∞∞∞
As soon as he left Grace, the Reverend hurried back to apprise Percy of the current state of affairs. He could hardly disappear off to Little Bovey without taking the curate into his confidence - especially as he had no intention of revealing his destination to Agnes for obvious reasons.
Though his nearest and dearest might scoff, in truth Reverend Shackleford did not really enjoy telling plumpers – mostly because his memory wasn’t what it was, and he was finding it more and more difficult to keep track of his fabrications. Nevertheless, he was entirely convinced the Almighty had no objection to the odd Banbury story as long as it was in a good cause.
And as far as he was concerned, keeping his wife in the dark definitely fell into that category. Consequently, when he trotted off, Agnes was under the impression he was spending the night with old Mrs. Morton to keep her company on her way upstairs. As far as the Reverend was concerned, it wasn’t too far from the truth since he’d very likely be doing just that in the very near future…
A mere three hours later, the Reverend was climbing into the Duke of Blackmore’s comfortable carriage.
‘Flossy!’ A youthful voice he’d not expected to hear greeted his entrance. Jennifer Sinclair held out her hands for the little dog as the Reverend sat down.
‘What the deuce are you doing here?’ Reverend Shackleford quizzed her bluntly.
‘It’s lovely to see you too, Grandfather,’ the young woman answered drily, taking a delighted Flossy out of his arms and holding her up to kiss her wet nose.
The Reverend hmphed and turned to Grace. ‘I’d have brought Agnes along if I’d known we were going on a jaunt.’
Grace clucked and sighed. ‘You are so deuced pig-headed sometimes, Father. If this George person does turn out to be a young woman, then Jenny is precisely who we need to put her at her ease and persuade her to tell us exactly what is going on.’
∞∞∞
Anthony attacked the wilderness at the end of the garden with a ferocity that would have impressed Peter if his best friend had been witness, though he might have been surprised to learn that anger was the motivation, since Anthony very rarely lost control.
In truth, Anthony himself had no idea why he was so damn angry. So George had lied to him. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had good reason, and he’d undoubtedly have done exactly the same had he been in her position. He slashed viciously at a large clump of goosegrass. He had no need of a bloody maid. He’d hired a workhand. Amantolabourfor him.
Standing up, he swiped at the sweat on his forehead. He should have been tackling the inside, not wasting time out here on a vegetable garden he wouldn’t be planting until the following year. But for some reason, he couldn’t face being cooped up where he could hear George clattering about. He needed space to be alone with his thoughts. He gave a dry laugh – much good that was doing him.
Leaning on the scythe, he sighed. Why the hellwashe so angry? Nothing had really changed. She’d already proven herself a hard worker and had undertaken every task he’d asked of her and more.
So she didn’t have any ballocks – what difference did that make? And once the house was finished, she’d no doubt make a … well, she’d likely make a... He paused, trying to imagine George bowing and scraping, toadying up to his guests and abruptly burst out laughing. The truth was she’d make a bloody awful maid. He shook his head. Dear God, what a mess.
But he couldn’t simply dismiss her. Where the hell would she go? The thought of her alone in Plymouth made him feel sick. For all her bravery and bluster, it was only a matter of time before she came up against a situation she couldn’t wriggle out of. Whether he liked it or no, she was his responsibility.
And with that acknowledgement, Anthony felt a sudden sense of peace wash over him. The anger died. George was his to take care, of and that was all there was to it.
Why the acknowledgement provoked such a feeling of ease, he chose not to dwell on. Instead, he returned the scythe to the stable and after making a bit of a fuss of Horatio, headed back into the house.
‘George!’ he yelled from the bottom of the stairs, ‘get your arse down here.’
∞∞∞
By early evening the whole house had finally been cleaned from top to bottom. ‘And now we can make a mess of it all over again when we start the inside repairs,’ Anthony declared cheerfully, scraping the mud off his boots in the kitchen.
George eyed him warily. Why the bloody hell was he in such good humour? Only hours ago, he’d been threatening her with the workhouse. She was sitting at the table polishing the few brasses still remaining in the house, in between throwing a stick for Nelson through the open kitchen door. She didn’t really know what to say or how to act. She felt unaccountably awkward, a nervousness she’d never experienced when he’d believed her a boy. In contrast, he seemed calm and relaxed which was unexpected given his anger only hours earlier.
She’d learned the hard way not to trust a sudden change of heart. Old man Grimm usually followed up a smile with a smack in the mouth. Anthony was as different from her foster father as night and day which made his sudden about-face treacherous in a way she’d never experienced before.
So she focused her attention on Nelson and the brasses and tried not to remember the sight of her employer naked in the bathtub.
‘Penny for them.’ Anthony’s low voice interrupted her musings, and hesitantly she looked over at him. His eyes were dark silver in the waning light, his hair tied carelessly back in a que. She could just see a smattering of hair above his open shirt, and she thought she’d never seen anyone so beautiful. Abruptly, she turned back to her rubbing. ‘I ain’t thinkin’ nothin,’’ she muttered. ‘Thinkin’ gets a body into trouble.’
For a few minutes Anthony didn’t respond, but George could feel his eyes on her as she stared determinedly down at her brasses. Then, at length, he slapped his thighs and stood up. ‘There’s no sense in doing anything more this evening,’ he decided. ‘We’ll make sure to be up bright and early tomorrow and get started on the sitting room.’ He looked down at his pocket watch and went to shut the door. ‘It’s another two hours until Mrs. Parsons is due. Once you’ve finished those brasses, do you fancy a game of cribbage?’
George looked up and frowned. ‘Never played it,’ she shrugged, warily watching as he seated himself at the table. He leaned on his elbow and stared at her.
‘Wot?’ she said uncomfortably after a few seconds.
‘We’re going to have to work on your diction,’ he sighed. ‘It’s very difficult to understand what you’re saying sometimes, especially when you’re being emotional.’
