by Jo Beverley
She took it and rubbed it between her fingers, feeling the grease in it. “Just family troubles, Mr. Crisp.” She determined to make sure he had no illusions. “You’ll doubtless have realized we don’t have much money.”
“I don’t think any the less of you for it.”
“So I should think,” Amy retorted. “Money isn’t the sole determinator of quality, Mr. Crisp.”
He raised his brows. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a damned sharp edge to your tongue, Miss de Lacy?”
He was daring to criticize her. “Yes,” she said. “Doubtless the same people who tell you you’ve got an uncouth edge to yours.”
“Uncouth!” He caught his breath and his temper. “All I meant, Miss de Lacy, was that I don’t look down on you or your family for being poor, as I’m sure other people do, it being the way of the world. Is that deserving of rebuke?”
“I—” Amy caught herself, too. What was going on? She was normally the most moderate of people. “I am sorry,” she said sincerely. “And after you’ve been so kind. I’m just not myself, Mr. Crisp, and you’re right, there are family problems, but not ones I can discuss with a stranger. Please excuse my outburst.”
They had come to a stop during their spat, and now he touched her elbow to urge her on toward the gate which led into the yard of Ashridge Farm. “You are excused. This must have been an ordeal.” He stopped by the gate and smiled at her in a way that reminded her of that strange time in the warm kitchen. “I don’t suppose you could bring yourself to call me Harry, by way of reparation.”
Amy felt a pang of alarm. “Of course not,” she said, rather more sharply than she had intended.
“No, of course not,” he repeated without offense as he ushered her through the gate. “But despite our brief acquaintance I feel very at ease with you, almost like a brother. I have no sisters, though, so I don’t know how a brother really feels.”
Relieved at his light tone, Amy grinned at him. “Blue-deviled, I think. Jasper seems to think his sisters are his cross to bear.”
He smiled. “My friend Chart appears to feel the same way, but protective, too. Toward his younger one at least.”
“Poor Jasper has only older sisters. Even his twin came into the world ahead of him.”
They crossed another muddy yard, and the farmhouse door opened before they got there. In it stood a pretty, brown-haired, brown-eyed girl in cap and apron. “Good day to you, Mr. Crisp.”
“Good day, Meg. This lady got caught in the rain near our place. I was hoping your mother would give her shelter for the night. Then I can ride over and tell her family she’s safe.”
The girl was already standing back and urging them in.
In moments, Amy was in a proper kitchen. Pots were bubbling on the hob, filling the place with warm, aromatic steam. Five loaves sat cooling, adding their own perfume. A big pie sat on a table already laid for dinner.
Mrs. Coneybear came forward. “Oh, the poor young lady! Come stir the gravy, Meg, while I see to things. Why,” the gaunt woman said as she came toward them, “it’s Miss de Lacy, isn’t it?”
“Miss Amy de Lacy,” Amy said. “I’m surprised to be recognized so far from home.”
The woman chuckled. “Once seen, never forgotten, dear. Saw you at Stamford market last year. Are you wet? Oh dear, you are. You’ll catch your death. Now, Mr. Crisp, if you’re to ride over to Stonycourt, you’d best be on your way. Night’s coming.”
And so Amy found her good samaritan gone without a special farewell, but she scarce had time to consider if this was a good thing or not as she was sent off with a talkative Meg to find dry clothes.
“Put us all in a tizzy, I’ll tell you, having three fine young gentlemen a-come and live next door. Very nice, they be, when all’s said and done. They come over now and then to get milk and eggs and such, seeing as they mostly have just the one servant.”
She opened a wardrobe within which the clothes hung on hooks and pulled out a green print gown. “Here, try this, miss. It’ll doubtless be a mite tight around the top, but it’s this or nothing, for Ma’s flat as a board, despite having bore five kiddies.”
She cheerfully helped Amy out of her gown and didn’t say anything about the lack of a shift but produced one of her own. Amy wondered what she was thinking, and could feel her face heat up. She wanted to protest her innocence but knew that would be the worst thing to do.
“Yes,” Meg went on, “Ma said it was as well I was already smitten with Martin Howgarth before those three turned up, or I might have gone and done something silly.”
Was that a sly dig?
“Course, that Mr. Ashby’s the handsomest. But he’s got a bit too much of an air to him for my taste. Grandson of a duke, he is, so they say. And Mr. Cornwallis, he’s a lovely man, but ever so shy. He stays here most of the year, so we see a lot of him. Ma has him over for dinner every now and then. She seems to think he’ll starve to death, though you only have to look at him to see that t’ain’t likely to be his problem.”
Amy was in the dress and Meg was forcing the buttons together. “I’m not sure it will fit,” Amy protested.
“Course, it will,” Meg said cheerfully, and gave another tug, which rendered Amy nearly as flat as Mrs. Coneybear. “Which do you think’s the most handsome?” Meg asked.
Amy found once the buttons were fastened, it was not too uncomfortable. In a small mirror, she could see the effect was rather like a Tudor stomacher. Her bosom was flattened out. She was thinking of adopting the style when she remembered she was supposed to be flaunting her assets, not concealing them.
“Well?” Meg prompted.
Amy remembered the question. “I…er…only saw Mr. Crisp. I’m not sure any other gentlemen were at home.”
“Out hunting,” said Meg, with a nod of her head as she gathered up the dress and stockings. “Mad for it, they be. I’ll put these in to soak, will I?”
“Do you think it will do any good?” Amy asked.
“Can’t hurt,” said Meg, heading for the door. “Come you down. The men’ll be in for dinner in a moment. I think Mr. Crisp is nicest. And he’s good enough looking when he smiles. He’s got a lovely smile.”
“Yes,” said Amy wistfully. “I suppose they’re all very rich,” she said, not really believing it.
“They’re not short a groat,” said Meg with a flashing grin over her shoulder. “Mr. Ashby paid a hundred guineas for a horse a few weeks back. A hundred guineas! Da couldn’t get over it. But I don’t reckon they’re rich by your standards. Mr. Crisp and Mr. Ashby are oldest sons, though, so they’ll come into a fair bit one day I suppose.”
Not soon enough to be any use to me, thought Amy.
Meg dumped the dress and stockings in a tub and disappeared. In a few moments she was back with a large bucket of hot water. She pumped in some cold, then added hot, then threw in some softened soap and some liquids.
“What are they?” Amy asked.
“Turpentine and hartshorn. Works a treat on stuff like this.”
Full of energy, Meg grasped a dolly-stick and started to pummel the garments with it. Amy felt exhausted just watching her.
“They’ll never be the same, but they might be wearable,” Meg said cheerfully. She considered Amy as she worked. “You’re a grand looker, miss. Mr. Crisp was giving you the eye.” She gave a cheeky wink. “You interested in him?”
“No,” said Amy quickly.
Meg accepted it. “I suppose most men make a sheep’s eye at you,” she said without a trace of envy. “He’s going to be a lord, though, one day. You could do worse.”
“He is?” He’d avoided giving her that information. Amy wondered why.
Meg nodded. “Can’t remember lord of what. There!” She hauled out the dolly and hung it on the wall. “We’ll just let them soak.” There was a shout from the kitchen. “Come on, Ma’ll need my help, and you look as if you could do with some food.”
Amy trailed slowly after. She realized her day’s misadventures had exhau
sted her, but she wondered if she had ever had the bursting vitality of Meg Coneybear. Perhaps it was as well fate had destined her to be ornamental rather than useful.
She shook off that depressing thought and told herself it was simple lack of food that made her so mawkish.
If that was the problem, she had come to the right place to solve it. Even in their prosperous days, the de Lacys had not eaten with the gusto of the Coneybears. She could quite see that the thought of the young men living on bread and cheese would wound Mrs. Coneybear to the heart.
Ten people sat to the table, including Amy. There were Mr. and Mrs. Coneybear, Meg, three robust sons, two working men, and a healthy young giant who turned out to be Martin Howgarth, Meg’s intended. Amy understood why Meg had not had her head turned by the young gentlemen at Coppice Farm, for Martin was handsome enough and plainly adored the girl.
His warm attention to his bride-to-be had a strange effect on Amy. She wished she was loved like that. She wished she had some chance of being loved like that. A mercenary marriage seemed unlikely to produce that kind of devotion.
The huge pie was steak and kidney, and it was served with masses of potatoes, turnips, and greens and great slabs of bread and butter. It was followed by a choice of damson pie or bilberry, both with custard. The men consumed vast quantities, washing it down with home-brewed ale. When they’d finished, they sat nibbling at cheese, just to keep starvation at bay.
Amy had seen all the men’s eyes widen at first looking at her, but they’d been too concerned with the food to make anything of it. Now, however, as Meg and her mother cleared the table and the pipes came out, Amy saw a selection of looks directed at her. Mostly they were just frankly admiring, though Amy feared the youngest Coneybear son had a touch of idolatry in his eyes. And one of the farm workers had a lustful gleam in his eye.
She decided it was time to disappear. She rose to her feet. “Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Coneybear. It was delicious. I’m afraid, after my adventure, I feel very tired. Could you show me where I could sleep?”
The lustful man sniggered, but a stern look from Mrs. Coneybear shut him up.
“Course, dear,” the woman said. “You can sleep with Meg. Just you go up. Meg’ll come up in a minute with a hot brick.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
“We don’t want you taking pneumonia, Miss de Lacy. You do as I tell you. You’ll feel more the thing in the morning.”
Amy was no sooner in the bedroom than Meg scampered in after her, pulled out a flannelette nightgown, and gave it her. Then she was gone.
Amy changed and slipped into the bed, which was not very cold. Within minutes Meg was back with the brick wrapped in layers of flannel. She pushed it in by Amy’s feet. “One thing,” she said cheerfully, “you’ll have the bed right cozy for me by the time I come up.”
At the door she turned. “What d’you think of him, then?”
For a second, Amy assumed she meant Harry Crisp, but then she realized her mistake. “Mr. Howgarth seems a pleasant man, and very handsome.”
Meg’s face lit up in a starry smile. “Isn’t he? We’re to be married come June. I can hardly wait.”
Her meaning was earthy and direct and wholesome.
After she’d gone, Amy lay thinking of that amiable giant: of his warm lazy smile following his darling as she bustled about the room, of his solidly muscled forearms and his hairy chest showing at the vee of his open shirt.
The thoughts slid over, somehow, to Harry Crisp. She had seen no part of his body except his hands and face. Would she see him again? Or would she be returned home by the Coneybears?
She shouldn’t see him again. She was a fortune hunter, and he didn’t have the kind of fortune she required. And he seemed able to stir in her wanton thoughts the like of which she had never experienced before; thoughts which made her want to consign Owen Staverley and all other wealthy bachelors to the devil.
She wiped away a slow trickle of tears. They were just tiredness. That was all they were. Amy fell asleep before Meg joined her and woke after the girl had gone. That was hardly surprising, for she could tell by the sun that it must be the middle of the morning. Feeling like a slugabed, she leapt out of bed and washed her face and hands in the water provided. She felt a great deal more like herself and able to face anything.
She remembered her weak, sentimental feelings of the night before and laughed, dismissing them as the product of an overly tired mind.
To her amazement, Beryl’s dress was laid on a chair, faded but with nearly all the stains removed, and pressed almost to elegance. Her poor mistreated stockings were snowy white and, she saw when she picked them up, neatly darned in two places where there had been no darn before.
She detected Meg’s indefatigable work and sighed. She felt such a useless, ornamental creature next to the robust girl. It was both reassuring and disconcerting to remember that Martin Howgarth had not given the beautiful Amy de Lacy a moment’s more attention than he’d had to, but had cared only for his bride-to-be. Clearly a man who knew a treasure when he found one.
Had they walked out together last night, Meg and Martin, holding hands in the moonlight, talking of plans for their home and their family? Perhaps stopping for a kiss.
Amy walked down the stairs to the busy kitchen. She could hear Meg and her mother chattering away accompanied by the clatter of constant work. The chatter was mostly Meg’s. Amy smiled, realizing that even after such a brief acquaintance, she would miss the girl.
She walked into the kitchen and stopped dead. Three young men were tucking into huge plates of sausage, eggs, and fried bread.
The one facing her, a rotund young man with gingerish hair, froze, a forkful of food midway to his mouth.
Alerted, the other two swiveled.
Harry Crisp rose to his feet, his charming smile lighting his face. “Miss de Lacy. You are looking a great deal better.”
Amy gave him her hand and a smile and turned to his companion. The second man grinned at her appreciatively as he slowly rose to his feet. He was as tall and broad as Harry Crisp, but dark haired and gray eyed. He was an altogether handsomer and bolder specimen. His fine eyes gleamed with appreciation, yet Amy could not take offense. It was the unabashed acknowledgment of one fine bird for another.
Harry followed her eyes. “Allow me to present my friends, Miss de Lacy. Chart Ashby and Terance Cornwallis.”
By this time the rotund one had come to his senses. He dropped his fork and got to his feet to stammer an incoherent greeting.
Chart Ashby took her hand and kissed it with lingering expertise. Amy just gave him a humorous look; she knew the type. It was Harry Crisp who took offense, drew her away, and guided her to a seat at the table. The gentlemen all sat down. Meg bustled over with a plate full of food and a mug of tea, which she placed before Amy with a cheerful smile.
Amy wondered how she could eat a fraction of it, but clearly the men would not feel happy about eating until she was, so she started.
When she’d swallowed the first mouthful she turned to Harry Crisp. “Were my family worried?”
He frowned slightly. “Not really. I suppose they know you’re a sensible person who would seek shelter.” He looked up at her gave a slight wink, which reminded her that they shared secrets.
Amy colored and broke eye contact. This caused her gaze to fall on the handsome Mr. Ashby, who was looking intrigued. She felt her face heat even more. He had the look of a man who noticed things and would not be above making mischief if it suited him.
“They certainly know I’m sensible,” she said firmly and cut another piece of sausage. “I’m famous for it. I hope they made you welcome.” She considered the delicious sausage and remembered that yesterday’s dinner was to have been potato pie. Looking down at the feast on her plate, she wondered what he’d made of it.
“I came straight back,” he said, “in case you needed reassurance. But you were already in bed. Mrs. Coneybear gave me some leftovers.”
“Mrs. Coneybear’s leftovers would delight the Regent himself,” said Chart Ashby, directing a brilliant smile at the farmer’s wife.
There was a touch of red in the woman’s cheeks as she grinned. “Go on with you, Mr. Ashby.”
He turned the same smile on Amy. “Fortunate for us you were so far from home, Miss de Lacy.”
Amy stiffened. She found his manner altogether too warm. “What do you mean by that, sir?”
His smile broadened. “Why, only that you have given us an excuse to come begging at Mrs. Coneybear’s table.”
Amy felt tricked into the wrong. Thank heavens this man had not been alone at Coppice Farm yesterday. Heaven knows what would have become of her. She saw a look flash between Harry Crisp and his friend, and with a smile Mr. Ashby returned his attention to his food.
Harry said, “I believe your aunt was concerned. It appears you hadn’t made it clear where you were going. But your sister was sure you would be safe, but for some reason she seemed to think you would be at Prior’s Grange at Upper Kennet.”
Amy could feel guilt rise in her cheeks. “I wonder why,” she said lightly, then lied shamelessly. “I’m afraid Beryl thinks she has powers of precognition. She likes to guess things, but she’s rarely correct.”
Chart Ashby laid down his knife and fork. “If she guessed Upper Kennet with nothing to go on she got remarkably close. Perhaps you should charge for her services.”
“A miss is as good as a mile, as they say,” Amy retorted and addressed herself to Harry. “I must thank you again for riding over, sir. And now, will Zephyr be fit for the return journey?”
All three young men appeared to have a choking fit at the name. Amy struggled but then she burst out laughing. “It is ridiculous,” she admitted as she wiped away tears. “But she was probably young and speedy once.”
“Not with those hocks,” said Mr. Cornwallis seriously.
Amy looked at him. “Oh dear, and I’d always consoled myself with the thought of her flighty youth.”
Mr. Cornwallis colored and stuffed more fried bread in his mouth.
“Whatever her past,” said Harry, “she appears as able as she was yesterday, and I’ve mended the ribbons. I think you can make it home, but of course we’ll escort you to make sure.”
