Certainly, she found a lot of frail and elderly people there, some of them in obvious pain, quietly drinking from elegant glasses. They bowed politely to Kate who bowed back, heartened by the civility. Only a few of the haughtier, wealthier patrons snubbed her. Most of them nodded distantly with the clear hope she wouldn’t sit with them. She didn’t.
She sat alone and drank her glass of perfectly ordinary water. A lonely old lady with gout came and sat beside her, regaling her with stories of her ailments and about how the town had changed in the last few years.
“You must find it annoying to have your pleasant little town invaded by so many strangers,” Kate offered.
“Not at all,” the old lady protested. Her eyes twinkled. “To be frank, it was a very boring little town! We didn’t even know our water was special until outsiders came and told us so. And now, there is so much more life about the place, so many more interesting and beautiful people to watch—like you, my dear.”
Kate laughed. “Thank you. Even though we clog up your streets and your church—”
“Oh, Mr. Hoag is quite in favor of the expansion.”
“And your new curate, also?” Kate asked casually.
“He must be. There are certainly more people coming to church since he began to take the services.” She cackled. “Mind you, he is a very handsome young man. Personable, too. I daresay any family, even the Winslows, would be delighted to have a daughter married to him.”
“I daresay,” Kate agreed, faintly.
“Mind you, he’s secretive,” the old lady allowed, setting down her empty glass. “No idea who his family is or where he came from.” Annoyingly, she began to heave herself up, just when Kate was eager to hear more.
Good manners compelled Kate to rise and help the old lady to her feet. And by the time she’d passed her walking stick and said goodbye, the moment for further questions had passed.
Ten minutes later, having refused with a shudder the attendant’s invitation to bathe in the pool below, Kate sallied forth again to find something else to do.
However, without friends in Blackhaven, there was very little to occupy her. She’d already visited the art gallery yesterday. It showed largely sea views, paintings of Braithwaite Castle and a few portraits of children, dogs, and horses. One or two of them were very fine, but Kate felt she could have improved on most of them herself. They certainly didn’t entice her back for another look just yet.
There was an ice parlor, like a miniature Gunther’s which she’d always enjoyed in London, and a couple of coffee houses occupied by an interesting mixture of gentlemen from all walks of life, and even by one or two females, though none of them was unaccompanied. Kate wondered if she felt strong enough to brave another taboo today and elected to leave it until she was truly bored.
Instead, she went for a walk around the town, which she didn’t really know despite having stayed at Braithwaite Castle in the spring. It proved to be a quaint, pleasant place on the whole, despite its rapid expansion which seemed to be managed with taste. And if she occasionally imagined shadows lying in wait at quiet corners, she supposed that was inevitable after last night. It didn’t mean she had to hide in her room in fear of men who had surely already fled Blackhaven.
She walked past St. Andrew’s Church, with only a faint pang of disappointment at not sighting the intriguing curate. She dawdled around the market and the harbor, where she learned from a cheerful sailor that there were to be French prisoners delivered the following day by the famous—or infamous—Captain Alban, who’d helped to capture them and was apparently doing this further favor for the Royal Navy.
She went on through respectable residential streets and glimpsed others rather less salubrious—where she guessed it would be unwise to walk wearing silk. So she followed two neatly dressed women of the lower orders up another street leading back toward High Street.
The women entered a gate on the left, which surprised Kate since a line of somewhat unsavory characters snaked out of the gate and down the street. She couldn’t resist glancing in the open gate as she passed. A small yard led to a ramshackle building with its doors wide open. A horse and cart stood to one side, the horse contentedly guzzling from a nose bag. Some kind of manufactory, she guessed. And perhaps these poor souls were looking for work here.
Kate refused to avoid them, although she was careful to carry her reticule on her outside arm. A few of the men grinned at her. One or two tipped their ragged hats. None of them addressed her or threatened her in any way. Until someone fell at her feet, blocking her path and forcing her to an abrupt halt.
Another man, who’d almost fallen with him, yelled, “Jackie!” in a mixture of despair and frustration and dropped to one knee, trying to haul him upright again. “We’re going in, Jackie, the line’s moving. Up you get, man.”
The fallen man had one wooden leg and clothes so tattered as to be hardly worthy of the name. He also reeked of alcohol, and his friend’s efforts to make him stand were doomed to failure. If he wasn’t dead drunk, he was simply dead.
“Sorry, ma’am, he don’t mean no harm,” his friend threw at her while he slapped the unconscious man ungently on the cheeks. “Fool. If you don’t wake up, you won’t eat. Jackie!”
“Ah,” Kate said, understanding at last. “You’re queuing for food?”
“Just till we get back on our feet,” the man said defensively.
“Of course,” Kate said hastily. Under the man’s astonished gaze, she knelt on the ground and took her smelling salts from her reticule. She never used them herself, but had always carried them as part of a lady’s accoutrements. She supposed they weren’t normally used for drunks of this class.
One whiff, however, had Jackie waving his hands in alarm. His friend caught them before he could touch her. “Oy, Jackie behave. The lady’s helping you. But you got to get up or you’ll get no dinner. Don’t make me leave you here.” He cast his eyes uneasily after the line which had almost disappeared through the gate now.
Jackie opened his dazed eyes, focused them on Kate and gave her an unexpected, singularly sweet smile. It provided a hint of the man he’d once been. It also gave her a glimpse of true suffering. Shame hit her in the stomach.
She patted his shoulder awkwardly.
“Bless you lady, don’t touch the varmint, he’s filthy,” objected the friend.
“There you are, Sergeant,” said another, very different voice, and Kate’s gaze flew up to find none other than Mr. Grant the curate, crouching down by the fallen man. He didn’t look at her. “Your wound playing up again?”
Jackie nodded. It warmed Kate that Grant allowed him this dignity.
Without fuss, the curate got an arm under Jackie’s waist and hauled him upright without any help. That done, he held him up with one arm, and offered his free hand to Kate.
She met his gaze and something new fizzed inside her, like a thousand tiny champagne bubbles. She took his hand and rose to her feet. Jackie’s friend had taken the opportunity to run after the others.
Kate asked bluntly, “Will he be allowed a meal in this state?”
“Of course,” Grant said, walking forward to the gate.
“Are you sure?” she insisted, trotting after them.
Jackie grinned at her. “Course he is. He’s the captain.”
“Captain of the kitchen,” Grant said deprecatingly. “We provide meals for whoever needs them, twice a week if we can.”
“Who is we?” she asked lightly.
“Volunteers from the church.”
Since they were at the door of the building, she waited to be invited inside. But he only delivered up Jackie to a much burlier looking helper and turned to face her. “Many of them are old soldiers, invalided out of our local regiment and left with nothing. Some with no means of earning.”
“It’s not just the pain of his wound that makes him drink,” Kate said in a small voice.
“No.”
“You called him Sergeant.”
; “It brings him back to himself. Sometimes. Thank you for helping him. I’m afraid he has dirtied your dress.”
“I have another,” Kate said vaguely, thinking of Jackie’s missing limb which could never be replaced. She refocused to find Grant’s steady, compelling gaze on her face. Warmth seeped under her skin.
He said, “May I escort you to wherever you’re going?”
“Of course not. You are busy here, and my reputation will not stand being seen with a gentleman while wearing a dirty gown.”
“Unless the gentleman is the curate,” he suggested.
“I suspect you have a very unrealistic idea of how your congregation regards you.”
“Well, then you must hide,” he said solemnly, walking toward the waiting horse and cart. He lifted the tarpaulin invitingly.
Her lips twitched. “Are you serious?”
“It’s either that or be seen in my company.”
They were hardly the only two options open to her, but she forbore to point it out. She recognized a challenge when she heard one. He didn’t believe she’d do it. He imagined he was manipulating her into accepting his escort.
She regarded him, considering. “Do you think it will cause less talk—about either of us—if you empty me out of the cart in front of the hotel?”
“Of course not,” he said promptly. “I’ll deliver you round the back.”
“Of course you will,” she murmured. “Well, if you think you can make that beast move, by all means, do your worst.”
And she advanced on the cart, fully intending to haul herself up, unaided. At least she had the satisfaction of having finally surprised him. She could see the uncertainty in his eyes, and then his breath of laughter. He moved, intercepting her before she could touch the sides of the cart.
“Surely you can’t mean to stop me after arousing all my hopes?” she mocked.
“Oh no, I merely mean to help you up.” Before she could object, if she truly meant to, he placed firm hands on her waist and lifted her easily to a sitting position on the cart with her legs dangling down.
Her breath caught. His eyes held hers, and he didn’t at once release her waist. His fingers seemed to burn through the thin fabric of her pelisse and gown.
“I’m joking you,” he confessed. “I wanted to see how far you would go.”
She drew up her legs, pulling away from him. “You’d better hurry,” she observed as she arranged herself under the tarpaulin. “I can tell you are in demand here.”
For an instant he didn’t move, then she heard his breath of laughter as he covered her up. A moment later, the cart creaked as he climbed up on the front to drive, and the horse began to amble forward.
I must be very, very bored, she thought as her shoulders began to shake with silent laughter.
His voice, sounding muffled through the tarpaulin, said, “Are you not afraid to walk alone after what happened last night?”
“No,” she said, not entirely truthfully. “I won’t be kept indoors by such ruffians.”
“I like your spirit,” he said. “And yet it terrifies me. You do know you’ve just climbed into a cart that belongs to neither of us, and are now completely at the mercy of a stranger you met less than twenty-four hours ago? A stranger who, moreover, was present when you were attacked. You, my lady, are reckless to a fault.”
“Nonsense,” she said, steadying herself with her hand as the cart bumped over something in the road. The horse clopped placidly on. “You are not a stranger. You are the curate.”
“You mean you asked someone?” There was a pleased smile rather than a scold in his voice.
She opened her mouth to deny it, with suitably wry humor, before she remembered that actually, she had. “You see? I am not so big a fool as you imagine.”
He didn’t reply. From the noises outside the tarpaulin, she imagined they were already in High Street. She could hear the clop of other horses, human voices, and wheels passing her by.
She hung on tightly as they swung around another corner, and then another. The horse slowed and eventually stopped at Grant’s gentle command. Warily, she lifted a corner of the tarpaulin, but could make out nothing. She almost jumped when it suddenly pulled back and Grant lifted her down in a rush.
There was something oddly exciting about his hold, perhaps the unexpected strength of his arms or the firm warmth of his grip. He stood very close to her, a smile of pure fun just dying in his eyes. Since her stomach showed a tendency to melt, she hastily looked around her. It was a wooden shelter of some kind, with a roof and two sides. It was empty save for herself, Grant, and the horse and cart, but she could hear distant sounds of activity, rhythmic chopping, and the clattering of pots and crockery. Voices murmured, with others shouting over the top.
“Where are we?” she murmured.
“It’s an unloading area for the kitchen. Just walk straight out of here and through the door directly opposite. No one will notice you.”
“Something tells me you speak from experience, sir. I don’t now know which of us is less sane. There was no need for any of this.”
“Tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”
Laughter surged up. “You are, without doubt, the strangest curate I ever met.”
“I don’t imagine you meet very many.”
“Trust me, you stand out among thousands,” she said dryly.
His lip quirked. “I wish that were true.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you,” he admitted. “And I wish you to like me.”
She wasn’t used to flirting outside back kitchens. That must have been why nerves seemed to dive through her stomach. But at least she managed to respond. “Oh, I like you, Mr. Grant. I thought I made that plain last night.”
“Do you like me enough to come to church on Sunday?”
“Do you want to save my soul again?” she asked flippantly.
“No, I want to see you again. I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with your soul.”
She laughed, pulling away at last. “But then, we’re strangers, and you haven’t known me a day. Goodbye, Mr. Grant.” And as directed, she walked out of the covered area and straight through the kitchen door.
Chapter Three
Kate yawned over her morning hot chocolate and leaned back into the comfortable pillows.
“What is today’s excitement, again?” she enquired of Little.
“Only the French prisoners being brought ashore,” the maid replied. Her eyes gleamed. “From Captain Alban’s ship.”
Kate had heard of Captain Alban, of course, a merchant captain with a mysterious piratical past, so it was rumored. In the last couple of years, he had taken on the French in quite dashing ways—running the French blockades, rescuing British prisoners from the French and Spanish coasts, and even joining in sea battles. A curious character she would be interested to meet. On the other hand, watching some poor, chained sailors being handed from one prison to the next wasn’t high on the list of Kate’s pleasures.
“What are the alternatives?” she asked.
“This morning? A visit to the pump room and the bath house. Or the gallery. Or the circulating library. Again.”
Kate sighed. She hadn’t finished the book she’d borrowed from the library yesterday afternoon. She looked forward with longing to the arrival of her horses. When she could ride, she could at least see more of the country.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us go and gawp at Captain Alban and hope his prisoners are not wretched enough to lower my spirits.” She took a sip of chocolate. “Although he might send some underling on such a dull task and then we shall be disappointed.”
“But the soldiers of the 44th will be there to take the prisoners,” Little said eagerly. “I hear the whole town will turn out to watch.”
Kate’s stomach gave a funny little flutter. Would the curate be above such a spectacle? Although she would not involve him in her affairs, she was far from averse to seeing him again. She liked his easy manners
and his unexpected wit. In fact, he intrigued her as few men did these days, not least, she suspected cynically because he didn’t try to seduce her, despite admitting to liking her. The man was a challenge.
And, she acknowledged, sipping her chocolate, a mystery. A highly attractive mystery in clergyman’s clothes. A clergyman, forsooth! She’d never encountered one of the species quite like him. The ambitious, well-born ones who occasionally crossed her social path, she generally dismissed as hypocrites. The poorer ones, dependent on the favor of her family or Crowmore’s, tended to be obsequious and occasionally pitiful. There was certainly nothing obsequious or pitiful about Mr. Grant! Or hypocritical. He was, in fact, that rarity, a kind man who was not remotely boring.
Yet…
He talked and fought without flinching, amused her, ignored her reputation—and his own—and he made no assumptions. He was a novelty, and wicked Kate Crowmore loved nothing more. Who else would have smuggled her back to her hotel in a cart because her dress was dirty?
Laughter bubbled up once more. Of course that hadn’t been his reason any more than it was hers. He liked her. It wasn’t flirtation as she understood it. It was a lot more … exciting.
She set down her cup and saucer. “The turquoise dress, I think, Little, don’t you?”
An hour later, she sallied forth from the hotel and walked to the end of High Street and along to the docks. Annoyingly, the hair at the back of her neck prickled, a continued response to the recent attack that she couldn’t quite squash, despite the daylight and the safe throng of people around her.
And, of course, Little trailed in her wake, more because the maid was desperate to see the spectacle than because Kate wished to pander to her own fears, let alone the town’s sense of propriety.
It was easy to follow the flow of people from all classes who came to the harbor to jeer at the fallen enemy, and it wasn’t far.
Blackhaven Harbor, while pretty against the backdrop of surrounding hills and rugged cliffs, wasn’t suitable for larger vessels. According to the same friendly fisherman she’d spoken to yesterday. He pointed out Captain Alban’s ship anchored beyond the harbor and the two boats full of prisoners being rowed ashore toward the harbor steps.
The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2) Page 3
