Oh, no. She wouldn’t allow his master to beat him. He’d been hit by her sledge. He wouldn’t be beaten as well. All because of her recklessness. Papa had a point when he told her to be less impulsive. Lesson learnt.
“My father and I will escort you home and explain to your master what happened. You can trust my father. He’s a man of his word.”
He narrowed his gaze.
“All will be fine. I promise. If you don’t trust me, you’ll trust Papa.” She went to lift the sack, but goodness, it weighed a tonne. “Please let me help you.” She yanked at the rope tying the sack, but she slipped back and ended up in the snow, hitting her rear on a rock or something.Ouch!
He exhaled and stretched out his hand. “Are you sure your father will be happy to help me?”
“More than sure. He’s the kindest man ever and has strong opinions on how masters should treat their servants. He’s a war hero and a fair master. Ask any of the people who work for him.” Although her papa might not be so lenient towards her once he learnt about the whole sad affair. He would punish her for disobeying him.
She accepted the man’s hand, feeling the bones in his rough fingers.
He hauled her up, and she ended up an inch from him, nearly bumping against him. She put a hand on his chest for balance. His heartbeat pounded fast. Perhaps anger or fear. He kept frowning. The cause for his quick heartbeat couldn’t be relief. He might resent her not only for having hurt him, but because she came from a wealthy family. Resentment towards wealthy families had been a widespread sentiment as of late.
He stepped back so quickly she staggered on her feet.
“I’ll carry the sack,” he said in a gruff tone.
“You shouldn’t. Your back is injured.”
He slung the sack over his shoulder and gritted his teeth. His knees buckled, and he fell again, muttering a curse. The sack sank into the snow with a huff.
“We’ll come later to retrieve the sack.” She pulled him up, and this time he let her help him. “My name is Violante Sharpe, by the way.”
“Violante?” He said her name as if trying how it sounded on his lips.
She took some of his weight. “It’s an Italian name, a variation of Viola and Violet. My mother is…was Italian.” The sting that came when she mentioned her mother should be familiar by now. But it never failed to hurt.
“Sorry for your loss, miss.” His tone softened a tad.
It was a loss, but also it wasn’t. Her mother wasn’t officially dead as far as Violante knew. She’d left Sharpe Manor one night in secret like a thief, leaving only a measly note saying, ‘I have to go. I can’t stay here.’ No explanation, no future contact, not even ‘I love you.’
Violante pressed her lips against the bitterness in her mouth that thinking about her mother always left behind. Why did she waste her time thinking about her mother? Her papa was more than enough, the only one she trusted.
“I speak Italian as well,” she said for no reason. “It’s a beautiful language.”
He barely nodded.
“What’s your name?” she asked, steadying him when he staggered again.
“Keith Ryan, miss. I work at Sir Howard Glenister’s manor. My master and his family are here for a holiday.”
“Nice to meet you, Keith. I wish we’d met under better circumstances.”
A corner of his mouth was pulled tightly. “So do I, miss.” His breathing came out rugged.
Goodness, she hoped he didn’t have a broken rib. He didn’t look like someone who could endure a serious injury. Sir Howard didn’t treat his servants well, judging by how thin and weak Keith was. To be a member of the House of Commons who professed to care about people, regardless of their social class, Sir Howard did a very poor job of taking care of his servants.
“I’m sorry for the incident,” she said as they slogged through the snow towards the manor. “I meant to ride the sledge, but it slipped.”
He shot her a glare of reproach. “Windy Ridge is too steep, and the snow freezes quickly, causing the sledge to slip faster. You should try the other side. It’s gentler and warmer.”
“I don’t think I’m going to try any sides any time soon. Besides, I annihilated the sledge. Papa won’t be happy.”
He stopped, a hand on his ribs. “Will he punish you?” A sharp note crept into his voice.
“Alas, he will.”
