‘Indeed? And does the major have any dry clothing?’
Hugo laid the saddlebags on the table and investigated. ‘One slightly damp shirt.’ There were clean drawers as well and, wrapped in the shirt, they had stayed dry. ‘Dry, er, underthings.’ Hugo draped his dripping cloak over a couple of chairs where it started to create a small pond on her well-brushed flagged floor. Under it he still wore his uniform, sodden, glued to his body by water.
‘Goodness, you are wet.’ She appraised him quite openly with as little self-consciousness as she might one of her boys. His body responded predictably. ‘And large. None of my late husband’s things will do, but luckily Peter Bavin who helps out here leaves a set of clothes in case he gets drenched when we’re working. Those will fit, I imagine, if you have no objection to homespun?’
‘No, ma’am, thank you.’ Anything other than being draped Roman-style in a blanket in her presence would be acceptable. He catalogued brown hair escaping already from the turban, freckles across a slightly tip-tilted nose, a determined little chin and wide hazel eyes that seemed to reflect every thought and emotion. And surely she was too young to be the mother of these boys? What was she? Twenty-five, six?
‘There is still hot water in the copper downstairs and a tub, Major. I have put soap and some towels beside it. Supper will be almost ready when you are done. We can make a bed up for you here in front of the fire.’
‘I am being an unconscionable trouble to you, ma’am. I can dry off in the stable and eat out there. Spend the night there, too.’ The atmosphere of this little family felt so warm and close, so alien to his own experience of home life, that he felt awkwardly like an intruder, which was unsettling. As though his hostess was not unsettling enough.
‘Indeed, you could sleep in the stable,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘And you will probably catch pneumonia and die on me and that would really be a nuisance.’ When he opened his mouth to protest that he had no intention of doing any such thing, she just laughed. ‘I am teasing you, Major. We would be glad of your company, would we not, boys?’
Women did not tease Major Hugo Travers, Earl of Burnham. They made eyes at him on a regular basis, and he could deal with that tactfully when he did not want what the fluttering eyelashes and bold suggestions offered. This one had obviously not thought through the implications of his presence and it was his duty to point it out to her. It would be helpful if his thawing, dripping, body was not expressing an interest in making those hazel eyes sparkle even more or wondering what that generous mouth would feel like pressed against his.
‘Ma’am, I gather that you are alone here, with the exception of your sons. Under the circumstances…’ It was difficult to find the right way to put it with two lads listening to every word.
‘Are you afraid that your rest will be disturbed by these two hellions?’ The concern in her voice was at odds with the quizzical smile on her lips. She obviously understood exactly what his scruples were about and chose to ignore them. Those candid eyes challenged him to argue. ‘I can turn the key in the lock if that will set your mind at rest?’
‘Of course, thank you.’ He could hardly pursue the subject, not with the boys watching him wide-eyed. ‘My name is Hugo Travers. Major.’ No need for the title.
‘Emilia Weston. Mrs,’ she said, equally formally, then switched back to practical housewife in a blink. ‘Now, that water is not getting any warmer. Leave the damp shirt,’ she added as Hugo bundled his dry underwear into the saddlebag and carried it towards the stairs, feeling that he had somehow come out the worst from that encounter. He was not, he realised, used to dealing with women in a domestic setting, not unless they were servants.
He found himself in a cellar running back into the hillside. A copper stood on its brick base, the glow of the fire beneath reddening the brick floor. Stone troughs stood around, pipework and spouts jutted from the walls and a row of barrels lined the walls. The floor was still wet around the biggest trough and a sodden mass of malt grains filled it halfway, steaming gently.
There was at least one more room at a higher level behind the wall, he realised as he dredged up the faint memories of the brew house at Long Burnham Hall. The trough was a mash tun, the mass of wet grains was the mash, and sparging must have involved soaking it in hot water. Not an easy job for a slight woman on her own. He stood frowning at the signs of activity: buckets and poles and sacks. Where was this Bavin fellow who was supposed to be helping her?
Mrs Weston had dragged a tub close to the fire and set a bucket beside it, alongside a stool with a piece of soap, towels and a small mirror. Hugo began to bail water out of the copper and into the tub, uncomfortably aware that she had set the things out for him as a wife might prepare a bath for a returning husband. There was an unsettling intimacy about this, which did not help him suppress his instinctive reaction to Mrs Weston in the slightest. Whomever her occupation made her now, his involuntary hostess was also a lady and should not be waiting on a strange man.
He tugged off his boots with difficulty, struggled out of his uniform jacket and hauled his shirt over his head. The heat of the fire on his damp, cold skin made him close his eyes in blessed relief.
‘Major?’ It was Joseph, peering over an armful of clothes. He dumped them on a barrel and scooped up what Hugo had discarded. ‘Mama says these should fit. She says, will you give me your breeches as well.’
Jaw set, Hugo clambered out of the sodden leathers and handed them over, waited until the boy had scampered back upstairs and clambered into the tub, still in his drawers. He wouldn’t put it past the unconventional Mrs Weston to come down to check he had washed behind his ears.
‘He’s got a great big scar right across here!’ Joseph gestured across his chest. ‘And he’s all brown!’
And I really do not need a mental image of that man without his clothes, thank you, Joseph. ‘Who is he? The cat’s uncle?’ Emilia enquired repressively as she wrung out a pair of socks. How did boys create holes in their hose without any apparent effort at all? Her back was aching, but if she just finished the day’s washing now she could concentrate on making up a bed for their visitor and finishing supper.
‘The major, Mama.’ Joseph dropped the shirt and stockings into the wash pail and hung the buckskin breeches over a chair.
‘The major’s got an enormous sword and pistols and a great big knife in his boot. Where do you think he is going, Mama?’ Nathan hung over the stew pot, stirring while he counted dumplings with a covetous eye. She had made six more and added some carrots and turnips to the pot. Hope-fully that would be enough to assuage the major’s hunger.
‘Home, I suppose. The war has been over for eight months now.’ Home to his wife and family who will be thankful that their man escaped with nothing worse than a scar. What a blessing for them. ‘Goodness, it is getting cold. Throw some more wood on the fire please, Joseph.’
Would Major Travers be all right on the floor of the tap-room? He was starchy enough to refuse the offer of the attic room with the boys, just next to her own, she was certain. Oh. well, he would have experienced considerably worse at war. Once he was dry and warm and fed, he would be all right.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs Weston?’ a deep voice behind her enquired as she shook out a chemise. Emilia turned and there he was in the doorway, the colour back in his tanned cheeks, shaved to within a painful inch of perfection, thick black hair combed. He managed to look the English gentleman even while filling out Peter’s homespun shirt and leather waistcoat with his wide shoulders. His long legs were encased in battered
