She nodded. “I promise. I could use a cup of tea, so I’ll make a pot. And in return, you can tell me how you ended up delivered like a sack of potatoes to the front door of my old French governess’s house.”
*~~*~~*
Busying herself in the tiny kitchen, Willow took deep breaths, hoping to stop her heart thundering and her hands shaking. Her pretense of calm self-composure was a façade, but a necessary one if Harry was to take her seriously.
She had no doubt he’d been shocked to see her, since they hadn’t crossed paths in quite some time. To him, Willow Trease was probably still the young girl who had curled up in a chair and listened to him talk about his horses.
It was time to acquaint him with the Willow Trease who was capable, cool-headed, and now a young woman who had left her childhood behind.
Also the Willow Trease who was posing as his wife. That might be a little more difficult to explain.
The kettle steamed noisily, and she picked up a cloth to take it off the fire, pouring the boiling water into the pot. There was milk, luckily, and some bread too, so she put together a small tray, knowing that if he could start eating, his healing would progress much more quickly.
A sound from the bedroom alerted her to the fact he was on his feet. She gulped down her nerves and kept her hands steady on the tray as she carried it into the little living room that had been her home for the last few days.
The couch was comfortable, the blankets warm, and all things considered, she hadn’t really missed sleeping in her own bed. However, her rest had been disturbed, since she’d found herself waking when Harry made any noise.
And he did snore.
But hearing those sounds was more of a comfort than anything else. He was still alive, and that was all that counted.
“Willow?”
He leaned against the door jamb, pale and thin of face, his body wrapped in the blanket from the bed.
“Yes, come. Sit here.” She led him to the chair nearest the fire. “You’ll not be in any draughts, I think, and I’ve made tea if you can manage it? Oh, and to set your mind at ease, your boots are under the bed. You seemed concerned about them.”
He let her help him, leaning on her as he sat. “Thank you, this is very kind, and most welcome. And yes, I will certainly need my boots. When I can get dressed, of course.”
She had to chuckle as she dealt with the tea. “That was a formal speech from someone in a woman’s nightgown and a blanket.”
His eyes widened. “I’m in your nightgown?”
“Nooo,” the chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh. “You’d never fit. The one you have belonged to the woman who used to live here. Madame Lépine.”
He managed a weak smile. “Well, this is a first, then. I’ve not had the occasion to wear a nightgown at all.” He shifted a little. “That explains why the arms are tight and it stops a foot too short for me.”
“It was all I had.”
Silence fell after those words, and Harry looked around, obviously taking in the small house and the worn furnishings.
His gaze returned to her face. “What is going on, Willow? Why are you here? Does Sir Hawthorn know you’re here?”
Her chin rose. “Both my parents are aware of my situation, Harry. I spent most of December in this house, staying past Christmas, until Madame passed away.”
“I’m sorry…” he began. “Wait. Lépine.” His expression changed a little, and suddenly Willow realised she had no idea at all what he was thinking.
“Did you know Madame?”
“Wasn’t she your French tutor at some point? You and Holly took lessons from her, I believe.”
“We did,” nodded Willow. “I encountered her while returning to Forest Grange, right after she’d been in an unpleasant accident. She had no one.” A ragged breath made its way past her lips. “And she had been badly injured. I couldn’t leave her alone.”
“So you stayed here?”
“I did. With my parents’ full support, even though I was sad to miss Christmas with my family.”
“And you nursed Madame?”
