to be so useless.’
She did as he asked. In another moment, the bowl of porridge was just a memory. He looked around for more.
‘Emery is afraid you will vomit if you eat any more right now,’ Grace told him.
‘Emery can take a flying leap off a quay,’ Rob said. ‘You’re a baker’s assistant? At some point in your life, maybe you knew what it’s like to be hungry.’
‘I’ve been lucky,’ she said, too shy to tell him of her plummet from her station in life and her rescue from a worse fate by the Wilsons.
By the time Rob had finished shaving—he took his time, stopping to rest—Grace had to agree with the maid who had brought the food from the manor. The man was at least a little handsome, discounting the high relief of his facial bones, a defect that time and food would soften.
‘I don’t think you’ll scare horses,’ Grace said, handing him a warm towel, which he draped over his face with an audible sigh.
‘I hope to heaven not,’ he replied and swabbed the warm towel across his face and neck, where the prison brand stood out in stark relief.
Shaved and shorn, the captain looked so different. She wished she had not cut his hair so close, because it was a beautiful shade of reddish-gold. His eyes were as nicely blue as she had noticed earlier and his nose was straight, even if it did appear etched into his face, because of his total lack of body fat. There was something about him—she had noticed it last night on the stairs: an air of capability she did not expect to see from a man who was a prisoner and weak from hunger and ill use.
She wondered if that was an American trait. Even with a brand on his neck and too few pounds on his body, her parolee did not look like a man who knew his place.
How do Americans do that, I wonder? Her next thought: Can I possibly keep him on this estate, if he chooses not to be here? Lord Thomson, what have you wished on me?
‘Will I do?’ the captain asked, catching the eye of the little maid who still stood there.
The child nodded. Grace doubted anyone in recent memory—maybe ever—had asked her opinion, much less with a smile.
Grace touched her shoulder. ‘He’s teasing you.’
‘I think you’ll do,’ the maid said, then ducked behind Grace, overcome with shyness.
‘I think so, too,’ she told her. ‘If we do our duty—as Lord Nelson admonished all Englishmen—and fulfil our charge from old Lord Thomson, we’ll send him back to … to…’
‘Nantucket.’
‘… to Nantucket healthy.’
‘Your country is counting on you,’ he said gently.
The appeal to patriotism brought the maid out from behind Grace. Still unable to speak, she bobbed a curtsy and dashed for the manor.
The captain watched her go. ‘You realise, of course, that I will be able to inveigle anything I want from the big house, if she is my go-between.’ He handed back the empty porridge bowl. ‘Now, if you will help me upstairs, I hear my bed calling me.’
Grace did as he asked, uneasy at his exhaustion and the way he had to literally pull himself up the stairs. He stood at the top of the landing for a long moment, teetering there until he had his balance. She wondered what he was thinking, unable to really know if his startling change of circumstance had even registered completely.
He headed towards his chamber, but Grace put her hand against the small of his back and steered him to the next room. ‘Emery is fumigating the chamber where you slept last night,’ she told him as she opened the door. ‘This is where you will be staying.’
He stood in the doorway, just looking at the simple but pleasant room. ‘Believe me when I tell you it is humiliating to be full of lice and fleas. I haven’t been so uncomfortable since my childhood.’
Her curiosity piqued, Grace had to know more. ‘Fleas and lice on Nantucket?’ she teased in turn.
The amusement in his voice was evident. He laughed softly, even as he sat down heavily on the bed. ‘Nantucket? Comes with sand fleas, too. But I told you last night I was born in England. I’m one of those Americans that England insists can only be English, because I was born here. This is what you get for choosing Rob Inman, officially branded a troublemaker. You may wish to surrender my parole to someone else.’
‘How could I possibly collect my thirty pounds a year, if I did?’
‘Only thirty pounds to watch me?’ The captain’s eyes were closing. ‘I fear you are not being paid well enough for the aggravation I will be.’
It was a disquieting thought. She watched him as he drifted to sleep, wondering just how much trouble one parolee could be.
She left him then, sound asleep. It troubled her to watch a man wilt so fast and so she told Emery belowstairs, as he continued to unpack the shabby goods Lord Thomson thought should furnish the dower house, now that a prisoner of war lived there, along with a baker’s assistant awarded the princely sum, per annum, of thirty pounds.
‘Why is Lord Thomson so intent upon punishing me for a mere thirty pounds?’ she asked Emery.
The old retainer only shrugged and folded another tattered dishcloth into a drawer.
She toyed with the idea of telling Emery of the switch in Dartmoor Prison, then decided against it. It would serve no purpose to tell anyone who ‘Captain Duncan’ really was. She wouldn’t tell the Wilsons, either, she decided, as she walked to Quimby, knowing Rob would sleep through the afternoon.
‘He is rail thin and weak,’ she told them both as she stood at the familiar kneading table again.
‘Worms, more like,’ Mrs Wilson said. ‘I have a dose of black draught that will shift ‘im.’
Grace smiled, her equilibrium restored by the mere act of stirring a recipe she knew so well. ‘I’d rather wish the black draught on Lord Thomson! He took everything out of the dower house before Mr Selway and I returned from Dartmoor and replaced it—when forced to—with the worst rubbish from the attics!’
‘A double dose of black draught for Lord Thomson,’ Mr Wilson said with a laugh as he watched her. ‘Enough to keep him in the necessary and out of your business!’
Trust the Wilsons to cheer her up, she decided as she hurried to the greengrocer to buy food to tempt the American’s appetite. Mr Selway had smoothed her path with the local merchants. She ordered food and timidly told the proprietor to direct the receipt to Philip Selway, Esq., Exeter, Postal Box Fifteen. The man didn’t even blink. ‘Aye, Gracie,’ he told her. ‘That solemn-looking solicitor gave us strict orders about your invoices.’
So it went at each store she visited; everyone was curious about Captain Duncan. Grace resigned herself to being part of the most interesting thing that had happened in Quimby since Quentin Markwell, Exeter’s own notorious highwayman, had galloped through town a century ago, pausing to steal the vicar’s smallclothes from his washing line.
She returned to Quarle in good humour, at least until she saw Lord Thomson
