Chapter 3
Sheltering Trouble.
“Izzy! Izzy, Izzy, busy, busy.”
Izzy groaned, swatting away the little hand that poked at her eyelid.
“Wakey, wakey. Time to rise and shine!”
Caspar, a five-year-old bundle of energy and a determined little devil, delicately prised her eyelid open, peering in at her. Izzy huffed out a breath. “Good morning, Caspar.”
“Why are you still sleeping, slug-a-bed?”
Pushing his hand from her face, Izzy turned her bleary gaze to the clock beside her bed. “Blast!” she exclaimed, sitting up in bed as she realised she’d overslept. It was gone eight, and she’d meant to rise earlier, not later, so she could creep into the attic before the house was awake.
“Oooh. Izzy. You said a bad word,” Caspar crowed in delight, rushing from the room, no doubt to tattle on her to Mrs Mabbs.
Staggering from the bed, sleep still clinging to her mind like cobwebs, Izzy went to the nightstand and washed with as much haste as possible.
She danced about on the freezing floorboards, her skin prickling with gooseflesh, and was only too glad to dry herself and get dressed.
It was strange to consider that Boreas slept directly overhead, and she cast a dubious glance towards the ceiling.
Izzy had chosen that corner specifically so only she would hear if he moved about or made a sound, but she heard nothing, and anxiety clutched at her heart.
What if she’d botched cleaning the wound. What if he’d torn the stitches, and it had started bleeding, or infection had set in while she slept? What if he was dead?
“Izzy!”
Mrs Adie’s strident voice bellowed from downstairs, making Izzy jump. Forcefully telling herself she was being dramatic for no good reason, Izzy rammed her feet into her slippers and hurried from the room.
“What is wrong with everyone today?” Mrs Adie demanded as Izzy ran into the dining room and sat down with a thud.
Mrs Mabbs was helping little Daisy to eat a boiled egg, spooning the golden yolk into the child’s open mouth. Caspar looked up, grinning at Izzy.
“Izzy said a bad word,” he remarked conversationally before returning his attention to piling jam upon a thick piece of bread.
Mrs Adie tutted, her hands resting on her ample hips.
“It don’t surprise me a whit. The reverend went out at the crack of dawn without a by your leave, no mention of not being here for breakfast, and you decided to sleep the day away!
And here I am with this lovely breakfast going to waste with no one to eat it! ”
“Beg pardon, Mrs Adie,” Izzy said, hastily piling her plate with three times as much bacon and eggs as she’d usually eat, wondering how she could get it to Boreas. “I’ll do it justice, you’ll see. I’m famished.”
Mrs Adie sent a doubtful glance towards Izzy’s plate as she heaped it with fried bread. “Good Lord above. You’ll eat all that?”
Izzy took a large bite of bread and chewed, nodding eagerly. Swallowing, she gave the woman a bright smile. “I’m starved, I swear.”
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes, considering Izzy. “You’ve not got worms, I hope.”
Izzy choked as Caspar howled with laughter.
“Certainly not!” she said in disgust. “I’m just hungry.”
“Hmph, so you say, but you look peaked, if you ask me. Don’t she look peaked, Mrs Mabbs?”
Mrs Mabbs paused, the spoon suspended in mid-air in front of Daisy, who held her mouth open, waiting.
“Pale, certainly. There’s a putrid sore throat going about. Could be that.”
Daisy made an indignant sound, and Mrs Mabbs directed the spoon to its destination.
“I’m fine. Just hungry.” Izzy scowled at the two women and took another bite of the bread.
“Well, so long as it don’t go to waste,” Mrs Adie grumbled, bustling out of the room.
Izzy ate slowly, waiting until Mrs Mabbs took the children back up to the nursery and she was alone.
The moment the door closed, she ran to the sideboard and took out a fresh plate, carefully leaving her own empty on the table for their maid, Polly, to collect.
Piling the rest of the bacon, eggs, and bread onto the clean plate, she hoped Boreas was hungry.
Moving to the door, she cracked it open, peering out before dashing for the stairs. Heart thudding, she opened the door to the attic and went up.
The Vicarage, Little Valentine, 22nd January 1816
Ben stiffened as he heard the door open, his hand going to his pistol.
His side already burned and throbbed, as if he’d been stabbed repeatedly with a red-hot spear, but the sudden movement made pain explode through his body and he gritted his teeth.
The soft, quick steps dissipated his tension, however, and he was unsurprised when Miss Honey’s blonde head appeared at the top of the stairs.
She let out a sigh of relief when she saw him awake. “Thank heavens. I’ve been fretting that I killed you with my clumsy nursing.”
“And no doubt wondering what the devil to do with the body,” he remarked wryly, disliking the way his spirits lifted at seeing her.
He’d been awake for some time, brooding and wondering what the hell he would do if she didn’t come back.
Much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t going anywhere for a day or two, but relying on anyone but himself was something he’d never allowed before.
It was too dangerous, as much for whoever dared offer help as for him.
“Well, yes,” she said frankly, making him laugh. Her eyes glinted, a smile lurking there. “How are you feeling?”
“Marvellous. Is that food?”
“Oh.” She seemed to remember the plate she was carrying then and hurried forward.
Setting it down, she rearranged the pillows so he could sit up.
The pain of pulling himself upright was enough to make stars dance behind his eyes but Ben endured stoically, refusing to be fed like an invalid.
His stomach roiled, the sour taste of brandy rising in his throat, though he ignored it.
He had the constitution of an ox and was rarely sick.
Snatching a rasher of bacon from the plate, he stuffed it in his mouth as the girl raised an eyebrow.
She held out the knife and fork to him, silently chastising his appalling manners.
He took them, chewing the bacon with relish and enjoying her disapproval. For a moment he toyed with using his fingers to take another rasher but decided against provoking her, as much as he enjoyed the idea of her scolding him.
“Our housekeeper thinks there’s something wrong with me, she’s never known me eat so much,” she said, sitting on the floor beside him and looking awkward.
Ben cut into the fried bread with relish, using it to shovel up a good portion of fried egg. Far from feeling sick, he was suddenly ravenous. “I appreciate the effort.”
“I’ll bring food whenever I can, but it’s tricky. There’s some chicken and ham pie from yesterday’s dinner. I might get that to you later. I’ll buy some supplies the next time I’m at the shops, but the people will talk and wonder if Mrs Adie is ill if I go about buying pies and the like.”
He nodded and wondered what she thought of him, if she found him a rough lout.
The admiration he’d noted in her eyes had not diminished, but there was a wariness to it now, the realisation that he was no tame creature to be made into a pet.
Still, the idea of taking a coarse, low-born fellow to their beds appealed to many well-bred ladies, so he saw no reason a vicar’s daughter ought to be immune.
That the truth was rather more complicated than that was immaterial.
He’d lived this life for so long now, he hardly remembered what the truth was.
She fished in the pocket of her skirts and pulled out a small bottle of laudanum.
For a moment he thought to tell her to take it away, the idea of being incapacitated and taken unawares was not appealing, but his side chose that moment to give a hard twinge, and he grunted, gripping the knife and fork and breathing hard until it subsided.
“I thought you might need it,” she said, placing it down beside the mattress.
She shifted onto her knees and opened a small chest. It was one of many, plus odds and ends of furniture and dusty valises.
He watched her as she rummaged inside and brought out a stack of books, plus a notepad and pencil, setting them beside the bottle.
“I don’t know what you like to read, but they might pass the time.
The Midnight Heir of Grimwyck Hall is there.
That’s one of my favourites.” She waited, apparently waiting for him to give an opinion of the book.
When he didn’t, she continued. “I’ll bring more oil for the lamp later and I’ll need to change the dressing on your wound. ”
Ben said nothing, concentrating on the food, oddly reluctant to show an interest in the books or remark on how kind she was in caring for him.
She hesitated again, probably still hoping he would thank her for her consideration. He ought to, he knew. She was a damned angel, and he did not deserve her compassion. Yet it was better for her if she resented his presence here, if she thought him a mannerless brute.
“I had better go before I’m missed.”
She got to her feet, her expression rather crestfallen as she walked to the stairs, making him feel like an utter bastard.
“Miss Honey.”
“Yes?” She turned, hope lighting her eyes, and he had not the heart to disappoint her.
“Your kindness is much appreciated. I will not trespass upon it for too long.”
Her smile was swift and bright, and Ben had the oddest sensation that it lit him up from the inside out. The warmth of it struck him hard, aimed at some long-forgotten corner of his heart and sneaking past a tiny crack in his defences.
“You’ll stay until you are well enough to leave and not a moment before.” Her words were stern, the lovely smile fading.
Ben picked up a piece of fried bread and used it to mop up a puddle of yolk as he slanted a glance at her. “You’re a bossy chit.”