He sat on the wall at the edge of the courtyard in the rain and watched her snap each bottle on the rock and pour its contents into the well.
“That one smelled horrid.” She wrinkled up her nose.
“It did not.”
“You cannot smell them from all the way over there.”
“Care to wager on that?”
“I suppose not.” She shook another bottle dry then threw it down the well shaft. “We shall have to compensate these poor people for the ruination of their cellar.”
“Indeed.”
Rain pattered softly now on the glistening gray stone of the well and the grass between them, the dusk advancing into night.
“You can go inside, you know. I can finish here quite well on my own.”
“I do not wish to go inside.”
She sighed. “You do not wish to leave sight of all these bottles of wine, I suppose.”
“I do not wish to leave sight of a pretty girl.”
Her pulse did a little uncomfortable leap, which was silly, because although she had thrown off her spots and fat she was by no means pretty. But he was possibly a little delirious.
“If you can smell the wine from such a distance,” she said, willing away her swift heartbeats, “what else can you smell?”
“You.”
Another leap, quite a bit more forceful. “R-Really? What do I smell like?”
“Fresh air.”
If he’d said something silly, like roses, she would have known he was flattering emptily. Instead, warmth invaded her in crucial places that she couldn’t like. He made her feel hot and off kilter, but she could do nothing to satisfy that feeling, so she wished he wouldn’t.
“You are being metaphorical, aren’t you?”
“No. You actually smell like fresh air.”
His words pleased her far too much. Perhaps Mrs. Polley was right and he was the devil sent to frustrate her.
The remainder of the wine flowed down the well. She shook out her weary hands and wrists and followed him into the house.
“I am exhausted.”
“I am rather exhausted myself, and I only watched.” He drew the thick bolt on the front door and it thunked into place.
“How do you feel?”
“Do not ask me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because, contrary to expectations, I don’t care for you in the role of nursemaid. To me.”
Expectations? “Why not?”
He looked down at her and his eyes seemed for a moment at peace, gently silver in the candlelight. “You ask too many questions, minx.”
“I like it when you call me minx. No one ever has, you know.”
“I confess myself somewhat shocked.”
“I am not yet out in society and there is no one around Glenhaven Hall or the Park that would call me such a thing. Except you. But you have so rarely visited.” She thought then an astounding thing, that perhaps she had not been entirely honest with herself about her memories of him, that perhaps she had remembered her brief encounters with him too well. “Will you turn in now?” she managed over the sudden hammering of her heart. “You do look tired.”
“I am, rather.” He bowed. “Good night, minx.” He turned and made his way up the stairs.
Diantha went to the kitchen still warm from the fire and draped Mrs. Polley with a blanket. Then she climbed the stairs and found the bed in which she and her companion had slept the night before, the linens still musty but dry. Curling up beneath wool blankets that smelled of camphor balls, she lay there with her uncomfortable thoughts and worried about him.
As day broke she woke with renewed courage and confidence. Sleep healed all ills, and she had thrown off her silly notions. Young girls would have foolish tendres for elegant gentlemen and she could not chastise herself for having had one herself, especially since he’d been so gallant that time. Today they would again set off on their journey and once they found her mother he would go his own way and she would no longer constantly think about him.
Snatching a piece of bread from the kitchen, with a light step she returned to the foyer. He stood at the base of the stair, hollow-eyed and gaunt-cheeked.
“Miss Lucas, if you would be so kind, I require your assistance.”
“To stand?”
He seemed to attempt a smile. “To drive me on a short errand.”
“An errand?” She felt wholly incapable of forming longer sentences. He had not recovered overnight. Her heart felt atrociously tight.
“Owen informs me that there is a village nearby, including a shop at which I might purchase several items of which I am in need. I fear that I am not up to my best this morning. I would appreciate your help.”
She swallowed back her distress and the intense desire to throw her arms about him. “You have it, of course.”
He gestured toward the door, his other hand clutching the knob at the bottom of the stair rail so that the knuckles were white. “After you, madam.”
“But there is no carriage.”
“The carriage house boasts a modest gig.”
“There is no carriage horse.”
“Galahad will suffer it. He has before.”
“He has?” She went at his side across the yard toward the stable.
“On occasion. Will you mind it?”
“Of course not. But why didn’t you send Owen?”
“He is sleeping, as well he should be. He has worked hard and deserves rest.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
The gig was modest indeed; upon the box, they sat touching from shoulder to thigh. She could contrive no suitable conversation; the pleasure of this connection was too sharp.
The village was not far along the narrow road that ran beside the stream, tucked into a crevice of the valley. It wasn’t much of a village, in truth, only a handful of buildings and a squat stone church that in comparison to the abbey seemed negligible.
He seemed to know precisely where to go, pointing her to a cottage with a trellis festooned with vines that glistened with rain. He descended from the carriage and offered his hand.
She took it, which was strong but not steady. “I should probably be assisting you down.”
“As you are the one wearing skirts this arrangement must suffice.”
She squeezed her fingers into his. “You will tell me if I can help you, won’t you?”
“You are helping me now.”
Two men emerged from the next building and peered at them quite blatantly. Mr. Yale drew her hand onto his arm and nodded to them.
“Good day, sir,” one said with a narrowed eye, but he bowed. He was an older man, gruff of face and whisker and neatly dressed like any man of Glen Village back in Devon might be. Her escort nodded then opened the door accompanied by a jingle of bells.
Within, all was fragrant of roses, rosemary, and sage. Little brown bottles lined shelves, candles of many hues were stacked in piles about the place, and jars stuffed with dried herbs and prettily colored dried flowers. A woman with a mass of gray hair snaking around her head topped with an enormous cap stood from a rocking chair in the corner and came forward.
“Well well, sir. A good day to you!” She curtsied. “And to you, miss.” But she did not take her eyes off Mr. Yale, for which Diantha couldn’t fault her. “What brings a lady and a gentleman such as yourselves to my shop today, I wonder?” Then she did look at Diantha, an up and down assessing regard. But it had nothing of scorn in it, only curiosity.
“Good day, ma’am.” Mr. Yale produced a folded paper from his waistcoat pocket. “Will you be so kind as to supply me with these items if you possess them?”
She stared at him while she unfolded the paper, then glanced down. Her brow furrowed.
“St. John’s Wort . . . Milk Thistle . . . Powder of Cayenne . . . Laud—” Her eyes snapped up, this time assessing him it seemed. “You are in luck, sir. These I have, and a few other items you might like.”