Page 21 of To Seduce a Stranger

The farmer managed to look at once skeptical and indifferent. “You sure about puttin’ in another crop? Seems like a newly married man wouldn’t want to be leavin’ his wife’s side at sunrise to dig in the dirt.”

With an effort, Edward dispelled the unwelcome image of Charlotte Blake, warm and drowsy, in his bed. “As I said, Mr. Markham, I’m here to work.”

* * *

“Well, Mari,” said Charlotte with a smile, having changed into what had once been her very best sprigged muslin, “this is the last clean dress I have to my name. What manner of trouble do you suppose I can get into now?”

Mari lifted the muddy dress from her hands. “Are you English?”

Charlotte recalled what Edward had said about the woman’s perceptiveness. Had she fled from one spy straight to another? Well, she would just have to be careful not to change her story. No more inventing. “My father was. I was raised in France, however.”

Whether Mari found the answer satisfactory or not, Charlotte was unable to determine. The woman turned and left the room without speaking. Charlotte followed her into the kitchen, where it looked for all the world as if the servants must have fled in the middle of preparing dinner—many years ago. The food itself had long since disappeared, molded into dust or eaten by something, but a kettle still hung over the hearth and pots and pans lay scattered over tables.

Mari nodded toward a scraggly broom. “You begin to set things to rights in here. I’m off to the well, and I’ll make sure Garrick’s cleared the chimney, too. We’ll hope this”—she tapped the side of a rusty cistern near the sink—“will hold water.”

Charlotte was used to taking orders. “All right,” she agreed and set to work. The tasks themselves—sweeping, stacking, straightening—were largely mindless, but they raised any number of questions. What could have happened here to allow things to deteriorate to such a state? The earl was in London, Garrick had said, and had been for years. While there was nothing unusual about a nobleman residing in Town, especially at certain seasons, she could not imagine why he would have left his estate entirely untended. No servants left behind to care for the place, every sign that the family’s departure had been hurried and unplanned.

And Edward—was this what he had expected to find? She had not seen his face when they arrived, was not privy to his first reaction. His overheard words to Mari, however, suggested that things were worse than he had been led to believe. If there were no tenants, no farmers, then the estate had no income. On what did this Lord Beckley live? He must be very rich, or very foolish, if he could afford to let Ravenswood go to rack and ruin. If she were Edward, she might be tempted to refuse a post offered by such a reckless man.

But the edge in Edward’s voice conveyed quite clearly that this was more than a post to him. What was his connection to this place, so far from the world he had left?

Two things succeeded in tamping down her inquisitiveness: her hands, sore from sweeping and polishing and scrubbing; and hunger. Once Garrick’s approval had been secured, Mari built a fire and set water to boil. Soon, Charlotte’s muddy dresses were soaking in a tub in one corner, most of the dishes had been washed, and the kitchen was beginning to look like a place where food could be prepared. If there was any food to be had.

Just as her stomach gave a particularly demanding growl, Garrick entered with a sack of something slung over his shoulder and thumped it down on the table. “You ready for these things now, missus?”

“Ready enough,” answered Mari.

To Charlotte’s amazement, Garrick and Dobbs, the driver of Edward’s baggage coach, brought in sacks of flour and potatoes, dried peas, a haunch of beef, and other supplies. “Mr. Cary must have suspected how things were here,” she said as she watched.

Mari made a derisive sound. “Men think of meals, not what goes into making them. Mrs. Corrvan bade me take these things and help him set up his household. But the kitchen in that little cottage? Bah! I say if he’s going to eat, he must come here to do it.”

He didn’t, though. At least not then. Mari prepared a hearty beef pie with astonishing speed, and Charlotte ate with the first real hunger she had experienced in a long time. Though that would have been sauce enough for whatever food was placed before her, she could not deny that Edward had been honest about Mari’s abilities. What Charlotte had always considered a plain, dull, English dish had been spiced and seasoned into something almost unrecognizable.

“This is delicious,” she said around a mouthful.

Mari accepted the garbled compliment with a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Cary.”

She might have spared the trouble of tacking on that deceptive address, however, as Garrick and Dobbs were eating too noisily to hear her.

“I wonder,” asked Charlotte, more hesitantly, “if you would be willing to look at this scratch on my neck? Mr. Cary said you have a healing touch.”

“Did he, now?” Mari rose and inspected the injury without further comment, then fetched a wet cloth and laid it across the back of Charlotte’s neck. She could not contain the yelp that rose to her lips as the hot water came in contact with the wound. But after a moment, the sting began to ease. Leaving the cloth in place, Mari next retrieved a small wooden box and opened it to reveal neat rows of folded papers and small corked vials. She traced one fingertip over them, settled on a little tub, and withdrew it. “How’s that?” she asked as she applied some sweet-smelling unguent to the abraded skin.

Remarkably, the pain faded. “Better. Thank you.”

“Hands,” Mari demanded, holding out her own, palm upward. Obediently, Charlotte laid her hands across the other woman’s, feeling—almost envying—their calluses. Charlotte’s skin was red and rough. “Just as I suspected. You’re a lady.”

Charlotte knew a compliment when she heard one. This was no compliment. “No,” she demurred with a glance toward the men. “I’m not. It has been some time since I did this sort of work, but I assure you I’m more than capable.”

Mari’s only answer was to apply another hot cloth to the tender skin of her palms, followed by the soothing balm.

As he shoved his plate away, Garrick gave a hearty belch and patted his stomach. “That’ll do. Best get back to sharpening that ol’ plow.”

“Where’s Mr. Cary?” Charlotte ventured to ask as Mari returned the ointment to the box.

“I saw him strike out for the home farm about midmorning. Musta found Markham, I’d say.”

“Markham?”