Page 2 of The Recluse and the Runaway

He shook off his hat, tossed it onto the deal table, stirred the coals into flame, added a log, lit a few candles, and turned to Nell with a grin. “I’ll go wake Mrs. Overton,” he said, and hesitated, gazing at her for a long, startled moment.

If he wasn’t already planning to make her his mistress, he would now. All too often, men lusted after her.

He shook himself, a bit like the furry creature now shaking water onto the flagstone floor. “Put a kettle on to boil, Nell, and you might like to root around in the larder for scraps to feed the dog.”

“Good to look at, too,” she murmured, then covered her mouth with a gasp, but he was already gone, thank heavens. She’d only had a glimpse of his face. Not handsome—rather what is known as craggy—but his smile was the sort to warm not only her heart, but her whole being.

Perhaps being ruined would not be so very bad at all.

Meanwhile, she removed her sodden bonnet and pelisse, hung them near the fire, and did as she was told. Did a gentleman about to take a mistress also expect her to work in the kitchen? Possibly; gentlemen were not to be trusted with servants, or so she’d overheard. She never meant to eavesdrop, but when doing servants’ work, how could she help but hear them talk amongst themselves?

And since she was also a member of the family, albeit a despised one, how could she help overhearing other conversations not meant for her ears? A lucky thing, too, or she wouldn’t have known the danger in which she stood.

She shook off thoughts of her former home, picked up a candlestick, and found her way to the larder. She broke a heel of bread in pieces, put it in a bowl with a bit of milk, and gave it to the tiny dog, who eagerly lapped it up. A big ginger cat, which had been curled up near the hearth, woke demanding its share, so she fed it as well.

She was turning this way and that before the fire, attempting to dry her muddy, sodden dress, when Sir Rupert returned.

“A cook, sir?” A plump, middle-aged woman, wrapped in a dressing robe and still wearing her nightcap, followed him into the kitchen. “That’s a Christmas sort of luck, I’d say.”

“Indeed, Mrs. O. This is Nell, who can cook but is better at baking. Nell, this is Mrs. Overton, without whom my little kingdom here would fall to ruins.”

Mrs. Overton huffed. “Such nonsense, sir.” Nell curtsied, and the housekeeper said, “You poor slip of a thing, you’ll catch your death in those wet clothes.” She frowned. “You’re too thin, child. You could do with some feeding up.”

“Yes, please,” Nell said, and clapped her mouth shut. Had she been impertinent again? According to Stepmother, every word out of her mouth was disrespectful, if not downright rude.

The housekeeper chuckled. “I see the kettle’s already on the boil. Good girl. And you’ve fed the cat and…ah, a little dog. Is he yours?”

“No, he’s yet another waif,” Sir Rupert said, before Nell could answer. “Found him on the road, lost and shivering.”

“Well, as strays go, a dog’s better than a mule, I must say. I’ve kept some soup warm for you, Sir Rupert, and there’s plenty for our new cook as well.”

“A mule?” Nell blurted.

“Yes, indeed, Sir Rupert brought home a stray mule one fine day, but we found its owner before long. What’s your surname, lass?”

“McGinty, ma’am,” Nell said. She didn’t like to lie, but what choice was there?

“Ah! That’s a good Irish name. I see you’ve found the teapot. Make the tea, there’s a good girl, while I see to your supper.” She removed a pot from the side of the hearth and hung it on the hook, then stirred it vigorously, while Sir Rupert fetched bread and set to work slicing and buttering it.

What a strange man he was proving to be! And what a pleasant housekeeper, with not a hint of disapproval on her kindly face. Try as she might, Nell couldn’t reconcile in her tired mind the combination of brisk kindliness, impending debauchery, and employment as a cook.

Nell found soup plates and spoons and set them on the table. Did Sir Rupert mean to eat in the kitchen? Surely not; the master of a household never dined with his servants. On the other hand, a gentleman didn’t usually slice and butter the bread, either.

She opened her mouth to ask, shut it just in time, and crept over to Mrs. Overton to whisper, “Shall I bring his to the dining room, ma’am?” Not that she had the faintest notion where that might be.

“No, no, Sir Rupert’s not one to stand on ceremony. Not only that, the dining room is icy cold and the kitchen is warm. As is his bedchamber, for he warned me he would come home late.” She paused. “Now, where am I to put you, child?”

Not in Sir Rupert’s bed, it seemed. Somehow, Nell managed not to blurt that.

“I have it. I’ll put a truckle bed in my chamber, and you shall sleep there. You will be a great help, I’m sure. The maids will be delighted you’re here, as we don’t have the staff to cook the Christmas feast as well as prepare the Great Hall for ever so many guests. Cook’s down with the ague, you see. It comes on from time to time and leaves her very weak, poor thing. She’ll not be well in time for Christmas, but we have her book of recipes and all her notes, and everything we’ll need is here.”

They sat at the table to eat, and Nell thought wearily, As long as they don’t ask too many questions, as long as they don’t learn the truth about me, as long as Stepmother doesn’t find me before I leave here…everything will be fine.

~ ~ ~

A discussion with Mrs. Overton was inevitable, but at least she waited until Rupert had finished breakfast, which he took alone in his study, as usual.

“She may be able to cook and bake, Sir Rupert, but she’s not really a servant,” Mrs. Overton said when she returned to his study for the tray. He’d eaten every bite of the sausages, coddled eggs, and the most delicious soda bread he’d ever tasted, with butter and Cook’s raspberry preserves.