Page 4 of Miss Dignified
“His lordship is from my home shire. We attended the same congregation for years.” Lydia’s answer, while true, was not honest. She implied that her curiosity was of the small-talk variety, not that she was waiting desperately for Marcus to come home.
And had been waiting for years.
The distinctive tread of Captain Powell’s boots on the stairs had Brook trying to stand.
“At ease,” Powell snapped. “Bad enough you’re bleeding on Mrs. Lovelace’s linen. Bleed on her kitchen floor, and you will be drummed out of the regiment. How bad is the damage, madam?”
“Mr. Brook has a prodigious shiner, a split lip, and a messy gash. The rest appears to be mostly bruises, but I have not examined the patient thoroughly.” Nor would she. Lydia was adept at dealing with cuts and scrapes, putrid sore throats, and bee-stings. She had no experience with more serious afflictions.
The captain set the brandy, medicinal box, and clothing on the table. “Take a careful, deep breath, Brook.”
Brook complied. “Ribs feel fine, Captain. Got a few hard kicks to my shins once I lost my footing, but they weren’t out to kill me.”
“They meant to hurt you,” Captain Powell said. “To let the whole world know that a former soldier down on his luck took a serious beating for the entertainment of the very people you risked your life to protect.” He poured brandy into the empty tea cup. “Drink it all.”
Brook looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in ages. His cheeks were gaunt. His clothing hadn’t been washed in living memory and might not survive the ordeal. Down on his luck was a vast understatement.
Brook sampled the brandy, though his hand still shook slightly. “You got hold of some fine rations, Captain.”
“Colonel Goddard has vineyards in France. He looks after my cellar. Drink, lad. Mrs. Lovelace and I aren’t finished with you.”
Colonel Goddard was a cousin to the captain. A quiet, decent sort who’d recently married a fancy cook. Another cousin—Alasdhair MacKay—had married a parson’s daughter, and Captain Powell seemed genuinely happy for all concerned, or as happy as Dylan Powell ever was about anything.
Brook finished the rest of the brandy at one go.
Lydia took the glass from him. “If you plan to inebriate the poor man, he should eat something. His jaw might well be too tender for anything more than porridge by morning.”
“Captain is steadyin’ my nerves, missus,” Brook said, “and I never had nothin’ against a bowl of porridge.”
Captain Powell dribbled some of the brandy onto a clean rag. “This will sting, but please recall you are in the presence of a lady.” Without further ado, he laid the brandy-soaked linen against Brook’s forehead.
“Piss and perdition, Captain.”
Lydia had heard far worse, and she tried not to smile. Powell removed the cloth and blew on the wound. “Lip next.”
Lydia collected the uneaten food from the table while Captain Powell, with all the patience of a devoted nanny, saw to Brook’s various cuts and scrapes. Even the man’s knuckles did not escape the captain’s notice.
“Mrs. Lovelace,” he said, corking the brandy bottle, “perhaps you could make up an extra cot in the footmen’s dormitory while I get Brook into dry clothes?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll start the fire in the laundry so Mr. Brook can have a hot bath in the morning.”
“I’ll see to the laundry. Just make up a bed, and don’t skimp on the extra blankets.”
Lydia made her way through the house that had become her temporary home. From one perspective, the captain was an easy man to work for. His demands were few—hot meals, clean sheets, an honest day’s work for generous pay. He informed Lydia of his schedule, invariably approved of her menus, and never entertained.
As gentlemen bachelors went, he was a stranger to vice. From what Lydia had observed, he had no mistress and did not frequent the common nuisances tucked among the clubs of St. James’s. He socialized little, mostly with his cousins, though he wasn’t reclusive.
In appearance, Captain Powell was several marks short of dashing, being leaner than a properly muscled Corinthian, without clever repartee, and indifferent to fashion. He had nothing of the blond Adonis about him, but rather, was dark-haired, above average height, and blue-eyed. His complexion was weathered, and though his manners were above reproach, he was not a friendly man.
Any passion Dylan Powell had was directed toward looking after former soldiers in need of assistance, managing his family’s holdings, and providing for various cousins, aunties, and siblings. Even in those undertakings, his demeanor remained detached, polite, and dutiful.
Lydia stacked two mattresses on one cot, tucked clean sheets around both, and laid not two but four blankets over the whole. She similarly doubled the pillows on the cot and made sure the pitcher on the bedside table was half full of water.
Simple comforts, but they would strike Mr. Brook as luxuries.
When she returned to the kitchen, Mr. Brook was wearing clean clothes, his wounds had been tended, and he was eating what appeared to be the leftover third of the omelet Lydia had made earlier.
“No loose teeth?” she asked.
