Page 17 of Grasp the Thorn
He sat cradling his brandy glass, sipping occasionally, and running ideas through his mind as he thought about the future.
Jeffreys turned up the next day. Bear was at Thorne Hall again, continuing his careful documentation of his new assets and liabilities.
“Mr Gavenor, sir,” his manservant greeted him. “The lady at the cottage said I would find you here.”
“Jeffreys! Good to see you, man. I didn’t expect you until they bridged the river again.”
Jeffreys explained that he had travelled through Cheshire and along the Wirral Peninsula’s south coast, rather than crossing into Lancashire and taking the ferry across the Mersey from Liverpool, as Bear had.
“Shorter, and it suited the horses, sir. Miss Neatham said I won’t find stabling fit for them here, but that the farmer just back along the road might board them for us. A five-minute walk, that’d be, sir, so no problem. Oh. And she said that she would have a meal on the table at noon, should you wish for one. Not to worry if you preferred to work on, for she could send some bread and cheese now she had someone to send. That would be me, once I have placed the horses.”
Jeffreys gave Bear a half salute and turned to go, but Bear put his writing materials and measures into his satchel and said, “I’ll walk back with you now, Jeffreys.”
They made their way through the overgrown park toward Rose Cottage.
“So, you didn’t go through the village?” Bear asked. “Good. I have a slightly odd request, which concerns the honour of the lady. She hurt her ankle, you see, and was unable to return to the village. Although I fetched her father, the village might not think him an adequate chaperon since he is— since his mind is failing. Especially if they know the three of us have been alone in the house.”
“I see, sir,” Jeffreys replied with a quick sideways glance. “I take it I arrived not long after you, then, and have been here all along.”
Bear nodded. “Good man, Jeffreys. Though the farmer will know.”
“The horses were turned out in the garden,” Jeffreys ventured. “No good for long term, but enough for a few nights, with that old shed for cover for their feed and shelter in the worst of the storm.”
“Good enough.” Yes, that would do. It would not still all the gossip, but it would help. His other idea might serve for the rest. He would need to think about it a bit more and talk to Miss Neatham.
“Not that I will explain unless I am asked,” Jeffreys added.
“I leave it in your capable hands.”
Rosa was ejected from the kitchen after lunch. Mr Gavenor’s man, Jeffreys, insisted that he would do the dishes. Very well, then, she would take advantage of the fine weather and her increasing mobility to hobble down the path and see how her hens fared. Mr Gavenor had reported that the bantam’s chicks had hatched but was unable to answer her questions about their colours or even their number.
She opened the wicker door to let them scratch in the garden, and was seated on an upturned bucket, one warm chick cupped in her hand, counting the others and laughing at their antics, when Mr Gavenor joined her.
“Miss Neatham. I thought to redeem myself by examining these wee bits of fluff more closely, and here you are before me.”
“We have seven,” Rosa told him proudly, offering him the one she held. “Which, from nine eggs, is a good result, I assure you. More, and the bantam would have trouble covering them while they are still young and vulnerable. The eggs were from the larger hens, you see, so the chicks will outgrow their mother quite quickly. Now, we just need to wait to see how many are hens and how many cocks. I get a good price for my hens.” She faltered. “Or you will, now.”
Mr Gavenor pursed his lips in a quick grimace. “As to that, Miss Neatham, the hens are yours, and you must do with them as you will.” He scratched the little chick on its throat and breast with one gentle finger, causing it to stretch its neck ecstatically. She waited for whatever else he had to say.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Rosa froze. She had not expected that. He had always treated her with such courtesy and respect. Disappointment in him warred with relief that she had a way out of the trap Pelman was weaving around her, and a certain anticipation. What would it be like? It would involve intimate touching; she knew enough to understand that. Where even the thought of Pelman taking such liberties set her skin crawling, Mr Gavenor had quite a different effect, warming her in places about which ladies were not meant to think.
She would accept, of course, and hope she did not disappoint him, but he was still talking, not noticing her distraction.
“You and your father should never have been forced to leave Rose Cottage. I would like you to continue to regard it as your home. And I would like to remain as your boarder, if you would not mind. It is very convenient to Thorne Hall, which means I can keep a close eye on the works once they start.”
She must be staring like a stunned rabbit as she scrambled to rearrange her thoughts. Boarder. Not lover.
“You have already taken over the housekeeping duties of a landlady, and, of course, I will owe you for the stores I have used while I have been in residence. But I am sure we can work out those financial details if you think you might be willing to accept the position. What do you say?”
Close your mouth, Rosa. Think. Then answer the question. “I— But— But Mr Gavenor, Rose Cottage belongs to you. I should be paying a rental, not charging you board.”
“We can work out a rental and deduct it from the board payment. But the business about the goats was disgraceful.” His voice turned stern. “You will oblige me, Miss Neatham, by going through the house and grounds and making a comprehensive list of all of the items and animals that belong with the cottage, and those that belong to you and Mr Neatham.”
A reprieve for as long as the building work lasted, and after that while the money held out. Surely, time enough to find another way to support her father. One that did not require her to abandon her morals. “I— I don’t know what to say.”
Mr Gavenor gifted her with a boyish grin, his eyes dancing. “Say ‘yes, Mr Gavenor.’”
