The Gentleman and the Rogue (30 page)

“Rest your tongue, Jem. You don't have to entertain me.” Alan patted Jem's hand before pulling his own away.

“Yes, sir.” Jem leaned against him, arm to arm, and it wasn't long before his head nodded sideways to rest on Alan's shoulder too.

Alan glanced behind him. Annie, snuggled between the pair of valises and wrapped in a blanket, was sound asleep. He slipped his arm around Jem's waist and held him steady as the carriage jolted along.

* * *

After a stop for a change of horses and a meal at a wayside inn, it was late afternoon by the time they finally reached the county of Shropshire, nearly dusk before they arrived at the house. As Alan had expected, the place was shuttered and dark.

He stopped the carriage, set the brake, and helped Jem then Annie climb down. “I'll have to rouse the groom. You two stay here.”

It took him several minutes to locate Brumbridge, whose flushed face and sour smell indicated he was well into a bottle of gin. When the man opened the door of his room at the back of the stable, his eyes widened with shock on seeing his long-absent master. Alan ignored both his surprise and his drunken state—one could hardly expect a man to be completely sober late on a Saturday night—and told him to tend the horses or send the boy to do so.

“Young Wallace from the village has been helping out, sir. He comes in days. I'll put up the team myself, sir. 'Tis good to see you back. Will you be staying on for a time?”

“Yes, I believe so. I'm currently driving a hired team and will need you take this pair to The Green Man. That's the local posting inn if I recall correctly.”

“Yes, sir.” The man bobbed his head, pulled up his braces, and followed Alan from the stable into the yard. He cast an interested glance at Jem and Annie, but of course didn't say a word as he led the team away.

Well, there was one who'd seen Badgeman's “niece” dressed as a boy. Alan hoped he could keep the others who would witness her transformation to a minimum.

The dark bulk of the Watleigh mansion sprawled like a sleeping giant against the darkening sky. Alan faced the front door with some trepidation. A thousand memories flitted through his mind of a childhood spent rambling the grounds and the countryside beyond, of summer holidays engaged in fierce fighting and competitive riding with his brother, of family outings, parties, foxhunts, and balls. More of their life had centered on this country home rather than the house in London. He would feel the absence of his family far more acutely here.

“Sure you got the right place? You look like you have some doubts.” Jem prompted him to move.

Alan lifted and dropped the knocker. “I haven't been back here in several years. Can't say I'm prepared with the key.”

It took some hard and repeated rapping with the knocker before he heard a flurry of footsteps and the door was pulled open. Mrs. Hanover, carrying a lamp in her hand, stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a white wrapper over a nightgown, her iron gray curls hidden beneath a puffy nightcap.

“Master Alan! I mean, sir. What a surprise. We weren't expecting you, Sir Alan. Cavanaugh has gone to town. If we'd known you were coming, he'd have been on hand to greet you. Welcome home, sir.”

“Good to be home, Mrs. Hanover. We've had a long, hard day's drive. I hope it's not too much trouble for you to put together a tray of cold meat and cheese.”

“Right away, sir. But first let me prepare some rooms for you and your”—she looked past him at Jem and Annie—“guests.”

“This is my valet, Jem, who was most unfortunately beaten and robbed in the city recently. You may place him in the room adjacent to mine. And this is Mr. Badgeman's niece, Ann, who has also been through a harrowing ordeal. You may prepare one of the guest rooms for her.”

He'd given some consideration as to how to explain Annie's odd attire and had decided the best course was to say little. It wasn't a servant's place to question.

“Yes, Master Alan… I mean, Sir Alan.” She smiled, and the corners of her eyes crinkled in the friendly way he well remembered. “Hard to get used to your title, sir. 'Twasn't so long ago you were underfoot in the kitchen, begging Cook for sweeties.”

He smiled back. “Those are fond memories for me too, Mrs. Hanover.”

“I'll hurry as fast as may be, sir. There's only one girl on hand right now. The rest are day hires. I'll set her to laying fires in the bedrooms while I prepare your food.” She frowned. “Ach, but you'll want a fire in the parlor too.”

“It's all right. I can manage to start a fire myself. I understand the place is short-staffed, and you were given no notice of my arrival.”

Mrs. Hanover bobbed a curtsy and hurried away, still clucking like an anxious hen whose feathers had been ruffled.

“I like that one,” Jem remarked. “Much nicer than Mrs. C.”

“Yes, she is.” Alan turned to Annie, who stood silently by the door as if ready to bolt through it at the slightest provocation. “You must be hungry, my dear, and chilly. Why don't you come help me light the fire? I'm certain you have experience with that.”

Alan reached out his hand, held it steady, and waited. After a long hesitation, the Major reached out and took it. Progress made. He exchanged a quick glance with Jem over the top of her head.

Together they walked into the parlor off the main hall. Alan urged Jem to sit, and the exhausted lad dropped without protest onto the hard striped sofa.

What would Mother say
? The brief thought flitted through Alan's mind, but he was past caring about what his dead mother, Mrs. Hanover, or anyone else thought about the oddity of a servant sitting while the master of the house laid the fire.

Luckily kindling waited on the grate, while several logs were piled nearby on the hearth. How long ago had some servant prepared the fireplace for the return of a family which would never come home? Alan drew flint from the holder on the mantel, but handed it to Annie. “Show me how it's done.”

She nodded and crouched on the hearth to strike sparks from the flint, then fanned the flame with the bellows hanging nearby. Alan stayed back, letting her work, guessing that doing something constructive would allay some of her fears at being in yet another new place.

He went to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy for Jem, crouched by his side, and offered it. “Here. This will drive the chill away.”

One eye opened, and Jem reached out to take the glass. “You spoil me, sir. I'm not certain who's the master an' who's the servant any longer.”

Instinctively Alan opened his mouth to reprimand such insolence, but Jem's face was so pale, he didn't have the heart to scold him. “Better keep such thoughts to yourself in front of Mrs. Hanover,” he said mildly. No use in pretending he still thought of Jem as an underling, a lesser man. Their bond was now too strong to deny and too deep for him to consider Jem as anything less than a partner, no matter what their roles might be in society's eyes.

Jem sipped the brandy, then rested the glass on his leg and watched Ann work with the fire. Warmth was already taking the damp chill from the room and eradicating the slight mustiness in the parlor. “You're good with the little girl, making her feel at ease. I think she's stronger than she looks, and she'll overcome what's been done to her.”

Alan nodded agreement. “Fresh air and exercise will go a long way toward healing her spirit. I should've remembered that for myself when I was hiding in London this past winter.”

“'Twas a hard time for you,” Jem said. “At any rate, you're here now.”

Alan gazed around the familiar room, his mother's taste in decorating contrasting with his father's insistence on displaying some ugly family heirlooms, such as the painting of Commodore Avery Watleigh over the fireplace. The firelight glowed on Ann Cutler's sober face and cast shadows on Jem's. Alan felt a strong swell of affection for the vulnerable pair, the unexpected daughter and lover which he'd never have imagined he would have. This was his boyhood home, rife with memories, but it was also a place for new beginnings and a new sort of family.

Chapter Eighteen

The day was hot, but Annie wouldn't complain as she sat on an upturned bucket out in the sun, watching Jem learn to ride. The horse walked then trotted in endless circles in the pasture near the house. Of course Annie wouldn't complain. Fear still held her. Now her fear was she'd be banished from their presence.

Usually she followed Jem everywhere. And if she couldn't find him, she'd follow Alan.

They allowed her to be in their company all day after Mrs. Hanover told Alan that the girl trembled when they were out of sight. Either Jem or Alan would sit in a chair in her room as she fell asleep at night. Jem wondered if they'd still be doing that when she was a grown woman. At least Annie slept through the night and didn't come looking for them if she did wake up.

Both of them in the master's bed would be a difficult thing to explain to the girl.

Jem had stopped paying attention, and the horse did something to dislodge him. When Jem landed on his rear, he longed to curse, but he'd learned to curb his saltier language in Annie's presence. He didn't even feel he could complain. The quiet example of Miss Cutler—no, they called her Badgeman now—made him feel like a whiny child instead of a grown man.

The second time he fell off, he stood and rubbed his rear with an exaggerated groan anyway, because maybe, just maybe, that had been a little giggle from the bucket when he'd hit the ground this time. Worth the indignity.

He showed a rolling limp for her benefit as he walked back to the horse.

“It balked,” Jem said to Alan, who'd come over to give him a leg up. Purely unnecessary, but Jem wasn't complaining about the chance to be near him and maybe even touch him.

“Yes, he did,” Alan said unperturbed. He didn't try to defend the big hairy beast or offer to kiss the aching parts of Jem's anatomy. “Hold on with your thighs,” he added for the thousandth time. He cupped his hands so Jem could mount, and that impersonal too-brief contact—his hand on Jem's boot, Jem's hand on his shoulder—made Jem long to twist around and kiss him instead of letting him push him onto the horse.

After a few minutes of Jem's least favorite exercise so far—sitting on a horse as it trotted in circles—Alan called, “Good. You're learning to sit up straight and move with the animal.” That bit of praise helped. Alan had adjusted his usual manner as well nowadays. No roaring Lord High-and-Mighty or barking captain. Not with Annie nearby.

Alan, who held the lead rope, soon drew the horse to stop. “And now we'll put a saddle on him and you'll try again, Jem. The groom who taught me claimed riding bareback first helped you understand the horse better.”

Jem held back his opinion of the likely canine parentage of that groom. He slid off the horse's back and muttered, “Sounds like rubbish to me.”

It was true that with saddle and stirrups, riding seemed a much easier thing. He could swing up and onto the animal alone using a stirrup, no trouble. When Jem could hold the reins and control the horse on his own, suddenly the world was a much more interesting place. He could go anywhere now, and fast. True, the ground was still too far away below, but he was getting used to that. Speed and the thrill of controlling the huge animal under him meant he at long last understood the thrill of riding.

“Annie's turn,” Alan said. This hadn't been part of the plan, but she clearly longed to ride. She'd touched the horses without any hesitation, watching them instead of Alan or Jem. And Jem noticed her moving while he rode, as if she was trying to copy the motion he felt.

Still on horseback, Jem turned his mount to watch Alan, knowing the man wanted to reach out and touch Annie, to help her onto the placid horse he had ordered for her lesson.

Sure enough. “May I help?” Alan gave up on waiting for her to speak.

Jem was surprised when Annie shook her head. She silently climbed onto the horse, using a block. She sprawled over the animal as she clambered onto its blanket-covered back, but she showed no fear, and once perched on the broad back, she sat with perfect form. Even Jem, the sack of grain on a horse's back, could recognize that. He guessed she must have ridden before, probably in Portugal, and hadn't bothered to inform Alan of the fact. She still rarely spoke unless spoken to.

Alan laughed and unhooked the lead line. “Never mind the lesson,” he said and pulled her off the horse. She didn't protest but she did fold her arms and push out her lower lip. A good sign of anger, Jem thought.

“We're not done riding,” Alan told her. He reached for the saddle that rested on a post.

After Alan put the saddle over the blanket on Annie's horse and adjusted her stirrups, he allowed her to remount. The three of them rode through the meadow down to the stand of trees where they could be in shade. Annie had no interest in a walk or even a trot. She directed her horse to canter along the edge of the meadow.

“Damn,” Alan said as he watched her take off across the field.

Jem twisted in his saddle. Sir Alan frowned, his mouth pressed tight.

“What's the trouble?” Jem asked. “The day is blooming perfect. And look at us; we have a moment without the mouse. Better still, see her charging across the field with a smile on her face, by all that's holy.”

“That's the very problem. I should have taught her to ride with a sidesaddle. She'll have to learn to adjust.”

Jem nearly fell off his horse again, laughing. “Adjust? I should say so. Riding 'tis the least of her worries. First she needs to learn to say a word without her voice trembling.”

“She'll never have a normal life,” Alan said, his voice and body tight. “Not just Schivvers. Being here. With me. Us. It's not normal.”

That again
? Jem nudged his horse in the direction of an interesting narrow path through the trees. Better to ride off ahead than scare the horses—which he would when he shouted at the daft Alan to remind him she wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for Alan's concern.

God, he'd have given anything to have had a man like Alan Watleigh in his life when he was a child. Not just for his ability to provide shelter, food, and clothes. The man's patience was a marvel and a blessing for any child. Who'd have known he could be so calm?