Well, this was a fine kettle of fish. The stupid Puddling people had no place to put her. The other two Foundation cottages had Guests—an elderly gentleman who liked to remove his trousers at inconvenient times in inappropriate places, and the widow of an earl who had just come to get away from it all and think. She’d actually signed herself in to the Puddling Program—there were no disapproving family members who wanted to get rid of her.
Sadie thought the world was full of places she’d much rather think in, but to each his own. She imagined the widow was trying to escape from something, and Sadie could sympathize.
To make matters worse, trying to save Mrs. Grace’s life—although Mr. Sykes had officially done so—had apparently earned Sadie credit toward her Service and she might actually be released ahead of schedule. Each Puddling Guest was required to do something for the community or the wider world before they left, and Sadie had ensured that other Guests would be under Mrs. Grace’s gimlet eye in the future.
Lucky them.
Right now, however, the woman was recuperating at home, her burned hands bandaged. She would not be cooking anything disgusting for anyone for a while.
Stonecrop Cottage was not a total loss, but the kitchen would have to be rebuilt, and new fittings and fixtures installed throughout the house. The smoke and water had damaged even the bedrooms upstairs, and every item Sadie had brought with her was ruined.
Which left her in her tartan trousers and dirty white blouse.
She held a cup of tea in the vicarage sitting room. Mrs. Fitzmartin smiled vaguely at her, her teeth on the yellow side. But they were all there, no mean feat for anyone so elderly. The rumbling of voices came from Mr. Fitzmartin’s study, where the seven Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation governors were trying to figure out what to do with the Duke of Islesford’s daughter.
It must be awfully crowded in there.
“A biscuit, Lady Sarah? I made them myself.” Mrs. Fitzmartin passed a shaking plate. The woman was ancient and wrinkled and sweet, the perfect clergyman’s wife. She had gone out of her way to be hospitable to Sadie, giving her one of the few warm welcomes she’d received in Puddling. Everyone else just looked at her as if they feared she was about to punch them.
Her reputation had clearly preceded her.
Sadie took one and bit into it. Oh dear. Perfection didn’t extend into the kitchen. Salt for the sugar? Very likely. Perhaps Sadie could give Mrs. Fitzmartin a foolproof biscuit recipe before she left. She was quite proud of her cooking, which was why Mrs. Grace’s meals were such a disappointment.
“How long have you and Mr. Fitzmartin been married?” Sadie asked, after discreetly spitting the salty mouthful into her napkin.
“Fifty-eight years.”
“Golly. That’s a long time.” Sadie couldn’t imagine being married for fifty-eight minutes.
“It is. But we’ve been very happy. Virgil has been a good husband. He had retired, you know, but then this opportunity to serve Puddling came up. The village is lovely, isn’t it?”
Sadie supposed it was. Charming gold-gray Cotswold stone cottages lined the narrow streets. The five narrow streets. One couldn’t get lost here easily. The green hills in the distance were dotted with sheep and oozed tranquility.
Maybe the earl’s widow had the right of it. It was a pretty place to get away from it all.
“The current church dates to the fourteenth century, you know. There is speculation it was built on a Norman foundation. That villain Cromwell did his best, but the tower still stands. Have you seen the cannon damage on the north side?”
Sadie had not looked up that high. It was tricky to maneuver in Puddling, the uneven surfaces a challenge for the most intrepid walker.
“I’m afraid I haven’t. Do you fancy yourself an amateur historian, Mrs. Fitzmartin?”
“Churches are of special interest to me, naturally. But Anne Boleyn stayed near here on her ill-fated honeymoon. . . .”
Mrs. Fitzmartin continued, and Sadie lent half an ear. Men didn’t behead their wives anymore, but there were other ways to show their displeasure and deprive women of autonomy. Husbands, fathers—what really was the difference?
“Absolutely not!”
The bellow came from the study, causing Mrs. Fitzmartin to interrupt her local points of interest lecture.
“Another biscuit?” she asked gamely, as if there weren’t shouting coming from the next room.
“No thank you.” Sadie set her teacup down.
What if they decided to reward her heroism by sending her home?
That wouldn’t do at all.
There was nothing for it. She slid to the floor and began to twitch and moan, being careful not to kick over the tea table. Sadie sincerely hoped Mrs. Fitzmartin would not follow suit.
“Virgil!” the woman shrieked. “Dr. Oakley!”
The thunder of footsteps alerted Sadie that it was show time.
“The smoke! The smoke! I cannot see!”
“You would if you opened your eyes, Lady Sarah.”
Smug bastard. Even with her eyes closed, she knew who spoke.
“What is wrong with her?” a female voice asked.
“An excellent question, Miss Churchill. I would say nothing.”
Damn that Mr. Sykes. He was all too perspicacious.
“Sometimes individuals react to trauma after the fact. She has lost everything to the smoke and water damage, all her little bits and bobs, you know. Step aside, please.” Sadie could hear Dr. Oakley kneel down next to her, his joints creaking. His warm hand rested on her forehead. “No fever. Lady Sarah, can you hear me?”
“Throw some water on her.” Mr. Sykes again.
Ooh, if she ever got the opportunity, she’d throw some water on him.
“My puppy. Where is my puppy? We must save little Lancelot.” Sadie was tired, and somewhat desperate. It was the best she could do.
“Lady Sarah, wake up. You are in Puddling, and you have been very brave.”
Dr. Oakley was so nice. She hadn’t really seen all that much of him this past month, being perfectly healthy, but wouldn’t mind having her forehead rubbed with such tenderness a while longer.
Since her mother died, tenderness had been in short supply at Marchmain Castle.
She fluttered her lashes. “Who are you? Who am I?”
Mr. Sykes bent over her, his eyebrows ferocious. “All right, all right, I’ll do it. Anyone who would act in this nonsensical fashion must be disturbed. I warn you, Lady Sarah, I will not be taken in by you and your antics. For the next three weeks, you shall behave yourself, avail yourself of counseling and accept your fate. Then go home. And don’t ask who I am, because you damn well know.”
“You’ll do what?” Sadie asked, not caring for his tone.
Dr. Oakley patted her hand. “The governors have decided the best place for you is Sykes House. There really is no other suitable accommodation at the moment. And there is precedent here for using the property as a respite for our Guests. I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable.”
Sadie sat up and grabbed Dr. Oakley’s soothing hand. “What? I can’t live with him! It’s—it’s not proper! He is a man!” And a disagreeable one at that.
“How astute you are, Lady Sarah. I don’t live in the house itself, but my father’s staff will be at your disposal. Reverend Fitzmartin will be welcome to give you your daily instruction—I can send a carriage for him. But I warn you, I will not extend my family’s hospitality beyond this next month, whether you are fit to rejoin society or not. I have my limits.” He glared at her, then turned to glare at the other governors.
“I won’t do it!” Sadie said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then I assume you’ll want to return to your father’s house.”
“No! I mean, I’m not ready!”
And then Sadie did something most uncharacteristic. She broke into genuine tears, sobbing quietly onto her plaid-clad lap. There were no wolflike wails or arm-flailing, just honest dismay to find herself in such a predicament.
She never cried. It wasn’t worthwhile. Now to fight—to yell and shout—that was the way to express emotion. What was more pointless than a woman’s tears? She took a shuddering breath.
Miss Churchill patted her head. “It will be all right. We haven’t lost a Guest yet. I’m sure with a little more time, you’ll know your duty.”
Duty! Duty was for soldiers and mothers and prime ministers. She certainly owed no allegiance to her father, who had only realized her usefulness when he was strapped for cash.
Mr. Sykes tugged her elbow. “Come on. Up and at ’em. Miss Churchill, could you see about acquiring some proper clothing for our Guest? She cannot go about Puddling looking like that.”
Not to mention that Sadie didn’t have a fresh pair of knickers left. Or a hairbrush.
“Can’t I go shopping?”
“Not allowed, and anyway you have no money.” Mr. Sykes seemed to take extraordinary pleasure in that.
“But surely, this is an emergency. I realize I’m supposed to remain in Puddling for the foreseeable future, but there is no dressmaker’s shop here.”
“We’ll contrive something, don’t you worry, my dear.”
Sadie looked at Miss Churchill, whom no one could admire for her fashion sense. The woman looked like a Quaker, all in gray with a very depressing bonnet on her white curls.
“I—I can sew, if I have suitable fabric,” Sadie offered. So what if she’d never made an entire dress—she’d been resourceful all her life. She’d tailored these trousers, hadn’t she? If she wound up resembling Miss Churchill during her stay here, she really would go mad.