Page 10 of Grasp the Thorn
“Which was your bedchamber when you were here, Miss Neatham?” Mr Gavenor asked, once he had cleared his bowl. Rosa looked up, startled by the broken silence.
“I will take your trunk up and make up the bed. You sit here and keep your ankle up.”
He had brought her trunk?
“The back room on the left, overlooking the vegetable garden,” she said. “I do not know what to say. ‘Thank you’ seems so inadequate.”
Mr Gavenor shrugged off her gratitude. “My fault you fell. My responsibility to make sure you and your father are cared for.”
He took her bowl into the scullery then returned to give her orders, emphasizing his points with his fingers. “No moving. No putting more stress on that ankle. Do not even think about doing the dishes. I want you well and gone as soon as may be, Miss Neatham. How is your head feeling?”
“The willow bark tea helped,” she prevaricated. Sore, and I will be glad to be in bed.
“Another cup before bed,” he suggested. “I will put the kettle on before I go upstairs.”
He suited action to words, then left her alone in the kitchen with her thoughts and a final warning about staying in one place and not moving her ankle.
Gruff, but kind.
CHAPTER 7
The storm returned in the night, and they woke to persistent rain.
Bear carried Miss Neatham downstairs and set her up in the parlour with a book to read and strict instructions not to move. She proceeded to fret herself to flinders, though she tried not to show it. Each time he went in to ask her where to find something, or to bring her something to eat or drink, or just to check that she was following instructions, he could read the anxiety about her father on her open face.
He’d seen her bite back words all morning. “When will you go to the village?” she did not say, but the question was written clearly for Bear to see—a supposition she confirmed with her deep sigh of relief when he said, “The rain looks as if it is clearing. I’ll go down to the village now, Miss Neatham. I have a few things to buy, and I will check on your father.”
It felt good to stretch his legs. He’d chosen the bed chamber with the largest bed, but even that wasn’t big enough for a man of his frame. Still, he’d slept in worse. If it was too narrow and too short, the mattress was comfortable, and the linen clean, if much mended.
Evidence of the night’s storm met his eyes all along the road, in deeper puddles and streams, downed tree branches, and flattened crops. He’d be wise to plan for more rain to come, and should buy what they needed while he could.
Miss Neatham had clearly been a provident housekeeper, for the house was fully stocked with all the staples, but they could do with the milk she had mentioned last night and some fresh bread. He’d buy more meat, too. He could not help but draw the conclusion that her financial situation took a dire turn for the worse thanks to Pelman’s intervention on his behalf.
He would have to see how the situation could be corrected. Also, he needed to find out if Mrs Able was available for another week or so. Otherwise, Miss Neatham would go home to that horrid little hovel and put her ankle at risk by looking after the old man herself.
Probably best to check on the old man first. In the village’s main street, straw had been laid on the worst mud patches, but the steep alley to Miss Neatham’s abode was scoured into treacherous ruts, so he kept to the sides where a few inches of relatively dry ground gave his boots better purchase.
The quavering voice of the old man raised in a shriek distracted him from his focus on his footing. “Help! Murder! Help!” Neatham shouted.
Probably nothing, Bear concluded as he hastened his steps, leaping the puddles on his way to the door. When he burst in the door, not bothering to knock, he heard the sound of a slap, and Miss Pelman’s voice hissing, “Keep your mouth shut, you filthy old man, or you’ll get another one.”
Bear slowed so he could ghost up the stairs, setting each foot down gently but with all haste until he stood in the shadows of the hall, peering into the room where Miss Pelman bent threateningly over the bed where Neatham cowered. The stink of bodily wastes filled the room, and Bear’s heart turned over with pity.
In the corner, Mrs Able snored, an empty gin bottle lying on its side by her feet. The fire he’d lit the night before was nothing but embers, but the room was warm enough.
“I won’t be cleaning you up, and don’t you think it,” Miss Pelman told him. “Even that fool Gavenor wouldn’t expect it of me. Now eat this breakfast so I can tell him I’ve looked after you.”
“I want my Rosie,” Neatham whimpered.
“Your Rosie is dead, and a good thing too,” Miss Pelman told him. “She was a whore like her sister, and so is her daughter. Hah! Try to hit me, would you? Take that!”
Before she could return Neatham’s ineffectual swing with a blow of her own, Bear moved swiftly into the room and grabbed her raised hand.
“No, Miss Pelman,” he said.
She turned, twisting under his restraining hand, perhaps more quickly than she intended because her face was still contorted in rage before she consciously smoothed it into a polite smile. “Why, Mr Gavenor. I did not expect you. Have you walked all the way here again? How conscientious you are. I do admire a responsible man.” The simper she tried looked utterly out of place on her face.
“Miss Pelman, I suggest you leave.” He managed to hold on to his temper, but only just.
