“Turnips,” she said, sounding like the creaky gate in Maude’s rose garden. “My mother will make you eat turnips.”
He grinned at her. “Good, you didn’t break your neck.” He scooped her and all the covers up and put her back on the bed. Everything was a mess.
“I was trying to reach the water.”
“Hold still.” Soon she was attacking a glass of water the way he’d attacked that delicious pork kniver. She drank a full glass, then fell back, just a bit of water dribbling down her chin. He flicked the water away with his finger.
She eyed him, then eyed him some more. “You’re not wrinkled. You look very much a baron today.”
“No more wrinkles. Squire Leon took pity on me.” He stopped then. “You’re awake and you’re making sense. I’ve become used to a moaning, sweaty girl who occasionally squeaks or sings nasty ditties or tells me about a frog she once had named Fred or how her older cousin used to throw her in a pond on the first day of May every year.”
“Poor Fred. A Frenchman got him, I know it. He was visiting in the neighborhood—the Frenchman, not Fred. Fred lived in the neighborhood. I knew the Frenchman was a guest at Gorkin Manor. He must have seen Fred, and it was all over. Fred was gone.” She coughed. “My voice feels all rusty. It doesn’t hurt that much right now, but it’s still strange. May I have some more water?”
After drinking another glass, she said, “I really told you about Fred?”
“Yes. Where’s your cousin?” He lightly stroked his fingertips over her cheek, a healthy color now, which relieved him enormously.
“Bernard died in the Peninsula three years ago.”
“I’m sorry. Now, do you remember when we came to the inn?”
“This morning. We came late morning and we were starving. I remember the pork kniver that you ate without offering me a single bite.”
“As I recall, you tried to eat all the chicken and disdained the kniver. At least you passed out after you’d eaten and not before. Now, you’re not quite right about the time. Actually, that happened four days ago. I was very worried about you, Jack. Even the local vicar was here, praying over you. Dr. Hyde told Squire Leon about the two of us, told him I was a peer, for God’s sake, and Squire Leon came to visit, took one look at the abysmal state I was in, and offered me clothes. His wife left clothes for you. Yes, everyone appears to know that you’re a female, including Mr. Harbottle. I suppose it was just too meaty a tale for Dr. Hyde not to pass on to his neighbors. It’s not really that important.
“Now, you’ve drunk two glasses of water. You’re looking desperate. Let me get you the chamber pot.”
He left her to herself for a good three minutes before fear that she would fall on her face again drove him back into the bedchamber. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding the blankets over her, staring hard at her toes. They were nice toes. An appallingly clear image of himself nibbling those toes flashed through his mind. He cleared his throat.
“The squire’s wife, Betty, left you a nightgown. I’ll put it on you right after you’ve had a bath. What do you think?”
“A bath?” she scratched her leg, then touched the thick, oily braid. She nearly shouted, she was so excited. But once he had her sitting in the deep tub, the water just covering her breasts, she didn’t have the strength to balance herself. She slid directly down and nearly drowned herself.
“You’re weak,” he said matter-of-factly, his hands under her arms, pulling her up. “That’s perfectly natural. You just keep yourself
sitting up, yes, that’s it, hang on to the sides, and I’ll wash your hair for you.”
She was trembling, her lips nearly blue, when finally she was clean, from her toes to her head, and he had wrapped her in towels. She sat bundled in the single chair, watching Susie, the maid, change the bed. When Susie was finished, she curtsied and said, “Shall I comb out your hair, my lady?”
Her hair was nearly dry before she realized what Susie had called her. Oh, dear, she thought, but it was a half-hearted oh, dear because she was simply too tired to care. She was only vaguely aware of Gray putting her into a nightgown and lifting her into bed. He smoothed the nightgown over her legs and tucked her between those delicious, sweet-smelling fresh linens. She felt his warm hand lightly stroking her wrist as she sank into a pleasant stupor.
“Come on, Jack, open your eyes. You can do it. Can you smell the chicken soup Mrs. Harbottle made just for you? Yes, that’s right. Breathe in deeply. Now open your mouth. Good. Just a little bite at first.”
He kept spooning in the soup until she simply couldn’t hold another bite. He set the bowl aside and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
She stretched beneath the covers. “I’m alive and I feel clean. It’s wonderful.”
“Yes.” He remembered each and every inch of her, since he’d been diligent, not missing a single patch of her with that washing cloth. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to wipe that picture out of his mind and not succeeding to any great extent, and said easily, “You’ve got a lot of hair. I don’t recall ever having washed a girl’s hair before. It’s still not quite dry. Try not to move your head.”
“Can I have some water?”
After she’d drunk her fill, he laid her back down and sat in his chair again, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “A lot has happened in the past four days,” he said, watching her carefully. “I sent a messenger to London with a letter to Mathilda and Maude. He waited for them to write me a response.”
She closed her eyes against the enormity of life. “Do they ever want to see me again?”
“Oh, yes, you’re still their little lambkin. As you can imagine, they as well as my entire household were frantic when I unexpectedly disappeared, evidently taking both Durban and Brewster with me. Naturally the aunts had to spill to Quincy that Jack the valet wasn’t Jack at all. Unfortunately, by the time they worked themselves up to the sticking point, Quincy had already notified all of my friends, not just one or two. No, he’d notified at least a dozen, inquiring if they knew where I’d gone to.
“Then Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford came back, nearly ran over Quincy, and was met by the manly Remie, who properly set him back out on the street. While Remie was manhandling Sir Henry, a good friend of mine, Ryder Sherbrooke, came along and was quickly told by Quincy that I was missing and that this man was trying to steal into the house for some nefarious purpose.” Gray paused a moment, smiling as he pictured the scene, and said, “Ryder then proceeded to pound him into the ground.