Gallant Waif. Anne Gracie

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СКАЧАТЬ herself a bed without his assistance—having found billets all over Spain and Portugal she would be lacking indeed if she could not find a bed in one, not terribly large English country house.

      “Very well, then, sir, I will bid you goodnight. Thank you once again for your hospit…” She paused, then corrected herself wryly, “For the food.” She began to climb the stairs in a determined fashion. Halfway up, her knees buckled.

      “Dammit!” Jack leapt stiffly towards the stairs and caught her against his chest as she fainted for the second time. He carried her into a nearby bedchamber and laid her gently on the bed. He stood looking down at her for a long moment. Who the devil was she?

      In the soft light of a candle, he assessed her unconscious form. She was thin, far too thin. Clear delicate skin was stretched tightly over her cheekbones, leaving deep hollows beneath them. His gaze lingered where the neck of her shabby, too loose dress had slipped, revealing a smooth shoulder, hunched childlike against the chill of the night. Had he not chanced to be watching when she fainted, she would still be lying unconscious on the front driveway. It was an icy night. Doubtless she would not have survived.

      He’d get no answers tonight. Best to tuck the girl up in bed and take himself off. He bent and removed her shoes, then stopped in perplexity. He was sure he should loosen her stays, but how to go about that with propriety? His mouth quirked. Propriety! It was quite improper enough for him to be in this girl’s bedchamber. He shrugged and bent over the supine body, searching gingerly at her waist for stay laces. God, but the chit was thin! With relief he ascertained that she wore no stays, had no need of them, probably didn’t even own any.

      Carefully he covered her with warm blankets. She shifted restlessly and flung an arm outside the bedding. He bent again to cover it and as he did so her eyes opened. She blinked for a moment, then smiled sleepily and caressed his face with a cool, tender touch. “Night, Jemmy.” Her eyelids fluttered closed.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ