Chapter Three
FLORA HAD ALWAYS admired her grandmother’s willingness to help anyone, but at that very moment, she wondered why on earth her grandmother had helped Captain Thorne remove his shirt in her kitchen.
“Forgive me,” she squeaked, averting her eyes. “I’ll just wait outside.”
She backed from the kitchen, her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment. Despite her hastily muttered apology, she could not help but sneak another glance at the captain’s torso before she pulled the door closed behind her.
She hadn’t seen many shirtless men in her life—unless one counted the field labourers during harvest, which she didn’t.
They were usually too far off to be seen properly and obscured by dirt and dust. Nor did the time she’d stumbled upon Mr Marrowbone bathing in the Churn count, as it was a memory she tried very hard to forget.
And, she thought with another blush, Mr Marrowbone’s physique was not at all comparable to Captain Thorne’s. Not even a little.
Captain Thorne looked something like a Greek statue come to life. A very broad-shouldered Greek statue, she thought, pressing her hands to her hot cheeks.
“We’re decent.”
Her grandmother’s voice floated through the closed door, causing Flora to roll her eyes. There was very little decent about the entire scenario her grandmother had created, she thought mutinously.
She paused a moment, smoothing her skirts with nervous hands, before she pushed open the door and entered. She tried to affect an air of calm, though as her eyes met Captain Thorne’s twinkling blue eyes, she felt a blush again creep over her cheeks.
“The captain was seeking something for an old shoulder injury,” her grandmother explained, now busy setting the kettle on the stove.
“Oh?” Flora raised a brow, curious.
“I’ve recommended a salve of St John’s wort, comfrey, and rosemary,” Mrs Bridges answered.
Flora nodded in agreement as she ran through the list of herbs in her mind.
“Perhaps some lavender too?” she suggested, as she moved to take over preparing the tea.
“What does lavender do, Miss Gardiner?” the captain queried, his interest genuine.
“It smells nice,” Flora replied, feeling a little foolish. “A nice scent encourages regular use.”
Her grandmother gave a harrumph of disagreement as she seated herself at the table, which Flora ignored. There was no point sending the man home with a jar he refused to open.
As she bustled about the kitchen fetching cups, milk, and some of the nice biscuits, Flora could feel the captain’s eyes on her. She didn’t blame him for his curiosity—he had, after all, witnessed her wishing death upon Sir Ambrose only hours before.
Conscious that fate had now offered her a chance to redeem herself, she arranged the tea things with what she hoped was a serene, ladylike expression.
“Thank you, Miss Gardiner,” the captain said as she poured for him.
“Have you two already met?” Mrs Bridges asked, glancing shrewdly between them.
“Miss Gardiner was visiting with Sir Ambrose when I called earlier—though we didn’t have time to be properly introduced,” Captain Thorne answered. Flora thought his answer very gallant—for he had left out the part where he had witnessed her thoroughly disgracing herself.
“Indeed you didn’t,” Mrs Bridges huffed. “Or she’d have told you her name is Miss Bridges.”
Flora focused intently on the teapot, though she could feel the captain’s eyes upon her.
“Forgive me, I must have misheard,” he said politely.
“There’s nothing wrong with your hearing,” Mrs Bridges replied, far too cheerfully. “Miss Gardiner is a new moniker that has been thrust upon Flora, one which only Sir Ambrose feels the need to use.”
“It’s a little complicated,” Flora said quietly, sliding into her seat.
“All that matters to me is that I address you by your preferred name,” the captain said warmly, holding her gaze.
Flora noticed her grandmother glance sharply between them.
She hoped no ideas were being ascribed to the poor man, beyond a surfeit of exceptional manners.
His determinedly pleasant smile deserved a medal, given the circumstances of their first meeting and now this cryptic conversation about her name.
“What brings you to Plumpton, Captain?” Flora asked quickly, though she already half-knew the answer from their earlier meeting.
“I’m visiting an old friend, Lord Crabb,” he answered, just as she’d hoped.
Flora cast a pointed look at her grandmother. That name alone neatly illustrated the social chasm between them. Captain Thorne was a guest of Crabb Hall. Flora had once scrubbed the floors there.
“But you’re staying at The King’s Head,” Mrs Bridges said with a sly little smile to her granddaughter.
“I was invited to stay at Crabb Hall,” the captain admitted. “But I declined. I’m only lately discharged from service and not quite domesticated enough to live with a family.”
“You like your freedom,” Mrs Bridges nodded approvingly. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“Some would disagree,” he replied easily. “I’m told the best way to find my land-legs again is to get myself leg-shackled.”
Again, Flora studiously avoided her grandmother’s gaze and hastily changed the subject.
“How did you come by your injury, Captain?” she asked, as she moved to refill his cup. “I’m certain you have a tale to share of your heroism at sea.”
“More my stupidity,” he answered, though he duly obliged them both with a few stories of his time in the navy.
The rest of the visit passed easily. The captain was the perfect guest; he declared the biscuits the best he’d had in years, the tea exceptional, and even suffered through one of Mrs Bridges’ digestive tonics with a smile on his face.
His company was so pleasant that Flora forgot both his social status and the time, until she realised that dusk was beginning to draw in outside the window.
“I must return to Brackenfield before dark,” she said, rising from her chair. She did not add that the true reason for her haste was a lingering dread of arriving home to find the great house swallowed in shadow. It sounded rather silly to admit that an heiress was afraid of her own inheritance.
“Allow me to walk you some of the way, Miss Bridges,” the captain jumped to a stand as she did.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Flora protested at the exact same moment as her grandmother declared, “What a wonderful idea; it’s on your way back to the village.”
And that settled the matter. Flora found herself near-pushed out the door by her grandmother into the mild evening air.
“Thank you again, Captain,” she ventured, as they set off down the lane.
“It is the least I could do, especially since your grandmother insisted the salve was a gift.”
“I expect she wished to show her gratitude for your defence of king and country,” Flora replied, wondering why she sounded so stiff and formal. She willed herself to relax but every fibre of her being was painfully aware of the tall, dark, and handsome man walking beside her.
“It was nothing so noble as that,” he gave a self-conscious chuckle. “I was just a young man, in search of adventure and out to prove myself to my father. The defence of king and country was incidental.”
“I’m sure your father was proud, at least,” Flora offered, her reticence unfurling in response to his cheerful openness.
“In his own way,” the captain conceded. “Though, when I returned, I realised it was not he I needed to prove myself to, but rather myself. Now that I have done that, I’m left wondering where next.”
Flora glanced up at him from under her eyelashes, a little startled by the sadness in his voice. There were depths to Captain Thorne beneath his cheerful facade, impeccable manners, and well-polished Hoby boots.
“They do say that act one always ends with a question,” Flora volunteered. As she had only recently learned this idea from one of the books in the library in Brackenfield, she crossed her fingers in hope that he would not ask her to elaborate.
“That’s true,” he replied, sounding much cheerier. “Do you enjoy the theatre, Miss Bridges?”
His question reminded her once again of the deep chasm of circumstance that divided them, but Flora ignored her anxiety. Instead, she opted to answer with the same openness he had afforded her.
“I’ve never been,” she admitted, with a shy smile. “I’ve never even thought to go.”
She hesitated, then added mischievously, “And if you’d met me a month ago, Captain, you wouldn’t have thought to ask me, either. You’d have handed me your coat and asked for a pressing.”
He looked at her, his expression so clearly shocked that she couldn’t help but laugh. He recovered quickly, adding to her laugh with one of his own—warm and genuine.
“We press our own coats in the navy, thank you,” he assured her. “Though I don’t doubt you’d do a better job of it.”
“I’m sure your efforts would be admirable, Captain,” she answered, feeling a flicker of relief at his answer. She doubted many other men could have met her confession with boasting of their own ironing skills.
A silence fell between them then, though it was comfortable. Flora idly admired the foliage of the hedgerows as they prepared for their winter slumber, whilst also counting in her head the steps left until they reached the gates of Brackenfield.
“How do you know Sir Ambrose?” Captain Thorne ventured, just as they turned the final bend on the road.
Flora flushed; perhaps she should have begun their walk by explaining herself, rather than force him to bring up the topic.
“He is trustee of the estate I inherited from my grandfather,” she said on an exhale, rushing to explain herself. “I am sorry that you witnessed my outburst, Captain. I don’t usually wish death upon people.”
“If anyone was to inspire someone’s first fit of bloodlust, it is he,” Captain Thorne replied, his blue eyes once again twinkling with amusement—even in the gathering dusk.
Flora’s shoulders sagged with relief; Captain Thorne was proving to be a most understanding conversationalist.
“He has an iron grip on the purse strings of my inheritance, until I reach my majority,” she confessed, slowing her step as they finally reached the gates of Brackenfield. “And he has most definite ideas of what a young woman should and shouldn’t do.”
“He was always a tyrant,” the captain agreed, much to her delight.
“I only have to suffer him for another year,” Flora tilted her chin, determined to find some optimism. “Then I shall be free to do as I please.”
He glanced then at the gates behind Flora and his smile fell for the briefest moment as he realised their walk had reached its conclusion.
“It will be the end of your first act, Miss Bridges,” the captain said after a pause, then offered her a conspiratorial smile. “Though I’d hazard a guess that you have much grander plans than I for your second.”
Flora couldn’t help but smile back. He removed his hat, offered her a sweeping bow, and disappeared into the dusk with a cheerful goodbye.
She lingered for a moment, watching until he vanished from sight. Her heart felt unusually light after their brief walk; the argument with Sir Ambrose and the echoing emptiness of Brackenfield momentarily forgotten.
There was much to feel hopeful about, she decided as she made her way back inside. Her life stretched ahead of her, full of possibility—though she would not be tempted to pin any of that possibility onto Captain Thorne. She was not that fanciful.
Still, she went to bed smiling as she recalled their conversation—and tried very hard not to think about the image of him in her grandmother’s kitchen, with his Greek shoulders and bare chest.
Unfortunately, the optimism that had coloured her dreams vanished entirely the next morning.
“Awful news about Sir Ambrose,” Helen—the maid-of-all-work Flora had inherited along with the house—said as she set a teapot on the table with unusual solemnity.
“Oh?” Flora paused in the doorway, struck by the girl’s tone.
“Found dead, first thing,” Helen said, casting her a sidelong glance as she walked to the table. “They’re saying it was murder.”
Flora sat down at the table with a thump.
“Oh,” she said again—just as a snide voice whispered in the back of her mind: Be careful what you wish for…