Page 17 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 6

The day had already been so gray that twilight had hardly changed the color of the sky. Only colder air heralded the impending arrival of nightfall. Constantia could see her breath as they huffed up a set of rickety stairs, attached with dubious firmness to the exterior wall of the pub and only partly sheltered beneath the building’s eaves.

On the landing was a nail-studded oak door that opened into the publican’s living quarters: a low-ceilinged room in which the man did whatever eating and sitting could not be done below, and on either end of it, an area divided from the main space by a faded calico curtain. Behind one curtain, she supposed, lay the man’s bed. To the other, he led them.

He drew it aside to reveal a small space, hardly bigger than the bed it concealed. One side of the bed was pressed up against the wall that, by her swift calculations, housed the chimney from the fireplace below. What little room remained along the end of the bed had been given over to storage. The bedside table was a cask stood on its end. Their valises sat on the floor beside it.

“’Twere my sister’s.” The explanation was little more than a grunt as the barman swept the light of a candle into corners that might better have remained unlit. “’ Til she up and eloped with Jem.”

The flickering light danced over the craggy lines of his scowl as he thrust the candlestick into Lord Ryland’s hand. “There’s meat and cheese in the larder. Be obliged if you didn’t eat it all.” And with a brusque nod, he left them and returned to his duties below.

Constantia sat limply down on the edge of the bed and fought back a laugh that she feared might be rising hysteria. “Who do you suppose Jem is?”

“A local farmer?” Lord Ryland suggested as he squeezed past a few crates to place the candlestick in the center of the barrel-table.

“Did you see his expression? No, I think . . .” She racked her brain to concoct something amusing to diffuse the tension. “I think the fellow must be the owner of the rival pub across the way. Probably knew a hardworking, unappreciated woman when he saw one.”

That earned her a small, tight smile. Then he turned away, putting his back between her and the light. “I’ll leave the bed to you, of course. I’m sure I can sit up downstairs, or join John Coachman in the stable.”

To say that his offer took her by surprise would be an understatement. She’d expected him to leap at the chance to indulge in rakishness, here where no one in Society who thought him a gentleman would be the wiser.

Or perhaps he understood the flaw in his proposal perfectly but expected her to point it out—to make it seem as if the fateful decision were hers.

“You can’t.” She pushed the necessary denial past lips gone suddenly dry. His shoulders tautened in a remarkably good simulation of surprise. “It would only raise suspicions,” she dutifully explained, “and our host is skeptical enough about us already. We might find ourselves without a roof over our heads at all.”

Her words met with one curt dip of his chin. Agreement, but to all appearances grudging. She would give him credit: His gestures, however insincere, were believable.

He sidled back along the bed toward the makeshift doorway without meeting her eye. “Are you hungry?”

“A little.” She pushed to her feet as he swept the curtain aside. “Do you suppose there’s water for washing up?”

“If not, there’s a fire in the stove, and I spied a pump outside.” He picked up his hat from where he’d laid it beside their valises. “I’ll fetch some.”

“Wait.”

That word at last brought his eyes to her face. To her surprise, his were dark and convincingly troubled.

She shrugged her shoulders free of his greatcoat and held it out to him with her good hand.

He took it from her with another nod, less stiff this time. “Thank you.”

While he was gone, she explored the main room, which contained a small stove, a cupboard with food and the means of preparing and serving it, and a drop-leaf table, with one straight-backed chair tucked squarely beneath it. The rug on the floor was the only concession to comfort and homeyness.

Had the barman’s sister taken the other chair with her, or had she been worked to a frazzle and never allowed to sit down?

Constantia washed her hands with the water remaining in the teakettle and then set about preparing a simple repast of bread and cheese and cold meats. It would be a humble meal in humble surroundings, but she had endured far worse, and she was glad of the glow emanating from the little stove, which someone obviously took care to polish.

When Ryland returned, rain dripping from the tip of his red nose, she wordlessly surrendered its warmth to him. The kitchen, such as it was, was too small for two, so she sat on the chair and watched as he shrugged out of his wet greatcoat and hung it on a peg by the door, laid aside his hat, and chafed the feeling back into his ungloved hands.

She did not expect a display of practical skills. Whatever the cause of his current money woes, he had surely been raised with a bevy of servants, or at the very least sisters, to tend to his every need.

But he surprised her. With deft movements, he filled the teakettle and another pot with water and set them to heat, then rinsed the teapot and added a scant few fresh leaves to those that had already steeped—heeding the barkeep’s caution to be sparing, she supposed. Or perhaps the earl liked his tea weak. Certainly that morning’s evidence would suggest as much.

In companionable silence, he laid the table, brought the food, and poured the water when the kettle sang. When she made as if to rise and give him her seat, he scanned the room for the missing chair.

“It would seem our gruff friend doesn’t entertain much,” she explained.

“I imagine after entertaining the village all day, he likes his quiet.”