Page 3 of The Recluse and the Runaway

“I believe you’re right, Mrs. O,” he said, “although I can’t quite pinpoint what made me wonder—except perhaps her accent, which is that of a lady.”

“She’s not only well-spoken, but is fully literate,” Mrs. O said. “She skimmed through Cook’s cookery book this morning and read her notes, which is not easy to do, as Cook’s handwriting is atrocious. Her clothing is of decent quality, that of a lady in straitened circumstances or perhaps a servant in a well-to do household. Her pelisse, in particular, is worn but of excellent quality. I have given her some old clothes to wear until hers have been washed.”

“She’s certainly in straitened circumstances,” Rupert said. “If you’d seen her, drooping on the stile in the rain… I had no choice but to bring her home.” And once he’d seen her properly, framed by candlelight…

God help him. What was he to do?

“Aye, no doubt, sir, and that dog too—a little pest, he is. Or rather she—it’s a female, an elderly one, if I judge aright. Did you notice her collar? It’s a pretty thing with green stones set into the leather. I wonder who she belongs to?”

Rupert shrugged. “Perhaps someone will come to claim her, but in the meantime she may stay here.”

“Aye, but in the stables, where she’ll do fine. As for the girl, she ran from someone or something, I assume, and came a long way on foot, for her feet are paining her, that’s plain to see. However, she didn’t coddle herself. Woke early, dressed in the clothing I gave her, and immediately began to make breakfast.”

“And what a wonderful breakfast it was,” he sighed.

“She has already made friends of the maids, as well as the groom and gardener, who came in for a quick cup of tea to keep out the cold.”

“She does have a certain charm,” he admitted.

“I looked through her belongings while she was in the kitchen. Didn’t feel good about doing so, mind you, but I felt obliged. One must be a Good Samaritan, while at the same time exercising caution with strangers.”

“Understood. I appreciate your diligence, Mrs. O.” Which was true; somebody had to behave sensibly, and he feared he wouldn’t be the one.

“The pocket of her pelisse contained a small reticule with a handkerchief, a comb, several shillings, and a gold ring set with sapphires.”

“A ring!”

“Yes, Sir Rupert. It may be paste for all I know, but somehow, I think not. It’s a piece of jewelry only a lady would possess.”

“Or a maid who speaks like a lady, and who immediately fled.” The penalty for such a theft would likely be hanging. His very soul cringed at the thought of Nell meeting such a fate.

“She doesn’t have the air of a thief,” Mrs. O said, “but one never knows, I suppose.”

He took a deep breath; no point in buying trouble. “Well, let’s not worry about it for now. Keep your ears open, and maybe we’ll find out who she is. In the meantime, let’s be thankful we have a cook for the accursed celebration.”

“A Christmas celebration is not accursed, Sir Rupert,” Mrs. O said sternly.

“No, but it’s a dead bore. I don’t dislike conversing with the men—it’s good to keep abreast of matters—but doing the pretty to their wives and daughters is not my idea of a pleasant time.” He had purposely cultivated a reputation as a recluse, but was sufficiently young and well-mannered that the daughters all saw him as husband material, and their mothers encouraged them in this pursuit.

Mrs. O tutted and left with his breakfast tray. He turned to his plans for restoring the damaged section of the house—a useless attempt to calm his mind. He’d been awake half the night, thinking about Nell.

Love at first sight.

It was the stuff of fairy tales, and yet it had happened here and now—to him.

Perhaps he should go to the kitchen and take another look at her. She was young and nicely-formed, and he’d quite enjoyed holding her close on the horse, but he hadn’t seen her properly until they were in the kitchen. Perhaps the candlelight had misled him. Perhaps he would realize that she was just another prettyish girl in a world full of such girls, none of whom interested him.

He had long ago decided not to marry unless he met a woman who was perfect—perfect for him, that is. Not perfectly beautiful or perfectly well-bred or perfectly proper or any other such tedious kind of perfection.

Acting on the assumption that no such perfect-for-him woman existed, he’d gone his relatively carefree way, with family members dotted here and there, a few good friends, and some obliging servants to care for his house and estate. What more could a man wish?

He certainly didn’t wish for a wife. He didn’t exactly not wish for a wife, either. He’d just happily assumed he wouldn’t find the perfect one, and would while away his life in comfortable solitude.

Oh, the devil. He’d been overtired last night, after a long ride from a funeral in Oxford. He intended to get this over with here and now. He stood and strode briskly from the room.

Long before he reached the kitchen, the singing stirred his soul. He hastened forward and paused in the doorway to stare.

“The holly and the ivy,” sang Nell, stirring a pot on the stove, damp, dark curls clinging to her flushed cheeks. She shone with vigor and liveliness, sweetness and her own unique light.