Chapter 2
2
A fter leaving the breakfast table, Charity made her way to the front parlor, where she had asked Miss Satchwell to meet. She could scarcely believe that three boarders had arrived well before she and her kin had intended to let this little haven be known. Evidently, the Marchioness of Northampton, a dear family friend, had whispered something about the new venture at Huntly Manor at a tea party in London. Charity had quickly dispatched a letter to Her Ladyship thanking her as well as asking her to keep mum for a wee bit longer, lest the manor end up bursting at the seams. Half of the rooms above stairs needed repairs. The last thing she wanted was to turn away any woman in need.
But that said, she had been lady of the manor for two whole days, and she’d handled every mishap that had come her way. Furthermore, at breakfast, Mr. Mansfield’s bacon had melted in her mouth. In her eyes, a man who could smoke pork like that needed never to seek additional employment. But then again, Brixham was a very small seaside village.
Since Miss Satchwell had not yet arrived, Charity opted to take a chair that faced the window. She’d spent far too much time in the butcher’s shop yesterday, but it had been ever so difficult to leave. Goodness, if Mama knew Modesty had left her alone with the man, she’d never survive the scandal, or her mother’s chiding. But the butcher had been very mannerly, and ever so pleasing to look upon. He was nothing like a dandy of the ton . The man was as rugged as the mountains in Scotland—hazel eyes with a slash of intense dark-brown eyebrows. And the entire time she had been in the shop, she’d wanted to graze her fingernails over the rugged stubble peppering his jaw.
Mr. Mansfield was as tall as her eldest brother, Marty, but broader in the shoulders, as one might imagine for a man of the working class. Never in all her days had Charity seen such brawny examples of masculinity as The Butcher’s muscular forearms. They might possibly be as large as her calves. Perhaps larger. Any man who dared to step into a boxing ring with that chap was foolish for certain.
“Dudley the Destroyer hasn’t a chance,” she mumbled.
“Who hasn’t a chance?” asked Miss Satchwell, walking into the parlor.
Charity hid her surprise by fanning her face. “A local boxer who’s scheduled to fight our butcher in a fortnight.” She gestured to the open doors. “Would you mind sliding those closed?”
“Of course, my lady.” The lass did as asked. “Are you referring to the butcher who smoked this morn’s delicious bacon?”
“The one and the same.”
Charity had been able to have a private chat with Miss Jacoby last evening, and of course Miss Fletcher had already explained why she was seeking refuge at Huntly. Honestly, of the three, Miss Fletcher was the homeliest and most likely to remain a spinster. Miss Jacoby, on the other hand, might be shy, but she was well-mannered, in addition to being skilled in both cooking and sewing. She ought to make a good wife for a tradesman or a vicar, as her father had been, and Charity truly hoped the lass hadn’t completely given up on the idea of marriage.
Miss Satchwell had been rather unforthcoming about her circumstances, clearly not wanting to discuss anything in front of the others.
“Will you take a seat?” Charity asked, after the lass turned from the doors.
“Thank you,” Miss Satchwell said rather briskly, moving to the same chair she’d occupied the day before.
“How are you settling into Huntly, may I ask?”
“Well enough, I suppose, given…” Those thin lips disappeared into a pencil-thin line.
“Hmm?” Charity encouraged, doing her best to appear placid and affable. “Tell me, what brought you to our doors?”
Miss Satchwell crossed her arms, palpable tension radiating off her. Even the veins in her temples grew more prominent.
Fluffing out her skirts, Charity took in a calming breath. “Come now, there ought to be no secrets between us. And it is my duty to evaluate the ladies who come to Huntly.”
Huffing, the lass wiped her fingers across her eyes and looked to the ceiling. “I cannot take a chance on having you turn me out as well, I couldn’t bear it.”
“No one has said a word about turning you out.” Charity moved to the edge of her chair and folded her hands. “Unless you have committed some heinous crime and are hiding from the authorities, rest assured that Huntly Manor’s doors will remain open to you for years to come.”
“I have committed no crimes, at least none I am aware of.”
“I thought not.” Charity wished she had rung for some tea—though they’d just left the breakfast table, managing a tea service would give her something to do while trying to wrest the story from this woman. “Tell me your story, lass, I am nay an ogre.”
Groaning, Miss Satchwell gripped her armrests. “If you must know, my father banished me.”
Now they were making some ground. Charity had assumed something awful had happened. The lass was just wound too tightly not to have faced something untoward. She might have even been ruined, heaven forbid. “How awful for you. Was your father experiencing difficult circumstances?”
The lass crossed her ankles as well—looking a tad like Modesty when she was being scolded by her governess—sans the red hair, of course. Miss Satchwell had brown hair, and not a freckle on her face. Though she was somewhat pale-complected, she was relatively attractive, the squareness of her jaw giving her a slightly masculine bent. “No.”
“Can you tell me a bit about him?”
“He’s a viscount. Viscount Hale.”
“My word.” Charity sat for a moment. She knew the viscount to be a man of substantial means. “Please enlighten me. Why would such a man banish his own flesh and blood?”
Miss Satchwell vehemently shook her head. “I cannot say.”
Unable to help herself, Charity glanced to the woman’s belly, which showed no obvious signs of increasing. “I hope one day you will be able to speak about your trials. However, I understand if it is too painful to do so now.”
“Thank you.”
“You mentioned earlier that you are fond of horses.”
As the lass glanced up, the sunlight from the window glittered in her brown eyes. “Quite fond.”
“Excellent. In planning this venture, my brother, the duchess, and I agreed that in exchange for room and board at Huntly Manor, we will require our residents to impart their skills. Miss Jacoby has agreed to assist with mending and the noonday meals. Miss Fletcher will be stepping in as interim housekeeper, which, I must say, is far more than I could expect from any lady. I do hope you will be willing to work with the horses in some way. Tell me, what experience do you have?”
“Everything.” For the first time, the lass smiled—albeit a sad smile. “I spent a great deal of time in Papa’s stables, as well as at the track. If you’ll let me, I’ll pick hooves, brush the horses’ coats, work them in the yard. I’ll even muck out their stalls.”
Charity marveled as she sat back and slid her fingers over chair’s threadbare armrests. Of the three ladies, she had wrongly assumed Miss Satchwell would be the least likely to lend a hand. Though the daughter of a viscount, she was willing to go so far as to muck out horse stalls. “Wonderful. I’ll have a word with our driver, Gerrard, whom I’ve also assigned to act as the stablemaster, stablehand, et cetera, et cetera. I shall let him know you are willing to help.”
“Thank you, my lady.” The lass uncrossed her arms, and her posture relaxed somewhat. “And thank you for allowing me to stay. It means ever so much.”
“I hope you will be happy here. Do you ken how the manor came to be a safe haven for ladies?”
“I heard it was a wedding gift to the Duchess of Dunscaby.”
“Aye, my brother did give Huntly to my sister-in-law. She conceived of this idea because she herself had been in dire straits after losing the support from her father.”
“Truly?”
“Indeed, the Earl of Brixham, rest his soul, fell into ill health whilst the manor’s walls crumbled around him. To save her family estate, Julia disguised herself as a man and took a post as my brother’s steward.”
Miss Satchwell’s mouth dropped open. “A man? ’Tis a wonder the duke didn’t have her imprisoned.”
Chuckling, Charity reflected back to the unmitigated disaster the whole ruse had caused, and chuckled. “Unheard of, I ken. But it all turned out well in the end. Once my brother realized Julia was acting selflessly rather than selfishly , he fell madly in love, and rescued the lass in the nick of time.”
“And then she opened the house to others who’d lost their way?”
“Aye.”
“But why only gently-bred ladies?”
Charity pushed to her feet and began to pace back and forth in front of the window. “Funny, I asked the same. Julia explained that though she didn’t intend for anyone to be turned away, the designation might be necessary because we can house no more than ten or so guests. Keep in mind, ladies who have been raised into a life of privilege find themselves in interesting predicaments if they lose their means of support. You see, the daughter of a laundress can become a laundress or a housemaid. However, the daughter of a viscount, like yourself, would have a much more difficult time finding employment as a laundress. I’m certain Huntly Manor willna be right for everyone, but I do hope it provides a safe haven for those who otherwise have nowhere else to…ah…” Charity’s train of thought suddenly came to a halt as Mr. Mansfield stopped his wagon outside the barn. His sister, Kitty, sitting beside him.
“Did you mean `nowhere else to turn?’” asked Miss Satchwell, moving in beside her.
“Yes, that’s it.” Charity tugged on the bell pull. “Gerrard has moved the horses to the south paddock whilst the stable roof is being repaired. After he returns from town, I’ll let him know you will begin reporting to him on the morrow. I’m certain he can use your help with the horses.”
“Ahem,” Willaby cleared his throat. “You rang, my lady?”
“I did.” Charity thanked Miss Satchwell before returning her attention to the butler. “Please tell Lady Modesty that Kitty has arrived and is in the barn with the butcher.”
“The butcher?”
“To patch the roof, of course.”
“I should have known,” said the butler sardonically, while his hedgerow of greying eyebrows slanted outward.
But she paid him no mind and hastened outside, without a hat, without her gloves, and she didn’t give a whit.
As she tried to catch her breath, Charity slowed her pace and affected an appropriate aplomb for the sister of a duke. With staccato pats atop her chest, she peered through the barn’s door, but the bright sunlight made it impossible to see a thing.
“Mr. Mansfield?” she said, stepping inside and spotting the man’s robust outline alongside the much smaller silhouette of his sister.
“Ah, my lady.” While Charity’s eyes adjusted, Mr. Mansfield removed his hat and dipped into a gallant bow. “I didn’t mean to be a bother. I thought it would be best if I called in to see the stablemaster and had a look at the damages to the roof.”
“You’re no bother at all. At Huntly everyone assumes many responsibilities. Gerrard, our coach driver is also overseeing the stables. However, this morning he has taken Miss Jacoby and Miss Fletcher to town.”
“Is Lady Modesty here?” asked Kitty.
Mr. Mansfield tapped his sister’s shoulder. “Children must first wait until they are spoken to, afore they may ask a question. Furthermore, I didn’t see you curtsy to Her Ladyship.”
“I’m sorry, my lady.” The lass executed a rather wobbly curtsy. “I would be ever so grateful to be able to see her.”
“Then you shall,” said Modesty herself, stepping into the barn. “Did ye ken there are castle ruins on the bluff?”
Clapping, Kitty hopped up and down with her giggle. “Ruins? Are they haunted?”
Charity cringed, leave it to a child to think up such an absurdity. “I doubt they are, but as with all ancient uninhabited buildings, they’re surely dangerous.”
“If we promise to be very careful, will you let us go?” asked Modesty, clasping her hands and swaying in place as if she were a perfect angel.
As her elder sister, Charity knew all too well Modesty was a wee bit more of a devil, but with two lassies watching out for each other, they oughtn’t meet with too much trouble. “Verra well, as long you promise not to climb on any crumbling masonry and Mr. Mansfield is agreeable.”
Both girls looked to the butcher. “Pleaaaaaase?” Kitty pleaded, pressing praying palms together.
The butcher slid his fingers beneath his black top hat, and scratched, making it tilt back on his head. “All right, as long as you have a care.”
With squeals of glee, the two lassies clasped hands and skipped away. Charity marveled after them. “Where do they find such energy?”
As he tapped his hat forward, a beam of sunlight shone through the hole in the roof and, with it, the man’s hazel eyes glistened. “Were you not the same at that age?”
“Hardly,” Charity replied, trying not to snort. “I was the first daughter, and my mother assigned regimental rules, followed to the letter by my nursemaid and later by my governess. But Modesty is the eighth child in a family of five lads and three lassies. It is no wonder Mama has all but pushed the youngest out of the nursery. Moreover, my mother has even arranged for Grace to attend Northbourne Seminary for Young Ladies in the fall.”
“Grace?”
“My middle sister, two-and-a-half years Modesty’s senior, though if you ask her, she believes she ought to be out and I ought to be labeled an old maid.”
“That’s an absurdity if I’ve ever heard one.” Mr. Mansfield’s gaze slipped to the top of her bare head. “Please pardon any impertinence on my part, but you scarcely look old enough to be out yourself.”
“Pshaw!” As Charity swiped a lock of hair away from her face, she chided herself for dashing outside without a bonnet. How childish she must appear. “Let me tell you, I am well and truly out. I endured the misery of my first Season last year, and by rights I should have been out the year before.”
Mr. Mansfield regarded her for a very long moment, not with aloofness of any sort, but there seemed to be a glint of respect in his expression. “I figured all young ladies of quality are eager to go to London for the Season—the balls, the soirees, the theater, and so forth.”
Charity rather liked conversing with this fellow. Outside of her immediate family, she’d found most gentlemen aloof and condescending. “And the gossipers.”
“Yes, well, there are busybodies everywhere, I’m afraid.” He gestured to the pile of debris. “So, this is where the roof gave way?”
“Aye.” Charity looked up to the light streaming through the craggy hole. “Can you repair it?”
Mr. Mansfield removed his hat and craned his neck, sidestepping to avoid the debris. “Anything can be fixed, but I’ll have to climb up there to see how rotten the timbers are.”
She led him to the ladders stacked against the wall where the old carriages were stored, every one of them falling into ruin. “Yesterday Gerrard used this ladder to inspect the damages,” she said, pointing to the longest one.
“This ought to suffice,” said the butcher, hefting it under his arm as if it weighed nothing, though the prior day a footman had helped the driver carry it outside.
Charity followed him as he set the ladder in place. “Shall I hold it steady whilst you climb? I’ve seen it done a number of times.”
“Have you now?” asked the butcher, one corner of his mouth twitching as if he were resisting the urge to laugh.
“Why, Mr. Mansfield, I do believe you are teasing me.”
“I would never tease a lady.” He bowed his head politely. “And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d be obliged if you would steady it, madam.”
“Excellent,” she said, grasping either side of the ladder.
“Hmm.” The man stood for a moment, then placed a very large hand just above hers. It was a working hand, strong and peppered with dark hair, his fingernails clean and short. “Though I can see you are dutifully focused on the task, it might be an idea if I were to begin my ascent afore you steadied it.”
For the briefest of moments, Charity clenched her grip tighter, along with her teeth. How daft could she be? Obviously, he could not climb over her. Curse her exuberance. A nervous chuckle snorted through her nose as she stepped back, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. “Apologies.”
“None needed.”
As if she hadn’t just made a gross faux pas, he started upward without another word.
And then she made the mistake of looking up.
Dear, oh dear. Though Charity had watched Gerrard scale this very ladder only yesterday, she hadn’t been affected at all at the time. Presently, however, it seemed observing from this particular angle rendered her somewhat unable to breathe. For some reason, this man made it ever so difficult not to gawk. Her mother would insist ladies did not gawk, but gawking was exactly what Charity was doing, her mouth agape, staring at the shapeliest masculine buttocks she’d ever seen in all her days.
In fact, she couldn’t remember ever fixating upon a man’s buttocks with such abandon, but Mr. Mansfield’s worn-in breeches hugged his form like kid-leather gloves. As he drew himself up every rung of the ladder, his muscles flexed, making a rounded dimple on either side of his hind quarters after he straightened each leg.
Och, and the legs were not to be ignored—long, sturdy as oaks, with muscle rippling beneath the leather all the way down to the tops of his black Hessian boots—not shiny, but scuffed and well-worn boots.
He stopped for a moment. “You can steady the ladder any time now, my lady.”
Holy parsnips, did he have any idea that she’d been staring? That she’d been unabashedly admiring his backside? “Yes, of course,” she squeaked, dragging her gaze to the wall and taking hold of the ladder.
I will not admire the butcher’s backside ever again in my lifetime. Ladies do not admire men’s backsides, and even if they do, they certainly do not make a spectacle of themselves by staring.
“How did you come to be a boxer?” she asked, the pitch of her voice still far too high.
“Dunno,” he said, leaning forward and testing the timbers with taps of his fingers, making flakes of debris shower downward atop her head. “I suppose it all began when the fellas in the tavern volunteered me to step into the ring of a local fight, on account of my size.”
“I can believe that,” she mumbled, trying to erase the image of Mr. Mansfield’s flexing buttocks from her mind and utterly failing. “It seems a rather odd sport, would you not agree?”
“In what way?”
“You must admit that men punching each other is somewhat barbaric.”
“Mayhap, though boxing has become more respectable since Broughton’s Rules were introduced. Afore that the sport was brutal, I’ll say.”
“My mother says boxing is barbarous, but if there are rules, I think I’d like to decide for myself if the sport has its merits. After all, my brother trains with Mr. Jackson.”
“The champion?” he asked, sounding a bit awestruck.
“Aye, nothing but the best for the duke, ye ken.”
“I’m afraid I do not.” Mr. Mansfield leaned out and grinned downward. “Are you holding the ladder firm?”
“I am. What is your assessment of my roof?”
“Weeeeeeell,” he said, climbing down with those unignorable flexing buttocks. “A quarter of the roof has the rot. I’m surprised it didn’t cave in sooner.”
“Oh dear, Marty willna be happy about that. He just replaced the roof on the manor.”
As she stepped back, Mr. Mansfield hopped to the ground. “Would you prefer I to write to the duke and ask how he recommends we proceed?”
“Nay, nay. I’ve been appointed by His Grace to oversee Huntly Manor, and I’d like to know what you recommend, sir. Can you fix it?”
“Yes, but it will take some time, especially if I’m to do it on my own.”
Charity’s stomach performed a wee minuet, without any music whatsoever. It might be nice to see Mr. Mansfield about the grounds now and again. “How much time?”
“I reckon if I close the shop at midday and head over here in the afternoons, I ought to have it done within a few weeks.”
The minuet transformed into a reel. “Every day?”
“Mostly. Some evenings I’ll need to meet with my Second for my barbaric sport.”
“I believe I agreed the jury was out as to the barbarity of boxing—at least until I’ve seen for myself.” Charity wrapped her fingers around one of the ladder’s rungs. “Are you certain you’ll have the time?”
“If it is a task undertaken by Harry Mansfield, I give you my word it will be a job well done, and I will see it through.”
“Excellent. If your roofing skills are as good as your bacon smoking, the barn’s roof ought to last for ages.”
“Harry!” Kitty shouted, running and flailing her arms, her mouth drawn down in a terrible grimace, her eyes enormous and filled with terror. “Help!”
Charity’s heart flew to her throat as she quickly scanned the grounds for Modesty, but her sister was nowhere to be seen.