Page 16 of The Hired Hero
Caroline nodded absently. Well, she would no doubt find out the earl’s intentions soon enough.
Mrs. Collins arrived a short while later with a tray of steaming porridge and a pot of tea. Caroline submitted to the housekeeper’s ministrations even though she felt capable of feeding herself, for it gave her the opportunity to learn more about her surroundings between bites.
“Why, Hemphill is the closest village,” said Mrs. Collins in answer to the first question. “Ye ain’t from around there, then?”
Caroline took a long swallow of tea, then quickly changed the subject. “Please thank Her Ladyship for the loan of a nightdress. I’m most grateful for the kindness.”
“Can’t,” replied the housekeeper. “Thank her, that is. She ain’t around anymore.”
Caroline wondered what the housekeeper meant by that indelicate phrasing. Was the earl a widower? That would account for his rather gruff demeanor, especially if he had only recently been bereaved. Or perhaps, like many marriages of theton, his was one of convenience, rather than any mutual affection, and his wife spent most of her time in London.
“I expect there are some other things in the attic that will fit you,” continued Mrs. Collins, her expression indicating what she thought of Caroline’s plan to take a needle to her own ragged garments. “I’ll have a look up there as soon as you are finished with your meal.”
“But perhaps…well, perhaps His Lordship would be upset?”
Mrs. Collins shrugged. “Why on earth would he care?”
Caroline took a few swallows of the hot tea. She wasn’t sure how to answer, but she found herself growing more and more curious about the earl. “Does His Lordship spend most of his days out overseeing his estate?”
The housekeeper gave a snort. “If that’s what ye still call this place. However, I give him credit. There’s not many a gentleman who would strip off his shirt and work along with his tenants.”
She must have noticed the look of disbelief on Caroline’s face. “Aye,” she confirmed. “Shoulder to shoulder with ’em in the fields, that’s a fact.”
“How strange.”
“The place is mortgaged to the hilt, or so they say. Who knows how long afore the creditors foreclose? If there was other decent work to be had, I’d leave in a trice,” confided Mrs. Collins. “Not that it’s all that bad here, mind you. Most of the house is closed up and under holland covers, so the work is manageable fer me. Only other help is Owens and the cook, but His Lordship don’t seem to need much…”
The butler stuck his head into the room. “Mrs. Collins, Cook is threatening to give notice unless credit is extended at the butcher’s. She says she won’t waste her talents baking bread and slicing cheese.”
The housekeeper muttered something regarding the cook’s culinary talents under her breath. “Well, I better go see to her. It looks as if yer finished here anyway, miss.” She gathered up the dishes. “I shall visit the attic and see what I can find in the way of clothing after I’ve dealt with the kitchen.”
* * *
Mrs. Collins wasas good as her word. She reappeared later with an armful of clothing, all in muted, if not somber, colors. The earl’s late wife had apparently not been of a sunny nature, mused Caroline. However, it was all of good quality and she was grateful, though still hesitant about the propriety of accepting Her Ladyship’s clothing without the earl’s approval.
“You are sure it won’t upset His Lordship?” she asked while eyeing the dark merino day dress that the housekeeper had draped over the foot of the bed. “I mean…”
But the other woman had already bustled from the room in response to a shriek that was coming from downstairs.
Caroline slowly stood up. She was still feeling slightly woozy and dreadfully sore from all her knocks and bruises. But she forced herself to dress. She had lain about entirely too long. Now that she had recovered enough to move around, she had to resolve on a course of action.
As she fumbled with the buttons of the gown, she thought about her current situation. Her reticule was lying somewhere in the shattered remains of the carriage, so she hadn’t a penny to her name…
Ah, yes, the question of a name.
Nowthatwas a problem.
Not only was she determined not to reveal her real name, but Caroline had also totally forgotten in whose house she was. He had told her his name—that much she did remember. But she couldn’t for the life of her recall what it was.
Darrencott…Dovepot…
It was no use—it wouldn’t come to mind. She would have to remember to ask Mrs. Collins at the first opportunity to avoid making a cake of herself. However, one thing was certain. He was a gentleman, and as such, he would be expected to offer her assistance without asking awkward questions.
There wasn’t a soul around when she made her way downstairs. No doubt Mrs. Collins and Owens were busy putting out fires in the kitchen. Finding herself curious, Caroline decided to look around on her own.
Immediately to her right was the drawing room. It was done in shades of rose and emerald that had faded into lifeless shadows of their former hues. The carpets were threadbare and the mahogany sideboard, though recently waxed, showed its nicks and dents with little grace. Even the cushions on the sofas and wingchairs had a deflated look, as if depressed by all they had witnessed.
Her eyes strayed to the carved fireplace. Above the mantel hung a large oil painting of an extremely elegant gentleman. The style of dress—the faultlessly tied cravat, the multicolored figured silk waistcoat, perfectly tailored swallow-tailed coat and snug-fitting pantaloons—was a total contrast to what she had seen him garbed in lately. But the chiseled features were the same—though there was an unpleasant hardness to the mouth and eyes she hadn’t noticed…
