Page 16 of Miss Dignified
He was also kind, devoted to his cousins, generous with his employees, and hardworking. Few people had Mama’s inherently warm heart or Wesley’s sunny nature. Once Lydia had decided that she could approach Captain Powell, something—a menu, an unexpected caller, a feud between the first footman and the kitchen maid—always intruded.
The captain would tell her whatever he knew, she trusted him that much. Lately, though, Lydia had hesitated to approach her employer about Marcus because she had realized the truth might well be unpleasant.
Truths such as Bowen had implied: that Marcus had been incompetent, that he’d toadied to incompetent superiors, or worse.
Bowen had also referred to desertion, and for the first time, Lydia had to consider that her brother might be living quietly in France, or somewhere on the Continent. Marcus might have done the unthinkable and walked away from his duty as an officer. His decision to buy his colors had been precipitous. Perhaps he’d made an equally precipitous decision to desert.
Surely he would have had good, moral reasons for such a course. Nonetheless, a man in disgrace would not want his sister revealing his location.
Lydia would have to tread carefully, then, when she made her queries of Captain Powell, more carefully than usual. She was mentally rehearsing various possible approaches to the discussion when she heard a soft tread in the darkened hallway beyond her door.
Dylan ought to have found some bread and cheese, poured himself a glass of cider, and taken his snack up to bed with him. Hours of walking had left him famished. Nonetheless, if he brought his tray to his bedroom, he’d probably fall asleep before touching his food.
The sisters would scold him for being too skinny, and they’d be right. Mrs. Lovelace did not scold him for that particular failing. He hung up his cloak and hat and set aside his walking stick. A light coming from the housekeeper’s sitting room door suggested she was still awake.
Dylan had every intention of walking past her door, leaving her to her embroidery or correspondence, but for reasons unbeknownst to him, he instead rapped lightly on her doorjamb.
“Might I come in?” he asked. Mrs. Lovelace wore no cap, and as always, the sight of her hair, all ruby highlights and soft wisps, caught him by surprise.
“Of course, Captain. Have a seat.”
The second wing chair in the room was occupied by one of the feline intruders. Dylan scooped the beast up, got an owlish perusal for his trouble, and sat. The cushion had been warmed by the cat, a profoundly agreeable sensation when the small of Dylan’s back was aching.
“How is Bowen settling in?” Having nowhere else to put the cat, Dylan allowed her to curl up in his lap. A slight vibration commenced.
“Have an apple tart.” Mrs. Lovelace slid a plate closer to Dylan’s side of the small table. Two fat strips of cheddar lay alongside a flaky tart redolent of cinnamon. “You should have something to drink with that.”
“You need not—”
She was already out the door.
“Managing woman.” Dylan bit into the cheddar and tried feeding a cheese crumb to the kitten, who deigned to partake, then resumed vibrating.
Mrs. Lovelace came back with two glasses of cider. “I am trying to put some weight on Mr. Brook, but he apparently has the appetite of a bird. I will have to consult with the neighborhood cooks for dishes commonly served in Wales.”
“He’s not Welsh.” Not quite, but he was certainly fluent in the language.
She passed Dylan a glass and resumed her seat. “His mother was. He speaks of her fondly. No luck finding William?”
Dylan did not want to revisit the night’s failures. “None yet. Bowen likely eats sparingly so he doesn’t put any extra weight on what remains of his right foot. That he did not lose the leg is nothing short of a miracle.”
“You knew him at the time?”
What did this old business have to do with—? The kitten nudged forcefully at his hand. Dylan obliged with another tiny crumb of cheese.
“I was present for the operation.” Somebody, usually several somebodies, had to keep the patient still. “Some French émigré, a volunteer physician who’d been through a medical education in Edinburgh, was on hand as well. The Frenchman shouted down the English doctors who were ready to… This is not a happy topic. Bowen can walk, he appears whole when shod, and the situation could have ended much differently.”
Mrs. Lovelace took a sip of her cider. “Do you have good memories too?”
Dylan never spoke of his military years, not even with his cousins if he could help it, nor were they inclined to talk of the past.
“I recall very fondly the day when my papa put me on my first pony. I was the King of Wales that summer, also a Viking chief, a Highland laird, a Canadian explorer… No boy ever had more adventures beneath a groom’s watchful eye.”
“I notice you did not aspire to emulate any English heroes. You have no brothers?”
“None, but I have cousins whom you’ve met. Goddard and MacKay twice spent summers in Wales, and other years, I spent holidays with them. I was always exhausted by the time my mother retrieved me from Scotland… The summer sun sets only briefly up north, and we cousins were intent on our mischief every hour of the day.”
His cousins and their wives liked Mrs. Lovelace, which mattered to Dylan. He wasn’t sure why it mattered, but it did.
