Page 9 of Grasp the Thorn
No. She could not have faked the swelling and bruising. Still, if she had made her way up to his bed like that foolish woman at the Ruthford’ house party, she would be very disappointed in his response.
He crossed to the formal parlour, opposite his study. No Miss Neatham. At the back of the house, the little room that had been set up as a workroom, and on the other side of the stairs, the kitchen. There, he found Miss Neatham, asleep in a chair at the kitchen table, her injured foot resting on one of the benches.
Bear stood looking down at her. He was not good at judging the ages of females, but he thought she must be of similar years to Miss Pelman. Perhaps a few years younger, or perhaps it was just that her face was pleasanter, without the sour lines that Miss Pelman’s disposition had carved into her visage as outward warnings to the unwary.
He glanced down at the ankle, which had swollen more despite the bandage. Obviously, she had been walking on it. What had she been up to? He picked up the cup at her elbow and sniffed at the bitter tea. Willow bark. He should have thought of that himself.
Next, he checked the kitchen fire, and soon found the two potatoes baking in the embers and the pot with its apples, stewed into a fragrant mush. A busy lady, his invalid.
Rosa jerked awake at the sound of china clinking in the scullery. By the time Mr Gavenor appeared in the doorway, she had remembered where she was, and why, and was sitting up, rearranging her gown to hide her ankle.
“You are awake,” Mr Gavenor said. “Good. I’m starving.” He put two plates on the table and turned back to the fire. Swiftly and efficiently, a pot mitt on his hand, he swung the stew off the fire and lifted it to the pot stand that sat ready on the table.
Rosa leaned forward. “My father? How is my father?”
He glanced at her, and then focused on the potatoes he fished from the embers with a long pair of tongs. “You didn’t tell me he was senile.”
“He’s not sen…” But he is, and increasingly so. “He gets confused, and he forgets things, but some days he is quite…”
Mr Gavenor ignored her demurrals. “I hired someone to stay with him for the night.”
Rosa winced at the thought of her diminishing store of hen money. “I cannot afford…”
Mr Gavenor ladled stew over the potatoes he had cut, unruffled by her protests. “My responsibility. If I had not startled you, you would not have fallen, and you would be home with him now. Here. Eat.”
He pushed a plate over in front of her and slid the other to the place he’d set for himself, then pulled out the chair so he could sit down.
Rosa folded her hands in her lap, bowed her head, and murmured a request for blessing on the food and the cook, then looked up to find Mr Gavenor observing her, his fork in his hand, his eyes alive with interest in an expressionless face.
“Thank you,” she told him. “It is very kind of you.”
He looked down at his plate and dug his fork into the stew. “Potatoes were a good idea, but you should have kept to the couch. That ankle won’t heal if you keep putting weight on it.”
Gruff. But I have your measure, Mr Gavenor. You are a kind man. “I meant, thank you for hiring someone. Whom did you find?”
Mr Gavenor shrugged. “Miss Pelman recommended a Mrs Able. A rough woman, but she seems kind enough.”
Miss Pelman. What did she say about me? Nothing pleasant, that is certain. “Mrs Able is kind. But she drinks. A lot.”
“I noticed.” Mr Gavenor further proved her opinion of him by expanding on that wry observation. “I stayed until your father was comfortable. Toward the end, he seemed to know her. I will check again in the morning.”
Mr Gavenor finished his plateful of stew and potatoes in silence, then frowned at the amount left on her plate. “I am full, sir,” she explained. A little nauseous from the headache, and considerably smaller than the giant, who had not taken their size difference into account in his serving portions.
“You are a dainty little thing,” he observed. He ladled more stew onto his own plate and said, with every evidence of satisfaction, “And apples for after.”
It had been tasty and filling, but hardly an elegant meal. Rosa had managed much better when her larder had been full, which reminded her of her latest grievance against Pelman. “I was going to make a custard, but the milk is all gone.”
He cocked a brow. “You had a cow?”
“Goats. Three goats; two nannies, one with a kid at hoof.” A female, which she had planned to keep to expand the amount of milk and cheese she could sell.
“No goats here,” Mr Gavenor said. “Just the hens.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You had no room for the goats in that horrible hovel?”
It is a horrible hovel, but what choice do I have? Resentment made Rosa’s voice sharp, “Mr Pelman insisted the goats belonged to you, Mr Gavenor, so I suggest you apply to him for their return.”
“I see.” He took her plate and his through to the scullery, came back with two bowls, and busied himself with serving the apples. She waited for further comment, but he said nothing. He sees? What does he see? A great deal, she was beginning to think. Behind that still, calm face, a busy mind weighed facts and drew conclusions.
She accepted her apple, and enjoyed the mix of sweet and tart.
