Gallant Waif

by Anne Gracie

  Jack gritted his teeth. "Grandmama, why has this girl come to my house?"

  The old lady smiled guilelessly up at him. "Oh, well, as to that, dear boy, she had no choice. No choice at all."

  "Grandmother!" Jack's lips thinned.

  "Now don't get tetchy with me, boy; it doesn't work. Your grandfather used to rant and rave at me all the time."

  "I fully understand why, and heartily sympathise with him!" her undutiful grandson snapped. "Now enough of this nonsense, Grandmama. Who is she?"

  "Her name is Kate Farleigh and she is the only daughter of my goddaughter, the late Maria Farleigh, nee Delacombe." In a few pithy sentences, Lady Cahill put Jack in possession of the bare bones of Kate's story, as she knew it.

  He frowned. "Then she is a lady."

  "Of course."

  "Well, she doesn't behave like one."

  "I saw no sign of any lack of breeding," said his grand­mother. "A temper, yes. Glared at me out of those big blue eyes of hers—''

  "Not blue. A sort of grey-green."

  The old woman repressed a grin. So he had noticed the colour of her eyes, had he? "Whatever you say," she agreed. "The gel glared at me, but there was no sign of panic— stayed as cool as you please as I whisked her off to heaven-knew-where."

  His eyebrows rose at this. "What do you mean, you whisked her off?"

  "Oh, don't look like that, Jack. It was the only possible thing. You said yourself the girl was on the verge of star­vation. She was in dire straits. She is an orphan with no blood kin to turn to and has not a penny left in the world, unless I miss my guess."

  Jack frowned, stretching his bad leg reflectively. "I still don't understand."

  “The girl has far more than her share of stubborn foolish pride. Just like her dratted father in that respect. Maria's fam­ily wanted to make a huge settlement on her when she mar­ried him, Maria being their only child, but he would have none of it. Didn't want it to be thought he was marrying her for her money. And look what has come of it! His own daughter dressed in rags and almost starving! Faugh! I have no patience with the man!"

  "But Kate. . .er. . .Miss Farleigh, Grandmama," he prompted.

  "Said she wasn't interested in taking charity from me or anyone else. Well, I had no time to stand around bandying words with her in her poky little hovel. So I kidnapped her."

  "You what?" Jack stared at his grandmother in amaze­ment. Truly, she was an outrageous old lady. His lips twitched and suddenly he couldn't help himself; the chuckles welled up from somewhere deep inside him. He collapsed on the bed and laughed till his sides hurt.

  His grandmother watched him, deeply pleased. It was the first glimpse she'd had of the beloved grandson who had gone off to the wars. A scarred, silent, cynical stranger had returned in his place, and until she saw him laughing now, with such abandon, she had not realised how frightened she'd been that the old Jack had truly perished for ever in the wars.

  Something had shattered the deep reserve he'd adopted since he came home from the Peninsula War, crippled, dis­inherited, then jilted. He'd remained unnaturally calm, seem­ing not to care, not to react. Except that he'd withdrawn into himself and become a recluse.

  Now, in the space of an hour or so, Lady Cahill had seen her grandson boiling with fury, then laughing uninhibitedly. And a slip of a girl seemed to have caused it all. Lady Cahill thanked heaven for the impulse that had caused her to call on Kate on the way to Leicestershire. The girl could not be allowed to disappear now.

  The old lady pushed at Jack's shoulders, which were still heaving with mirth. "Oh, get out of here, boy. I've had enough of you and your foolishness this morning." She spoke gruffly to cover her emotion.

  "It's time I got dressed or Smithers will be having hys­terics. It's clear to me that this place of yours needs a woman to set things in order, so I suppose I must shift myself and set to work. See if you can get me some hot water, there's a good boy. Now move, Jack, or I will get out of bed in my nightgown right now and that would most certainly cause Smithers to fall in a fit and foam at the mouth!"

  Jack grinned at her. "You are, without doubt, the most scandalous old lady of my acquaintance. I'm surprised that poor woman hasn't died of shock long since." He rose from the bed and, still chuckling, limped from the room.

  Jack headed downstairs, the laughter dying from his face. Now to find Miss Kate Farleigh without delay and put her straight on one or two things. A kitchen maid? Hah! Only interested in scrubbing the floor? Hah! To think he'd been worried about her! No doubt the little wretch was sitting somewhere with her feet up, laughing up her shabby sleeve at the fine trick she had played on him.

  Entering the kitchen, he came to a dead halt. Kate was down on hands and knees, vigorously scrubbing the large flagstones of the kitchen floor, exactly as she'd said she would.

  "What the devil do you think you're doing?" he roared.

  Kate jumped, then turned, laid down the hard-bristled scrubbing brush and sat back on her heels. She noted the black frown, the clenched fists and the outrage. Her eyes twinkled. So, he had finally discovered who she was. And was feeling rather grumpy about it. She pressed her lips firmly together to stop them quivering with laughter.

  Jack's violent reaction to the sight of her scrubbing his floor confused him. He battled with anger and an equally strong desire to lift her up and whisk her upstairs. She looked so small and delicate. She had no business attempting such a dirty and demeaning task. “I said, what do you think you're doing?"

  She glanced at the floor, still swimming with dirty water, then at the discarded scrubbing brush. "It's called scrubbing the floor," she explained helpfully, unable to resist teasing him a little. "I would have thought a man of your age—"

  "Don't play games with me, girl!" he growled. "What the devil is my grandmother's guest doing scrubbing my floors and cooking my breakfast?" He glared at her. "I won't have it, do you hear me? I won't have it!"

  Kate, kneeling in a pool of scummy water, endeavoured to look soulful. "But you did, don't you remember? Three eggs, six rashers of bacon, and almost a whole pot of cof­fee."

  "Dammit, I'm not talking about that—"

  “But you were. You accused me of cooking your breakfast and then said you wouldn't have it," she interrupted gently. "I'm sorry if you didn't like my food."

  She attempted to make her lower lip quiver sorrowfully, but abandoned the effort and rattled on, well aware that she was fanning his temper to flames and oddly excited by the prospect. "If you prefer, I won't cook your breakfast again. Indeed, I hadn't intended to do so, for it was my own break­fast I was cooking and you stol—commandeered it."

  With a grubby hand she pushed a straggling curl off her face, leaving a smear of dirt in its place. Unaware, she con­tinued, "I gather you didn't like it after all. But I dare say you are one of those people to whom the mere thought of breakfast is anathema. Perhaps the consumption of food at such an early hour made you feel. . .unwell? Certainly, if you'd been drinking the night before. . . I do seem to re­call. . ." She lowered her eyelashes discreetly.

  "I. . .that's not. . .I wasn't. . . The breakfast was very goo—'' Jack glared at her again. The interview was not going at all as he had planned it. The cheeky little urchin. She was tying him into knots with a flow of polite-seeming nonsense, for all the world as if she were sitting in his grandmother's drawing-room, instead of at his feet in a puddle of water with dirt on her face.

  “Why are you scrubbing this floor?" He bit out each word.

  "I thought it was the best way to clean it. Perhaps there's a more modern method you would prefer?" She looked up at him as if for enlightenment, her gaze wide-eyed and art­less.

  "No, there isn't!" he snapped, infuriated.

  "Well, in that case. . ." Kate hid a grin and picked up the scrubbing brush.

  "Put down that blasted thing!" he roared.

  Kate obligingly put it down, in the manner of humouring a lunatic. "I see. You don't wish me to use the brush. Per­haps
you would like me to use another implement?" She looked around the room, apparently seeking an alternative.

  "I don't wish you to use anything!" he growled.

  “But how else can I clean the floor?''

  "I don't wish you to clean the floor at all!" he snapped.

  Kate's eyebrows rose. "Oh, I see. You like it dirty." She shook her head in amazement. "Well, if you prefer to live in filth. . ."

  "I prefer nothing of the sort," he roared, goaded beyond endurance. Bending down, he grasped her shoulders and dragged her to her feet.

  "You impudent little baggage! Don't bandy words with me! I won't have you scrubbing my floors. Curse it, you're my grandmother's guest! Guests do not scrub floors!" He shook her in frustration. "Do you understand me?"

  It was one thing, Kate found, to tease him into losing his temper. It was quite another to be hauled unceremoniously to her feet and treated like a naughty child.

  "Let go of me!" she gasped angrily, struggling in the iron grip. She swung back her foot, ready to kick him in order to free herself, but he was ready for her.

  "No, you don't, you little vixen!" He lifted her at arm's length; her feet dangled six inches from the floor. "My grandmother said you were a lady but, by God, she doesn't have any idea of what a shrew you really are!"

  "Well, no doubt your grandmother is also under the im­pression that you are a gentleman!" Kate flashed back. "I'm sure she has no knowledge of your. . .your manhandling hab­its!"

  She freed herself at last with a final twist and darted behind the kitchen table.

  "My what?" he said wrathfully.

  “Well, what else would you call it?'' she responded, push­ing back several more curls which had come loose in the struggle. She glared at him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, pant­ing. "I haven't been in this house above a day and on several occasions you have. . .have used violence on me!"

  "Violence?" he repeated incredulously. "And who threw a pot of hot coffee at my head not an hour ago?''

  "And who deserved it, and more, for sitting there dis­cussing me so horridly, as if I was. . .was. . .a. . .?" Kate flushed.

  Jack looked uncomfortable. "Well, how was I to know you understood what we were saying?"

  "A gentleman would never have put me in that position."

  “A lady would never have been in the kitchen in the first place!"

  "Oh, so I'm a lady now, am I? Pity you didn't think of it earlier."

  "My grandmother told me about you."

  "And you're prepared to take your grandmother's word on it, are you?" she said dryly.

  "Are you calling my grandmother a liar?" he said in the soft tone that would have been a warning to anyone who knew him well.

  "She's undoubtedly a kidnapper, so why not a liar?"

  It was a complete facer, Jack had to admit it. His grand­mother had confessed to kidnapping Kate without a shred of self-consciousness or guilt. He called down a silent curse on all women, particularly those currently under his roof.

  "We will not discuss my grandmother," he said with dig­nity. “The fact remains that it was your behaviour which led me to assume you were a kitchen maid and treat you as such."

  "Oh, so it's perfectly respectable to insult honest kitchen maids, is it? Pray forgive me for not under-standing the finer points of a gentleman's code of conduct!"

  Jack's hands clenched in frustration. "Of course it isn't, you little shrew! How in hel— Hades was I to know you understood Spanish?"

  "Oh, so that makes it my fault too, does it?" Kate had been unsuccessfully trying to twist her hair back into its usual simple style; she tugged at the knot in frustration, bringing the rest of her hair tumbling over her shoulder.

  "Then perhaps I'd better warn you that I also speak Por­tuguese, French, Latin and Greek, in case you ever find your­self wishing to insult me in those languages!"

  "I didn't mean that and well you know it!" snapped Jack, his gaze following the glossy tumbled curls. Her hair smelled of that faint fresh fragrance that so eluded him, but her com­ment had put him in mind of another grievance. "And how did you learn to speak those languages in the first place?''

  "I told you!" said Kate.

  "You told me some faradiddle about working for some eccentric old gentleman—"

  "My father!" snapped Kate. "And it was no faradiddle! Everything I told you was true."

  “Including the nonsense about being a poor little kitchen maid?'' He leaned forward over the table.

  "Well, no," she admitted, "I was my father's house­keeper. I never told you I was a kitchen maid—you jumped to that conclusion. I merely did not contradict your assump­tion." A gleam of pure mischief shone in the green-grey eyes. "Besides, it was quite entertaining. I simply couldn't resist."

  He suddenly lunged forward across the table and caught her hand before she knew what he was doing. She struggled to snatch it back but his grip was firm. He turned her hand over and examined it, gently rubbing a red mark caused by the scrubbing brush.

  Kate, embarrassed, tried again to pull her hand away. "I know I don't have a lady's hands. I never have. In fact, as I told your grandmother, I doubt very much I can even be called a lady. What I allowed you to believe wasn't so far from the truth. Soon I will indeed be the maid you took me for."

  His grip on her hand tightened. "Nonsense!"

  "It is not nonsense," she said quietly. "Now, if you would please release my hand—again."

  He dropped it as if it were a hot coal. "So, what do you intend to do?"

  "Finish washing the floor," said Kate, ignoring his real meaning.

  "For the last time, girl, you will not scrub that floor!" He thumped a clenched fist onto the table.

  Kate shrugged. "I refuse to cook in a pigsty."

  "You're not going to do any cooking at all! Good God, woman, don't you ever do what you're told?" said the ha­rassed erstwhile Major of the Coldstream Guards, running a hand through his unruly dark locks.

  "Not when I'm told such foolish nonsense," she answered composedly.

  Calm grey-green eyes met fiery blue ones.

  “Tell me, Mr Carstairs, who is to make luncheon for your grandmother if I do not?''

  Jack's mouth opened, then closed. Kate's eyes twinkled.

  "Exactly. Stale bread and cold meat will not do for her ladyship. On the other hand, neither my father nor my broth­ers ever had any cause to complain about my culinary skills, therefore I will prepare luncheon for your grandmother and, of course, the rest of the household. But I will not cook in such dirty surroundings, and so. . ." She bent gracefully to pick up the dish of water and the scrubbing brush.

  "You will not scrub that floor! Carlos will do it. It's bad enough that I must accept your offer to prepare luncheon for my grandmother, but I won't allow you to sully your hands any more with such menial and degrading tasks! Don't argue with me, girl!" he growled, seeing her mouth open.

  "I'll see to it at once!" He stormed to the door, which opened on to the courtyard. "Carlos!" he bellowed. There was no answer, so with a muttered oath Jack stepped outside, preparing to search for his servant. Then he halted, remem­bering something. He stood for a moment, seemingly a little embarrassed.

  “My. . . er. . . grandmother is. . . er. . . in need of some hot wa­ter. . . Could you please. . .er. . .would you mind setting some on to heat?"

  "Of course," said Kate. He closed the door behind him. Kate turned to fetch the water. She jumped as the door crashed open again.

  "And don't even think of carrying it up to her, you hear me?" he roared at her.

  Kate stared at him in surprise.

  "I'll take it up. It's too heavy for you," he mumbled, and left again.

  "I cannot stay here in these primitive conditions," Lady Cahill announced.

  Jack repressed a jubilant grin. He'd hoped to be rid of her and it seemed that his prayers were about to be answered. “I did warn you, Grandmama, that this house is not fit for guests."

  "No need to sound proud of it, b
oy," she snapped. "I have directed Smithers to get my things ready. I will stay a sennight or so at Alderby, before returning home."

  "Well, if you wish to reach Alderby in good time, you should leave here by two o'clock." He rose.

  "Sit down, boy. I haven't finished with you yet. I need to discuss that gel."

  Jack frowned, then a look of complete indifference settled on his face. He shrugged. "I thought she was to go and live with you. Changed your mind, have you?"

  "No, I haven't! It is still my most ardent wish that she come and live with me and make her entrance into society, as is her birthright."

  "Well, then, it's settled." He stretched his long, lean frame.

  "It's no such thing!" said the old lady tartly. Her grandson turned and raised his eyebrows in enquiry.

  "The stupid gel will have none of the scheme."

  The thick dark brows came together in a frown. "What? You mean that girl out there—'' he jerked his head in the direction of the door "—that half-starved little ragamuffin has turned you down?" His voice was incredulous. "Refused an offer to be fed and clothed in the first style of elegance and taken to all the most fashionable places?" He ran his hands through his tousled dark hair. "I don't believe it."

  "It's true enough!" said his grandmother acidly. "Turned me down on no less than two separate occasions."

  "Does she know what she's refusing?" he said. "Did you explain it to her? Describe to her what her life could be like?"

  He received a withering look in reply.

  "Yes, yes, I suppose you did," he muttered, shaking his head in amazement. He could imagine no female of his ac­quaintance even considering the rejection of such a magnif­icent offer, let alone a girl in such dire straits as this one. Women, in his experience, were after all they could get.

  "Lord, the chit must have bats in her belfry."

  "No," said his grandmother dryly. "She suffers from the same complaint as you."

  He stiffened and looked down his nose at her. "And what is that, may I ask?"