acquiring
some common sense, madam. And, I flatter myself, I was a competent one, at
that. Can't promise you any more than bread and bacon, mind you, and I wouldn't
swear to it that my cooking is any better than the common run, but where there
are labouring-men in these parts, there is most often a piece of bacon -"
It made her
laugh, because he still sounded marvellously prim and dignified, even whilst he
was wriggling into his breeches and hauling his shirt over his head, his hair
in an abandoned tangle down his back. He didn't look much older than she, at
this moment. "Won't take a minute to get the fire lit," he said
smugly, and then, a while later, pink and slightly flustered, "It'll catch
shortly, I'm sure. No, truly, it will -"
It was like an
adventure, and she liked adventures. She'd had most of her adventures with this
man. Wouldn't have married him, if he'd been quite so forbidding as he looked.
She took the flint and steel out of his hand, and he smiled up at her. "A
helpmeet, lady?"
"A friend
loves at all times, and a wife is born for adversity," she misquoted
softly.
The corner of
his mouth twitched. "No doubt. Um, we will have staff to do this kind of
thing, usually, tibber. I'm not wholly uncivilised. It's just - I wasn't
expecting us to stay, ah, overnight, here," he said carefully, and she
caught a spark and blew on it, onto the little pile of woodshavings in the big
hearth.
"Well, we
are here, though. For as long as may be."
He glanced up at
her. "Perhaps we ought to see about employing some servants with all
dispatch?"
"And not go
ho -"
"Not go
back to White Notley," he finished. Not quite severely, but with an air of
finality. "This is our home, Zee." He must have caught her look
of disappointment, because he blinked at her solemnly, like a hopeful owl.
"It's not finished yet," he said. "I've not showed you upstairs."
"I am only
relieved that there is an upstairs. You told me half the roof had fallen
in."
"Ah, well,
the lads have been working on that." He held out his hands to her. Not for
her to take, but the better to display a somewhat ungentlemanly black
thumbnail, and a scar the length of one finger -"Chisel," he said
proudly. "I might have been known to lend a hand myself. What kind of man
should I be, that wouldn't see a whole roof over his wife's head?"
"The sort
of man who stands there prattling, and lets the fire go out?" she suggested,
and he closed his mouth with a snap and looked briefly affronted. He had never
been good at being teased, and it took him a heartbeat to realise that it was
happening. And then he laughed. "Well, there's probably bread.
Somewhere. We are not yet so crammed with furniture that there are many places
to conceal it."
She had a prowl
around the shadowy kitchen, not realising till now how big and dusty an
unfurnished, untenanted kitchen could be. Touching her fingers to
rough-plastered walls and imagining where a big black oak settle might stand,
by the hearth. Looking for a cool place where a sensible country housewife
might leave a hutch for her bread, and seeing the very place where she would
put it herself, in an alcove by the door that might have been purpose-built for
such a thing. But no hutch, because, as she turned slowly full circle admiring
the bare room, her mind filling it with imagined scents and shapes, she caught
sight of a lumpy linen bag, piled on one of the mysterious boxes.
As soon as a
more immediate need than curiosity was satisfied, she was going to find out
what was in those boxes, too.
She gave a
little moan of shameless greed as the stale bread rolled out of its covering.
“I have not forgotten quite everything I knew on campaign,” he said smugly,
turning round at the sound of loaves as hard as rocks bouncing on rough boards.
“See? I told you they’d leave something. And half a side of bacon in the
chimney here, and – hm.”
He sat back on
his heels, scowling at the flaring lump of charcoal on the point of his
some common sense, madam. And, I flatter myself, I was a competent one, at
that. Can't promise you any more than bread and bacon, mind you, and I wouldn't
swear to it that my cooking is any better than the common run, but where there
are labouring-men in these parts, there is most often a piece of bacon -"
It made her
laugh, because he still sounded marvellously prim and dignified, even whilst he
was wriggling into his breeches and hauling his shirt over his head, his hair
in an abandoned tangle down his back. He didn't look much older than she, at
this moment. "Won't take a minute to get the fire lit," he said
smugly, and then, a while later, pink and slightly flustered, "It'll catch
shortly, I'm sure. No, truly, it will -"
It was like an
adventure, and she liked adventures. She'd had most of her adventures with this
man. Wouldn't have married him, if he'd been quite so forbidding as he looked.
She took the flint and steel out of his hand, and he smiled up at her. "A
helpmeet, lady?"
"A friend
loves at all times, and a wife is born for adversity," she misquoted
softly.
The corner of
his mouth twitched. "No doubt. Um, we will have staff to do this kind of
thing, usually, tibber. I'm not wholly uncivilised. It's just - I wasn't
expecting us to stay, ah, overnight, here," he said carefully, and she
caught a spark and blew on it, onto the little pile of woodshavings in the big
hearth.
"Well, we
are here, though. For as long as may be."
He glanced up at
her. "Perhaps we ought to see about employing some servants with all
dispatch?"
"And not go
ho -"
"Not go
back to White Notley," he finished. Not quite severely, but with an air of
finality. "This is our home, Zee." He must have caught her look
of disappointment, because he blinked at her solemnly, like a hopeful owl.
"It's not finished yet," he said. "I've not showed you upstairs."
"I am only
relieved that there is an upstairs. You told me half the roof had fallen
in."
"Ah, well,
the lads have been working on that." He held out his hands to her. Not for
her to take, but the better to display a somewhat ungentlemanly black
thumbnail, and a scar the length of one finger -"Chisel," he said
proudly. "I might have been known to lend a hand myself. What kind of man
should I be, that wouldn't see a whole roof over his wife's head?"
"The sort
of man who stands there prattling, and lets the fire go out?" she suggested,
and he closed his mouth with a snap and looked briefly affronted. He had never
been good at being teased, and it took him a heartbeat to realise that it was
happening. And then he laughed. "Well, there's probably bread.
Somewhere. We are not yet so crammed with furniture that there are many places
to conceal it."
She had a prowl
around the shadowy kitchen, not realising till now how big and dusty an
unfurnished, untenanted kitchen could be. Touching her fingers to
rough-plastered walls and imagining where a big black oak settle might stand,
by the hearth. Looking for a cool place where a sensible country housewife
might leave a hutch for her bread, and seeing the very place where she would
put it herself, in an alcove by the door that might have been purpose-built for
such a thing. But no hutch, because, as she turned slowly full circle admiring
the bare room, her mind filling it with imagined scents and shapes, she caught
sight of a lumpy linen bag, piled on one of the mysterious boxes.
As soon as a
more immediate need than curiosity was satisfied, she was going to find out
what was in those boxes, too.
She gave a
little moan of shameless greed as the stale bread rolled out of its covering.
“I have not forgotten quite everything I knew on campaign,” he said smugly,
turning round at the sound of loaves as hard as rocks bouncing on rough boards.
“See? I told you they’d leave something. And half a side of bacon in the
chimney here, and – hm.”
He sat back on
his heels, scowling at the flaring lump of charcoal on the point of his
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