He stretched, ignoring the low, steady ache in his arm, and rolled awkwardly out of bed. Emily must have already left while he was sleeping; he was alone in the room. A good thing too: being unable to dress and undress himself, he had slept in his shirt and breeches, and was now unacceptably rumpled.
When he made it to the window, however, all thoughts of clothing left his head.
All that greeted him was a world of white. A carpet of snow blanketed the land, glittering in the frosty sunlight. Beautiful, perhaps, but thick enough that the roads would not be clear for some time. They were trapped here.
If Emily had already risen, then she must have seen this already. He wondered how she had taken it. Not too hard, he hoped. This would be a blow to their plans, but she had sustained a blow to the head, and his arm was equally an impediment. A few more days of recovery would do them no harm.
After combing his hair and disguising the wrinkled state of his shirt as best he could, he left the room. One hand outstretched for balance, he made his way along the uneven wooden floor to the narrow, rickety staircase. The scent of smoke greeted him, and by the time he made it to the giant flagstones that marked the first floor of the house, he felt as though he had entered another world entirely.
The stairs emerged in the dining room, where a large fireplace puffed smoke and too many children dashed around an enormous table. One of them—a girl looking to be about twelve years of age—attempted to set each place as her siblings raced around the furniture in overwhelming mayhem.
One of the little boys, five or six at a guess, skidded to a halt in front of Oliver and stared up at him with wide eyes. “Are you the gentleman what came last night?” he enquired.
“I am,” Oliver said, and as his stomach gurgled again, he glanced apologetically at the girl setting the table and added, “I’m famished, I’m afraid.”
Footsteps sounded, and he turned to find Emily in an apron several sizes too big carrying a large dish into the room. At the sight of him, she stumbled, almost tripping over a flagstone, and she recovered, eyes wide.
“Oh,” she said, regaining her composure and placing the dish on the table. When she uncovered it, she revealed a plate of steaming bacon, and his stomach grumbled. “You’re up.”
“It seems you’ve been up longer than I have,” he said gruffly, noting the way her cheeks flushed from exertion. Except forthe bruise on her temple, the cut seeming almost swollen, she appeared well. Still, the sight of the wound bothered him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Help?” She blinked, and he almost wanted to laugh. Lord, what an impression he’d made on her if she found his offer so outlandish.
“Yes, Emily. Help. Assist. What would best help you?”
“By the looks of your face, sitting down,” she said sharply, taking his good arm and guiding him to a chair. “If you didn’t feel up to rising, I could have brought a tray up.”
“I fear I’m a poor invalid,” Oliver said, patting her hand. Her fingers curled under his, and she jerked back. “I dislike being left alone in empty rooms. Besides, I came in part to find you.”
Those silvery eyes searched his, and she remained silent until Mrs Chambers bustled into the room, carrying another platter. At the sight of him, she let out a squawk. “Lawks, you’re up already, Mr Beaumont! I wasn’t expecting to see you out and about so soon, what with that arm of yours. Your wife has been a great help in the kitchen.”
Emily flushed a little, glancing sidelong at Oliver as though she feared he would chastise her for helping. Instead, he felt the full weight of the burden his presence here must be on these people. Emily could cook, at least. But what could he do? Nothing useful—that had always been the problem.
“Sit with your husband there, love,” Mrs Chambers said, not seeming to notice the way Emily hovered awkwardly beside him. “I’ll handle the rest. You’ve done more than enough already, especially considering your condition.”
Oliver gave her a piercing look as she slid along the bench beside him. “Does your head hurt?”
“Rather less than your arm, I fancy,” she said, frowning at his concern. “I’m not a delicate flower, you know.”
“I know that, but it doesn’t mean you’re immune to all injury. A brick hit you, darling. It’s not nothing.”
“Truly, I’m fine,” she said.
Frustrated but unwilling to push the subject, he turned to the children. “What are your names?”
“I’m John,” the youngest boy said, sticking out his chest proudly. “I’m five.” To prove it, he held out five chubby fingers.
“And you can count!” Emily said approvingly. “Very well done, John.”
A girl with flaxen pigtails and her mother’s rounded cheeks looked at her hands. “I’m Judith,” she said.
“Judith is six,” John informed them both.
An older boy stuck out his hand. “I’m Peter. Ten.”
Oliver shook the hand with as much sober dignity as he could summon. “Hello, Peter. I’m Oliver.”
“And that’s Sarah, but she’s too scared to speak to you.” Peter jerked his thumb at the eldest girl, whose face was practically purple with the force of her blush. “She’s twelve.”
