Chapter 5 #2
“Please, Jack,” pleaded Charlotte softly. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you help me to cream this butter? I fear it’s far too hard for me to have much effect on it, and I know with your strong arms you can do it easily.”
He looked at her in surprise.
Of all the children in the household, Charlotte was the only one who rarely spoke to him.
Jack intuitively understood that this was not meant as any slight to him, but rather was because Charlotte was the shyest and the least self-assured.
He did not know the nature of the injury that had caused her to limp, but suspected that she had suffered abuse at the hands of some brute—possibly even her own father.
If he had been there when it happened, he would have killed the pissing bastard.
The sight of her perched awkwardly upon a chair, her injured leg stretched out before her as she tried with limited success to beat the block of butter Eunice had given her, chipped at the shell of his resistance.
Several strands of her thick auburn hair had strayed from the faded green ribbon tying it back, and her milky skin was flushed with effort, as if she found even the simple task of creaming some butter tiring.
But it was her eyes that captivated him most. He had never noticed how unusually large and pretty they were, a clear swirl of brown flecked with green, rimmed with a feathery sweep of charcoal lashes.
She continued to study him, her gaze slightly wary, as if she was worried that his response might be to snarl at her, or perhaps to simply glare at her with contempt and say nothing.
Certainly he had treated everyone else in the household to just such a response at one point or another.
Shame chiseled away another little piece of his armor.
Without a word, he went over to Charlotte, took the bowl and spoon from her hands, and began to pummel the resistant butter.
“Thank you.” Charlotte’s voice was barely audible above the sound of the spoon thrashing mercilessly against the bowl.
He gave her a brisk nod. When the butter was finally beaten into submission, he went to retrieve the eggs and milk.
“Here,” he said, handing her an egg. “You crack them into the bowl, and I’ll beat them in for you.” He regarded her intently, wanting to make it clear that he was doing it for her, and not because Eunice had told him to.
A hesitant smile crept across her face. She did not wait for him to acknowledge it, but bowed her head and gently tapped the delicate white shell against the rim of the bowl. “I do believe it’s going to be a splendid sponge pudding,” she predicted softly.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” Genevieve smiled at her busy little brood as she entered the kitchen. With so many faces and activities to look at, it was not difficult for her to keep her gaze averted from Haydon.
Although it had been impossible to avoid Lord Redmond completely over the last few days, after that night in which she had experienced such intense and bewildering feelings toward him, Genevieve had made absolutely certain that they were never alone.
Haydon had recovered sufficiently to no longer require either her bedchamber or her constant attendance at his bedside.
Doreen had generously offered to move onto a cot in Eunice’s room, and Haydon had been given Doreen’s room.
At first Genevieve had worried that being relegated to the relatively cramped third floor servants’ quarters would not please Lord Redmond, who was obviously accustomed to opulent and spacious surroundings.
On the contrary, the arrangements seemed to suit him well, and he assured Doreen that he was most grateful and hoped he wouldn’t be putting her out for too long.
Genevieve supposed that after spending several weeks in a dank, frigid cell, Doreen’s bright, tidy little room was almost luxurious.
“My goodness, Jamie, you look like you fell into the coal bin!” Genevieve looked at her brother’s blackened face and hands in amusement.
“I’m cleaning the black off the iron,” Jamie reported proudly.
“So I see. The question is, who is going to clean the black off of you?”
Jamie looked down at his impossibly filthy shirt, arms, and hands. “It’s not that bad,” he assured her brightly. “I think it will come off with a bit of Eunice’s soap.”
“More like we’ll be needin’ a whole kettle of soap,” Doreen predicted. “Dinna fret, Miss Genevieve, I’ll be tossin’ him in the bath the moment he’s finished, and won’t let him touch a thing on the way upstairs.”
“That’s fine, Doreen.” Genevieve gently ruffled her hand through the one patch of Jamie’s berry-tinged hair that looked relatively clean.
If there was one thing she had learned in eight years of raising children, it was that if there was a mess to be either made or found, her boys were sure to get into it.
“After you have all finished your chores, I thought it might be nice for us to bundle up in our coats and hats and take a walk. It has started to snow and—”
A loud rap upon the door interrupted her.
“Oliver, would you kindly see who that is?” She struggled to control the shrill thread that snaked through her voice every time someone had come to their door since Haydon’s arrival a week earlier.
Even the regular delivery of their milk and butter filled her with panic that somehow Lord Redmond had been found out and they were all going to be dragged away to prison.
“Right, ye lassies wipe down the lamps well with these rags, then screw the tops on and place the chimneys back,” instructed Oliver, demonstrating his typical lack of urgency about going to the door. “Once they’ve had a chance to dry we’ll put the wicks in, an’ I promise ye’ll be amazed—”
“The door, Oliver?” Genevieve persisted. The knocking was growing louder.
“I’m gettin’ to it, lass,” Oliver assured her. He cast a speculative eye at Haydon. “Were ye wantin’ to slip out the back, lad—just in case?”
Haydon shook his head. If the authorities had somehow deduced that Maxwell Blake was in fact their missing prisoner, he would not abandon Genevieve and her family to try to explain why they had protected him.
He would stay with her and make sure the police understood that he had forced her to help him.
“Very well. I’ll make a lot of noise if I’m thinkin’ ’tis someone ye might not be so keen to meet.” Oliver stood and carefully straightened his frayed jacket before heading out of the kitchen to the front door.
“All right, then, duckies, let’s keep working,” said Eunice, trying to alleviate the pall of anxiety that had settled over the kitchen. “Being busy improves yer mind and cheers yer heart.”
Everyone in the kitchen continued with their chores in uneasy silence.
“It’s that old codger Humphries from the bank,” Oliver reported, shuffling in a moment later.
“Says he needs to speak with ye urgently, lass—an’ yer husband, Mr. Blake, as well.
It seems news of yer marriage has traveled through Inveraray.
No doubt he’s come to offer his congratulations. ” His tone was scornful.
“Thank you, Oliver.” Genevieve regarded Haydon uncertainly. “I imagine Mr. Humphries would think it strange if I were to meet with him now without my husband—but of course if you’d rather not, I understand.”
“I would be delighted to meet my wife’s bank manager.” He regarded her steadily as he offered her his arm.
Genevieve tentatively laid her hand upon his sleeve.
She could feel the heat and strength of him shifting beneath her palm, like the muscles of a panther poised to strike.
She found herself wanting to grip him tighter, to feel the marble hardness of him flexing against her grasp.
She resisted the impulse and lightened her hold on him, until her trembling fingers barely grazed the finely woven fabric of his dark coat.
“Mr. Humphries, how pleasant to see you,” she said as they entered the drawing room. “I should like to introduce my husband, Mr. Maxwell Blake. Maxwell, this is Mr. Gerald Humphries, manager of the Royal Bank of Scotland branch here in Inveraray.”
Haydon blinked at the bank manager in astonishment.
Mr. Humphries was a shriveled little raisin of a man, with twiglike arms and legs that looked wholly insubstantial for supporting the fragile frame over which his loose-fitting coat and trousers were arranged.
His thinning white hair was carefully parted just above his left ear, then painstakingly scraped up and over his shiny pink pate and liberally pomaded into place.
Unfortunately, some of the slicked-down strands had separated, making it look as though his bald head were bursting through a fibrous white helmet.
He required the assistance of a polished black cane to rise from the chair in which he had been seated, and upon rising to his feet he began to quiver so alarmingly Haydon was worried that he was going to topple right over.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Humphries,” said Haydon, striding forward with his hand outstretched so that he could catch the ancient little gnome if he fell.