She stacked the kindling beneath the hob and lit a small fire. As soon as she’d added four thick twigs to the flare, she filled and placed the blackened kettle onto the hob. In a slatted food cupboard above the working bench, she found five chipped mugs, a brown teapot, a tin of tea, and a bag of sugar. Mr. Courtney had said he bathed, unlike the poorer people who didn’t have the opportunity to do anything other than wash. Pleased, she opened the first of the two extra doors, built adjacent to the laneway at the back of the building. Here she found a hipbath, a large bucket, and a floor drain. Another tap would have been nice, but she’d spent her younger days in the country and knew how to cope with the bare necessities.
Behind the second door was nothing but a shelved storage area holding only the two boxes Mr. Courtney had moved from her bedroom and a few pots and pans. She removed a big black pot, which she put on the hob beside the kettle and filled with water. She hadn’t had a bath in a week, but the water would take some time to heat. The kettle boiled, she made the tea, filled the two mugs and, with the basin of sugar balanced on top, took one mug upstairs.
“I put water on to heat so that I could take a bath. You don’t mind, do you?”
He raised his gaze from his papers. “If you’re heating water, I wouldn’t mind a bath. This morning I had nothing but a cold wash.” He accepted the tea and raised a palm at the sugar.
“I’ll put on a second pan for you.” She hoped he understood that she wouldn’t use his bathwater.
He nodded. “The towels are with the sheets in the bottom drawer in my bedroom.” His gaze went back to his papers, so she assumed she had permission to go into his bedroom for a towel.
When she opened his bottom drawer, she found his shoes resting on the towels and the sheets. Having agreed to work for her board, she opened each of his drawers to find a more suitable place. Shirts had been scrambled with trousers, and his trousers had been folded incorrectly. With an impatient click of her tongue, she occupied her time taking out his clothes, refolding, shifting his shirts, socks, and underwear to the higher drawers and his trousers and jackets to the lower. She found more clean sheets and towels scattered among his clothes. After piling the linen onto the bed, she decided his six pairs of handmade leather shoes should be in the lowest drawer, and the towels in the bathroom. She carried the linen into her small room for storage.
Assuming that by now her water would be boiling, she grabbed her clean underwear and towels, and hiked off down the stairs again. She spotted her cold mug of tea and drank the lot in a few gulps. The big pot of water was enough for her bath with the addition of another pot of cold water. Puffing after the exertion, she put a second pot on the hob. Making sure the door was tightly shut, she undressed, took his bar of soap from the window sill, and settled into the bath. Glorious. Somehow she wriggled right down and soaped up her hair.
And then she completely lost track of time. She opened her eyes to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and had barely hauled herself out of the water before hearing a rapping on the door. She snatched up her towel, covered herself, and opened the room to Mr. Courtney. “I would have called you when I had finished.”
“I’ve never known anyone to take a bath for a full hour. I thought you might have drowned, either that or run off with my silver.” He looked amused.
She flicked her dripping hair back from her face. “Call me a fool,” she said, with the glimmer of a smile, “but given the choice of a bath or struggling under a box of silver, I would rather have a bath.”
“I can’t fault you for that.” His face softened. “With your hair like that, dripping wet, you look like a mermaid.”
She smiled cynically. He tried—she had to give him credit for that, at least, but she didn’t look any better wet than she looked dry. “Give me time to dress. Then I’ll prepare your bath for you.”
“Wrap yourself tightly in that towel, take your clothes, and go upstairs to dress. I’ll empty your cold water and prepare my own bath.”
Since he’d already seen almost all of her, dressing modestly to leave the room would be a waste of her time, and so immodestly dressed, she did as he said.
After donning her blue gown again, and toweling dry her hair, she sat on her new bed, thinking. Now she’d left service, she didn’t need to keep wearing her neat braid, or netting her hair. She’d invented a dozen different styles for three different ladies, but she’d never done anything interesting with her own hair. She tried a complicated knot on the back of her neck, but didn’t know how she looked. She hadn’t heard him return, so she went to his room to use the mirror.
She tried Miss Patricia’s bigger hairdo, but her hair stuck out at the back and sides like a dry mop. Giving in, she combed her hair, plaited a braid, and gave herself a figure- eight knot at the nape of her neck—slightly different but not exciting.
She didn’t hear him pad up the stairs. She almost leaped out of her skin when he suddenly appeared in his doorway dressed in nothing but a towel. In clothes, he was a golden god. In a towel, he was a Greek god. She glanced away. “I needed to use your mirror.”
He dropped his clothes on the bed. “Don’t let me scare you away. I know you won’t look at me while I’m naked, and so I’m feeling quite safe.”
“I don’t feel at all safe while you’re naked. I’ll come back when you’re dressed.”
“Don’t be a prude. When we’re married, we’ll be sharing a bed.” He loomed close.
Flustered, she tried to move past him.
He blocked her exit by opening the top drawer and glancing in. “What happened here?”
“I tidied.”
“Where did you put my shirts?”
“In the next drawer down.”
He smiled and scratched his shoulder. The muscles in his back rippled as he opened the second drawer. She breathed out. His grace of movement fascinated her. His manliness fascinated her. He had smooth, tanned skin and shoulders possibly twice the breadth of hers. A grid of muscle sat across his abdomen. His hips were taut and lean, and his legs long.
“Let me pass.”
“I thought you’d say that,” he replied with amusement glittering in his eyes. He pulled out a clean shirt and kept barring her progress by pushing his arms into his shirtsleeves. Clearly he didn’t plan to don an undershirt. “Wear something prettier,” he said, eyeing her. “We’re going out to eat.”
“This is my best gown. I don’t have anything else other than my uniforms.”
He frowned. “You can’t wear that or black to our wedding. You’ll have to buy something else.”
“I don’t want to waste my money on clothes.”
He stared at her. “You can waste mine. As long as you don’t waste too much. Money’s short at the moment.”
“No wonder, if you eat out all the time.”
He gave a reprimanding click of his tongue. “I don’t need anyone telling me how to spend my money.” Then he faced her, his eyebrows raised. “I’m not the one willing to take any offer. You are.”
After a long assessing glance at the full length of her body, he let her pass. She marched off, sure she hadn’t accepted any offer. She certainly hadn’t accepted that he would marry her, and she had offered to work for her keep.
If anyone had accepted an offer, he had.
Chapter 5
After eating dinner with the offended redhead last night, Dev slept well. He’d been friendly, he hadn’t made a single attempt to inveigle her into his bed, and still she’d criticized him. She would be the perfect daughter-in-law for his father, both seeing all Dev’s faults and both unable to please. This, of course, gave him plenty of scope to keep trying; not to be good enough because he attempted to be successful in all his endeavors, but to find a way of having his efforts recognized.
In the morning he went for his usual run, washed and changed, and found Wenna waiting for him in the kitchen with a dish of porridge. Although he rarely bothered with breakfast, he apprecia
ted her thought. Since she seemed to want to rush him off, he thanked her, ate, and headed into his sitting room, attempting not to look like a man with a mission.
In his enforcedly aimless life, he had only once wanted to make a home for himself. A few months back, he had been unable to resist buying a block of land in the foothills, facing the sea. The Mediterranean weather in the colony mimicked that in the south of France, where he had spent two years living and working with artisans and dabbling in various food-growing industries, which had been meant to keep him away from Jenny until he came to his senses. Instead, when he had arrived in this faraway country, he had noted the many opportunities waiting to be grabbed up by a man with his agricultural background.
As a younger son with an inheritance from his dead mother, he had money to invest in new ventures. The price of land in the colony had been kept cheap to attract more settlers. Although he was very much attracted, he would have no chance to settle here. Now that the last of his brothers had died, he was urgently wanted back home. The most he could do would be to leave a completed project behind. One day his descendants might be grateful for his foresight.
Although he would have liked to spend his day as usual on his foothill’s property, he couldn’t leave Wenna to settle into her new environment alone. Expecting her to disturb him at will, he settled into his study to read his correspondence, checking letters from overseas suppliers of fruiting stock, bills from tradesmen, and quotes for new work. Again he went over his finances. Every three months, money from England was deposited into his bank account. As usual, he had overspent. The bank would give him leeway, but he needed to be somewhat more parsimonious if Wenna decided to marry him. Women wanted various knickknacks that men needed to supply. He hoped she wouldn’t want too many. The less she had to leave behind, the better.
Fortunately, the blunt little redhead appeared to be occupied in the kitchen, rearranging the items in the cupboards. Sometime after noon, she brought him a plate of cheese and pickles. “Your cupboard is now bare. Would you like me to buy more food?”
He blinked, reminded that she needed to eat, and felt for money in his pocket. “Is this enough?” He gave her ten shillings.
“Am I cooking a meal tonight?”
“We’ll eat out. Buy whatever food you want when you want it. I’m not normally here during the day.” Leaning back, he ate the hard cheese, reminded that he couldn’t continue simply pleasing himself. He had asked this woman to marry him, not because he loved her, not even because he desired her, but because he didn’t care whom he married. The fact that she was a redheaded maid would set up his father’s back, highlighting his needless edict all those years ago. This gave Dev a curious sense of completion.
To keep his word to Wenna, he now needed to seek out a wedding license. He’d already discovered that she wouldn’t leap into his bed without a ceremony. As Nick Alden was the only person he knew who wasn’t still holidaying in the hills, Dev rose to his feet and donned his jacket. The Old Queen’s Arms in Wright Street boasted blackjack tables and a roulette wheel, and therefore, possibly Nick, who spent most of his time either in a tavern or gambling
After a comfortable stroll in the April sunshine, he reached the corner where the painting of Queen Victoria and the cast iron balustrade identified the hotel. Wandering into the taproom, he glanced around. The bouncer at the door rose to his feet, scanned Dev, and sat back onto his stool. One bored barmaid wiped glasses on a grimy towel, while another strolled to a booth in the corner carrying two glasses of ale. Dev’s gaze followed.
One of the few patrons, Nick sat sprawled with a painted female beside him. The woman appeared chastened, and Nick indifferent.
“Are you sober?” Dev called as he strode toward the couple.
Nick looked up and spotted him. “I don’t know,” he said in his world-weary voice. He offered a smile that could charm the angels out of the clouds.
The woman cast her gaze downwards. Obviously she’d had no luck with Nick, but her stiff posture said she didn’t want to stop trying.
“Off you go, sweetheart,” Nick said, pressing a coin into her hand.
She glanced at the money, heaved a sigh, scooped up one of the newly delivered ales, and moved to the bar where she propped her elbows, awaiting her next potential customer. Dev slid onto the wooden bench seat in her place while Nick quaffed his fresh drink.
“It must be my lucky day.” Dev flattened his palms on the sticky-ringed wooden tabletop. The ceiling in the room was also wood, which kept the area cool and dark. “This is the first place I looked for you. I thought I might have to leave a note at your father’s house.”
“So you haven’t come to join me for a drink?”
Dev shook his head. “I can’t waste the time. I want to get back to work as soon as I can.”
“You’ll never change.”
Dev smiled. “I need a favor from you, Nick. I want to marry, and quickly. Do you know how to procure a special license?”
“Probably.”
“Would you do that for me?”
Nick’s eyes focused on his face. “What’s the rush?”
“She won’t share my bed without a license.”
Nick’s mouth twisted cynically, and he nodded. “No wonder you want me sober.” He pressed his hands over his jacket pockets. “Do you have notepaper and a pencil? No?” He called, “Pencil and paper,” through the echoing space to the barmaid. Like every other woman in the world, she scurried to do Nick’s bidding, and within minutes he had a grubby, curled piece of paper in front of him and a chewed pencil. “I need particulars. Your full name, your address, and your date of birth.”
Dev told him.
Nick raised his gaze. “The lady’s name?”
“Wenna Chenoweth.”
“Her date of birth and address?”
“She lives with me, she’s twenty-six, and I don’t know her date of birth.”
“No matter. I’ll give her one. I’ll see about finding you a special license within the next couple of days.” Nick drained his glass.
“Is that all it takes?”
“I don’t think it’s too complicated, Dev.” Nick was already searching in his pocket for the price of his next drink.
“And you don’t want to ask me anything about this?”
“I understand the problem. You want to bed the lady and she wants to see a piece of paper first. Seems to me that you have enough experience to get her on her back without this paper, but who am I to judge?” He stared into his empty glass.
“I’ve tried asking nicely. The woman is unreasonable.”
Nick shaded his amusement. “They prefer being persuaded. A license should do the trick for a feckless lump like you.”
“Well...” Dev hesitated, but Nick seemed happy enough to see the back of him. He stood. “Thank you.”
Nick didn’t glance up. Dev buttoned his jacket and left for the brickworks to supervise the loading of a new batch of red bricks.
* * * *
Plates clattered, glasses clinked, and the yeasty smell of hops filled the barroom. Dev idly circled the base of his beer mug on the alehouse’s hewn redwood table. He’d finished his supper: roast beef, roasted vegetables, and a potato mash. Wenna had picked at hers.
He moved his gaze from the waitress with the nicely rounded rump to Wenna. “Would you like a cup of coffee before we leave?”
“Coffee? Here?”
“If not, I’ll order one for me.” He raised a hand. The waitress, Maisie, hurried over. He glanced at Wenna, who nodded, and he ordered two.
The brew that arrived was thick enough to hold a spoon upright, and Wenna sipped quietly with both palms around the mug. She’d had little to say, but the way she rubbed her forehead from time to time gave the impression that something troubled her—being with him in a tavern, no doubt, but the place was filled with respectable tradesmen, most of whom he knew.
“Tell me about Cornwall,” she sa
id, tucking a wayward ringlet behind her ear. “Your family, Mr. Courtney. Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“Mr. Courtney? Since we’re about to marry, I think you should call me Devon.” He leaned back and positioned his palms on his knees. “I have no siblings now. I had two older half-brothers, but they both died without issue.”
“Without issue? Is this why you need an heir for your father’s lands?”
“My father never thought his youngest son would inherit,” he said, shrugging. “He trained my older brother, William, to take over after him. But Will was thrown from his horse a couple of years ago and died instantly. He and his wife had no children. The next heir, my brother John, was with the army in India at that time, but before he could come home to take Will’s place, he was killed in a skirmish. My father is panicking. He seems to fear that none of his sons will live long enough to take over from him.”
“It must be dreadful to lose one’s children.” Wenna’s large green eyes met his, her face stark. “It’s hard enough to lose one’s parents.”
He nodded, having lost both, one parent to death and one to suspicion. “My mother died young. I barely remember her.”
“Both my parents died young,” she said in a husky voice. She dropped her gaze. “First my Da, and the next year my mother died, too. They say she died of a broken heart.” Dropping her gaze, she swallowed, staring at her lap. Then, her face hardened imperceptibly, and she shifted her empty coffee mug to the outer rim of the table. “Do they ever clean the tables here, or just leave customers with the mess?”
The place didn’t look particularly messy to him, or maybe he wasn’t as fussy as Wenna. “The barmaids clean up as they wander around.”
“I’m not used to eating in hotels. In private houses, the service is more formal.”
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