She tucked away the leftover food in the tiny larder adjacent to the kitchen. They’d have enough to eat for a few days at least. She would never accept charity again, but in this case—well, it was certainly going to go to good use.
A sudden chill ran through her body, and she clasped her arms across her chest. She strode over to the hearth to warm herself. She could never prevail upon him for help again. Her words to Becky rang true. She couldn’t very well presume upon a relationship that obviously meant nothing to him. After all, he had never written her. Not once in all his travels around the world.
And there it was. That was the truth. She couldn’t trust him because a tiny, bitter part of her resented the fact that he’d never once checked in on her during those long years. After her first few letters went unanswered, she knew the harsh truth. Daniel was away on the high seas and had simply forgotten her. That was his way. He was as mercurial as quicksilver and would never conform to any sort of stability. Over time, the raw, impotent rage she felt at being left behind had callused over. She would never count on him again, not for anything important.
But...perhaps she could count Daniel merely as a friend. She would never venture to be more than that, and it would behoove her to keep him at arm’s length. But after being alone in this world and taking care of her two sisters for so long, it was nice to have someone one’s own age as an acquaintance. She didn’t feel quite as miserably alone now.
She dusted her hands on her apron and blew out the few beeswax candles that hadn’t burned too low. Lit only by the flickering firelight, the dining room was warm and cozy. She sat on the hearthstone and surveyed her little kingdom with pride.
She said a quick prayer of gratitude.
The trip to Tansley, which had started so poorly, was looking much brighter.
Chapter Four
Some creature was dealing severe hammer blows to his head. Daniel lay with his eyes squeezed shut, willing the pounding to stop. At least for it to lessen enough that a fellow could turn his head. Baxter’s discreet knock on the door was as loud as cannon fire, and his footsteps across the wooden floor might as well have been anvils dropping from the sky.
“Have mercy, man,” Daniel groaned. “Why are you here, anyway? It’s before dawn and you know I don’t wish to be awakened before ten.”
Baxter gave a subtle cough. “It’s nearly noon, sir.”
Daniel opened his eyes, but the sunlight seared them, and he closed them again. “Are you sure, Baxter?”
“Quite sure. I do have your breakfast tray. Cook sent up bacon and eggs.” The mattress squeaked in protest as Baxter set the tray down.
“Oh, all right.” Daniel slowly pushed himself to a sitting position, holding his head as still as he possibly could. Perhaps a little bacon would ease the throbbing of his brain. “Don’t open the curtains, I beg you.”
“As you wish.” Baxter stood at the end of the bed, facing his master expectantly as Daniel pulled the breakfast tray into his lap.
“Well?” Daniel bit into a slice of bacon. The smoky taste of it gave him an uncertain moment. He’d either toss his accounts or be hale and hearty in a few seconds. He chewed carefully, waiting to see which way his body would react.
“Mr. Donaldson is here, waiting in the parlor. Your estate manager.” Baxter coughed again, and Daniel shot him a rueful glance under his brows. That sound was like nails on glass, especially after one had imbibed a bit too much the night before. “I told him that you were having a bit of a late start but that you would meet with him within the hour. He has some account books, which I gave him leave to spread out on the table.”
Account books. Estate managers. Parlors. His head gave another painful throb, and he bit slowly into the bacon once more. He was doing better, but still—the thought of meeting anyone to discuss business right now put him off. “Did I have an appointment with him?”
“You did, sir. I mentioned it to you yesterday, when Mr. Paul was here.”
“I don’t remember much of anything after Paul arrived, Baxter.” There had been a lot of scotch, hilarious conversation and japes, of course. But practical conversations? No, he didn’t recall a word. “Well, let the man cool his heels in the parlor. I’ll have a bit more breakfast and make myself presentable. This bacon is just what I needed.” He sipped at his tea, a potent, bitter brew so strong that the tannin left a film on his tongue. Bracing was not the word for Cook’s tea. No, she boiled it for so long that you could use it to scrub the decks of a ship. Perfect.
“Very good. Mr. Paul is still sleeping in the guest room. Shall I awaken him?”
“Don’t be absurd. That fellow has no responsibilities, no estate agents waiting upon him. Let him sleep it off. I’ll meet him later, at dinner.”
Baxter bowed and quit the room, shutting the door with a decisive snap. Daniel took another burning sip of tea and struggled to remember all that happened after Paul came over. What had they done? They’d spoken of Susannah and her sisters....
The throbbing in his head was easing. Now it just felt like annoying little birds giving his head an occasional peck.
Well, he couldn’t very well sit here forever. Donaldson was downstairs waiting. He’d only communicated with the fellow a few times by letter—never met him in person. Why was Donaldson here, after all? He was the expert on running the place. Daniel knew nothing of managing a farm.
He pushed the tray aside and sat up, every movement a small agony. Baxter had laid his clothes out for him—the typical country squire attire. Breeches, shirt, jacket. Cravat. Bother the cravat; he was not in the mood to be slowly choked by a piece of fabric today. He tugged and pulled, getting dressed to boots but draping his jacket over the chair as he strolled to the washbasin. The thing fit so tightly that it was impossible to properly wash one’s face with it on.
He gazed in the looking glass, running his hand over the rough stubble on his chin. He needed a shave, and the bags under his eyes spoke volumes about last night. When Donaldson left, he’d enjoy a nice hot bath and a shave. That would be his reward for making it through this meeting when he would much rather sleep.
He splashed tepid water in the washbasin and lathered his hands with a cake of soap. He paused. This wasn’t his usual soap, the one that smelled of fresh green herbs. What on earth was this?
He paused, breathing deeply for a moment.
Orange blossom.
Just like Susannah.
The certainty of what he’d done yesterday speared through him. Paul had dared him. Dared him to send something nice to his sweetheart. And he’d ordered a huge hamper of food to be delivered to the Siddons girls because Susy had been so hungry when he saw her last.
He groaned, rubbing his damp palms over his eyes—but as he drew them away, he could smell nothing but orange blossoms and could think of nothing but Susannah. Would she be offended by his gift? She would be if she’d known that it was done as a dare.
The sick feeling that had begun to ease over breakfast now hit him, full force, in the gut. He clenched the side of the basin and bowed his head.
When the room stopped spinning a bit, he trusted himself to make it over to the bellpull. In short order, Baxter entered the room. “Yes, sir?”
“Why do I have orange blossom soap?” Daniel jerked his head toward the basin and pitcher.
“The maid must have made a mistake. Usually we have your bay rum.” Baxter crossed over to the basin and