Page 48 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord
“Will you make one for me?” Hannah asked in a mumble.
“Yes, of course,” Diana said, and tucked Hannah’s head beneath her chin. “I’ll make you just the prettiest handkerchief I can manage.”
Chapter Eighteen
Ben returned much earlier than Diana had expected. Her heart lifted for a long moment as he came in through the kitchen door, the afternoon sunlight glinting off of his dark hair, revealing streaks of auburn. She’d seen him filthy more often than clean, and today was no exception—but she couldn’t tamp down the tiny hope that perhaps he had ended his efforts early today in an effort to stretch out the uncertain length of time that remained. Another few hours saved against the years ahead.
That hope held only until he dug into his pocket and removed a chunk of graphite, roughly the same size as the one he had so recently let her handle. A drawer squeaked in its tracks as he pulled it open and carefully set the wad within, alongside the other.
A futile hope, then. He’d simply found enough to justify the end of his day. Ten pounds worth, he’d said. Perhaps as many as twenty. A fortune to a man with less than a guinea to his name. A fortune for just about anyone who didn’t have to keep up the appearances that were meant to come along with a title. One step closer to erasing the poverty that had plagued them; a shred of a dream piecing itself together in slow, steady stitches.
Ben dropped himself into a chair at the table, and lifted his hand to knead at his right shoulder. His wind-ruffled hair fell over his forehead into his eyes as he bent his head. “Where is Hannah?” he asked.
“Gathering herbs from the kitchen garden,” Diana said, and gestured with one hand to the ingredients arrayed upon the counter top. “She’s teaching me to cook.”
“To cook.” It sounded doubtful at best and suspicious at worst, and his eyes narrowed minutely.
“I haven’t let her handle the knife,” she said. “But she is giving me instructions.” She was rather good at it, too. Probably she had observed her father cooking every morning and evening for years.
“In fact, it wasn’t Hannah’s proficiency with a knife over which Iworried,” Ben said. “How is your hand?”
Diana flexed it, turning her palm toward him to display the pink and healing skin across her palm. “Bit of a scab, just there in the middle,” she said. “But it doesn’t hurt any longer.” Or perhaps the rest of her hurt altogether too much to make the small wound of any particular consequence. “We didn’t expect you so early,” she said. “It was meant to be a surprise.” A night of respite, where he didn’t have to prepare dinner before he could have even a few moments to rest from his labors.
“You don’t have to do that.”
She knew she didn’t. This, too, had been among their arrangements. “It’s good for Hannah,” she said. “Here, she is permitted to be the clever one. To be the teacher instead of the pupil. I think she is enjoying herself a great deal.” She hesitated. “Could I help you to…put her to bed this evening?”
A long moment of silence stretched between them, so taut she could have sliced it with the blade in her hand. “Do you think that’s wise?” he asked, finally, and she knew what he meant by it.
“No,” she said. “But it would make me happy.”
For now. For this evening. For those few moments just prior to the snuffing of the candle. It wasn’twise. But it would be one more precious memory, and she would hoard each one that she could gather until their time ran out.
∞∞∞
Ben collected the teacup that Diana offered to him, took a cautious sip—better. Not ideal; it was just a bit weaker than he would have preferred. But certainly better than her previous efforts. Not that she had ever needed to go to any particular effort in such things, since she would soon return to the life she had left, where she would never have to steep her own tea or to prepare her own meals.
He was going to miss so many things about her when she left, but probably this most of all. The sitting across from her at the kitchen table, the drinking tea, the quiet conversation. For years it had been his habit to fall into bed immediately—or near enough to it—after he’d tucked Hannah into hers. There were never enough hours left in the night which would have seen him fully rested come the dawn. Still, these minutes here had never felt like asacrifice of much-needed sleep. They had felt necessary; essential.
He would miss them. Even more still when he had gathered together the coin to afford Hannah and himself an easier life, a life of more leisure than labor. Would he sit, then, at his lonely kitchen table and remember when someone had shared the darkness with him?
The gentle hum of her voice broke the silence between them. “If Rafe should write again…will it present a problem?” She stirred a single lump of sugar into her tea, and for a moment he could only think of what a luxury even that had once been. Those twelve shillings he possessed, in a combination of various coin, had languished in the little tin in which he had kept them for lack of use. “Is it safe?” she asked.
Safe, he thought, and he knew he had put that consideration now into her mind. That even so innocuous a thing as a letter could endanger them. It was the habit of many men and ladies alike to have their staff open and sort correspondence for them, and even so innocuous a thing as that could have far-reaching consequences.
“Probably it doesn’t matter much,” he said. “Our presence here is temporary.” Even if their whereabouts were to fall into the wrong hands, most likely they would be gone before anything could come of it. “How did he find me to begin with?”
Diana lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “He told me not to ask,” she said. “And given that he provided your location as a favor to me, I elected not to press him on it.” Her brow pleated in reflection. “Now that I consider it, he always seems to know a little more than perhaps he ought to,” she said. “I don’t know how, or why. But he doesn’t make much of a fuss about what he knows, so—I suppose it never really occurred to me.”
“Is there even the slightest chance that he might be persuaded to share that information with anyone who might be tempted to use it against us?” Ben asked.
“No; I don’t think so. He’s really rather secretive about such things.” She wrapped her fingers around her cup and lifted it to her lips. “If he were to tell anyone, it would be Marcus—and if he had, Marcus would have certainly appeared before now to bring me back home.”
“It’s likely safe enough, then,” Ben said. “He wrote to you, not to me.” No matter how many hands through which the letter had passed on its way, it had not containedhisname. Diana was not publicly known to have come seeking him. Unless Rafe chose to share that information—which Diana seemed convinced that he would not—then it was unlikely that anyone elsewould make the connection.
“And…when you leave?” she asked, a note of hesitance tripping through her voice. “Will it be safe to write to you then? To Hannah?”
Less certain, but precautions could be taken. They wouldhaveto be, to protect what would be their permanent home. “I’ll write to you when we have settled,” he said. “To give you our direction, and to provide an assumed name to which you may address letters, should you care to send them. It would be best if you did not allow your correspondence to be opened by anyone other than yourself.”
