for me? Emilia blinked and tried to rescue some trace of common sense, some ghost of the practical mother and alewife. Oh, my goodness. Stop looking at me with those dark blue eyes, for a start. That would help.
Even cold, soaked and grumpy he had been a large, attractive male. Now, for an overworked, lonely widow, this dark, frowning, punctilious major was temptation personified and she must be all about in her wits to even think about it. She swallowed. His eyes narrowed.
Giles always said she wore her thoughts on her face. Emilia dropped her gaze to the embarrassingly intimate garment that was dripping in her hands and wrung it out with a savage twist while she dragged her treacherous thoughts back to practicality.
‘Shall I bring in some more logs?’ Hugo offered into the brief silence. No wonder Mrs Weston was blushing—he had seen what she was washing all too plainly. Not that it wasn’t a perfectly plain and workaday chemise, but even so…
‘And get soaked and cold again? I have only so much dry clothing for you.’ She was teasing, rather than irritated, he hoped. The quick blush had vanished and she was composed and smiling again. ‘Thank you, but we brought in a good supply of fuel this morning when the rain threatened. You might want to make up your bed now and let it get warm by the fire, though. There are some straw palliasses and blankets and so forth under the stairs.’ She pointed to a cupboard. ‘When we have the big brew for the midsummer festivities I have helpers here all night and eventually they talk and drink themselves to sleep.’
He found the things as she said, neatly stacked and rolled, blankets and linen folded around sprigs of lavender, all orderly and fresh like everything he had seen of her home and business. How much work did it take for one slightly built woman to maintain this, even with two willing boys to help her? Even as he worried about that, the image of her, strong and slender beneath his body on these palliasses in front of the fire came from nowhere to stop him in his tracks.
‘Are your servants keeping to their own cottages in this rain?’ he asked as he closed the cupboard door firmly on his fantasies.
That provoked a snort of laughter. ‘Servants? This is not a coaching inn, Major! Mrs Trigg comes in once a week to help me scrub, Peter Bavin does a couple of days a week for the heavy lifting—when he isn’t trapped on the other side of the river with the bridge down and the meadows flooded.’
She shook out some more garments and Hugo recognised his own shirt and stockings. He should never have let the boy take them, she had far too much to do without his washing as well. ‘There,’ she said. ‘All done.’ Everything was draped over airing stands on the far side of the fire, his shirts effectively providing a screen for more intimate items at the back.
‘If you will just bring that pot to the table, Major.’ The boys scurried around, finding plates and knives and producing bread from a big stoneware crock. There was stew, simple and savoury with fluffy herbed dumplings floating in it, bread and butter, cheese, stewed dried apples and ale to wash it all down with. Hugo tried not to eat like a wolf, despite second and then third helpings being offered.
‘Thank you, ma’am. It is delicious, but I’ll not eat you out of house and home—you will not have been expecting to cater for a visitor tonight.’
Mrs Weston sent him one of her flashing smiles. ‘It is a pleasure to feed anyone who appreciates my food. And we will not go short, believe me. I have ample in stock for the winter and once we can communicate with the outside world, fresh supplies are not so very far away.’
‘Where are we? I must have passed between Berkhamsted and Hemel Hempstead in the dark—my map had turned to mush and I couldn’t read the compass with no light. I was heading, I hoped, for the road towards Northampton.’
‘This is the hamlet of Little Gatherborne. On the other side of the River Gather is Greater Gatherborne and we are about six miles from Berkhamsted that way—’ she pointed ‘—and about eight in that direction from Watling Street, which is the road you want.’
‘That’s a Roman road,’ Nathan piped up. ‘Joseph and I speak Latin so if there are any Romans left we can talk to them.’
Latin? Boys from a common ale house? He was beginning to suspect that it was a most uncommon one. ‘I think they have all gone, Nathan.’
‘How do you know my name, Major? No one else can tell us apart.’
‘Except your mama, I assume. I am used to having to learn the names of dozens of men at a time. You learn to spot The little differences.’
‘Your ears!’ Nathan jeered at his brother.
‘Nathan! The pair of you, clear the table and then off to bed with you. The major doesn’t want to hear boys squabbling.’
Actually, to his surprise, he didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. They were lively and sharp, and even on their best behaviour seemed to fill the room, but he liked their honest reactions to everything and their obvious devotion to their mother. It was not how he had been brought up, but then he had been raised as an orphaned earl from younger than these two were now, and in a very different setting. The mother of these boys seemed to encourage them to express opinions and emotions.
He tried to imagine his elderly guardians confronted by these two and had to suppress a grin. A gentleman is in control of his emotions at all times. Loss of control is a sign of weakness in a gentleman. The so-called tender emotions are for women and, in men, lead to weakness of resolve, vulnerability and effeminacy. The old boys had a complete certainty that he had imbibed very thoroughly. It had made him a good officer and landowner, but listening to the enthusiastic chatter now he felt an unfamiliar twinge of envy at their freedom.
Hugo got up. ‘Shall I check on the animals?’ He had to make sure Ajax was settling down with no ill effects from his drenching and it would get him out of the house and away from the disconcerting feeling that he was being absorbed into the family when he could not speak the language. That and the decidedly disturbing effect of Mrs Weston’s smiling hazel eyes on his equilibrium.
‘Oh, thank you.’ She looked up from a brisk discussion of how much washing was necessary for boys on a cold winter evening. ‘I would appreciate it.’
Either Emilia Weston was a very nice woman, Hugo thought, taking the lantern off its hook and lighting it before going into the stable, or she was not used to getting much help. Or perhaps both, which worried him. But there was not a great deal he could do to help; tomorrow he would be on his way. He would pay her well for his bed and board, of course, but still it left him feeling uncomfortable, as though he was watching a delicate thoroughbred mare being put into harness and made to pull a burden too great for her strength, however strong her spirit.
Ajax was dozing, one hoof cocked up, his jaw resting on the edge of the virtually empty manger. The horse opened his eyes and regarded Hugo lazily as he checked on the water buckets, ducked outside to make sure the pigsty was secure, then bolted the outer door. Hugo leaned on the horse’s rump for a minute or two, relaxing against the familiar bulk, his mind running round in circles. He was tired. Beyond tired, but not sleepy.
He went back into the house, bolting the door behind him. The taproom was empty, his pallet lying close to the fire promising rest if not sleep. Hugo began to check the shutters and front door locks
