a fire—you could gather around it and dry your clothes while you wait for your man to show up.’ Luke frowned at the nearby copse as though assessing its suitability as a shelter.
‘Fire?’ Peter Jackson left off thumping his wife’s back to bark an incredulous laugh. ‘I’d like to think he might manage it, but I doubt it somehow.’ He gazed at Luke’s retreating figure. ‘He’ll not find a stick of dry kindling about anywhere.’
‘It’s good of him to try,’ Fiona murmured, also watching Mr Wolfson’s impressively broad back.
* * *
Twenty minutes later the farmer was eating his words. The driving rain had slowed to a drizzle and meekly Mr Jackson followed the ladies towards the trees where a welcoming blaze could be seen. In a clearing, further into the wood than the little party had previously ventured, a fire was steadily taking hold, protected by a tent of evergreen branches that Luke had propped over the flames. Intermittently there was a hissing sound as raindrops slithered through ivy on to glowing embers.
‘I should get out of these wet things—I will be laid up for weeks, I know I will,’ Betty Jackson grumbled through chattering teeth.
‘Stand close to the fire, my dear, to keep warm.’ Mr Jackson took off his greatcoat and used it to shield his wife from view as she shed her sodden outer layers. The Beresford sisters took up position on the opposite side and performed similar tasks for one another, Ruth giggling the while.
Fiona moved away to allow them some privacy while they juggled their coats and shawls and attempted to pat dry their damp bodices. She held out her hands to the flames, but now being a distance from the fire she gained scant benefit from it.
‘You’re soaked, too—take off your cloak and wear my coat while it dries.’
Startled by the mild command, Fiona stuttered, ‘Thank you...umm...for the...kind offer, sir. But it would hardly be fair—it is still drizzling and your shirt will get wet.’ She gave Luke a fleeting smile, averting her gaze as his dark eyes bored into her. She turned up her face to the heavens, shivering as a chill mist bathed her complexion. ‘I will take this off, though,’ she added lightly, removing her bonnet and giving it a thorough shake by the brim to remove rain that had settled in the straw.
Her heart had begun to pound at an alarming rate and confusingly she was uncertain whether she wished he would go away. Yet he’d been unfailingly polite and helpful. Without turning to check if it was so, she was sure their Good Samaritan was still watching her while he removed the long leather riding coat he wore.
‘Here...take it... I’m used to braving the elements,’ Luke said firmly, settling the garment around Fiona’s shoulders before walking off.
With no time to properly protest Fiona pressed together her lips and held on to the garment by its lapels. It trailed on the ground, so long was it, and she tried to hoist it up a bit to prevent the hem collecting mud. The leather held a scent redolent of her dear papa’s study. Once the room had been crammed with cracked hide sofas and cigar smoke, but all had been removed and sold since Cecil Ratcliff had married her mother.
Jerking her mind to the present, Fiona quickly slipped out of her soaked cloak and, with Mr Wolfson’s replacement garment about her narrow shoulders, she gave her own a good shake to dislodge water from the woollen surface.
The two gentlemen and young Bert were hanging the ladies’ outerwear on sticks they’d rammed into the ground about the perimeter of the fire, creating a humid atmosphere as steam rose from the clothes.
Luke returned to Fiona and took her cloak to hang it up.
‘I’m famished,’ Valerie Beresford moaned, fiddling with the pins in her straggling hair. ‘I hope that Mr Williams will bring us back some food.’
‘He will,’ the absent fellow’s nephew assured the company. ‘He’ll turn up with every possible thing to make you comfortable.’
‘A refund on the fare would make me easy,’ Mr Jackson snorted. ‘The contraption could not have been roadworthy to sustain such damage. I took a look at that pothole that overset us. It was not so great an impediment for a vehicle in good order. Highway robbery indeed! These coach companies charge a ransom for inferior transport.’
Mrs Jackson joined her husband in carping about the cost of their tickets and Valerie Beresford added to the debate, making poor Bert sidle off into the shadows, looking chagrined.
Having found a low tree stump that might serve as a seat, Fiona dusted a pool of moisture from it with a gloved palm, then sat down with a sigh to wait for Toby to return.
‘Whereabouts in Dartmouth are you headed, Miss Chapman?’
Having stretched Fiona’s cloak over two staves to aid its drying, Luke had strolled closer to her to ask his question.
After a slight hesitation Fiona told him. She realised there was no reason not to. Mr Wolfson didn’t seem a person given to gossiping. Besides, they would never meet one another again after today so it was unlikely that any confidence she bestowed would be of note to him. Even were it to be repeated, who would care—apart from a few people dear to her—that Fiona Chapman, spinster, had left home, so unpleasant had her life become, to take up employment as a governess.
She had heard her chosen profession could be quite wretched and lonely. A governess was not quite a servant, yet neither was she a member of her charges’ family. Her position fell somewhere in between, and she risked being resented by her inferiors and despised by an employer who’d deem her presence an irritating necessity. And the children might be horrors, too...but Fiona was confident she was a capable, resilient sort, content with her own company if no other were to be had.
‘Are you travelling on business or pleasure?’ Luke asked, turning Mrs Jackson’s coat so the lining faced towards the fire.
‘Business...’ Realising she was staring, Fiona dragged her gaze from where his linen shirt, dampened by drizzle, clung to the muscled contours of his ribs. The buttons at the throat were undone and his swarthy skin gave him a dangerously foreign air. Yet he was a refined Englishman, of that she was sure, although he’d disclosed nothing about himself.
Luke turned to glance at her with an elevated eyebrow, wordlessly requesting more information about her plans.
Again Fiona was tempted to tell him and that was odd for she was normally an extremely private person. In one way she found this gentleman’s virility daunting, yet his confident, capable manner was soothing too. The dark, romantic atmosphere of flame-daubed shrubbery and the sound and scent of spitting kindling was having a peculiar effect on her, she realised. She felt enchanted, bound to this good-looking stranger’s side, and willing to confess her life’s secrets until he chose to draw a halt to their conversation.
‘I’m on my way to take up a position as a children’s governess,’ Fiona said.
‘You’re brave, then, as well as...foolish...’ At the last moment Luke had substituted something truthful yet unflattering for the compliment that had almost rolled off his tongue. He’d astonished himself by being uncharacteristically familiar with a genteel woman he barely knew. Fiona Chapman wasn’t beautiful... She wasn’t even conventionally pretty despite the sweet halo of fawn curls
