extra warmth as they travelled through the cold February countryside.
‘There is no need to apologise, for I know exactly what you mean. In a way, I am becoming hardened to the jolts and the bumps and the cold, yet in another sense I shall never become accustomed to it.’ She paused for a second, then offered diffidently, ‘Do you wish to sit beside me, in the facing seat? There is plenty of room, and it is so much more comfortable than travelling back-facing.’
He frowned and she held her breath. His proximity now seemed a way of life for her, yet meeting his gaze so frequently was disconcerting. On occasions when their eyes met a delicious shiver would go through her—an effect as disturbing as it was delightful. Perhaps if he was beside her, rather than opposite, she might avoid it and be calm.
‘Very well—if you are certain you do not mind?’
She confirmed it, and he shifted across to sit next to her. He kept to the far corner and immediately his eyes were drawn outwards, to the passing fields and hedgerows.
She glanced across at the empty facing seat and a pang went through her at the absence of the view she had become accustomed to. She closed her eyes, recalling every detail. Long legs, stretched out in front and to her right, solid body—torso, shoulders, arms, hands... His face—yes, she could see it in her mind...every detail. The strong jaw, straight nose, clear skin and those stormy grey eyes.
‘Are you planning to rest a while?’
His voice penetrated her reverie and she jumped.
I should not have been thinking of such things!
‘Apologies, I did not mean to startle you.’
She turned her head—to be met with that very face, those eyes, alongside her and much closer than before.
What on earth was I thinking? Of course I cannot avoid his effect on me!
‘Oh, no! I—That is to say, I am not fatigued.’
‘Good,’ he said simply, ‘for I have an idea to pass the time on today’s journey.’
She eyed him quizzically.
‘I thought we could share some riddles.’
‘Oh, yes! What an excellent notion!’
She knew her face was flushed, but hoped he would think it due to excitement at his suggestion rather than a racing heart from the effect of having him seated so close.
‘We often share riddles in the servants’ hall at Yuletide and on other festival days.’
‘Excellent. I shall begin, if you will permit?’
She nodded and clasped her hands tightly together. For the next while they tested and challenged each other. She was able to appreciate his quick wit, and the harmony between them could not be denied.
Have I found a friend?
The thought sent a warm glow flowing slowly through her. She had never before had a friend who was a man.
Following the interruption of their journey for refreshments, and a brief walk around a village to shake the stiffness from their limbs, they returned to the carriage. This time Mr Kendal made no complaints. He took his place beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and she welcomed it despite the effect of his proximity on her body.
Or perhaps because of it.
Thankfully she felt no danger from him, and her old memories remained dormant. This she was glad about, for there had been frequent occasions in the past years when she had been completely overcome by powerful memories of Master Henry’s attack.
During the long, slow afternoon they passed the time in sharing stories of childhood. Although from different stations in life, both had lost their fathers at a similar age. While being wary of where the conversation might lead—for Mama’s warning was still at the front of her mind—Jane nevertheless decided to trust him with some memories of her papa, and the tale of his death from fever.
Mr Kendal listened with great sympathy, and asked her some warm questions about her father’s character and strength. She had a little cry and he gave her his handkerchief.
Afterwards he told her of his own father, and the sense of loss he had felt when his papa had passed away.
‘Not only did we lose him,’ he offered, his gaze distant as he focused on those long-ago days, ‘we lost our home, too.’ His gaze swung towards her. ‘Although he was a gentleman, his wealth was modest. We had some land outside the town, and he had invested all his savings in buying a herd of merino sheep.’
She barely heard this last part, instead focusing on his first sentence. She gasped. He, too, had lost his home. Immediately treasured memories of Rose Cottage flashed through her mind, lightning-quick, stabbing at her heart. Home. The one true home she had ever known.
He was looking at her. She swallowed, t
hen managed, ‘Merino! It is a fine wool. I love to work with it.’
‘Indeed. My business now still involves merino wool. However, our English weather was too harsh for those sheep. They did not thrive and my mother eventually sold them, and the land, to create a small fund for us. Eventually she had no choice but to call upon the charity of her aunt. We moved there less than a year after Papa died.’
‘It must have been hard for you, moving to Beechmount Hall so soon,’ she offered, picturing him as a lost little boy clinging to his mother’s hand. Or was that her? A lost little girl clinging to her mama?
‘It was terrifying,’ he said simply. ‘I was used to living in a modest house in Harrogate, on the main street, with all the sounds and busyness of the town as the background of my life.’
Jane spoke quietly. ‘Mama and I moved from a simple cottage to work in a large country house, so I understand a little of what you must have experienced.’
She declined to mention their year of hunger.
His eyes met hers and there was a silence. Dimly, Jane felt something shift between them.
Mr Kendal sat up straighter, and adjusted his waistcoat. ‘Beechmount Hall was a decided contrast to my previous home. It was huge, remote—and decidedly Gothic!’
She nodded furiously. ‘I feel daunted by going there and I am three-and-twenty!’
‘There is no need.’ His expression was entirely serious. ‘I shall stand with you.’
Her eyes widened. What ordeal does he expect me to face?
Yet her heart could only be distracted by his declaration of support, so she subsided into confused silence.
There was a pause. ‘I wonder how Mr Lingard is faring,’ he offered, in a lighter tone.
She smiled, relieved. ‘It was a clean break, I think. A few weeks of rest and loving care and he will be back driving his cart again. I am glad we came upon him. He might have lain there for hours as the road was so quiet.’
‘He was fortunate indeed—doubly so.’
She eyed him questioningly.
‘You do not understand my meaning? Very well. He was fortunate we found him and fortunate that you, Miss Bailey, were at hand to care for him.’
She flushed. ‘I only did what anyone might have done.’
He shook his head. ‘We both know that is not true. Why, your skills were evident, and you prevailed like—like an army commander, sweeping me and the postilion aside and—’
‘I did not!’ she declared hotly. ‘I only wished to establish how serious his injuries were and to offer him some reassurance.’ She spoke earnestly. ‘It is always important, I find, to quieten and comfort the injured person immediately. If they are anxious it becomes much more difficult to assist them. I certainly did not intend to command anyone, or—You are laughing at me.’ She shook her head. ‘But truly I did not—I mean I have never sought to act above my station or to interfere...’
He was still smiling. ‘I suspect both Mr Lingard and his wife are entirely grateful for your interference, my dear.’
He lifted his hand and ran a light finger down her cheek, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. She caught her breath then looked away, flushing. She stared unseeing at the passing countryside, conscious of the charged atmosphere in the carriage.
Why did he do that? No man has dared touch me since... And why am I suddenly incapable of speech?
The easy companionship they had built over these past days seemed suddenly lost, replaced by something chaotic, and wonderful, and entirely dangerous.
Jane had no idea how she was supposed to behave towards him. He was a gentleman and she a servant. Their familiarity was simply because they had been forced into travelling together.
For a moment she allowed herself to imagine him a servant, like her. Or she a lady.
Perhaps my grandfather is motivated by kindness and means to elevate me?
She rejected the possibility immediately. A man so determined to be cruel to his own son would hardly welcome a granddaughter who had a servant for her mother. No, she must not allow herself to hope for such things. Even if it would make friendship possible between herself and a gentleman. Make him someone she would be permitted to get to know. Someone who might even...
A pang of wishful regret stabbed through her.
It is not to be.
Inwardly, she shook her head. She had been too much at ease with him. It would be better for both of them if she remembered from now on that he was a gentleman and she was a lady’s maid—not a lady.
Chapter Eight
Robert was furious with himself.
You foolish idiot! he raged internally. Why did you touch her?
For days they had spent almost every waking moment in each other’s company. And to his great surprise, this journey had been immeasurably more pleasant than the trip down from Yorkshire. Far from tiring of Miss Bailey’s company, he had found himself ever more at ease with her—and, he’d thought, she with him.
He had delighted in her companionship, enjoying her alert mind and invigorating conversation. Watching the true Jane Bailey emerge from beneath layers of reserved propriety had been a delight. He believed he now knew something of her true self, and learning about her had become a fascination.
Even so she had been remarkably reticent when it came to her parentage and her links to Beechmount Hall. Despite his best efforts he had been politely dissuaded and diverted. Yet through it all he had believed she was beginning to trust him. And now one imprudent action might have undone the work of days.
Oh, but how he had wanted to do it!
Finally he had admitted it to himself. Miss Bailey was more than a riddle to be solved. In his madder moments he thought himself quite bewitched. Of course when he returned to sanity he saw immediately that she was simply an attractive woman. A beautiful, charming, intelligent, kind-hearted and witty young woman.
Apart from that, she was nothing out of the ordinary.
It is only because we are being forced to spend so much time alone together. Alone, yet with intimacy forbidden.
Indeed, it was hard to believe he had met her less than one week ago. Naturally he would never seek to persuade an unwilling woman, but he sensed that she, too, had become more at ease with him. Perhaps not quite in the way he wished—she did not yet trust him enough to tell him of her history, and she might well see him simply as a companion rather than harbour any stronger passion.
She was perfectly amiable towards him but, he conceded ruefully, had given him no sign of anything warmer.
This was rather disconcerting. He was used to women liking him. Flirting, even. Yet there was nothing of flirtation in Miss Bailey’s manner towards him. She gazed at him with an open, direct look and, he believed, would have shown just as much interest in him had he been seventeen or seventy.
It matters not! he reminded himself.
She was a servant, and therefore forbidden to him. Any attachment between them could never be. He was a gentleman, prevented from marrying a servant, and she was too respectable, too pure, to agree to be any man’s mistress.
Even if she was related to his uncle, Robert knew he would be much too proud to elevate a servant. Robert himself did not set much store by such things, but Mr Millthorpe was rigidly traditional in such matters. No, he could not see any way for his station and Miss Bailey’s to become level.
So why, then, had he, in a fit of madness, dared to touch her?
He groaned inwardly, recalling her instant distress, her withdrawal. Yes, the sensation of her soft cheek had thrilled him, but he had been foolish to succumb to his baser impulse.
She is alone with you in a carriage! he berated himself inwardly. A servant in your care.
She had trusted him to behave properly and he had betrayed that trust. He felt both ashamed and strangely uncertain. Neither feeling was welcome.
In truth, nothing in his life had prepared him for this. As a child he had coped with his new surroundings in Beechmount Hall by becoming quiet, watchful and reserved. After two years he had been sent away to school, where loneliness had etched itself into his bones. He had been a dutiful scholar, son and nephew, at first terrorised by his uncle’s disapproval and his teachers’ discipline.
But he had grown into himself and found his own strength, and he no longer felt the same quaking fear. Yet still, somewhere deep inside, lurked the loneliness that had somehow become part of him.
He was his own man, sure of himself and of his place in the world. Yet now, having torn at the fragile sense of trust he had been building with Miss Bailey, he must chastise himself.
He glanced towards her, felt an unexpected uncertainty vexing him as he regarded her pretty face, turned outwards towards the passing trees and hedgerows. The feeling that she was not in charity with him bothered him much more than it should.
Eventually he did the only thing he could think of. He spoke to her of trivialities.
‘We shall be arriving in Lincoln soon, I think.’
She turned her head and looked at him, her face expressionless.
He continued with seeming equanimity. ‘I have reserved rooms at the White Hart, which is a well-known and comfortable posting inn there.’
She inclined her head, replying, ‘We shall be early, then?’
‘We have made good time today—for the roads, I think, have been particularly smooth. It makes sense to stop here, for the next decent inn is many miles further on. Tomorrow will be our last full day of travel.’
‘Good,’ she said simply.
Good? He could interpret that in a hundred ways—very few of them flattering.
Her forehead creased. ‘So what shall we do? For it is too early to dine...’
‘There are seemingly ramparts at Lincoln Castle, which is apparently an interesting and pleasant place to visit. I thought we might go there for an hour or so, to divine if the reports of its beauty and antiquity are accurate. There is also a market which I would like to visit. You may accompany me if it pleases you.’ He was deliberately offhand.
Rags-to-Riches Wife Page 7