Chapter Five

“Lady Cahill,” said Kate, “I do thank you, but your offer is made in ignorance of my circumstances. If I were to accept, you would surely despise me once you learned the truth. And society would condemn you or think you a fool to have been so taken in.”

When Lady Cahill saw the look on Kate’s face she bit back the pithy comment she had been about to make on her complete indifference to society’s opinions on anything.

“May I ask why, child?”

Kate was very nervous. She didn’t want to tell Lady Cahill, didn’t want to lose her affection and her respect. But there was no choice. The story would eventually come out—it always did. Better to get it over with, instead of having the threat hanging over her.

“I am not regarded as fit for marriage,” said Kate at last.

“Will you tell me why, child?”

“It’s a long story,” said Kate. “When my brothers, Jemmy and Ben, went to the war on the Peninsula, my father and I accompanied them. I’ve spent the last three years living with the army.”

“Child. How dreadful for you!” Lady Cahill looked appalled.

Kate shook her head. “No, ma’am, it wasn’t at all. In fact those three years, while the boys and my father were alive, were the best years of my life.”

Lady Cahill made a shocked sound of disbelief and Kate smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid it’s true. I…I’ve always been a bit of a hoyden, you understand, and I found the life suited me—much better than at the vicarage. I was never lonely and…and my father valued me as he never had before.” She looked down at her hands. “You see, when my mother died, Papa blamed me—she died giving birth to me.”

“But, child, that was not your—”

“Oh, I know, but Papa could never see that…You said I had my mother’s eyes…Papa was a good man, but when he looked at me all he could see was my dead mother…so he never looked at me. Never.’ Kate choked on the word.

“Oh, my dear…”

“But somehow, on the Peninsula, things changed. Perhaps, with death and danger all around us, everything else faded into insignificance. I don’t know…And because, in such a difficult situation, comfort comes to mean a great deal…” Kate looked at Lady Cahill. “I became quite a good housekeeper, you see. And hot food at almost any hour, a warm, dry place to sleep and clean clothing mean a lot to men at war…”

She sighed. “They truly needed me and I was happier than I have ever been in my life…until poor Ben was killed at Ciudad Rodrigo…” She fell silent for a moment, then continued, “And then everything fell apart at Salamanca.”

Lady Cahill frowned. Jack had been wounded at Salamanca.

As she spoke, Kate’s hands unknowingly began to pleat the stuff of her skirt in tiny, deliberate folds. “Last July, our army was retreating from the Douro River, back towards Salamanca—you may have read of it; the newspapers hate it when we retreat. The French were close behind us. At times they were even parallel with us and so close that you could see them through the swirling clouds of dust.” She gulped.

“Jemmy was hit in the chest…We got him on to our cart…but with all the dust and confusion we fell a long way behind.”

She turned the wad of pleated skirt over and methodically began to unpleat it. Her voice was flat, bleak. “Then Papa was hit. In the stomach. I…I managed to get him and Jemmy away to a deserted building. It was half destroyed, but at least it was shelter…Jemmy died the first night…Papa lasted two more days…I had a little laudanum and at least I…I was able to ease his passing…”

Lady Cahill leaned forward. “You poor child—”

“I didn’t remember anything after that…until more than a month later.” She straightened her skirt with shaking hands, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I awoke one morning and found myself in a French camp. An officer, Henri Du Croix, was interrogating several recently captured prisoners—English prisoners. I had no idea how I got there.”

She shivered and continued, “It was the most terrifying feeling…Later, I learned that the officer, Henri, had found me wandering after Salamanca. I had been wounded—on the head.” Her hand crept unconsciously to the scar almost hidden by her hairline. “Apparently I was unable to remember my name or anything, although he knew, of course, that I was English. I became his prisoner…and his mistress.”

Kate flushed at the small sound from Lady Cahill. She could not look at the old lady. Her hands began their intricate pleating again.

“I discovered that for the last month I had lived with him, slept with him in his tent…” Kate swallowed in embarrassment, and forced the words out “…living as man and wife.” She flushed a darker rose colour and added, “I know it was true—I remember it. You must not think he was a totally wicked man—in his own way, I think he was fond of me…but I swear to you I did not realise what had happened until a month after Salamanca…when it was too late.”

She took a deep shaky breath and continued, determined to get it all out in the open. “In Lisbon afterwards they called me the Frenchman’s whore…and a traitress.”

Lady Cahill made a shocked sound.

“Traitress, because I’d tended the wounds of French soldiers. I have some small skill with injuries, you see. And though they were the enemy I see no wrong in what I did. They were only men, like our men—tired, hungry, in pain, and longing to be with their loved ones, not fighting this dreadful war. That part, I do not regret…”

She shrugged, her eyes downcast. “So, now you know.”

The material of her skirt was crushed and twisted. Her voice rose again in distress. “But I did not consent to be Henri’s mistress—he told me he was my husband and I believed him. I found a ring on my finger, though I did not know how it got there. I could not even remember my own name at the time, and so I believed him! He was very convincing. He said I was his English wife. I never knowingly—”

“Hush now, child! Do not distress yourself. I don’t doubt your word,” interrupted Lady Cahill

Huge, swimming grey-green eyes regarded her doubtfully.

“Oh, tush, child,” the old lady said gruffly, patting Kate’s knee. “As if I did not know you are the soul of honour.”

Kate inhaled, a long, tremulous breath. Tears trembled on her lashes. “Then you are very singular, ma’am, for few others believed me. They thought me a wanton, a liar, a traitress.”

“Lud, child. Anyone with a grain of sense could see you are none of those. As far as I am concerned, you did nothing wrong. And I respect you for tending their wounded. Tell me, how did you return to English territory?”

“Well, as I said, my memory came back to me when Henri was interrogating English prisoners—perhaps it was the sound of English being spoken that caused it to return. It took me a day or two to find out what happened and make my plans to escape. Then I stole a horse and rode into Allied territory. It was not difficult to pass from behind the French lines—a woman is not so suspect as a man.” She flushed. “But you see why I cannot possibly enter society, or marry.”

“I see nothing of the sort,” said Lady Cahill. “There is no reason for anyone to know of this—”

“It is a matter of public record,” said Kate regretfully. “I returned to the English forces almost six weeks after my father’s death. Naturally I was interviewed, in case I was a spy. Some of the officers who interviewed me didn’t believe I’d lost my memory. Others were only interested in what I could tell them about the French. It was supposed to be kept secret, but when I reached Lisbon everybody there knew the worst,” she concluded bitterly.

There was a long silence. “It is not mere wilfulness or false pride preventing me from seeking a husband, you know,” Kate added. “Ever since I was a little girl I’ve dreamt of my wedding day, waited for the man whom I could love for ever…and played with other people’s children, preparing myself for the day when I had children of my own.” She smoothed twisted fabric with unknowing hands.

“I have put this dream away…but not of my own volition.”

Lady Cahill opened her mouth to argue, but Kate continued, “In Lisbon I received a taste of what would face me if I ever again tried to enter society. Ma’am, I was shunned, reviled…even spat on—by English ladies, some of whom I’d regarded as friends…” Her throat swelled and tightened, remembering whispers and sidelong glances, prurient curiosity and outright hostility.

“And men whom I thought I knew, whom I thought were decent Christian gentlemen, tried to touch me, made obscene suggestions.” The Frenchman’s whore—she was fair game.

“Even Harry…my betrothed…” Kate shuddered. Harry’s eyes had run over her body in a way they never had before. The realisation had entered Kate’s heart like a blade of ice. He was no different from the rest.

“It was unspeakably vile…and I could not bear to face it again.” She looked wearily at Lady Cahill. “That is why I cannot accept your very kind offer, why I cannot seek a husband or go about in society. I could not bear to meet someone who knows what happened.”

She tried to smile. “It is not so very bad, you know. I cannot miss what I’ve never had. I’ve not had the sort of upbringing that other girls have. And I’m young and healthy and—” she wiped her eyes “—generally not such a dreadful watering pot. If I could only find a position as a children’s nurse or companion…You could help me with that, could you not?”

Lady Cahill was deeply moved. Kate had been badly wounded, she could see that. There was no point in pushing her to agree to any plans at present. She was still too vulnerable to risk her heart and her hopes again—she needed time to recover. Lady Cahill would help Kate, but not to a position as a children’s nurse. No, if an old woman had any say in the matter, Maria Delacombe’s child would have her dream. She reached out and took Kate’s hand in a tight grasp.

“Of course I will help you, child. Try to put the whole horrid business behind you. You found yourself in a difficult situation, but you conducted yourself with honour as a true Christian lady. I am sure that both your father and your mother would have been very proud of you. I know I am.”

Tears spilled from Kate’s eyes. Kindness, she suddenly found, was so much harder to withstand than cruelty. The old woman gathered the girl into her arms and held her tightly for a moment or two.

“Lady Cahill, you see—”

“I see nothing at all at the moment,” Lady Cahill interrupted, wiping her eyes. “This dratted face paint has run and I refuse to do or say another word until it is repaired. Fetch my maid to me, and in the meantime go and wash your face and comb your hair. Return to me in twenty minutes.”

Kate stared at her, dumbfounded. Suddenly laughter began to well up inside her and she sat back and laughed until the tears came again.

Sympathy and warm, wicked humour gleamed back at her from the admittedly smudged face of the old woman. “That’s right, my girl. A good cry and a good laugh. That’s what the doctor ordered. Now,” she continued briskly, “fetch Smithers to me and go and wash your face. You look a sight!”

Later that afternoon Kate helped the old lady climb into her travelling chaise, and stood in the driveway, waving her off. Lady Cahill had promised to “do what I can to help Maria’s gel’, and Kate felt sure that she would find her a position as a children’s nurse in some quiet, pleasant household.

In return, Kate’s job was relatively simple—she had to put Mr Jack Carstairs’s house in order. That was well within her capabilities. She might not enjoy housework very much, but there was no doubt that Sevenoakes was badly in need of attention, and there would be real satisfaction gained from restoring a ramshackle house to a graceful residence. And her old nurse, Martha, was to come and live here. That would be wonderful, thought Kate. Martha was a dear and would keep Kate from feeling too lonely. Martha had also known and loved Jemmy and Ben.

Moreover, Kate thought, mentally ticking off her advantages, she was surrounded by lovely countryside and could go for long rambles whenever she wanted to. In fact, she could do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted to. She was her own mistress and she meant to enjoy that rare freedom while she had it.

And she was needed.

Kate had no doubt whatsoever that Lady Cahill’s grandson needed her skills, and that once he saw how much easier his life would be with Kate as housekeeper he would be grateful. Perhaps she could also use her healing skills—possibly even help him to strengthen his injured leg and reduce that dreadful limp. They might even become friends, she thought optimistically. To be sure, he had proved a trifle autocratic and difficult to get along with at first, but that was largely her own fault for teasing and tricking him.

Kate felt sure that Jack Carstairs would prove to be exactly like Papa and the boys and all the other men she had ever known—as long as his surroundings were clean and comfortable and his stomach was full of good cooking, he wouldn’t care what she did.

Carlos grinned as he heard the sound of his master’s voice raised yet again, this time from the direction of the breakfast-room. He crept closer to peer in at the open window.

“I’ve told you before, I won’t have you scrubbing floors!” The deep, angry voice was raised in frustration.

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten your preference for dirt.” Kate’s voice was dry.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Jack.

“Then what would you have me do?” she retorted crossly. “You can see for yourself that these floors need scrubbing. Someone must do it and you know perfectly well that Martha is too old to do such a task. I am young and strong and, no matter what you may say, if something needs scrubbing, then I will scrub.”

“It is not fitting!”

“Now you are being ridiculous!” Kate said, exasperated. “Tell me, what is fitting for a housekeeper? When I take down the curtains to wash them, you roar and forbid me to do it! If I clean the windows, so I can see out of them instead of gazing at a view of dirt, you appear out of nowhere and bellow that it is not for me to be doing that! Your interference is quite insupportable! Please, Mr Carstairs, go away and let me get on with my work!”

“I said, I will not have you scrubbing! Look at you, you’re a mess! You’ve got dirt on your chin, a smudge of something else on your nose and your hair is falling all over the place!”

“Oh, yes, mock me for doing honest work!” Kate scrubbed furiously at her face with one hand, dashing curls from her eyes with the other.

“You missed a spot.” He reached out and flicked her small tip-tilted nose, his lips twitching with reluctant amusement.

Kate made an infuriated noise and returned to her scrubbing, ignoring the man standing in front of her.

“I said I won’t have you scrubbing.”

Carlos grinned. He knew that tone. There would be fireworks if Se?orita Kate didn’t do as she was bid. He moved closer for a better view, then ducked hastily as a bucket was flung through the window.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” exclaimed Kate. “How very childish!”

Carlos’s eyes widened. To answer back to Major Jack! In that mood! And call him childish! Carlos cautiously raised his head to look in again, then ducked as he noticed his master striding towards the window. Desperate not to be caught eavesdropping, he dived into a nearby bush.

“Carlos!” yelled Jack, thrusting his head out of the window. “Carlos!”

“Er…sí, Major Jack,” mumbled Carlos, sheepishly emerging from the bush.

“What the devil are you doing down there?”

Carlos opened his mouth. “Er…”

“Oh, never mind. There’s a bucket out there somewhere. Fetch it and fill it with hot water. Then get in here and scrub this floor. On the double!”

Carlos’s mouth drooped. “Sí, sí, Major Jack, at once,” he muttered. Scrubbing! Again! Dolefully he fetched the bucket and headed for the scullery. Scrubbing was no job for a man! Se?orita Kate wanted to do it, so why did Major Jack not let her do it?

“On the double, I said!” came the bellow from the window.

“Sí, sí, at once, Major Jack.” Carlos scurried away to do his master’s bidding.

Kate got to her feet. She could not scrub without water, and in truth she would be relieved to have Carlos do it—she loathed scrubbing. In any case, she could do nothing while Jack Carstairs stood guard over the scrubbing brush.

She glared at his handsome profile, in two minds about his bossiness. He had no business interfering with her work. On the other hand, he kept saving her from chores she hated. It was very confusing. Papa and the boys never minded what she did. Jack Carstairs was almost a stranger, and yet he was oddly…she could only call it protective.

That reminded her. “Er…Mr Carstairs,” she said diffidently.

“What the devil do you want now?”

“I…I want to thank you.”

Jack’s head whipped around in amazement.

“Yesterday I found Carlos in my room.”

Jack’s brows snapped together.

“He said it was on your orders.”

Suddenly Jack knew what she was going to say. “Oh, that,” he mumbled gruffly, and turned to go.

Her hand on his arm stopped him. “He was there to clean away all the cobwebs and kill any spiders. And I believe you told him to do the same with all the other rooms. It was a very kind and thoughtful gesture and it would be remiss of me not to thank you, and I do so, very much.”

Jack felt a rush of warmth as he looked down at the sweet face. He gazed into the clear eyes and felt the soft pressure of her hand on his arm. He could smell that faint elusive scent she had, unlike any lady’s perfume he knew of, but oddly familiar, nevertheless.

“What is the name of that perfume you wear?” he asked abruptly.

Kate dropped his arm and stepped back a little. Jack was annoyed to see a faint trace of wariness in her eyes.

“I wear no perfume. I cannot afford it.”

“But I can smell it whenever I stand close to you, some faint fragrance.”

Kate blushed slightly. “It’s only rosemary.”

“Who?”

“The fragrance you have noticed. It is rosemary, a herb. I make a rinse of it for my hair, and put sprigs of it in my clothes to keep them fresh. It grows plentifully and is free and I am very fond of its scent. Obviously I am too lavish with it,” she said defensively. Definitely too lavish, she thought, if he could talk to her about the way she smelled.

He stared at her thoughtfully. “No, not too lavish. It’s very nice.”

“Carlos. That farm you visit,” said Jack later that afternoon.

“Farm?” said Carlos cautiously.

“The one you visit so frequently. The one with all the daughters,” said Jack impatiently. “I want you to go there at once.”

“Sí, Major Jack.” Carlos brightened visibly.

“Bring back a couple of girls.”

Carlos goggled at his employer.

“Wipe that ridiculous look from your face, you fool! I want those girls to come here to work.”

Carlos hesitated. “To scrub, you mean, sir?”

“Yes, and whatever else needs doing. Miss Farleigh cannot do all the work that she seems to think necessary.”

A grin split the dark face. “Sí, Major Jack! I will fetch them at once!” Carlos moved with alacrity.

“And, Carlos—” His master’s voice halted him. “There will be no fraternising with the wenches while they are employed here, understand?”

“Sí, Major Jack,” sighed Carlos dolefully.

He headed off towards a nearby cottage where the unfortunate farmer had seven daughters to feed, clothe and somehow marry off. There would be no trouble in persuading two of them to come and work for a gentleman like Major Jack.

Trudging across damp, muddy fields, Carlos gradually brightened. He might not be allowed to fraternise with the girls, but at least he would no longer have to demean himself scrubbing floors. And, if Miss Kate had a couple of girls to help her with the work, she would not be making Major Jack so angry all the time.

“What the devil do you mean, you wouldn’t wear them?”

“Mr Carstairs, you must realise that I cannot accept clothing from you.” Kate’s tone was mild but her chin was defiantly high.

“Why the devil not?”

“It isn’t proper,” said Kate composedly. “And besides, I have sufficient clothing for my needs here. Martha brought the trunk containing my things.”

“Balderdash!” he exploded. “You are the stubbornest female it has ever been my misfortune to meet! You know perfectly well that those rags you wear are fit only for burning!”

Kate bit her lip on the retort that had risen to her tongue. There was some truth in his statement. The trunk containing all the clothes she had worn in Spain, as well as all her father’s papers and things, had been lost when she had been captured by the French. The clothes she’d left in England were from a time when she was a young, carefree girl. Faced with total poverty, Kate had sold all clothes with any claim to fashion and style. Those that remained were old and worn and now dyed black for mourning.

“My clothes may not meet with your approval, sir, nevertheless, they are perfectly adequate for my position.”

“That they are not! You are my grandmother’s ward!”

“No, Mr Carstairs, I am housekeeper here!”

Jack ran his hand through his hair in frustration. The chit opposed him at every turn! “Do you think I wish it said that I pay you so poorly that you cannot afford to dress like a civilised human being?”

“As you have no visitors and virtually no contact with anyone, I cannot imagine that anyone will have anything to say about it, so it need not concern you,” Kate retorted. “Besides, you do not pay me at all.”

“Not for want of trying!”

“Mr Carstairs, I was put in this position by your grandmother, not you. It has nothing to do with you, and you must see that I could not accept money from you under any circumstances. Your grandmother and I have an agreement, and that is my last word on the subject.” Kate turned to walk out of the room, but Jack caught her arm and pulled her close. He glared down at her and spoke in a low and furious voice.

“All right, Miss Katherine Farleigh, then here is my last word—if you won’t accept a wage and you refuse my offer of new clothes, then I’ll have no alternative but to dismiss you!”

Uncomfortably aware of his firm grip on her arm and the proximity of his warm body to hers, Kate had to force herself to look up at him. For a moment of two she stared into his glittering blue eyes, only a few inches from her own. She felt his hand tighten and her pulse quickened at the suddenly intent look in his eyes. His effect on her was most unsettling—she had to fight it. She pulled free of him, and brushed down her skirt, buying a few seconds in which to compose herself, aware that his unnerving gaze had not altered.

“You cannot dismiss me. You haven’t the power.”

“The devil I haven’t!”

He took a few steps towards her. Kate retreated rapidly to the door. “My agreement is with Lady Cahill, not you, and only she can dismiss me.” She poked her tongue out at him, then slipped out the door and down the stairs as fast as she could.

It was a kind offer, Kate thought, but he knew as well as she did that it would be most improper for him to buy her clothing. A man only did that for his wife…or his mistress. Kate bit her lip. It was probably the grossest hypocrisy for the ex-mistress of a French officer to be quibbling about such a thing. But it was precisely because she was so vulnerable to accusation that she had to maintain the highest level of propriety.

Propriety was a frail web of protection at best, but without it she would be crushed. Propriety was what kept her feeling like the Reverend Mr Farleigh’s daughter instead of a fallen woman. Without it, she would never be able to go about her daily work with a light heart, feeling free to tease and provoke Jack Carstairs if she felt like it, defying him when his bossiness became too provoking and arguing with him if she disagreed with his pronouncements.

She was thinking a little too much about Jack Carstairs these days, she realised. He was the first thing she thought of when she awoke…and the last, before she went to sleep. Even their frequent quarrels she found exhilarating. And, even when he was infuriating her with his interference, deep down she could not help feeling touched by his concern for her…warmed by it. And feeling warm feelings towards him in return…such feelings were dangerous.

Nothing could come of them. She would only hurt herself if she allowed herself to weaken. If—no, when he learned about her background, Jack Carstairs would be no different from any other man.

Jack glared at the closed door and clenched his fist at it, swearing softly. The chit had defied him yet again, blast it! But she wouldn’t get the better of him this time. She might think she had won the battle, but Major Jack Carstairs knew it was just a preliminary skirmish. And he had served under the Beau, the Marquis of Wellington, the ultimate master at turning retreat into victory.

A slow smile appeared on his lean face and he limped towards the writing desk, sat down and began to pen a letter to his grandmother.