He cupped the heel of her slipper and lifted it gently. His other hand grasped the toe, gingerly rotating her ankle. “Does that hurt?”
She swallowed and shook her head. Actually, it felt heavenly.
His gloved hand worked its way up her stocking-swathed ankle in a series of tentative squeezes. “All right?”
She nodded.
“Let’s see your hands.”
She held them forth for inspection like a grotty waif. Both were dirty, but she’d scraped the left one as well, trying to stop her fall.
Mr. Upchurch withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “Stay here.”
He strode to the lazily flowing mill leat, dipped the handkerchief into the water and returned, squeezing it out as he neared. Again he held her left palm, and with his other hand dabbed at the dirt and scrape. The cool water felt wonderful on her raw, burning skin.
She felt like a child and yet like a cherished woman at the same time.Foolish girl, she told herself.He is only being kind.
He wiped the dirt from her other palm, then looked into her face. “You, em...” He cleared his throat. “You might want to, em, tidy your hair. Your... cap is a bit askew.”
Dread rippled through her.Oh no.Had her wig slipped? Was any blond hair showing? He appeared self-conscious at pointing it out but not shocked or suspicious.
“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching up to pull down her cap, and hopefully her wig with it.
He turned his back as she did so, stepped a few feet away, and sank to his haunches, studying a series of gouges in the road large enough to bury a cat.
“I attended a commissioners’ meeting, where repairs to this road were approved and funds allocated. Progress is not what it should be. I shall have to speak to the town council.” He rose. “Nora, do sit up front for the rest of the trip. I don’t want to see you knocked off again.”
Her nerves pulsed a warning—too close.“That’s all right, sir. I don’t mind.”
“Please. I insist.” He gestured toward the front bench, high over the cart’s tall wheels.
Uncomfortable at the thought, she said, “Sir. Um. I don’t know that I should be sitting up there. That is, when we reach Fairbourne Hall. I... think I would rather walk the rest of the way.”
“But your ankle.”
“It’s fine, sir, truly. Please.”
He gave her a knowing look. “It would not go well for you belowstairs if you were seen riding beside Mr. Upchurch. Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“I see. Very well. But do take care with that ankle.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
As he climbed up and drove on, Margaret wondered if he would have been as kind and attentive had Betty or Fiona fallen from his cart. Probably, she thought.
But she hoped not.
When she reached Fairbourne Hall and delivered the powder and rouge, Helen asked how the errand had gone.
“Fine.” Margaret answered vaguely.
Helen’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Did Mr. Upchurch... notice you?”
Is that what Helen hoped would happen? “Not especially. But he was very kind.”
Helen lifted one eyebrow. “Was he?”
