Secrets Behind Locked Doors. Laura Martin

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      Robert glanced at the clock and tapped his fingers absent-mindedly on the arm of the chair. His years of service in the army had made him exceedingly punctual; he even turned up to dinner in his own house five minutes early.

      Not that there was any rush, he thought, as he sipped from the glass of whisky in his hand. He’d planned for dinner this evening to be a very informal affair with just him and Louisa present. He didn’t want to scare her, and after eating slop from wooden bowls with her fingers for over a year he doubted Louisa would welcome company at her first civilised meal.

      He glanced at the clock again, wondering if he should check on Louisa. He’d handed her over to his housekeeper, Mrs Kent, a couple of hours ago. The older woman had clucked over Louisa’s poor state and had whisked her upstairs to fuss over her.

      A little bit of fussing would do Louisa some good, Robert thought. She’d been neglected for too long. He wondered if her experiences over the last few years had inflicted any permanent damage. Only someone with a very robust character would escape unscathed from a situation such as hers.

      The door slowly swung open as Louisa stepped into the room.

      Robert stood immediately, surprised by the difference a bath could make.

      ‘Good evening, Lord Fleetwood,’ Louisa said.

      For a second Robert couldn’t find the right words. She looked completely different to the scrawny little ragamuffin he’d swept from the asylum and into his carriage earlier in the day. Granted she was still all skin and bones, but Mrs Kent had scrubbed Louisa’s skin until it was glowing, then must have turned her attention to Louisa’s hair. In place of the lank locks that had hung down Louisa’s back earlier in the day was a head of shining chestnut hair, secured into an elegant hairstyle.

      The only thing that stopped Louisa looking like a young lady of the ton was the shapeless dress she’d had to borrow from Robert’s middle-aged and voluptuous housekeeper. It hung off her like a sack, but at least it was clean and not that awful grey garment she’d spent over a year wearing.

      ‘You look lovely,’ Robert said.

      Louisa scrunched up her nose as if she didn’t believe him.

      ‘You do.’

      And she did. Robert wasn’t in the habit of giving out compliments just for the sake of it.

      ‘It feels wonderful to be clean,’ Louisa said, fiddling with her hair self-consciously. ‘For the first time in longer than I can remember I smell of roses rather than cabbage.’

      ‘Shall we go in to dinner?’ Robert asked.

      He held out his arm and waited for her to slip her hand into the crook of his elbow. She hesitated before stepping forwards and Robert realised he had a long way to go before Louisa trusted him. She was scared of even the briefest human contact. He’d seen her flinch on a couple of occasions since he’d brought her home, as if she was expecting him to raise a hand to her. Slowly, he cautioned himself, if you’re gentle she’ll start to trust you eventually.

      He made sure no part of his body brushed against hers as he escorted her into dinner. He watched her face as he pulled out her chair and waited for her to be seated before sitting down himself. She was wary of every movement, but seemed to relax once he’d sat down.

      ‘We’ve got a lot to discover about each other,’ Robert said as the footman brought the first course to the table.

      Louisa smiled at him, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. He supposed she was nervous of giving too much of herself away.

      ‘What you like to eat, for example.’

      As she realised Robert wasn’t going to push her for more personal facts quite yet, Louisa relaxed.

      ‘I used to be rather fussy,’ she said, eyeing the bowl of soup in front of her. ‘My mama would despair at mealtimes.’

      ‘And now?’

      ‘Now I don’t think there’s much I wouldn’t eat.’ After a mouthful of soup she added, ‘Except gruel. Serve that and I’m walking out.’

      ‘I’ll tell cook madam is not a fan of the gruel.’

      ‘Or porridge,’ Louisa added. ‘I do like this soup, though.’

      Robert could tell she was holding back. She wanted to spoon the deliciously warm liquid into her mouth and not bother with any conversation, but even after a year locked away, her upbringing as a well-mannered young woman shone through.

      ‘What else do we have on the menu?’ Louisa asked, her eyes sparkling in anticipation.

      Robert was glad—she needed to put some more flesh on her frame. A few weeks of good cooking and she’d be much healthier and able to face the world again.

      He shrugged. ‘I’ve got no idea.’

      Louisa frowned. ‘But it’s your house, isn’t it?’

      He nodded.

      ‘Then how can you have no idea what’s for dinner.’

      The truth was he had little interest in food. For years in the army he’d got used to eating whatever was available. More often than not it would be a sinewy rabbit or a watered-down stew. After a while he’d stopped noticing how the food tasted and had eaten it for sustenance only.

      And since he’d returned from the war...well, nothing was the same, not even the fancy dinners he used to enjoy.

      ‘I let cook decide.’

      Louisa looked at him as though he were mad.

      ‘Every night you could have anything, anything, you desire, and you let your cook decide.’

      ‘She does make very good choices,’ Robert said, motioning to the two empty bowls of soup the footman was whisking away.

      ‘Even so, I’d love to choose exactly what I was going to eat each and every day.’

      Robert decided not to reveal he wouldn’t notice if it was a pheasant or a field mouse set down in front of him.

      ‘At the asylum we had gruel every day,’ Louisa said, surprising Robert with this little snippet of information, ‘and porridge for breakfast.’

      Hence her dislike for gruel and porridge, he assumed.

      ‘And when I lived with my guardian he used to restrict my food if I did even the slightest thing wrong, but the servants often saved me a few scraps and leftovers.’

      No wonder she’d devoured the soup as if it were her last meal on earth. Nine years of deprivation would do that to anyone.

      ‘Would you like to help Mrs Rust plan the meals for the next couple of weeks?’ Robert asked, surprising himself with the question.

      For a second Louisa’s eyes lit up with excitement, then she became suspicious.

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