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“Later, I expect I will.” June had bent to kiss Tuppence’s cool cheek and left the room before the thought I’ll never see her alive again broke her down.

Mad had told her she was welcome to wait in his room over the stables while he was gone, and she had longed to escape to that quiet, private place. But the awareness of all that needed to be done in the kitchen had weighed on her. She certainly hadn’t wanted Mad to take on the extra work; his day had been no easier than hers. So she’d gone to wash the dishes in the scullery.

To her surprise, she’d found both Enid and Norman working in the kitchen.

“You go on to bed, June,” Enid had said briskly. “No need to set foot in here. Mr. Goodluck and I are taking care of everything.”

“It won’t be done well,” Norman had added, emptying a basin of dirty water into the sink, “but it’ll be done.”

To June’s chagrin, that had started her crying. She’d thanked them between sobs and kept on crying as she’d gone out to the carriage house and climbed the stairs to Mad’s room. Tears kept coming as she saw that Mad had set out an enameled tin hip bath beside the cast-iron stove, where a large brass can of water was heating.

The blasted crying didn’t stop as she poured the hot water into the tub and mixed in some cold water from another can. It went on while she undressed and hung her clothes on a row of wooden pegs.

But finally, as she lowered into the steaming water, and sat there hugging her knees, all the unruly emotion quieted. The only sounds were the ticking of the cast-iron stove as it expanded from the heat, and the occasional rustle of coal.

She let out a long sigh and relaxed against the slanted back of the tub.

Instantly her mind pulled up an image, like an angler jerking a thrashing trout from a brook. Tuppence on the kitchen table—and blood, and—

No, don’t think about that.

She glanced around Mad’s room, his private world.

It was a nice room; good-sized and tidy. A red wool rug covered the floor to help keep out the chill. Some items had been lined up on a shelf . . . a green glass bottle holding a candle stub . . . a small painted tin box . . . some penny prints in cardboard mounts. The iron-framed bed was wide and covered with a patchwork quilt.

She reached over to the chair beside the bath and picked up a cake of soap. Not the yellow rosin soaps the rest of the household used, but the expensive white kind made with coconut and palm oils. She would have expected him to go splurging on chewing tobacco, maybe, or gin, but not fancy soap. It smelled like him, dry and fresh. Slowly she lathered up the white soap and washed herself, letting the scent absorb into her own skin.

When the bath began to cool, June stepped out of the tub and dried off with the length of clean toweling that had been draped over the back of the chair.

A sleet-thickened wind scoured the outside of the carriage house, making her shiver. Mad was out somewhere in that frozen darkness.

She wrapped the towel around herself, wishing she’d thought to bring a nightgown with her. There was her chemise—but something in her recoiled at the idea of putting on any of the clothes she’d worn during the surgery. Maybe there was something of Mad’s she could wear. It was forward of her, but after the way she’d already imposed, might as well make a thorough job of it.

She shuffled to the cupboard and looked inside, and found a clean folded flannel, a long-sleeved shirt to be worn under the regular shirt. Eagerly she pulled it on. The soft, warm garment reached almost to her knees. One by one, she pulled the pins from her hair and set them on the shelf, releasing a jumble of every-which-way curls.

After refilling the hot-water can and shoveling more coal into the stove, she climbed into bed with the groan of a wounded creature. The bed was comfortable and dry. It was relief beyond speaking to be off her aching feet. She was nothing but a collection of parts that would need to be reassembled in the morning.

But tired as she was, she knew sleep would be impossible. She couldn’t stop wondering how Tuppence’s baby was. Or if Tuppence was still alive. Or—

No. Think of recipes. For Apple Charlotte, pare and slice six apples. Line a pudding mold with twelve slices of buttered bread. Mix half a cup of sugar and a spoonful of lemon juice—

She heard distant noises and felt the vibrations of the stable doors down below as they slid against their tracks.

Mad was back, bringing in the horses.

Listening intently, June snuggled deeper beneath the blankets and quilt. Mad would rub down the horses, cover them with wool blankets, and give them water and hot mash. There were creaks of stall doors, a rattle of planks, thuds of saddles and tack thrown onto wooden racks. Clinks and clanks of coal being added to the tack room stove. The thunk of a kettle put on to boil. Now and then, she heard the dark baritone of Mad’s voice as he talked to the horses in that gentle way he had.

Finally heavy boots clomped on the stairs as he headed up to the room.

And here she was, the woman who’d brazenly invited herself for the night, bathed with his soap, and now lay in his bed wearing his flannel. He might regret she was there. He might be tired and churlish, and she wouldn’t blame him. He’d been running apace all night, doing the work of a coachman, a footman, and a stableman—

The door opened and coldness blew in. Mad turned quickly to shut out the chill and fasten the latch. He stopped at the sight of her in his bed, his face expressionless.

Her nerves began to splinter in that moment of stillness.

“I borrowed your flannel,” she blurted out defensively. “I didn’t have nothing else to wear.”

That drew a slow, easy smile from him. “You’re the nicest thing what’s ever happened to that shirt, you are.”