Lord Challoner was the very last man she expected to see approach the back gate. Her father had properly repelled him last night. Blistered him, really. Yet here he was, resplendent in finely tailored clothes meant for the country, his boots polished and his longish golden hair curling at his starched collar.
“This is beginning to become a habit. No school today?” he asked, tipping his cap. The bandage at his temple had been reduced in size and was nearly covered by his tousled hair.
“Down, Rufus! Right this minute!” Amazingly, the dog slunk off from his post at the fence to the doghouse, growling only a little. “My father isn’t well. Mr. Walker is taking over for me today.” Vincent was good about substituting for her. Good with the children, too, even though he would much rather be reading Scripture or writing a sermon.
Rachel knew he was her champion when it came to school matters, and was excellent at soothing the occasional ire of the three members of the parish school committee. They thought Rachel was too “modern.” Too lax. She couldn’t in all conscience cane little children when they were naughty, even if doing so meant she’d keep her job.
It was Lord Challoner’s fault that her father and she had had such a difficult night. Dad had been terribly agitated after the viscount was patched up for his nonexistent dog bite, and had tossed and turned, crying out so often in his sleep that Rachel sat with him until he quieted. Sitting in the dark at his bedside had given Rachel ample time—too much time—to think.
“I’m sorry to hear it. Has Dr. Oakley been to see him?”
“He isn’t really ill—that is to say, my father didn’t sleep well and isn’t feeling like himself. I didn’t want to leave him alone.” When her father was overtired, he became somewhat absent-minded. Rachel didn’t think he’d actually burn the house down, but one never knew.
“That’s too bad. I was hoping to speak to him.”
Rachel felt the ground slip beneath her feet. “You were? I thought after last night….” Truthfully she’d thought Lord Challoner so offended she’d never lay eyes upon him again except in a clipping in Vincent’s scrapbook.
“Yes. Well, we didn’t get off on the best footing, but I got an idea I wished to explore with him.”
An idea? To explore with her father? Lord Challoner really did hit his head yesterday.
“I’ll just see if he’s awake.” Rachel left Lord Challoner at the gate, with a glare at Rufus to behave. She knew she wasn’t being hospitable, but she was nervous. If the neighbors saw him here hanging about, there would be trouble for them all. Rachel’s father depended on their yearly supplement for being Puddling citizens. If they broke the terms of the Puddling Rehabilitation Rules, the allotment could be withheld.
They wouldn’t starve. Her father had his army pension. Rachel’s salary was very modest, but then they had modest needs. The garden was productive, and they usually bartered for meat or other staples. There were some savings, too, although her father never quoted an exact figure. Enough to get them through the coming year, she hoped, until all memories of Captain Lord Henry Challoner had passed.
That’s what Puddling did, serve as a temporary retreat with no strings attached and no friendships formed. Except for that baron’s son who’d given the town a conservatory in thanks for his humane treatment, there was no trace of previous Guests to be found anywhere but the scrapbooks, carefully hidden away in the parish records. Puddlingites were generally kind, but businesslike. And right now, Rachel knew her little family risked censure.
She stepped through the kitchen and down the hall to the front room. Her father was sitting up in bed, his spectacles sliding down his nose, a worn book between his gnarled hands. All those years of weaving as a boy and after he left the army had left him arthritic. It was almost a mercy when the local wool trade collapsed and his hands could be still.
“What are you reading, Dad?”
“A history book. They got it all wrong, of course.”
“We—we have a visitor. The Guest. Lord Challoner.”
Her father closed the book with a snap. “What does that young jackanapes want with us? Doesn’t he have the sense God gave him? He’s not wanted here.”
“You may not want him, but he wants you. He’s asking to talk to you. He says he has an idea.”
Pete Everett snorted. “I’d be very surprised if that idler’s brain could support one.”
“Dad, you’re being unfair. He was an officer.”
“Exactly. Don’t get me started on officers.”
“They can’t all be alike,” Rachel reasoned. “He’s in the garden. The alley, actually. Should I ask him to come inside?” Truth to tell, Rachel was a little embarrassed about the state of the front room. It still sported a couple of chairs, but her father’s bed and dresser took up most of the space.
“I’m not dressed, damn it. The man wrecked my night and now my day. Can’t a fellow relax in his own home?” her father grumbled. “I’ll see him in the garden in five minutes. You’d best make yourself scarce before there’s any talk.”
Rachel kissed her father’s cheek. “I’ll go to the bakery. Is there anything you’d like?”
“Gingerbread. I haven’t had any since Christmas.”
That would be Rachel’s fault. It was hard to bake regularly and write lesson plans and grade papers at the same time, plus keep the house tidy. And sing in the choir and do the altar flowers and sew her own clothes as well as items for charity in the women’s sewing circle and meet with her book club every week. Rachel was as busy as she could be, to fill up all the empty corners that sometimes bedeviled her. Her friends had left Puddling, her schoolgirl crush had died, and though she loved her father dearly, he didn’t always understand.
She scooped out some coins from a cracked teacup on the kitchen shelf and took off her apron and kerchief. A quick look in the mirror by the door told her she looked as tired as she felt. Her hair had been flattened by the scarf, and her gray work dress did her no favors.
If Wallace Sykes had lived, would she be his wife by now, pampered and cosseted? Highly unlikely. A baronet’s son would have looked higher than an old weaver’s daughter, no matter how much he’d wanted to kiss her behind the dunking booth.
And his father, Sir Bertram Sykes, was barely civil when they spoke after church. He sat on the school committee that threatened to oust her. Accepted as his daughter-in-law? Never. Wallace had been his favorite son, and a young woman of greater consequence would have been necessary for the Sykes line.
Rachel imagined she only had her job because no one else in the village wanted to do it. Puddling was unwilling to advertise the position, since whoever moved here would qualify for the annual compensation. Puddlingites kept to themselves, and kept their pocketbooks closer.
Lord Challoner, brave soul that he was, had let himself into the garden and sat on a weathered bench. Rufus lay at his feet, the man’s walking stick between his jaws.
“Oh, no! Rufus, bad dog!”
Lord Challoner smiled at her. Rachel’s breath caught. He really had a lovely smile, enhanced by a dimple on the left side. “Don’t worry. I have several more. A few chunks out of this one won’t do any harm. Is your father up to seeing me?”
She nodded and sat down beside him. “He’s just making himself presentable.”
“I don’t mean to disturb him. I can come back at another time.”
“No. I think it’s best you get this…over with.” Rachel paused. “You should know, he doesn’t have much respect for people in authority.”
“Is he a revolutionary? Should I be worried about keeping my head from the Puddling guillotine? I warn you, between the low beams at Stonecrop and your drystone walls, it won’t take much for me to lose it.”
Rachel chuckled. “He’s not dangerous, only opinionated.”
“And he doesn’t have a high opinion of me. He made that clear last night.” The light had gone out of Lord Challoner’s blue, blue eyes. Rachel felt her pity for the man return.
“It’s not you in particular. He’s not very fond of generals. Politicians. The rich.”
“Well, I’m none of those things at the moment, certainly not a general. The pater has me on a very short leash here, as I’m sure you all know. My biggest monetary extravagance will be in the bake shop later, and then I’ll be skint. I’ve been absolutely dying for something sweet to eat.”
“I’m going there right now. Can I bring you back something?”
His handsome face flushed. “I cannot take charity from you. It wouldn’t be right.”
“It wouldn’t be charity!” Rachel protested. “Just Puddling hospitality. I’ll fix tea, too.”
“I haven’t had elevenses since I was a boy. Mrs. Grace will accuse me of ruining my appetite for lunch.”
“We won’t tell her.”
He lifted a golden eyebrow. “Come now. She’ll know as soon as I lick the crumbs from my lips. She’s frightening.”
“I’ll make sure you return crumbless. My father has asked for gingerbread. Will that do?”
“It will.” Lord Challoner cleared his throat. “I want to thank you for not calling the authorities on me, Miss Everett.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Oh, surely you know. I haven’t been entirely truthful with you. And I—I’ve taken advantage. Overstepped my bounds. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see you in the garden when I got here so I could apologize.”
“You’ve done nothing to apologize for,” Rachel said. Her lips still felt a bit tingly if she allowed herself to remember yesterday.
“You know I have. But I’m determined to be a better man. Good God, that sounds like a cliché. But I do mean it. And not just because I want to go home.”
Rachel felt her own blushes coming on. “That sounds very admirable, my lord.”
“You’ll help me, won’t you?” he asked, sounding anxious.
“I—I don’t know that I can. It’s not allowed.” He wasn’t supposed to have contact with any young woman in Puddling, not that there were many of them to begin with.
“I’ll speak to Mr. Walker. I’d like to see more of you.” He placed his gloved hand upon hers, and Rachel felt a frisson of…something.
“Oh? Do you, young man? What kind of rigmarole are you babbling about now?”
Her father had come out of the house, and neither of them had noticed. Rachel rose, and after a few awkward seconds, so did Lord Challoner. Rufus was no help; the cane was still firmly in his mouth.
“Sir, this isn’t what it looks like.”
“My eyes still work. In fact, every part of me works. How I’d like to knock you down and teach you a lesson.”
“Dad!” Rachel cried, horrified.
“Don’t you see what he’s doing? Talking you up sweet. Before you know it, his hand will be up your skirt and you’ll be ruined. What will he care? He’ll be gone.”
Rachel felt lightheaded. Her father was never so crude. “You don’t understand—”
“I’ve seen men like him before here. Young and full of themselves. No limits. All the money in the world. Spoiled rotten. He thinks he can get anything he wants. Well, not my daughter. Never. Rachel, go in the house.”
Rachel was in agony. She hated to defy her father. He was usually reasonable. But he was quaking with anger now, standing up to Lord Challoner who had at least half a foot and three stone on him. She had to stop this before he got hurt.
Lord Challoner touched her elbow ever so gently. “It’s all right, Miss Everett. I can take care of myself. Why don’t you go get the gingerbread? I’ll be here when you get back.”
Was he mad? Rachel’s father was about to punch him!
“I don’t think that’s wise,” she whispered.
“I haven’t been wise in years,” he whispered back. “It will be all right. I promise.”
For some reason, she believed him, and closed the gate.
She was just as mad as he.