Chapter 11
11
D uring breakfast the next morning, Muffin refused to be ignored, whining and encroaching on Charity’s leg, his tail sweeping the carpet in a thumping cadence. After savoring a bite of bacon, she leaned out over the armrest and gave the dog a pointed stare. “Has this poor creature been fed this morning?”
“Not certain,” said Willaby, refilling her glass with apple juice. “The scullery maid usually lets him out and feeds him as soon as he comes below stairs.”
Of course, Charity knew this since the dog had taken to sleeping at the foot of her bed. She usually let him out just after dawn, listening as his toenails clicked down the servants’ stairs. She straightened and looked to Martha. “Have you always allowed your dog to beg at the table, Miss Hatch?”
The lass looked up, turning red and appearing as though she was surprised to be addressed. “No.”
“Then I bid you not allow it now.”
Pushing her chair away from the table, Martha clapped. “Muffin, out with you!”
The dog’s tail wagged faster while he pushed harder against Charity’s leg. She thrust her finger toward the door. “Go on. Off to the kitchens, and I’ll not tolerate one more minute of your woeful begging.”
Muffin dropped his ears as he stood and trudged away, stopping and looking back before he reached the door.
Charity thrust her finger again. “I mean it. Go on.”
Once the dog had obeyed, Miss Hatch scooted her chair back to the table. “You do have a way with him.”
“I agree.” Miss Jacoby raised a spoonful of oats and looked to the lass. “Ever since you arrived, Muffin has barely given you the time of day.”
“Perhaps that is because he knows the identity of the true lady of the house,” said Ester.
“I’ve brought in the morning paper,” said Mrs. Fletcher, hastening through the doorway, and looking piqued as she placed it beside Charity’s arm. “I didn’t think the news ought to wait. Read the headlines, my lady.”
As soon as she picked up the paper, the bacon churned in her stomach.
“What does it say?” asked Miss Jacoby, her voice filled with innocence.
Charity looked across the expectant faces at the table. If she tried to hide it now, they’d only find out as soon as the meal was over. Holding up the paper for all to see, she cleared her throat. “ The Sister of the Duke of Dunscaby Rushes to The Butcher’s Aid…”
“Oh my,” said Ester. “They’ve even added an awful depiction of you on your knees holding Mr. Mansfield’s head in your lap.”
“I most definitely did not have his head in my lap, did I, Tearlach?”
“No, my lady. The rendering has it all wrong—besides, the doctor was there to rush to The Butcher’s aid.”
“Exactly. I merely expressed grave concern for the man who provides such delicious bacon to Huntly Manor.”
Ester pointed her fork at the paper. “Heaven forbid we have to go without bacon should he succumb to a nasty injury.”
Charity took note of the publication’s location. “Well, at least this paper is merely circulated to the locals. I’m certain any resultant rumors will soon pass.” She scanned through the article, which fortunately did mention she was in attendance to support The Butcher, who provided cuts of meat to Huntly Manor, which had recently come under the ownership of the Duke and Duchess of Dunscaby. Then it went on with a blow-by-blow depiction of the fight, pointing out all the rule-breaking by Alanzo the Terrible, and how the fiend had been thrown out of London and now traveled the country in search of poor sops to obliterate.
“Well, thank goodness the umpire adhered strictly to Broughton’s Rules and disqualified the lout,” she said aloud.
“I do hope Mr. Mansfield is not suffering overmuch,” Ester added.
“Which is exactly why I’ll be taking his family a food basket this morning. The poor man cannot afford to be injured.”
“Then might I suggest he find another occupation,” said Mrs. Fletcher who had taken her place with the servants along the wall.
“He’s already a butcher, but the town of Brixham is too small, and he needs the money for his mother’s treatments.”
“My, you do know a great deal about his affairs,” said Miss Hatch.
Charity gave the lass a pointed nod. “That is because his sister Kitty is learning her letters with Modesty.”
Miss Hatch snapped her fingers. “Oh, yes—and in kind, he is giving you boxing lessons.”
All eyes turned Charity’s way. Good heavens, now she was in a pickle, and she’d best not deny it. “He formerly gave me boxing lessons. And I say all ladies ought to be able to defend themselves. A lass never kens when she’ll have to face a scoundrel, and let me tell you, I am quite lethal with a parasol.”
“Oh?” asked Ester.
“Aye.”
“I’d like to know how to wield a deadly parasol,” said Miss Jacoby.
“To do what?” asked Ester. “Whack the vicar over the head so he’ll finally ask you to marry him?”
As laughter filled the hall and the poor gel turned tomato red, Charity clapped her hands. “Enough. And Miss Jacoby is right. All of you should be skilled at wielding your parasols. As soon as I return from delivering the basket for Mr. Mansfield, I shall put some thought into it and see if I am able to schedule parasol-wielding lessons in the ballroom.”
Harry tried to sit up, but the effort stabbed him in at least seven different places. Everything hurt, from his spleen to his face to his godforsaken ballocks. He bit back his urge to curse and eyed his sister. “Go on, be a good girl and open the shop. I’ll be along in a moment or so.”
“You ought to stay where you are,” said Ma, draping a damp cloth across his forehead. God save him, even that hurt.
“I ought to be stronger,” he growled.
“You’re already the strongest man in England,” said Kitty, slipping toward the door. “No one can best you.”
Plenty could best him—especially if they fought dirty.
“I don’t like all this boxing you’re doing,” said Ma, coughing and gathering her shawl about her shoulders. “You have the shop. It brings in enough coin for the lot of us.”
Harry didn’t bother to watch while she lumbered to her rocking chair and sat. “I thought taking the waters in Bath helped considerably,” he said. He knew she was putting on a stoic front for his benefit, and he didn’t approve.
“They do help some, but not enough to put you through such punishment. You suffered plenty when he was alive.”
He, meaning Harry’s father. The man was Satan incarnate, not terribly unlike Alanzo the Terrible or the half-dozen bastards who had ambushed him and Ricky in the close as they were leaving Torquay last eve. Not only had they thrashed the pair of them within an inch of their lives, they’d taken Harry’s winnings, insisting that Alanzo had won, and there shouldn’t be “no bloody rules when it came to boxing.”
“Would you like a cup of peppermint tea?” asked Ma.
“No…thank you,” Harry grunted. Presently, he wanted to sleep for a week, even though he needed to push his miserable arse off the mattress and head to work. Fortunately, he’d prepared ahead, and Kitty ought to be able to manage for a time.
He closed his eyes and willed sleep to come. Except footsteps resounded from the staircase to the shop—not as rapid or as loud as Kitty’s footsteps.
“Mr. Mansfield?”
God save him, he’d recognize Lady Charity’s voice anywhere.
“May I come in?” she asked.
Harry’s head spun as he pushed himself up. “Oh, no, my lady?—”
“Oh, goodness,” said Ma, the chair scraping the floorboards, making his brain rattle inside what remained of his skull. His mother pulled open the door. “Are you Lady Charity MacGalloway?”
“Yes, mistress, ’tis I.”
“It is an honor to receive you, my lady.” Obviously trying to suppress a cacophony of coughing by holding a hand over her mouth, Ma executed a reasonably impressive curtsy. “Kitty talks about you and Lady Modesty endlessly.”
Charity returned the curtsy, then caught his eye, giving a questioning quirk of an auburn brow. No, he hadn’t mentioned Her Ladyship to his mother, nor did he ever intend to confess his behavior. He might be smitten by the woman, but he wasn’t a fool. They had no chance at a future together, and no matter how much he wanted her for himself, she was as unreachable as the moon.
Harry’s gaze slid past the lady and settled on the chipped plasterwork above the hob. Though he hadn’t been farther than the entrance hall and kitchen at Huntly Manor, he’d seen enough of the house to know he lived in squalor when compared to Her Ladyship’s standards. The small apartment above the butcher shop had one bedroom, which was shared by his mother and sister, and a good-sized kitchen. He slept on a narrow bed against the wall between the hob and the wooden table where they took their meals.
He braced his palms on the mattress and tried not to wince as he pushed himself up, making the blanket drop into his lap. “My lady, if you would be so kind as to wait in the shop, I’ll attend you shortly.”
“Och, nay. After that horrid man thrashed you with no concern for the rules, you mustn’t overexert yourself.” Charity hastened around the table, her skirts catching on the bench and pulling it, scraping along the floorboards. The awful noise made his every aching bone throb with pain.
She didn’t know the half of it, and he wasn’t about to tell her about how the thrashing had continued afterward. Harry had been hoping to save enough coin to send his mother to Bath for more treatments, but now they would have to wait. It seemed they were always waiting.
“ You attended the fight?” asked Ma. “My heavens!”
“I was there to show Mr. Mansfield my support—though the newspaper report this morning was rife with conjecture on the topic.” Lady Charity placed her basket on the table. “I’ve brought some things from Huntly’s kitchens. Cook makes the best shortbread biscuits—bread as well...”
Harry pressed his palms to his temples. “Conjecture did you say?”
He’d told her not to come, but she’d done so nonetheless, and it didn’t take much imagination to know she’d been slighted. “Then you had best leave the basket and hasten on your way. It wouldn’t be right for your carriage to wait outside the shop overlong.”
“Do you think I care about what some silly reporter writes?”
“My lady, you ought to have a care,” said Ma. “A scandal would be devastating for the likes of you.”
“She’s right,” Harry agreed.
“Fortunately, Brixham and Torquay, for that matter, are ever so far away from London.”
The weight of Harry’s responsibilities hung about his shoulders. Who knew how long it would be before he could send his mother to Bath for treatment—or even a fancy doctor in the big city? “I am only too well aware.”
Lady Charity very lightly flicked his hair away from his brow. “It isna kind of me to say, but you do look like death warmed. You ought to be abed.”
“I told him the same,” said Ma.
“I’m coming good.” Harry forced himself to his feet, trying not to show pain but doing a bad job of it with a litany of grunts and grimaces. “I’m expecting a delivery of lambs, there’s bacon to be smoked, orders for sausages and the like. Just because I took a hiding from Alanzo doesn’t mean the townsfolk will stop eating.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Charity asked. “I could assist Kitty in the shop for a time. Surely, there’s no rush…”
“No,” he barked, far more angrily than he’d intended. “’Tis best if you go. You may as well take Kitty along. I’m sure Lady Modesty could use her company. Besides, I could do with a respite from females.”
God’s stones, the more he thought about it, the more deeply her fate cut him to the quick. Lady Charity had twisted his heart in a hundred knots, and he couldn’t allow one more twist. Having her see his miserable hovel was like being hit over the head with a shovel. She lived in a world he could never even hope to touch.
Their boxing lessons never should have started, let alone go on as long as they had done.
Her Ladyship blushed as the fire in those lovely eyes faded, making him feel like a damned ogre. “Verra well, if it would help to take Kitty for a time, then that is the least I can do.”