Chapter Nine
“’E wanted to ’ave a bath and arsked me t’ shave ’im,” reported Will one morning. “I used me own razor, bein’ as ’e ain’t got one. An’ gave ’is ’air a bit of a brush. ’E looks a diff’rent man.”
“That was good of you,” said Cynthia, restraining herself from rushing into the sickroom to see. “Do you think we can procure a razor for him somewhere in the village?”
“I was thinkin’ ’bout that. They rung the death peal sixty time yesterday, so I reckon it were old Boswell what died. I kin arsk ’is daughter if she’d sell us ’is razor.”
“That’s a good idea. We should probably wait a day or two, though, don’t you think? I don’t want to trouble a grieving daughter with talk about razors and the like.”
“Nay. She dint ’ave much truck with the old man when he were alive, so she’ll ’ave no problem making a bob off ’is stuff now ’e’s dead.
You want me t’ see what ’e ’ad in the way o’ breeches an’ all?
The young feller ain’t got but the one lot o’ clobber, an’ from what I could see, it won’t last if ’e keeps on wearin’ it.
Gen’lman stuff it is, Ruby told me when she washed and brushed it.
Well, you knows well enough, seeing as ’ow you mended it all. Not much good fer work in the country.”
“Yes,” she replied. “It is a gentleman’s clothing, not a laborer’s.”
Like all countryfolk, Cynthia never got rid of anything that could be used or repurposed, and she’d kept her father’s clothing all these years, laying it up in lavender and regularly shaking it out to prevent moths.
She reflected now that they should have kept his razor and brushes, but they had silver handles, and her mother was offered a good price for them.
Goodness knows, they’d needed the money, with all the debts he’d left.
She shook off those memories. What was done, was done.
“No, you don’t need to ask about clothing,” she said now. “I’ve got my father’s things, and I expect I can alter them well enough for Mr. Fielding to wear while he recovers. Once he’s well, he’ll be moving on. And he only carries that knapsack, so he won’t want extra clothing.”
Even as she said it, Cynthia’s heart contracted at the thought of Mr. Fielding leaving.
He had become a member of the household, and although he no longer needed her nursing, he had become a part of her day, the part she liked best. They had a woman from the village come in twice a year to help with the heavy work — taking down the curtains, beating the rugs, and so on, but in the mornings, swathed in a large apron, Cynthia did the regular household chores.
She fed the hens, swept and dusted, and, on special occasions, did what Ruby considered fancy baking, such as the cherry cake for the Vicar’s wife.
Ruby limited herself to making the dough for bread twice a week and, in common with the rest of the village, took it to the baker’s for baking.
These days, Cynthia had her meals with Mr. Fielding, instead of in the kitchen.
He had progressed from broth to solid food, and he tried to clear his plate, though his appetite was still small.
He always complimented Ruby on her cooking, and she had stopped thinking of him as a stray they’d stupidly let in the house.
She’d gone from calling him that dirty tramp to Mr. Fielding, sir.
As the mealtime approached, Cynthia would do as she had always done, removing her apron and going upstairs to tidy herself and wash her hands.
Now, though, she found herself looking in the mirror before going down.
Normally, she looked in the mirror only once a day, when she put on her cap after doing up her braids.
Stop acting like a silly girl, she told herself sternly.
You are a plain middle-aged lady. No one cares what you look like.
But she knew in her heart she wanted to look her best for the best time of her day.
Today, coming into his room for dinner, she saw what Will had meant.
The invalid was transformed! Shaving off the bushy beard had uncovered his strong, square jaw, and with his hair drawn back off his forehead, the fine dark brows over his blue eyes were revealed.
Suddenly, he was a handsome stranger. She was glad she had glanced in the mirror, for she had noticed and removed a smudge from her cheek.
“My goodness, Mr. Fielding,” she said, with a little laugh to cover her embarrassment, “you look like a different person.”
“And you look the same, dear lady,” he said, smiling at her. “Neat as a pin and with the face of an angel.”
“I thought we agreed you were delirious when you took me for a heavenly creature,” she said, with a real laugh.
“Perhaps I was, at first,” he said, “but now I know you really are an angel. Of the earthly, not heavenly, kind.”
“I think you are still a little light-headed,” she replied, “but it is good to see you looking so well. I think perhaps tomorrow you can get up for a while and sit outside in the garden. The fresh air will be much better for you than being cooped up in here.”
“But will you read to me?”
“If you wish.”
“I do wish. Your voice has sustained me these last weeks. Even when I didn’t know where I was, or even who I was, I could hear your gentle voice. I clutched onto it, like a drowning man. You saved me.”
It was lucky Ruby came in with their meals, for Cynthia didn’t know what to say. If she had sustained him, he had sustained her. She had almost forgotten what it was like before he had arrived and become a central focus of her life.