Edith frowned. “Are you sure, dear? It’s not much more than a shack.”
“Yes, but it’s a familiar, comfortable shack.” And Callie yearned for it now. “However, I’d appreciate some food and drink if you can spare some. Bread and cheese and perhaps some of your lovely lemonade would be wonderful.”
“I’ll send a basket over right away.” Edith hugged her again. “As dreadful as this night has been, at least your children and servants are safe and your husband is alive! Try to sleep, child. You look exhausted.”
“I am, but with my husband here, I know all will be well.” As Edith returned to her home, Callie said, “This way, Richard.”
She guided him into a thicket of shrubbery behind her gardens, lit by the flames of her burning house. “The guesthouse was originally slave quarters, but there are no slaves in my household. It’s private and surrounded by trees so it’s far cooler than Edith’s attic. There’s also a stable for your horse. It’s empty now because my horses took the family to Baltimore, but there’s water and fodder available.”
“You have more land than I guessed from seeing the front of the house,” Gordon observed as he collected the reins of his very patient horse and followed Callie onto a garden path that led back into the trees. The brick pathway was well illuminated by the light of the fire, though the flames were beginning to die down. “I’m glad we’ll have the privacy since we have so much to talk about.”
He couldn’t wait to find out how Callie had come to be here. After that, he and his alleged wife needed to coordinate their lies.
* * *
While Richard stabled and tended his horse, Callie retrieved the key to the guesthouse from under one of the flowerpots that flanked the front door. It was a relief to go inside. The cottage was small, with a sitting room holding a battered sofa and chairs, and a cramped bedroom with a washstand, cupboard, and a double bed pushed against one wall. A tiny alcove off the sitting room was set up as a kitchen.
The furnishings were simple and the kitchenware was mismatched pieces from the main house, but the whitewashed walls, polished pine floors, and pleasantly faded rag rugs were soothing. A water pump was mounted on the counter and basic items like tea and sugar were kept in the kitchen. There was even wood laid in the small fireplace, not that anyone would want a fire on an August night in Washington.
As she lit a lamp, she tried to steady her churning nerves. Losing her home and business was shattering, but her children and closest friends were safe, at least for now, which was a blessing beyond price.
Wonderful but most disorienting of all was the discovery that the dearest friend of her childhood was not dead but alive, shockingly handsome, and once more playing the role of her rescuer. But how the devil had he appeared in such a timely fashion?
As Callie was opening windows to let in fresh air, one of Edith’s maids and a male escort arrived with a generous basket of food and drink. Callie was investigating the contents when Richard entered carrying his saddlebags.
In his beautifully tailored blue coat, buckskins, fine white linen, and polished boots, he looked ready to ride with a lady through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. He set the saddlebags by the door, then peeled off his coat, cravat, and boots. Now he looked like a gentleman in a lady’s boudoir: broad shouldered and beautiful and intensely masculine. She found herself staring and forced her gaze back to the food basket.
“Very pleasant and indeed fairly cool,” he said as he scanned the room. “Lucky this cottage was tucked out of sight back here. Do you have guests often?”
“Almost never, but I like the sound of ‘guest cottage’ much better than ‘old slave quarters.’ This is more a retreat for privacy. Sometimes I’d work here when I wanted quiet or just to be alone. My servants, Sarah and Joshua, are married, and occasionally they’d stay here for a private night.” She sliced bread and cheese and ham and laid the food out on a chipped platter so they could help themselves.
Lastly, she produced a bottle of red wine. “Edith is generous. Can you open this? There are various utensils in the drawer in the kitchen and glasses in the cabinet below.”
“Wine seems like a very good idea now.” He followed her instructions and opened the wine, then poured it into two mismatched glass tumblers. He handed her one, then clinked his glass to hers. “To survival!”
“To survival,” she echoed before swallowing. Despite being half dressed, Richard was every inch the English gentleman, yet unnervingly . . . physical. Hard to ignore.
And in true gentlemanly fashion, he pulled out a battered wooden chair for her at the kitchen table. “Will my lady have a seat?”
She laughed as she settled with a flounce of blue skirts. “Those manners that were drilled into us as children never go away, do they?”
“We can ignore those lessons when we choose, but we never forget them,” he agreed as he sat opposite her and began to assemble a cheese and ham sandwich. When he was done, he handed it to her. “And very useful manners can be in convincing other people that one is well bred even if battered and wearing rags.”
“You’ve had to do that?” she asked curiously.
“Oh, yes,” he said with a grin that was pure boyish mischief as he made a second sandwich for himself.
Callie had hardly eaten for the last few days, and she found now that she was ravenous. After two sandwiches and a second glass of wine, she felt ready to face whatever came next. She rose, saying, “Please excuse me a moment while I become as cool as is practical.”
“Of course.” Richard politely got to his feet, once more demonstrating his excellent manners. “Brutal heat you have here. It’s a strong argument for returning to England.”
She made a face. “Washington is as hot as Jamaica without the sea breeze. But it all balances out because winter can be seriously cold, snowy, and icy.” She stepped into the bedroom and closed the door, then took off her gown and stays. She heard a crunch from the direction of her house and guessed it was the collapse of a charred beam. Strange that the fire still burned so close while she was in a very different world.
She wouldn’t think about the house. Her life had changed with shattering suddenness twice before, and she’d learned that there was no point in looking back. Looking forward was the way to survive.
That morning, she’d chosen garments that fastened in the front so she could manage on her own. It was a relief to strip off the layers of clothing and her shoes and stockings. Her cool, muslin chemise would make a good nightgown.
She kept a hairbrush and comb in the bedroom cupboard, so she took them into the sitting room and sank into a chair. Though she couldn’t bathe, brushing the tangles from her hair would make her feel more civilized.
