She tilted her head to peer at him from under her long lashes. “The Brewsters and their people would be relieved to hear it,” she said, and then “And I would be beyond grateful.”
“Dinner?” Her smile still held him in inarticulate wonder. One word was all he could say.
“If we can manage it, yes,” she said, pulling her gaze away to call Walter to follow her.
CHAPTER3
Aman accustomed to solitude does not require entertainment. Zach sat on his cot above the stables and listened to the rain pound down while the wind shook the roof and an unfamiliar sensation rattled his soul.
You are alone Newell, and nobody gives a damn where you are or what you do with free time you didn’t expect. You may as well get on with it.
Even his uncle didn’t much care, as long as he got the carriage back in good condition; he’d already done what he could for the equipment. He reached between his legs, pulled out his valise and retrieved his journal with a bit of rummaging, flipping to the page he sought, the one with his estimations.
His sister Abigail might put her head up now and again to wonder whatever became of him, but she had five children and an irritable husband. Life would pull her back and she’d forget. Women? There’d been a brief flirtation since his return to Rumford, an innocent one compared to relations in the Peninsula, his limp notwithstanding, but it never amounted to anything.
What brought on the blue devils, Newell? Y’ve never been a brooder.He intended to use the day to review his accounts to see if some rearranging of his figures might show him a path forward to act on his plans sooner than he originally thought. He tapped a pencil on the page, but his thoughts floated away.
Is it the majors?Seeing Jamie Heyworth, that hey-go-mad officer from Spain, had dragged up memories, not all of them good, but no.That isn’t it. Transporting Mallet had been pure privilege. The man’s legend as one of Wellington’s exploring officers didn’t fit the quiet bespectacled man he’d picked up in Rumford, but spies could be funny that way.
No. If anything, the majors’ presence let him sit a little taller and remember when his life made a difference before it had been reduced to dragging passengers back and forth across England.
He didn’t hate the work; he didn’t expect to do it forever, either. Zach Newell had plans and dreams. He stared down at the page again.Ones that matter to no one but you.He slammed the journal shut.
He ran his hand through his thick hair, making a mental note to get it cut, and considered what sent him into the dismals. The morning started well enough, with Zach jumbled out of a dream deep in the throes of defending himself to discover that the noise he heard wasn’t a rampaging French regiment but a rowdy bunch of hungry boys. The memory made him smile.
It felt good to settle the troops down, putting them in good order and—reading them a story?Admit it, Newell. It was more fun than you’ve had in months. For a brief while, someone had needed him. More than that. Patience Abney approved. Her glowing face rocked him to his core.
When he promised her that he’d help, he’d looked forward to earning more of that approval—and to the fun of keeping the inventive imps from trouble. Inviting her to dinner had been pure impulse and a foolish one. He’d been without a woman’s company too long; his wits had gone begging with his manners.
But she left, and soon enough Peter expressed an interest in hoof care. That’s when old Ryman attached Norb and Froggy to his grooms to show them proper use of curry combs and brushes—a role Zach had planned to take. Then the head groom led Peter out to the smithy, and Stump—with January as well since the little one stuck to Stump like a burr—took to sweeping with serious intent, needing only the occasional reminder to slow down.
That left Zach on his own. To brood.
An outburst of noise outside, the thing he didn’t even know he was waiting for, brought him to his feet and a grin to his face.
He tucked his pencil into his simple waistcoat, and briefly considered donning the heavy coachman’s coat that hung above the cot, rejecting that idea. The soft jacket he kept tucked in his valise may have been wrinkled, but it impeded his movement less. It would do as long as he had the sense to stay out of the rain. He stuffed the journal into an inside pocket.
Halfway to the stairs, he remembered Miss Abney’s books. There were six—a mixed bag of primers, maths, and stories—laid out by the chimney, dry now and in the way of the grooms. He scooped them into their oilcloth bag and started down the steps that led to the stableyard, grateful they were covered.
“Need help, Sergeant Newell?” Stump stood in the rain at the bottom of the covered stairs staring up at him, watching his awkward progress.
Zach cursed silently; he always hoped to get through moments like this unobserved. “I can manage.” He wondered if the lad had come to fetch him.
“I can see that. But Miss Patience always tells us that sometimes a man has to take help. Pride can lead a man to tumble,” Stump countered. January, at his side nodded in agreement. The lad’s eyes missed nothing even as Zach descended, but he never spoke. Another puzzle to feed Zach’s curiosity.
“Miss Patience is wise,” Zach said out loud while silently adding,but she underestimates a man’s need for his pride. “Best get out of the rain, young sir. Have you finished your first task?”
Stump raised a brow at ‘first.’ “We were, but some more folks arrived. Came to ask if I should get clean hay from the loft after I sweep out their mud?”
“What is the racket I heard?”
“Froggy and Norb got into it over whose turn it was to work with the horses, only Bert, the groom with the squirrely hair, told ’em both there’s no need and to bugger off and stay out of the stalls and then they—”
Zach caught sight of Bert leading another team, drenched with rain, into the stableyard. “I expect clean hay won’t go amiss,” he muttered. Stump sauntered off toward the coach house with a cocky tilt to his head, January on his heels, and Zach took the inside passage behind the stalls to search for the two miscreants.
A small rump hung over the half door of a stall and Zach could hear a muffled argument from inside. At his gruff, “What do you think you’re doing?” The bent body jerked upward and Froggy scrambled down to the cobbles. “I told him not to do it,” he said.
Zach put one hand on the boy’s shoulder and peered over the door. “Remove yourself!”
