Chapter Six

The farmer took them home with him, where his wife fussed over them and bore Miss Culpepper off to the inner reaches of the farmhouse. When they returned, Miss Culpepper was wearing one of the farmer’s wife’s dresses. It wasn’t just two sizes too large for her, it was ten sizes too large. Miss Culpepper looked as if she was wearing a tent.

But at least it was a dry tent.

The farmer loaned Mayhew a shirt and breeches, and they were tent-like on him, too, and they sat in the kitchen and drank cowslip wine while their clothes dried by the fire.

They stayed for three hours. Mrs. Penny, the farmer’s wife, fed them bread and butter and the last of a knuckle of ham, and apologized that she had nothing better to give them. Mayhew told her of the time the commissariat’s wagons had taken the wrong route and he’d had to eat acorns for his dinner, which made Mrs. Penny cluck with dismay. She stopped apologizing for the plainness of her fare, but she pressed bread and butter and ham on them until Mayhew feared that he would burst.

He could have stayed in that warm, cozy kitchen forever, seated at the table alongside Miss Culpepper, eating bread and butter and sipping cowslip wine, while Mr. Penny chewed on his pipe and Mrs. Penny bustled to and fro.

He watched Scout explore the kitchen, watched Bellyrub curl up and fall asleep on Mr. Penny’s lap, watched Mrs. Penny knead dough and chop vegetables, but mostly he watched Miss Culpepper. He watched her eat, he watched her smile, he watched her enjoy being in this rustic kitchen, he watched her simply be happy.

She was good at being happy, Mayhew thought. Good at taking things in her stride. Today she’d missed a stagecoach, become separated from her luggage, traveled with pigs, fallen over in a muddy turnip field and again in a ford, and now she was wearing a coarse, country dress that didn’t fit her—and she was happy.

Most young ladies would have had the vapors given any one of those events, let alone all of them, but Miss Culpepper hadn’t. She hadn’t even complained. Not once. Instead, she’d laughed.

Right now she was chuckling as Mrs. Penny described the time her children—three daughters—had decided to wash the hens. “A bigger mess you never did see. Feathers everywhere. Wet as fish, they all was. Wet as fish.”

Mayhew watched the dimples come and go in Miss Culpepper’s cheeks. He watched her sip cowslip wine and nibble bread-and-butter. She was enchanting. Utterly enchanting. The most enchanting female he’d ever met, and even though she was a colonel’s daughter and he was merely a lieutenant, a tiny seed of hope flowered in his breast.

The Pennys had a nephew in the 2nd Regiment of Foot, and they asked about the Peninsula campaign. Mayhew told them stories of Spain and Portugal and France, and then he said, “But Miss Culpepper’s been further afield than I have. Tell us about South America, Miss Culpepper.”

She did. And then she told them about Constantinople and Russia, about chandeliers dripping with diamonds and plates made from gold, and she told them about dining with the tsar and dancing with princes.

The Pennys listened, openmouthed. Mr. Penny forgot to chew on the stem of his pipe. Mrs. Penny forgot to knead her dough.

Mayhew listened, too, and quietly let go of the hope that had flowered in his breast. To think that a colonel’s daughter would marry a lowly lieutenant was foolish. To think that a diplomat’s daughter who’d danced with princes and supped with the tsar might marry a lowly lieutenant wasn’t merely foolish; it was laughable.

“Lordee,” Mrs. Penny said, when Miss Culpepper had finished. “I’m quite betwattled! To think that you’re sittin’ at me own table, and you’ve dined with royalty.

“Your cowslip wine is better than anything I had in Russia,” Miss Culpepper assured her.

Mrs. Penny went pink with pleasure.

“Do you miss diplomatic life?” Mayhew asked, even though he already knew the answer. Of course she missed it. She missed it so much that she was taking steps to return to it. As companion to Sir Walter’s daughters, she would move in diplomatic circles again. She’d rub shoulders with attachés and ambassadors, and before very long a diplomat destined for a lifetime of dining off golden plates would snap her up.

“No.” Miss Culpepper shook her head, a decisive movement that set her ringlets dancing. “It’s army life that I miss.”

“It is?” Mayhew said doubtfully.

She nodded.

“Why?”

Miss Culpepper frowned and gave the matter some thought, and even frowning she was enchanting. “Life is plainer in the army. Simpler. More real.”

“More uncomfortable,” Mayhew pointed out.

Laughter flashed across her face. “A great deal more uncomfortable!” The amusement faded, and Miss Culpepper’s expression became serious. She looked down at the scrubbed wooden tabletop and circled a knot with one fingertip. “I know this will sound silly, but . . . I think I like to be a little bit uncomfortable. If one is forever wrapped up in luxury, one forgets to appreciate things like being warm and dry and fed. You never forget to do that when you’re following the drum. When you have food, you’re happy for it. When you have a dry bed, you’re happy for it. When you don’t have lice or fleas or saddle sores, you’re happy for it.” She rubbed her fingertip back and forth, tracing the grain of the wood. “Army life is frequently dirty and disagreeable, and sometimes it’s terrifying and sometimes it’s heartbreaking, and I know it’s not sensible of me to miss it, but I do. It made me feel alive, and not only that, it made me feel glad to be alive.”

There was a long moment of silence while they all digested her words. Mayhew heard the fire mumbling in the kitchen hearth. He heard Mr. Bellyrub purring. He heard a rooster crowing outside in the yard. And while he heard those things, hope began to cautiously flower in his breast again.

Miss Culpepper liked army life.

Mr. Penny removed his pipe from his mouth. “Ye’ve a soldier’s heart, lass.”

“I do,” Miss Culpepper said, with a rueful laugh. “But alas, I can’t be a soldier.”

You could be a soldier’s wife, Mayhew thought.

He glanced at his pocket watch, which had fortunately survived his impromptu dip, and saw, with a sense of shock, that it would be dark in two hours.

He tilted the watch toward Miss Culpepper, letting her see the time.

Her lips tucked in at the corners, a tiny, regretful movement, and he realized that she wanted to remain in this cozy kitchen as much as he did.

“We must be going,” Mayhew told the Pennys. “Miss Culpepper needs to be in Twyford by nightfall.”

All became hustle and bustle. Miss Culpepper gathered up her clothing and retired to dress. Mayhew gathered up his clothing and retired to dress. His shirt was dry, his rifleman’s pantaloons merely damp. His jacket was rather more damp, as were his boots, but Mayhew was used to wet jackets and wet boots.

When he returned to the kitchen, the kittens were already in their basket. “I took them outside,” Miss Culpepper told him cheerfully. “They both did their business, and Mrs. Penny has put butter on their paws, so they’re perfectly content.”

“Thank you,” Mayhew said. He went out into the yard and discovered that the sky was dark with clouds. He also discovered that Mr. Penny had harnessed his cob to the gig again. “I’ll take ye to the Morestead bridge,” the farmer said. “It’s but a mile to Twyford from there.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Mayhew said, with another glance at those threatening clouds. He reached into his pocket and fished out a shilling.

“Put that bob away, young feller,” Mr. Penny said. “No need to pay me. I’d take ye all the way to Twyford if I could, but ol’ Dobbin here won’t cross the Morestead bridge.” He clapped the cob on the shoulder. “Took a fright there ten year ago and ain’t crossed it since.”

Mayhew laughed, and put the shilling back in his pocket. He heard footsteps behind him and turned. It was Miss Culpepper. “Mr. Penny has offered to drive us to Morestead,” he told her. “From there, it’s only a mile to Twyford.”