by Diane Gaston
He dropped his head in his hands. ‘Very well. I will return with you.’
He felt her straighten her spine. ‘And you will stay the ten days the doctor ordered? Longer if you are still ill?’
He did not answer her right away. ‘On one condition.’
‘What condition?’ Her voice turned wary.
He lifted his head and faced her. ‘No one waits on me.’ Not her. Not her brother. ‘I take care of myself. Your cook can fix me a plate for meals, but I will walk down to the kitchen and carry it back myself. I’ll take care of my clothes as well. And anything else.’
Her clear blue eyes searched his. He fought an impulse to look away.
Finally she nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘Let us go, then.’ He attempted to stand, but his legs threatened to buckle. She bounced to her feet and held his arm, helping him up.
He lifted her hand away. ‘I am able to walk.’
She fell in step with him, walking close enough, he suspected, to grab him if he became unsteady. After a few steps he wiped his brow.
‘You still have a fever, do you not?’ she accused.
‘Possibly,’ he admitted.
It was some effort to walk at a normal pace, but he had enough pride left to prove to this lady that he could have made it to the village.
She broke the silence between them. ‘Why are you in Scotland, Mr Lucas? Why were you wandering in the hills on my father’s land?’
‘I do not know why I was on your father’s land,’ he told her. ‘I do not remember much about that day.’ He’d begun to feel feverish when he’d left that last inn. He’d medicated himself with whisky, he recalled. A lot of whisky.
‘Where were you before that?’ she asked.
‘What town, do you mean?’
She nodded.
The towns and villages were all the same to him. ‘I do not recall the name.’
‘Why are you in Scotland?’ she pressed.
‘Travelling.’ If you called running from life travelling.
She stopped and gazed at him a long time before starting to walk again. The silence between them returned and he was grateful she did not force him to say more about himself. He wanted to forget himself. Even these few questions brought back the turmoil inside him, but, just as when he’d been delirious with fever and her voice had been the one thing he could cling to, her presence next to him held him together even better than a bottle of whisky.
They finally reached the gate of the property, marked by a wrought-iron arch made out to spell Wallace. Lucas’s legs were aching with fatigue, but he pressed on.
When they came to the door, he opened it for her. She glanced at him as if surprised he could do such a gentlemanly thing.
As they stepped into the hallway, she turned to him. ‘Do you need anything?’
He raised a finger. ‘Remember our agreement. I take care of myself.’
‘I could tell Cook to fix you breakfast,’ she persisted.
‘I will do it.’ Later. After he’d rested. ‘Go on to your other tasks.’ He suspected there were many.
‘I will say goodbye, then,’ she said.
He was reluctant to part from her, but bowed and walked directly to the butler’s room. Once there he removed his topcoat and sank into the upholstered chair, placing his feet up on the nearby stool.
He closed his eyes and felt a fog in his head from the fever and the exertion. He did not need her company. He did not deserve it.
He shifted in the chair. He’d keep to himself. He could do that. It was only ten days.
* * *
Lucas rested that day and the next. All traces of his fever had gone by that second day and there was nothing reminding Lucas of being unwell but an occasional cough. He’d been blessed with a strong constitution and always bounced back quickly from any illness or injury.
As agreed, Lucas had been left to care for himself, merely needing to visit the kitchen when hungry and carry his food back to the butler’s room. He would have done very well in the village inn—Miss Wallace’s sacrifice had been totally unnecessary, but he’d made his bargain with her and, unless she freed him from it, he would honour her wishes.
* * *
Upon waking this third day, Lucas felt restless. The four walls of the butler’s room were closing in on him and the prospect of further inactivity was intolerable. His window looked out on to the yard and, from what he could tell, it seemed to be a fine sunny day. It almost made him believe in hope.
He picked up his breakfast tray and carried it back to the kitchen.
Cook looked up as he appeared in the doorway.
‘Another excellent meal, Mrs MacNeal.’ The woman always looked so harried. He felt sorry for her. ‘Where shall I put the tray?’
‘Ah, Mr Lucas.’ She gave him a tense smile as she chopped bright orange carrots, tossing the pieces into a brass pot. She inclined her head. ‘In the scullery.’
He carried the tray to the scullery, which was laden with dishes needing to be washed. He returned to the kitchen and asked, ‘Where is the scullery maid?’ He’d become used to seeing the young girl there.
‘Evie is helping Mrs Cross today.’ The cook wiped her brow with the back of her hand. ‘Mrs Cross told me I must wash the dishes today, but I dinnae ken how or when!’
Lucas shrugged. ‘I’ll wash your dishes for you.’
He might as well do something useful.
Mrs MacNeal gaped at him. ‘You, sir?’
‘Why not?’ He felt too well to still be contagious.
‘Do you know how?’ she asked sceptically.
‘I’ve been around kitchens before, Mrs MacNeal.’ As a boy he’d loved to hang around the kitchen—all the better to be given extra treats. ‘I can manage it.’
She waved a hand. ‘Well, put on an apron and go to it, then.’
Lucas washed, dried and put away every dish. As soon as he finished, the footman who’d cleaned his clothes brought more from the family’s breakfast.
The young man stumbled back a step on seeing Lucas in his apron.
Lucas could not help but be amused. ‘I thought I might help.’ He smiled.
The footman blinked. ‘Are you not fevered, then?’
‘Well recovered,’ Lucas assured him. ‘I must stay for another week, so I might as well work.’ He nodded to the man. ‘I am John Lucas.’
The young man’s forehead furrowed. ‘I know that, sir.’
Cook called over to them, ‘He wants to know your name, Robert.’ She shook her head in dismay.
‘Aye.’ The footman turned back to Lucas. ‘I am Robert.’
Lucas nodded again.
‘Back to work, Robert,’ Mrs MacNeal cried, ‘before Mrs Cross finds you still.’
Robert hurried out.
Lucas finished this latest round of dishes and Cook thanked him profusely. He returned to the butler’s room, but it felt more confining than ever. He stood at the window and put on the butler’s battered hat. The sun still shone and the sky was a clear azure. He spun around and walked out of the room again.
He stopped by the kitchen. ‘Mrs MacNeal, if Miss Wallace thinks I’ve absconded again, explain that I am merely taking a turn in the garden.’
‘I will. I will.’ Cook looked up. ‘Do not make yourself ill again, Mr Lucas.’
He knew himself. The fever would not return. ‘No fear of that.’
He made his way to the servants’ door and stepped outside, lifting his face to the sun and filling his lungs with the clean, fresh air. Off to the right was the kitchen garden, where one of the maids appeared to be tending the plants. He walked towards her.
As he came near, the maid looked up.
‘Miss Wallace!’ he said in surprise.
She wore an apron over her dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat.
She held a hoe in her hands.
‘Mr Lucas, what are you doing?’ Her tone was suspicious.
He walked closer, holding up his hands. ‘I assure you, I am well. Completely recovered. But do not fear. I am not escaping. I simply wished to take a walk.’
She peered at him a long time as if assessing his health for herself.
He’d not seen her since his attempted departure. She looked like a vision from some bucolic painting, tilling the soil.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked. But what he really meant was, Why are you working in the garden like a labourer?
She lowered her gaze and stabbed the earth with her hoe. ‘Oh, I am turning the earth to ready it for autumn planting.’
A baron’s daughter? ‘Why you, Miss Wallace? Do you have no gardeners?’
She blinked and could not quite meet his eyes. ‘There is only Kinley, but he cannot do it all.’ She raised her head and lifted her chin. ‘And we must have food, must we not?’
‘What about your footmen? Can they not help?’ Robert was a strong young man.
She attacked the ground again. ‘Robert and Erwin are proud of being footmen. It would be beneath them to work in the garden.’
He tilted his head. ‘But not beneath the baron’s daughter?’
Her face flushed. ‘I do not mind the work.’
‘Your brother, then.’ Niven had seemed an energetic youth.
‘Niven is not at home. He is visiting a friend.’
That seemed quite frivolous when there was so much to be done at home—most of it falling to Miss Wallace. Or, rather, most she took upon herself. It bothered Lucas to see her performing such hard labour. And it bothered him that her plight affected him at all.
It was none of his affair, he told himself.
‘I will leave you to it, then.’ He turned away and walked a few steps, but turned back to her, inclining his head towards a pond he’d glimpsed in the distance. ‘I thought I might walk to that pond.’
She stopped hoeing. ‘Are you certain you feel well enough?’
‘You need not worry about me, Miss Wallace.’
She had enough worries on her shoulders.
Chapter Six
Lucas walked around the pond, completely convinced now his illness was gone. His limbs were fatigued, but the previous days’ inactivity could account for that. He rounded the last bend and came face-to-face with a well-dressed older gentleman.
‘You, sir!’ The man’s tone was instantly bellicose. ‘What is your business here on my property?’
This must be Miss Wallace’s father, the Baron of Dunburn, Lucas supposed. Lucas bowed. ‘Forgive me if I have intruded where I ought not to have been. I hope you would have heard of me. I am Mr John Lucas, the one indebted to you for the care I’ve received while ill.’
‘Oh!’ The man’s expression brightened. ‘You are the Englishman my children brought home! I quite forgot. I am Dunburn, you see. Well. Well. You look very fit for a man supposed to be at death’s door.’
‘I believe I might credit your household for that,’ he responded. ‘I was very unwell when they found me, I’ve been told.’
‘Indeed. Indeed.’ The man clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good that you are well now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I shall not have to prevail on your hospitality for much longer.’ Lucas had the feeling that Dunburn knew very little of his situation. ‘If you wish me to leave today—’
The Baron lifted his hand. ‘No need for that. Stay as long as you wish.’ He eyed Lucas up and down. ‘My son told me you are a cavalryman. Rode in the charge at Waterloo.’
Lucas’s spirits plummeted. He had no wish to talk of Waterloo. ‘I was in the cavalry. No longer,’ Lucas responded.
Dunburn did not seem to notice he’d not mentioned Waterloo. ‘What was your regiment again?’ he asked.
‘First Royals,’ Lucas managed to say.
‘Yes, yes. That was what Niven told me!’ Dunburn’s excitement escalated. ‘I knew it. You were at Waterloo. Part of the glorious charge with the Scots Greys!’
Hardly glorious, Lucas would have said. Not when it killed his brother.
The man fell in step with him. ‘Come sit with me and tell me all about it. Do you not think the Scots Greys’ bravery secured the victory?’
Lucas opened his mouth to refuse, even though it would be churlish to do so, but Dunburn reached inside his coat and took out a flask, raising his brows and smiling.
Perhaps Lucas could talk about the Scots Greys, if he were fortified by whisky.
Dunburn led him to a nearby bench and passed him the flask when they sat down. Lucas lifted it to his lips and took a long sip, savouring the familiar aroma, taste and the warmth spreading through his chest.
‘The Greys did their part,’ Lucas said.
He spoke of the tactics, the successes of the Greys, the sort of account that would appear in a newspaper. As he spoke, memories returned of the blood, the rage and fear on the soldiers’ faces, the wild eyes of the horses, the mud, the screams, the horror of seeing his brother cut down. Lucas drank most of the contents of Dunburn’s flask.
As he sat with the older man, who clearly had no shortage of Scottish pride, he spied Miss Wallace on the path near the kitchen garden. She stood a long time watching her father converse with him. He had not a clue what she might be thinking. After some time she turned and walked away.
The sun rose high in the sky and warmed the air even more. Finally, Dunburn stood. ‘My head’s mince! I promised I would call upon Laird Buchan and now I’m a wee bit late.’
Lucas rose with him.
Dunburn clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘It would be grand if we could invite you to dinner, Mr Lucas.’ He raised his arms helplessly.
‘No, sir. I would not presume.’ He did not wish to be treated as a house guest, not when he was an actual burden.
The Baron nodded agreeably. ‘For a Sassenach, you are a right fine fellow.’
Lucas bowed. ‘Thank you, sir.’
* * *
Mairi left the kitchen garden to help Mrs Cross with cleaning the drawing room, the sitting rooms and the library while her parents were calling upon Laird Buchan. She wished she’d been able to do more. Truth was, she was not very good at hoeing the earth.
As soon as she and the maids were done with the rooms, she hurried to the anteroom of the kitchen entrance and put on the apron and hat she’d worn outside before. There would be a little time left to work in the garden before her parents returned home.
She hurried outside, but stopped short. Mr Lucas stood in the plot, hoeing the ground. She quickened her step and came quite close before he saw her.
He stopped his work. ‘Miss Wallace.’
Most of ground she’d left undone had been turned over already. ‘You are working in the garden!’
He leaned on the hoe. ‘I thought I might as well be useful.’
‘It is almost ready for planting.’ She felt like weeping. She’d not known how she would get everything done.
‘I should finish today.’ He seemed to be breathing heavily.
She began to worry. ‘Are you certain you feel well enough?’
He smiled and his handsome features transformed into something wondrous that made her heart beat faster. ‘I feel very well, Miss Wallace.’
She could hardly speak. ‘How can I thank you?’ she managed.
‘No thanks required.’ He stabbed at the ground with the hoe. ‘If I am to stay another week, I should work. I will do the planting tomorrow, if you like.’
‘Do you know how?’ she asked, although she should have merely thanked him again.
He glanced up at her. ‘I grew up on a farm.’
‘Well, that will be helpful indeed.’ She blinked away tears. It would have taken her at least a whole other day to do th
e work he’d done so far. With the planting done, she would not have to worry about food. There was no way she could convey to him what this meant to her.
* * *
For the next two days Lucas worked in the garden, planting coleworts, broccoli and leeks, among a half-dozen other vegetables and herbs. He’d hoed turnips, weeded onions and pricked cauliflowers. Kinley, the head gardener, was delighted to see the kitchen garden tended. The poor man was grizzled and stooped and apologised to Lucas that he’d been neglectful.
He reminded Lucas of the head gardener at Foxgrove Hall, his father’s country house. His brother, Bradleigh, had often had more important things to do besides playing with his younger brother, and Lucas had had plenty of spare time to bother old Barlow in the garden. Barlow loved his plants. He’d loved teaching Lucas about them, and as a boy he had been an interested pupil.
At least Lucas had learned enough to satisfy Kinley that he was a competent worker.
Lucas walked back from the garden as the sun was low in the sky. He removed his boots before entering the house and headed for the footmen’s room, where his boots could be properly cleaned and his coat and trousers brushed off.
Erwin, one of the two footmen, approached, carrying a tray full of dishes, apparently from the family’s dinner. He looked Lucas up and down. ‘You look as if you have been digging in dirt.’
‘I have,’ Lucas replied. ‘I need to clean my clothes.’
Erwin inclined his head in the direction of the footmen’s room. ‘Leave them. Robert can tend to them.’
By Lucas’s estimation, all of the servants were overworked, but, of all of them, Erwin worked the least.
‘I’ll clean them,’ he responded. ‘I do not mind.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Erwin continued on his way.
Lucas cleaned and polished his boots and brushed the dirt from his coat and trousers. Still in stockinged feet, he returned to his room and washed his face and hands. The day before he’d started eating meals with the other servants, which was at about nine o’clock once the family had no need of them. They sat at a long table in the servants’ hall and it was clear there were many empty seats.
