‘There is still hot water in the copper downstairs and a tub, Major. I have put soap and some towels beside it. Supper will be almost ready when you are done. We can make a bed up for you here in front of the fire.’
‘I am being an unconscionable trouble to you, ma’am. I can dry off in the stable and eat out there. Spend the night there, too.’ The atmosphere of this little family felt so warm and close, so alien to his own experience of home life, that he felt awkwardly like an intruder, which was unsettling. As though his hostess was not unsettling enough.
‘Indeed, you could sleep in the stable,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘And you will probably catch pneumonia and die on me and that would really be a nuisance.’ When he opened his mouth to protest that he had no intention of doing any such thing, she just laughed. ‘I am teasing you, Major. We would be glad of your company, would we not, boys?’
Women did not tease Major Hugo Travers, Earl of Burnham. They made eyes at him on a regular basis, and he could deal with that tactfully when he did not want what the fluttering eyelashes and bold suggestions offered. This one had obviously not thought through the implications of his presence and it was his duty to point it out to her. It would be helpful if his thawing, dripping, body was not expressing an interest in making those hazel eyes sparkle even more or wondering what that generous mouth would feel like pressed against his.
‘Ma’am, I gather that you are alone here, with the exception of your sons. Under the circumstances...’ It was difficult to find the right way to put it with two lads listening to every word.
‘Are you afraid that your rest will be disturbed by these two hellions?’ The concern in her voice was at odds with the quizzical smile on her lips. She obviously understood exactly what his scruples were about and chose to ignore them. Those candid eyes challenged him to argue. ‘I can turn the key in the lock if that will set your mind at rest?’
‘Of course, thank you.’ He could hardly pursue the subject, not with the boys watching him wide-eyed. ‘My name is Hugo Travers. Major.’ No need for the title.
‘Emilia Weston. Mrs,’ she said, equally formally, then switched back to practical housewife in a blink. ‘Now, that water is not getting any warmer. Leave the damp shirt,’ she added as Hugo bundled his dry underwear into the saddlebag and carried it towards the stairs, feeling that he had somehow come out the worst from that encounter. He was not, he realised, used to dealing with women in a domestic setting, not unless they were servants.
He found himself in a cellar running back into the hillside. A copper stood on its brick base, the glow of the fire beneath reddening the brick floor. Stone troughs stood around, pipework and spouts jutted from the walls and a row of barrels lined the walls. The floor was still wet around the biggest trough and a sodden mass of malt grains filled it halfway, steaming gently.
There was at least one more room at a higher level behind the wall, he realised as he dredged up the faint memories of the brew house at Long Burnham Hall. The trough was a mash tun, the mass of wet grains was the mash, and sparging must have involved soaking it in hot water. Not an easy job for a slight woman on her own. He stood frowning at the signs of activity: buckets and poles and sacks. Where was this Bavin fellow who was supposed to be helping her?
Mrs Weston had dragged a tub close to the fire and set a bucket beside it, alongside a stool with a piece of soap, towels and a small mirror. Hugo began to bail water out of the copper and into the tub, uncomfortably aware that she had set the things out for him as a wife might prepare a bath for a returning husband. There was an unsettling intimacy about this, which did not help him suppress his instinctive reaction to Mrs Weston in the slightest. Whomever her occupation made her now, his involuntary hostess was also a lady and should not be waiting on a strange man.
He tugged off his boots with difficulty, struggled out of his uniform jacket and hauled his shirt over his head. The heat of the fire on his damp, cold skin made him close his eyes in blessed relief.
‘Major?’ It was Joseph, peering over an armful of clothes. He dumped them on a barrel and scooped up what Hugo had discarded. ‘Mama says these should fit. She says, will you give me your breeches as well.’
Jaw set, Hugo clambered out of the sodden leathers and handed them over, waited until the boy had scampered back upstairs and clambered into the tub, still in his drawers. He wouldn’t put it past the unconventional Mrs Weston to come down to check he had washed behind his ears.
* * *
‘He’s got a great big scar right across here!’ Joseph gestured across his chest. ‘And he’s all brown!’
And I really do not need a mental image of that man without his clothes, thank you, Joseph. ‘Who is he? The cat’s uncle?’ Emilia enquired repressively as she wrung out a pair of socks. How did boys create holes in their hose without any apparent effort at all? Her back was aching, but if she just finished the day’s washing now she could concentrate on making up a bed for their visitor and finishing supper.
‘The major, Mama.’ Joseph dropped the shirt and stockings into the wash pail and hung the buckskin breeches over a chair.
‘The major’s got an enormous sword and pistols and a great big knife in his boot. Where do you think he is going, Mama?’ Nathan hung over the stew pot, stirring while he counted dumplings with a covetous eye. She had made six more and added some carrots and turnips to the pot. Hopefully that would be enough to assuage the major’s hunger.
‘Home, I suppose. The war has been over for eight months now.’ Home to his wife and family who will be thankful that their man escaped with nothing worse than a scar. What a blessing for them. ‘Goodness, it is getting cold. Throw some more wood on the fire please, Joseph.’
Would Major Travers be all right on the floor of the taproom? He was starchy enough to refuse the offer of the attic room with the boys, just next to her own, she was certain. Oh. well, he would have experienced considerably worse at war. Once he was dry and warm and fed, he would be all right.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs Weston?’ a deep voice behind her enquired as she shook out a chemise. Emilia turned and there he was in the doorway, the colour back in his tanned cheeks, shaved to within a painful inch of perfection, thick black hair combed. He managed to look the English gentleman even while filling out Peter’s homespun shirt and leather waistcoat with his wide shoulders. His long legs were encased in battered old breeches and well-darned stockings, his feet in borrowed shoes were set wide apart on the flags.
Do for me? Emilia blinked and tried to rescue some trace of common sense, some ghost of the practical mother and alewife. Oh, my goodness. Stop looking at me with those dark blue eyes, for a start. That would help.
Even cold, soaked and grumpy he had been a large, attractive male. Now, for an overworked, lonely widow, this dark, frowning, punctilious major was temptation personified and she must be all about in her wits to even think about it. She swallowed. His eyes narrowed.
Giles always said she wore her thoughts on her face. Emilia dropped her gaze to the embarrassingly intimate garment that was dripping in her hands and wrung it out with a savage twist while she dragged her treacherous thoughts back to practicality.
Chapter Two
‘Shall I bring in some more logs?’ Hugo offered into the brief silence. No wonder Mrs Weston was blushing—he had seen what she was washing all too plainly. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly plain and workaday chemise, but even so...
‘And get soaked and cold again? I have only so much dry clothing for you.’ She was teasing, rather than irritated, he hoped. The quick blush had vanished and she was composed and smiling again. ‘Thank you, but we brought in a good supply of fuel this morning when the rain threatened. You might want to make up your bed now and let it get warm by the fire, though. There are some straw palliasses and blankets and so forth under the stairs.’ She pointed to a cupboard. ‘When we have the big brew for the midsummer festivities I have helpers here all night and eventually they talk and drink t
hemselves to sleep.’
He found the things as she said, neatly stacked and rolled, blankets and linen folded around sprigs of lavender, all orderly and fresh like everything he had seen of her home and business. How much work did it take for one slightly built woman to maintain this, even with two willing boys to help her? Even as he worried about that, the image of her, strong and slender beneath his body on these palliasses in front of the fire came from nowhere to stop him in his tracks.
‘Are your servants keeping to their own cottages in this rain?’ he asked as he closed the cupboard door firmly on his fantasies.
That provoked a snort of laughter. ‘Servants? This is not a coaching inn, Major! Mrs Trigg comes in once a week to help me scrub, Peter Bavin does a couple of days a week for the heavy lifting—when he isn’t trapped on the other side of the river with the bridge down and the meadows flooded.’
She shook out some more garments and Hugo recognised his own shirt and stockings. He should never have let the boy take them, she had far too much to do without his washing as well. ‘There,’ she said. ‘All done.’ Everything was draped over airing stands on the far side of the fire, his shirts effectively providing a screen for more intimate items at the back.
‘If you will just bring that pot to the table, Major.’ The boys scurried around, finding plates and knives and producing bread from a big stoneware crock. There was stew, simple and savoury with fluffy herbed dumplings floating in it, bread and butter, cheese, stewed dried apples and ale to wash it all down with. Hugo tried not to eat like a wolf, despite second and then third helpings being offered.
‘Thank you, ma’am. It is delicious, but I’ll not eat you out of house and home—you will not have been expecting to cater for a visitor tonight.’
Mrs Weston sent him one of her flashing smiles. ‘It is a pleasure to feed anyone who appreciates my food. And we will not go short, believe me. I have ample in stock for the winter and once we can communicate with the outside world, fresh supplies are not so very far away.’
‘Where are we? I must have passed between Berkhamsted and Hemel Hempstead in the dark—my map had turned to mush and I couldn’t read the compass with no light. I was heading, I hoped, for the road towards Northampton.’
‘This is the hamlet of Little Gatherborne. On the other side of the River Gather is Greater Gatherborne and we are about six miles from Berkhamsted that way—’ she pointed ‘—and about eight in that direction from Watling Street, which is the road you want.’
‘That’s a Roman road,’ Nathan piped up. ‘Joseph and I speak Latin so if there are any Romans left we can talk to them.’
Latin? Boys from a common ale house? He was beginning to suspect that it was a most uncommon one. ‘I think they have all gone, Nathan.’
‘How do you know my name, Major? No one else can tell us apart.’
‘Except your mama, I assume. I am used to having to learn the names of dozens of men at a time. You learn to spot the little differences.’
‘Your ears!’ Nathan jeered at his brother.
‘Nathan! The pair of you, clear the table and then off to bed with you. The major doesn’t want to hear boys squabbling.’
Actually, to his surprise, he didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. They were lively and sharp, and even on their best behaviour seemed to fill the room, but he liked their honest reactions to everything and their obvious devotion to their mother. It was not how he had been brought up, but then he had been raised as an orphaned earl from younger than these two were now, and in a very different setting. The mother of these boys seemed to encourage them to express opinions and emotions.
He tried to imagine his elderly guardians confronted by these two and had to suppress a grin. A gentleman is in control of his emotions at all times. Loss of control is a sign of weakness in a gentleman. The so-called tender emotions are for women and, in men, lead to weakness of resolve, vulnerability and effeminacy. The old boys had a complete certainty that he had imbibed very thoroughly. It had made him a good officer and landowner, but listening to the enthusiastic chatter now he felt an unfamiliar twinge of envy at their freedom.
Hugo got up. ‘Shall I check on the animals?’ He had to make sure Ajax was settling down with no ill effects from his drenching and it would get him out of the house and away from the disconcerting feeling that he was being absorbed into the family when he could not speak the language. That and the decidedly disturbing effect of Mrs Weston’s smiling hazel eyes on his equilibrium.
‘Oh, thank you.’ She looked up from a brisk discussion of how much washing was necessary for boys on a cold winter evening. ‘I would appreciate it.’
Either Emilia Weston was a very nice woman, Hugo thought, taking the lantern off its hook and lighting it before going into the stable, or she was not used to getting much help. Or perhaps both, which worried him. But there was not a great deal he could do to help; tomorrow he would be on his way. He would pay her well for his bed and board, of course, but still it left him feeling uncomfortable, as though he was watching a delicate thoroughbred mare being put into harness and made to pull a burden too great for her strength, however strong her spirit.
Ajax was dozing, one hoof cocked up, his jaw resting on the edge of the virtually empty manger. The horse opened his eyes and regarded Hugo lazily as he checked on the water buckets, ducked outside to make sure the pigsty was secure, then bolted the outer door. Hugo leaned on the horse’s rump for a minute or two, relaxing against the familiar bulk, his mind running round in circles. He was tired. Beyond tired, but not sleepy.
He went back into the house, bolting the door behind him. The taproom was empty, his pallet lying close to the fire promising rest if not sleep. Hugo began to check the shutters and front door locks methodically. His hand was on the open shutter when she spoke behind him.
‘Leave that one, please. Just turn down the wick on the lantern, but leave it alight.’
‘You are expecting someone?’ He did as she asked and turned back, steadying his breathing when he found himself face to face with her. ‘The rain has almost stopped.’
‘Expecting? No.’ Emilia Weston stood untying the strings of her apron, not a brisk mother or a damp, smiling temptress any longer, simply a tired young woman. All the more reason not to reach out and pull her into an embrace that would be anything but comforting, he told himself. ‘But then I was not expecting you either, and I assume it was the light from that window that brought you here. There may be other travellers out in this. I have made tea—would you like some?’
She turned before he could answer and went back into the other room. Hugo followed and took the battered old armchair opposite hers, flanking the wide range. ‘Thank you, I would appreciate that. Are stray travellers commonplace here, then?’ He guessed the tea was her night-time indulgence, an expensive treat. He would send some from the nearest town as a present.
She passed him a cup and leaned back with a sigh, her whole body relaxing with cat-like sensuality. ‘Ah. Peace at last. No, you are the first lost soul. But I would always leave a light in the window when Giles went out in the evening and I have never got out of the habit, I suppose.’
‘Giles was your husband, Mrs Weston?’
‘Call me Emilia, won’t you? No one calls me by my proper name any more. Yes, Giles was my husband. He died three years ago.’ She sipped her tea and stretched out her toes to the blaze.
Just how old is she? Hugo wondered.
‘Giles worked at night. He was a gambler, a card player.’ His expression must have betrayed his thoughts, for she added hastily, ‘Not a sharp, you understand. He never cheated, he was just a very, very good gambler. We eloped, I’m afraid. I was supposed to marry his elder brother—not that we were in love or anything, just one of those family things. You know?’
Hugo nodded. He knew how these things worked, although there was no one to arrange a suitable marriage for him, that was down to his own efforts. And he had better be getting on with it.
Her voice wavered and she glanced up, her face blurred by the rising, fragrant steam. ‘I am talking too much and shocking you, Major. I am sorry, but you will be on your way tomorrow and we will never meet again and it is so...soothing to talk to someone like this. But I will stop embarrassing you.’
‘No. You aren’t embarrassing me.’ Normally he would have recoiled from confidences like this, but he was intrigued and to talk to a woman in this way was a novelty. Besides, it was all about her feelings and he doubted she would expect him to reciprocate.
‘We are like ships that pass in the night. Or, no, that is too well worn a cliché. Perhaps we are two birds sheltering from the storm in a bush and we will fly away on our own courses in the morning. What happened, Emilia? And my name is Hugo.’
* * *
‘I remember.’ It was not as though she would forget anything about this dark, serious man who had arrived so dramatically and who seemed so very alien. He was closed, as though a door was shut firmly on his emotions, and what she saw on the surface, although undoubtedly the real man, was no more an indication of what was happening under the surface than a view of a shuttered house revealed the life of its inhabitants. She liked his bird analogy, even though she was a sparrow and he was, she guessed, an eagle.
It was a novelty, that reserve of his. Her neighbours were unsophisticated people whose lives were unprivileged and whose reactions mirrored that. They worked hard, played hard when they had the opportunity and both loved and hated without concealment. Emilia liked that honesty, responded to it. She and Giles had lived in the open, too, enjoying every happy moment, storing up joy against the black times, pushing away the memories of the families they had left behind.
Snowbound Wedding Wishes: An Earl Beneath the MistletoeTwelfth Night ProposalChristmas at Oakhurst Manor (Harlequin Historical) Page 2
