Kitabı oku: «Gallant Waif», sayfa 3
This shabby, dirty, rambling house did not at all fit in with the impression given to her by Lady Cahill’s manner, clothes, and servants. It was her grandson’s home. Why did he not command the same sort of elegant living his grandmother so obviously took for granted? Kate shrugged. The mystery would be solved sooner or later; in the meantime she needed hot water and something to eat.
Finally Kate discovered the kitchen. She looked around in disgust. The place was a pigsty. The floor hadn’t been swept in weeks, there was no fire burning in the grate and cold ashes mingled with the detritus on the floor. The remains of past meals had been inadequately cleared away and piles of dirty dishes lay in the scullery.
It might be the oddest gentleman’s establishment she’d ever had the doubtful privilege of visiting, but here was one way she could earn the large breakfast she planned to eat. Kate rolled up her sleeves and set to work. It was ironic, she thought, clearing the ashes from the grate and setting a new fire—the misdeeds of her youth had given her the one truly feminine skill she possessed.
The only time Reverend Farleigh had spoken to his hoydenish daughter had been when she’d misbehaved. Kate’s crimes had been many and various: climbing trees; riding astride—bareback—hitting cricket balls through windows; coming home in a straggle of mud with skinned knees, tangled hair and a string of illegal fish. Her father had soon learned it was not enough to confine his wild and errant daughter to her bedchamber—she simply climbed out of the window. He’d learned it was more effective to give her into the custody of the housekeeper, who’d set her to work, cleaning and cooking.
The youthful Kate had despised the work, but years later she’d become grateful for knowledge generally considered unnecessary and unbecoming to a girl of her class. It had proven invaluable. Most girls of her station in life would have recoiled with genteel disgust at the task she faced, but Kate’s experiences in the Peninsula War had inured her to the horrors of filth and squalor.
This kitchen was nothing compared to some of the unspeakable hovels where she and her father and brothers had been billeted during Wellington’s campaigns. In those hovels, the Vicar’s impossible daughter had discovered an ability to create a clean and comfortable environment for her family, wherever they were. And had glowed in the knowledge that for once she, Kate, had been truly needed.
Her skills were needed here, too, she could see.
Almost an hour and a half later Kate looked around the room with some satisfaction. The kitchen now looked clean, though the floor could do with a good scrub. She’d washed, dried and put away all the crockery, glasses, pots and pans. She’d used sand, soap and water to scrub the table and benches. And she’d even taken her courage in both hands, tackling the worst spiderwebs and killing two spiders with a broom. A fire now burned merrily in the grate and a huge iron kettle steamed gently. She poured hot water into a bowl in the scullery and swiftly made her ablutions.
A rapid search of the provision shelves unearthed a dozen or so eggs. Kate checked them for freshness, putting them in a large bowl of water to see if they sank to the bottom. One floated; she tossed it out. A flitch of bacon she found hanging up in the cool room. And, joy of joys, a bag of coffee beans. Kate hugged them to her chest. It had been months since she had tasted coffee.
She roasted the beans over the fire, then used a mortar and pestle to crush them, inhaling the aroma delightedly as she did so. She mixed them with water and set it over the fire to heat. She sizzled some fat in a pan, then added two thick rashers of bacon and an egg.
The floor did need scrubbing, Kate decided. She would do it after breakfast. She went to the scullery to fetch a large can of water to heat. The largest can she could find was wedged under a shelf, stuck fast. She tugged and pulled and cursed under her breath, then the heavenly aromas of bacon, egg and coffee reached her nostrils. Oh, no! Her breakfast would be ruined! She raced into the kitchen and came to a sudden halt.
Lady Cahill’s grandson sat at the table, his back and broad shoulders partly towards her. He was tucking into her breakfast with every evidence of enjoyment.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Kate gasped crossly.
He didn’t stop eating. “I’ll have another two eggs and four rashers of bacon. And some more of that excellent coffee, if you would be so good.” He lifted his empty cup without even turning to face her.
Kate stared in growing indignation.
“More coffee, girl, didn’t you hear me?” He snapped his fingers impatiently, still not bothering to turn around.
Arrogance obviously ran in the family too! “There’s only enough for one more cup,” she said.
“That’s all I want.” He finished the last bite of bacon.
“Oh, is it, indeed?” Kate said, pulling a face at his impervious back. The exquisite scent of the coffee had been tantalising her for long enough. She’d cleaned and washed his filthy kitchen. All morning her mouth had been watering in anticipation of bacon and eggs and coffee. And he’d just walked in and without so much as a by-your-leave had devoured the lot!
“There’s only enough for me,” she said. “You’ll have to wait. I’ll make a fresh pot in a few minutes.”
He swung around to face her. “What the deuce do you mean—only enough for you?”
Jack was outraged. To his recollection, he’d never even heard a kitchen maid speak, let alone answer him back in such a damned impertinent manner. And yet who else would cook and scrub at this hour of the morning?
She stared defiantly back at him, hands on hips, cheeks flushed, soft pink lips pursed stubbornly. One hand moved possessively towards the coffee pot and her small chin jutted pugnaciously. She was a far cry from the pale, exhausted girl he’d met by candlelight the night before.
Despite his annoyance, his mouth twitched with amusement—there was a wide smear of soot reaching from her cheek to her temple. She stared him down like a small grubby duchess. Her eyes weren’t grey, after all, but a sort of greenygrey, quite unusual. He felt his breath catch for a moment as he stared into them, and then realised she was examining his own face just as intently. He stiffened, half turned away from her, keeping his scarred side to the wall, and unconsciously braced himself for her reaction.
She poured the last of the coffee into her own cup and proceeded to sip it, with every evidence of enjoyment.
Jack was flabbergasted. He was not used to being ignored—let alone by a dowdy little maidservant with a dirty face. And in his own kitchen! He opened his mouth to deliver a crashing reprimand, but she met his eye again and something held him back.
“I think I’ve earned it, don’t you?” She gestured at the sparkling kitchen.
He frowned again. What else did kitchen maids do but clean and scrub? Did the chit expect to be thanked? Did she realise who she was addressing? He opened his mouth to inform her, then hesitated uncertainly, a novel sensation for Major Carstairs, late of the Coldstream Guards.
How the devil did one introduce oneself to a kitchen maid? Servants knew who one was, and acted accordingly. But this one didn’t seem to know the rules. And somehow it just didn’t seem right to roar at this pert little urchin when only a few hours before he had held her in his arms and felt just how frail she was. Despite her effrontery.
He cleared his throat. “Do you know who I am?”
“Lady Cahill’s grandson, Mr Carstairs, I presume?”
He grunted.
Why had he mentioned it? Kate looked gravely at the tall dark man leaning back in his chair. He didn’t look particularly out of place in the kitchen, sprawled at the large scrubbed table, his long booted legs crossed in front of him. He was very handsome, she realised. Maybe he felt it would not be appropriate to eat in here with her when they had not been properly introduced.
“Would you rather I brought your breakfast to another room? A breakfast parlour, perhaps?”
His scowl deepened. “I’ll eat it here.” Long brown fingers started to drum out an impatient tattoo on the wooden surface of the table.
“Please try to be patient. I’ll finish my coffee, then cook enough bacon and eggs for both of us.”
Jack stared at her, debating whether to dismiss her instantly or wait until she’d cooked the rest of his breakfast. The egg had been cooked just how he liked it, the bacon had been crisped to perfection and she did make the best coffee he’d tasted in months. But he was not some scrubby schoolboy, as she seemed to imagine—he was the master of the house!
Jack’s lips twitched with reluctant amusement. His manservant’s cooking had, he perceived ruefully, seriously undermined his authority and his resolution. The men in his brigade would have boggled at his acceptance of this little chit’s effrontery, but they had neither drunk her coffee nor looked into those speaking grey-green eyes. Nor had they carried her up a flight of stairs and felt the fragile bones and known she had been starving. He couldn’t dismiss her—he could as soon rescue a half-drowned kitten then kick it.
She sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. He stiffened awkwardly as her gaze fixed on his face.
“So,” she said, “it was you in my bedchamber last night.”
His mouth tightened abruptly, his face dark with bitter cynicism. What was she going to accuse him of?
“When I woke up this morning I couldn’t quite remember how I got to bed. I thought I remembered seeing Jemmy, but now that I see you, of course, that explains it.”
Kate didn’t notice the stiffening of his body and the way his eyes turned to flint.
“Jemmy caught a bayonet wound, too, in just the same place, only his became terribly infected. Yours has healed beautifully, hasn’t it?”
She stood up, stretched luxuriously and smiled. “Isn’t coffee wonderful? I feel like a new woman, so I’ll forgive your barefaced breakfast piracy and cook some more for both of us.”
He stared at her in stunned silence. Who the devil was this impertinent, shabby, amazingly self-possessed girl with the wide, lovely eyes? And how could she recognise a bayonet wound and, what was more, refer to his shattered cheek so calmly when every other blasted female who had laid eyes on it had shuddered in horror, or wept, or ostentatiously avoided looking at him? He had the evidence of his own mirror that it was not a pretty sight.
And, he thought, watching her slight body move competently around the kitchen, who the devil was this Jemmy she kept mentioning? Jemmy with the scars, who was not, apparently, out of place in her bedchamber!
They were just finishing the last bacon and eggs and coffee, when the outside door opened and in walked a dark, stockily built man. He took one comprehensive look at Kate and smiled, a dazzling white smile which lit his swarthy face.
“Señorita.”
Kate smiled slightly and inclined her head.
He sniffed the air and let out a long, soulful sigh. “Ah, coffee.”
Kate chuckled. “Would you care for a cup, sir?”
“The señorita is very kind.” The white smile widened in the dark face and he bowed again.
Kate dimpled. “Then please be seated, sir, and I will fetch you a cup directly.” She went to fetch the coffee pot.
The two men began to converse in Spanish. Kate slowly stiffened. Three years in Spain and Portugal had resulted in a certain amount of fluency in both languages. She could understand every word the men said. And she was not impressed.
“So, Major Jack, who is the little brown mouse with the pretty eyes, the terrible clothes and the dirty face?”
Kate peered at her reflection in a spoon, then scrubbed at her face with a clean dishcloth.
“Damned if I know, Carlos. Some servant of my grandmother’s.” His tone was indifferent, bored.
A chair scraped on the floor and footsteps came towards her. Kate bent over the pots, then jumped nervously as a warm hand touched her lightly on the shoulder. She turned quickly and found a pair of dark blue eyes regarding her from a great height, a glimmer of amusement in their depths. Did he find it amusing to give her a fright? Or had he noticed the clean face? She blushed.
“If you would be so good…” He waved her aside, bent, took a burning twig from the fire, lit a cheroot and returned to the table, limping heavily.
“Jumpy, isn’t she, the little mouse?” said Carlos in Spanish.
Kate could almost feel the shrug of the broad shoulders.
“Skinny too.”
“Probably hasn’t had a square meal in a good few weeks,” the deep voice agreed. “I don’t know what my grandmother could want with such a little waif.”
Kate flushed in mortification. Was it that obvious?
Carlos continued, “Pretty, though. Those eyes are beautiful. Needs some meat on her bones yet. Me, I like a woman to feel like a woman.”
Jack Carstairs grunted. “You think too much about women.”
“Ah, Major Jack, do not say so, you, with your fine handsome face and wicked blue eyes that all the ladies sigh over.”
Jack’s hand went unconsciously to the shattered cheek.
“Ah, Major Jack, that little scratch will never make you safe from the ladies’ attentions. It will only—”
“Hold your tongue, Carlos,” Jack snapped brusquely.
There was a short silence. Kate pushed some more sticks into the fire, her face rosy.
“Yes,” Carlos continued, “that little bird is as flat as a board at the moment, but with some of your good solid English beef in her the curves will grow—oh, yes, they will grow most deliciously.”
His soft laughter washed over Kate’s rigid body. How dared they discuss her like that? She was no innocent, not any longer, but they did not know it.
No one who had travelled with an army could retain the total innocence of men that was so necessary for an unmarried English lady. Still, for most of that time she’d had the protection of her father and brothers and the broader protection of the soldiers who knew them. Kate had walked freely among the troops, tending wounds, writing letters to loved ones and doling out soup and cheerful greetings, secure in the knowledge that not one of them would offer her the sort of insult that she was now having to endure in the home of a so-called English gentleman! Even if it was in a foreign tongue.
Of course, given how she had left the Peninsula, she should be inured to this sort of insult by now—but these men knew nothing of that. And she was not inured to insult and never would be!
Carlos’s voice penetrated her consciousness again. “And when those curves do grow, Major Jack, I will be there to worship them. I, Carlos Miguel Riviera.”
“That’s enough!” Jack’s voice was suddenly harsh. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“Ah, Major Jack…” the other smiled with dawning comprehension “…you fancy the little mouse yourself, do you?”
“Not at all,” snapped Jack furiously. “I have no interest in tumbling scrawny kitchen maids. But I won’t have you sniffing around her. She’s…she’s my grandmother’s servant and you’re not to go near her, understand?”
The men of the Coldstream Guards all knew that particular tone and not one of them would have dreamed of answering back or disobeying. Carlos’s hands rose in a placatory fashion. “No, no, of course not, Major Jack. I will have nothing to do with the girl, nothing, I promise you.” His voice was soothing, conciliatory, then his evil genius prompted him to add, “She is all yours, Major Jack, all yours.”
Jack sat up and glared at Carlos, but a clatter from the other end of the kitchen distracted him. Both men turned to look at Kate.
The small body was rigid with fury, the grey-green eyes blazing tempestuously. “Your coffee, gentlemen.” She emphasised the last word sarcastically, then, to both men’s utter amazement, she lifted the coffee pot and hurled it straight at them.
Chapter Three
Reactions honed by years of fighting sent both men instantly diving out of the way, but nothing could save them from being splattered with hot coffee as the earthenware pot shattered against the wall behind them. They cursed and swore in a fluent mixture of Spanish, Portuguese and English and turned to face the source of their anger. But there was no one to be seen. Kate had not waited to see the results of her action, but had stormed out of the kitchen while they were still ducking for cover.
“Blast the wench!” Jack growled. “What the hell’s the matter with her? Damned coffee all over me.” He pulled off his shirt, now sodden with brown coffee, and used it to mop down his dripping face and chest.
Carlos, similarly engaged with the aid of a drying cloth, looked across at him. “You think, Major Jack, that maybe she understand what we were saying?”
Jack stared at him. “An English kitchen maid, in the middle of Leicestershire, understand Spanish?” His tone was incredulous. “Impossible! Though she did clean that soot off her face.”
He absent-mindedly rubbed the shirt over his arms and chest, then shook his head. “No. Ridiculous. She’s English.” He stood up and roughly towelled the remains of the coffee from his unruly black hair.
“Unless she has Spanish blood in her.” He considered her clear, pale skin, the grey-green eyes and the curly, nut-brown hair, then he shook his head again. “Hasn’t got the colouring for it.”
Carlos shrugged. “Then why?” His hands spread out eloquently, indicating the devastated coffee pot.
“How the hell should I know why?” Jack growled. “The chit ought to be in Bedlam for all I know. Damn her, but she’ll not get away with it this time!”
“This time?” queried Carlos, the beginnings of a grin appearing on his broad face. “Do you say, Major Jack, that the little mouse has crossed you before?”
A pair of icy-blue eyes turned on him. “Clean up this mess at once,” snapped the crisp voice so familiar to the men of the Coldstreams.
“Sí, sí. At once, Major Jack, at once.” Carlos bent to the task instantly as Jack strode from the room with a frown like a black thundercloud on his face.
“Oho, little mouse, you’ve roused the lion in him, to be sure,” Carlos muttered. “I hope you’ve hidden yourself safe away, for Major Jack is greatly to be feared when he has the devil in him.”
Jack entered the hallway and glanced swiftly around. No sign of the chit. His hands clenched into fists. He’d give the little hussy a good shaking before he sent her packing! The chill morning air quivered against his bare skin, and with a muttered curse he moved quickly up the stairs towards his room, favouring his stiff leg quite heavily. Turning the corner on the landing, he ran smack into Kate storming along the corridor. They collided with such force he had to grab her to steady himself.
Kate, too, reached out instinctively and found herself clasped against a broad, strong, very naked male torso. His chest was deep and lightly sprinkled with dark hair, his shoulders broad and powerfully muscled. His skin was warm and smooth and his scent, the scent of a powerful male, surrounded her, filling her awareness.
“Oh!” she gasped, and tried to pull away.
“Not so fast, my girl!” he grated. “How dare you toss that thing at us? You could have caused a serious injury.”
“Nonsense,” she scoffed, tugging at his grip, “I’ve played cricket for years—I’m an excellent shot and I aimed to miss.”
“Cricket? Rubbish! Girls don’t play cricket. You need a lesson in behaviour, young woman!”
“Let go of me,” she spat, struggling in his arms. “How dare you?” She wriggled and writhed, but he held her effortlessly. It was no use trying to fight him, she realised; the big brute was far too strong. He chuckled, a low rumbling from deep inside his chest.
“If you keep wriggling against me like that, little spitfire, I just might begin to enjoy this,” he murmured into her ear.
Kate froze. The wretch was seeking to put her to the blush—she would have to use other tactics.
“Ohh, ohh, you’re hurting me…ohh…” She sighed dramatically and sagged abruptly in his arms.
“Bloody hell!” he muttered.
Kate felt the hard grip on her arms instantly gentle.
“Hell and damnation,” he muttered again. The girl was so small and frail. And he had caused her to faint. A wave of remorse passed over him. He felt a brute, a savage. He’d known she was half starved. There was no need to frighten her to death, even if she had hurled a pot of hot coffee at his head. He’d have to carry her to her room, he supposed. His grip shifted and he bent to swing her into his arms.
Instantly Kate moved. In a flash she escaped his arms and dealt him a smart slap across the face. “Brains before brute force every time!” she flashed, and took to her heels down the corridor.
As she reached her room, she turned. “And girls do play cricket!” She slammed the door behind her, turned the key and leant against it panting, laughing, oddly exhilarated.
He stared after her, frustrated, cursing her in English and Spanish. Then he turned and limped as quickly as he could towards his grandmother’s room, his face black as thunder.
“Grandmama!” He burst into her room. “Who the devil is that…that little hell-cat?”
The beady blue eyes examined her grandson’s face closely. He was in a fierce temper—it was positively blazing from his eyes. Splendid! Lady Cahill thought. No sign of the lacklustre absence of spirit that Amelia spoke of. Something, or rather someone, by the sounds of it, had stirred him up beautifully. And his loving grandmother would continue the process.
She glared at him. “What the devil do you mean, sir, to come storming into my boudoir at this time of day, cursing and swearing and raising your voice?” The blue eyes were frosty with displeasure. “In my day, no gentleman would dream of entering a lady’s presence in such indecent attire, or should I say lack of it? Be off with you, boy, and don’t return until you are properly clothed! I am shocked and appalled, Jack, shocked and appalled!” She turned her head from his naked chest in a pained, offended manner.
Jack opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap. Blast it, he could hardly give her a piece of his mind. She was his grandmother, dammit. He glared at her, fully aware of her game. She was the most outrageous old lady he knew—he would bet his last guinea that she was no more shocked at seeing a man without a shirt than he was. And as for his swearing…the old hypocrite, peppering almost every phrase she uttered with oaths, then pretending to blush at his! He was damned if he’d stay and let his grandmother rake him over the coals for the entertainment of herself and her dresser! Jack bowed ironically and left the room.
He slammed the door and Lady Cahill relaxed back against the pillows, grinning in a most unladylike way.
“Oh, how shocking, milady,” said the hovering woman dressed severely in grey.
“Oh, don’t be such a ninny, Smithers. You’ve seen a man without his shirt before, haven’t you?” Lady Cahill cast a quick glance at her poker-faced maid. “Well, perhaps not. It’ll widen your education in that case.”
“Milady!” said Smithers indignantly.
“Oh, fetch me my wrap,” said the old lady. “I’m getting up.”
“Before eleven!” gasped Smithers.
Lady Cahill regarded the shocked face of her maid in amusement. “Perhaps not,” she decided. “You can fetch that child I brought with me. Ask her to come and take hot chocolate with me here, if such a thing can be found in this benighted place.”
Her maid stiffened in displeasure. “That…that shabby young person, milady?”
The old lady’s voice turned to ice. “That ‘shabby young person’, as you refer to her, is the daughter of my beloved goddaughter, Maria Farleigh, and as such, Smithers, is to be treated as my honoured guest. Do you understand?”
The woman curtseyed. “Yes, milady,” she murmured humbly.
Kate stiffened at the knock on her door. She hunched her shoulder away from it and remained curled up on the bed. The knock sounded again. “Go away!” she said.
There was a short silence.
“Miss?” The voice was unmistakably female. Kate slipped off the bed and ran to the door. The disapproving face of Smithers met her eye. “Lady Cahill invites you to join her in her bedchamber to take chocolate.” The cold, pale eyes ran quickly over Kate’s shabby outfit and the long nose twitched almost imperceptibly in disdain.
Kate’s chin rose. “Have you prepared the chocolate?” she asked bluntly.
The stare grew contemptuous. “I am her ladyship’s dresser, not the cook. I will direct Mr Carstairs’s man to arrange for the cook to prepare it immediately.” The cold stare informed Kate that even a guttersnipe would know better than to expect an important personage like Lady Cahill’s dresser to lower herself with the preparation of foodstuffs.
Kate repressed a grin and took two steps in the direction indicated by Smithers. She would have liked to see this woman’s face when she realised there was no one to prepare breakfast for herself or Lady Cahill. Then a stab of compunction halted her. Lady Cahill was an elderly lady who had been exhausted by her journey into the country. And Kate knew that she had eaten nothing at all during the trip.
“Please inform Lady Cahill that I will join her directly. I will see to her ladyship’s breakfast first.”
The eyebrows rose in displeasure. The prim mouth opened. “But her ladyship gave me the clearest instructions—”
“If you would be so good as to convey my message to Lady Cahill,” Kate interrupted in a cool voice which, despite its soft huskiness, left no room for argument.
“Very good, miss.” The woman sniffed disparagingly, but left without argument, hiding her surprise. Despite her hideous clothing, this girl had some breeding in her.
Kate ran downstairs, keeping a wary eye open for the two men, but they were nowhere to be seen. In the kitchen she quickly built up the fire and set the kettle to boil. There was no chocolate to be had. She surveyed the barren storeroom ruefully and shrugged. She’d just have to do the best she could.
She found a large tray and set it with a cloth. In a few minutes it bore crockery, a pot of tea, two soft boiled eggs and some lightly buttered toast. It was not what Lady Cahill was used to, no doubt, but it would have to do. She carried the heavy tray upstairs.
“Ah, my dear,” said Lady Cahill. “But what are you doing carrying that heavy tray, you foolish child? Get one of the servants to do that for you.”
Kate deftly set the tray down on a table beside Lady Cahill’s bed. “Good morning, ma’am,” she said cheerfully. “I trust you slept well.”
The old lady grimaced. “In this bed? My dear, how could I?” She gestured towards the shabby hangings and worn furniture. “I suppose I must be grateful that I have a chamber at all, since my dear grandson refused even to see his sister. Thank heavens Smithers had the forethought to pack bedding. I don’t know what sort of place my grandson is running here, but I can tell you—I intend to have words with him on the subject.”
The old lady twinkled beadily at her and Kate found herself smiling back. She poured the tea.
“Tea?” said the old lady pettishly. “I told Smithers chocolate.”
“I fear there is none to be had in the house.”
“No chocolate?” said the old lady incredulously. “I know the countryside is uncivilised, but this is ridiculous.” She pouted. “I suppose there are no fresh pastries either?”
Kate shook her head. “No, indeed, ma’am. But I did get you some freshly boiled eggs and a little toast. Here, eat it while it is still hot,” she coaxed.
Ignoring the old woman’s moue of distaste, Kate placed the food before her. After some grumbling, Lady Cahill consumed the repast, pretending all the while that she was only doing it to please Kate. Finally she sat back against her pillows and regarded Kate speculatively. “Now, missy,” she said. “I gather you’ve met my grandson.”
“What did he say about me?” Kate asked warily.
The old lady chuckled. “Nothing much, really.”
“Oh,” said Kate. Clearly Lady Cahill did not intend to enlighten her. “He…he doesn’t know who I am, does he, ma’am?”
The old lady noted with interest the faint colour that rose on Kate’s cheeks. “Didn’t he ask you?”
Kate looked slightly embarrassed. “No…I mean, yes, he asked me, and of course I told him my name. But I don’t think he understands my position.”
“What did you tell him?”
Kate looked uncomfortable. “I told him to ask you.” She was annoyed to find that her voice had taken on a faintly defensive tone and added boldly, “Indeed, ma’am, I could not answer him, having been kidnapped! I do not know why you have brought me to this place or what you intend me to do.”
Lady Cahill acknowledged her point with a slow nod. “Truth to tell, child, I had no clear intention at the time, except to get you away from that dreadful cottage and prevent you from ruining your life.”
“Ruining my life? How so, ma’am?”
“Tush, girl. Don’t poker up like that! Once you’d been in service that would have been the end of any possibility for an eligible alliance.”
“An eligible alliance!” Kate spoke in tones of loathing.
“Yes, indeed, miss!” snapped Lady Cahill. “You’re not on the shelf yet. You have good blood, good bones and you have no business giving up on life in such a stubborn fashion!”
“Giving up on life? I’m not giving up on life. I am endeavouring to make my way in it. And I fully intend to do so—in the way I choose to do it!”
Kate jumped up from her seat at the end of the bed and began to pace around the room. It was vital that she get Lady Cahill to understand. It was simply not possible for Kate to make an eligible alliance any longer. She was ruined and, even if she attempted to hide the fact, it must come out eventually. But she had no desire to explain the whole sordid tale to this autocratic old lady whose sharp tongue hid a kind heart. It was cowardly, she knew, but if she could retain this old lady’s respect, even by false means, she would. She must convince her some other way.
