Mrs. Bannerman positively glowed with even more pride, if that were possible. In fact, she looked as though she might burst with it at any moment. “My, oh my, Sir Henry, thank you. My husband’ll be over the moon once I tell him what you’ve said. He’s out in the top field with our man Reg at the moment, both of them busy with the autumn ploughing, but do come in and I’ll put the kettle on. Just let me collect the little ones out of your way.” She went back into the garden to gather her children up.
Harry took a wary glance around in search of a useful mounting block but didn’t see one. The wall, perhaps, might do? Throwing caution to the wind, he dismounted, attempting to conceal the wariness with which he did so. However, he rather suspected Miranda had noticed. There didn’t seem to be much he could get past her apparently gentle gaze.
He turned towards her. She’d already kicked her dainty booted foot out of the stirrup. “Might I be of assistance?”
For a moment she looked down at him from on high, her eyes bright with something he couldn’t identify. He held out his arms to catch her, glad he was unencumbered by his cane.
Her lips curved in a smile that was for once neither gentle nor bland. A smile that made his insides threaten to twist into a veritable knot. She nodded. “You may.” And she slid down into his arms. For a brief moment he held onto her, their eyes locked, before she looked away, a delicate flush coloring her cheeks, and stepped back.
“Thank you.”
Had he imagined the tremble in her body?
But the moment was gone. He tied the horses to a couple of rings fixed in the garden wall and Miranda followed Mrs. Bannerman into the house, as though that moment of intimacy had never happened.
Harry hadn’t counted on such a short journey on horseback stiffening his leg up so much, but it had. For a moment he leaned on the wall, glad no one was around to see, then drew himself up straight and followed the ladies inside.
Mrs. Bannerman’s tidy kitchen was warm and cosy with a fire burning in the hearth. She’d pushed a black kettle over the heat and it was now singing with enthusiasm.
“Do sit down, Sir Henry, Lady Madeley.” She put the baby’s basket bed down near the fire and handed the two small children, who might well have been girls, a couple of rag dolls to play with. They weren’t smartly dressed, but their clothes were clean and their faces shining as though well-scrubbed with regularity.
Harry and Miranda sat at the table in a pair of age-darkened oak chairs, and Mrs. Bannerman busied herself with filling a large teapot, not dissimilar to the one Hester owned, and fetching out what must have been her best cups and saucers, sugar and milk.
Harry took the opportunity to look around the room. Ancient,smoke-darkened beams above his head were hung with bunches of herbs and onions, as well as a contraption he recognized as useful for drying clothes on wet days. A sideboard as old as the chairs, but well-polished, held the lady’s no doubt prized china collection, and the children were sitting on a colorful rag rug in front of the fire. A cosy, welcoming room. A room the family probably spent most of their time in. A room he would have liked to spend time in himself.
“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Bannerman,” Harry said. “As well as children to be proud of.”
She set the teapot on the table. “I have that, Sir Henry, and glad I am that I do. A fine hard-working husband too. You’ll not find another tenant so hard-working as my Herbert.” She chuckled. “But he’s not averse to our John getting the education he should. Nor our Bartie, the one who’s at the grammar school. Sir Geoffrey paid the fees for him. Said he was a boy that needed nurturing so he could better himself.” Despite the pride in her voice, he also sensed a certain wariness. She must be worrying that young Bartie’s grammar school fees would no longer be being paid.
Harry nodded, absurdly pleased at coming across something he could do for the family so easily. “And I will continue with that, of course. I hope that in time he might be indentured to an accountant or solicitor, if that is what you and he, and his father, wish. You have my full support in this. I very much approve of the betterment of the young. Once he’s had his education, we should see about finding him a good position—perhaps in the estate office if he would like. I find I could do with a good estate manager, as I’m not accustomed to dealing with the day to day the ownership of the Hall entails.”
Mrs. Bannerman’s homely smile grew even wider. “Thank you kindly for your generosity, Sir Henry. But what he’d like to do, is become a doctor.”
“An admirable ambition,” Miranda said. “And Sir Henry is ideally situated to help him in his ambition, for he is himself a doctor. Amilitary doctor.” She paused. “He served at Waterloo.”
Unbidden, Harry’s thoughts flashed back to the battlefield, to the young men lying dying in the mud, to the conglomeration of infernal noise—the thunder of the guns, the crack of carbines, the cries of men and horses alike. The stink of gunpowder was in his nostrils, the cloying smell of blood and ruptured intestines of man and animals.
“Harry?” A gentle hand shook his arm.
He came back to the present with a jolt, aware of sweat springing out down his back and across his forehead.
Miranda was looking at him in concern and Mrs. Bannerman was on her feet, one hand to her mouth, eyes wide with shock.
“Harry?” Miranda asked again.
He dragged himself back from that faraway and long-gone battle. Gone, but not forgotten. No, never forgotten. “It’s all right,” he managed, aware that his voice was shaking and unable to do anything about it. “I…I was just remembering something.”
Mrs. Bannerman pushed a teacup towards him, the steam from it rising. “Nothing good, if you ask me. I’ve put a few spoons of sugar in that. Best thing for an upset like this. You look like you’ve had a nasty shock. You drink it down, lad. You’ll soon feel better.”
Her round face was creased with concern, and embarrassment at showing himself up so badly washed over Harry. He made an attempt to pick up the cup, but he was shaking so much he failed miserably in the endeavor.
Miranda’s hand came out and covered his, quelling the shake. “Take a few minutes to settle your mind,” she said, her voice gentle and calm, her fingers resting lightly on his pulse. “Your heart is pounding. Whatever you were remembering cannot have been pleasant.”
He nodded and managed a weak smile. “It wasn’t.”
Mrs. Bannerman, motherly and concerned, put a solid hand on his shoulder. “I’ve some Cattern cakes just out of the oven. Pardon me forsaying so, Sir Henry, but you feels like you need meat on your bones.”
“Cattern cakes?” Harry glanced at Miranda in enquiry.
