The Outcast's Redemption

‘Really?’ she murmured, unbuttoning her pelisse. ‘I understand the Horse Shoe Inn is very comfortable.’

‘Ah, you misunderstand.’ Mr Duncombe cleared his throat again. ‘I thought we might find Mr Peregrine a bed here for a few nights.’

* * *

Grace sighed inwardly. Why did Papa think it necessary to play the Good Samaritan to every stranger who appeared? She regarded the two men as they stood side by side before the fire, the guest towering over his host. She turned her attention to the stranger. The dust of the road clung to his boots, his clothes were positively shabby and as for his linen—the housewife in her was shocked to see anything so grey. Grace was not used to looking up at anyone, indeed she had often heard herself described as a beanpole, but this man topped her by several inches. His dark curling hair was as rumpled as the rest of him and at least a day’s growth of black stubble covered his cheeks. She met his eyes and although the candlelight was not sufficient to discern their colour they held a most distracting glint. She looked away, flustered.

‘I do not think...’ she began, but Papa was not listening.

‘And we have been very remiss in our refreshments, my love. Mrs Truscott is unwell, but I am sure you will be able to find our guest a little supper?’

‘Why, of course,’ she answered immediately, glad of the opportunity to get this man away from her father, who was far too kind-hearted for his own good. ‘Perhaps Mr Peregrine would like to accompany me to the kitchen?’

‘The kitchen?’ her father exclaimed, surprised. ‘My dear—’

‘It will be much easier for me to feed Mr Peregrine there, sir, since he will be on hand to tell me just what he would like.’ She managed a smile. ‘I came in that way and noted a good fire in the range, so it is very comfortable. And you may finish your sermon in peace, Papa.’

Her father made another faint protest, but the stranger said, ‘Pray do not be anxious for me, sir. If you have work to finish, then I must disturb you no longer.’ He picked up his battered portmanteau and turned to Grace. ‘Lead on, Miss Duncombe. I am at your service.’

It was most gallantly said, but Grace was not fooled. She merely inclined her head and moved towards the door.

‘Oh, Grace, send Truscott to me, when you see him, if you please. I need to apprise him of the situation.’

She looked back in surprise. ‘There is no need, Papa, I can do that.’

‘It is no trouble, my love. I want to see him on other matters, too, so you had best send him up. As soon as you can.’

‘Very well, sir.’ Her eyes flickered towards the stranger. ‘Come along.’

She crossed the hall and descended the stairs to the basement with the man following meekly behind. No, she amended that. There was nothing meek about Mr Peregrine. Hah, she almost laughed out loud. That was no more the man’s name than it was hers. Clearly Papa had made it up on the spur of the moment to give him some semblance of respectability. It was the sort of thing her father would do. Papa was a scholar and Grace’s own education was sufficient for her to know that the name meant traveller in Latin. No doubt Papa thought that a good joke.

She went quickly to the kitchen, despatched Truscott upstairs to see his master and turned to face the man.

‘Very well, you may sit at the table and I will see what we have in the larder.’

‘A mere trifle will do,’ he murmured, easing his long legs over the bench. ‘A little bread and butter, perhaps.’

She pursed her lips. Even sitting down he dominated the kitchen.

‘I do not think a mere trifle will do for you at all,’ she retorted, reaching for an apron. ‘You look the sort of man who eats heartily.’

‘You have it right there, mistress, but with your cook indisposed I would be happy to have a little bread and cheese, if you know where to find it. Perhaps your man Truscott will help us, when he returns.’

Grace had been thinking that she would serve him just that, but his words flicked her on the raw. She drew herself up and fixed him with an icy look.

‘I am quite capable of producing a meal for you. It is a bad housewife who has to depend upon her servants for every little thing!’

* * *

Wolfgang rested his arms on the table as he watched Grace Duncombe bustling in and out of the kitchen. She must be what, twenty-three, twenty-four? He couldn’t remember seeing her, when he had lived at Arrandale, but ten years ago he had taken very little notice of what went on in the village. He had been four-and-twenty, reluctantly preparing to settle down with his wife. He thought of Florence, lying cold and broken on the stone floor, and her daughter—their daughter. The baby he had always believed had died with her. He rubbed his temples. He would consider that tomorrow. For now he was bone-tired from travelling and ravenously hungry. From the delicious smells coming from the frying pan his hostess was rising admirably to the challenge of feeding him.

When Truscott returned, Wolf knew he had been informed of their guest’s identity. The man was bemused and not a little embarrassed to find Arrandale of Arrandale sitting in the kitchen. Miss Duncombe was absent at that moment and the manservant stood irresolute, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

‘Sir, I—’

Wolfgang stopped him. ‘Hush, your mistress is returning.’

She came in from the yard.

‘Truscott, pray fetch a bottle of wine for our visitor.’

‘Nay, not just for me,’ said Wolf quickly. ‘Bring a glass for your mistress, too.’

He thought for a moment she would object, but she merely frowned and went back to her cooking. The kitchen was warm and comfortable and Wolfgang felt himself relaxing as he watched her work. She was well named, he thought, there was a gracefulness to her movements, and an assurance unusual in one so young.

When Truscott went out again, Wolf said, ‘Are you only preparing a meal for me?’

‘Father and I dined earlier,’ she replied, dropping pieces of lamb into the pan. ‘Papa will take nothing more than a biscuit or two until the morning.’ She finished cooking the meat and arranged it neatly on the plate. ‘There,’ she said with a hint of defiance. ‘Your dinner.’

Wolf regarded the meal she had set before him. Besides the collops of mutton there was a dish of fried potato as well as cold potted hare and a parsnip pie.

‘A meal fit for a lord,’ he declared. ‘Will you not join me?’

‘No, thank you. I told you I have already dined.’

‘Then at least stay and drink a glass of wine with me.’ When she shook her head he murmured, ‘“Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.”’

She glared at him, but at least she stayed. She slid on to the end of the bench opposite. ‘What an odd thing to say. I do not hate you, Mr Peregrine.’

He poured wine into the glasses and pushed one across the table towards her. She cradled it in her hands before sipping the contents.

‘Then what do you think of me?’ he asked.

‘To begin with,’ she said slowly, looking down at her wineglass, ‘I do not think you are deserving of Papa’s best claret.’

‘The best, is it?’ Wolf murmured. ‘Perhaps your man made a mistake.’

‘Truscott does not make mistakes.’

No, thought Wolf, but it would be his undoing if the man showed him too much respect. For all that he could not help teasing her.

‘Then clearly he sees the worth of the man beneath these sorry clothes.’

She put her glass down with a snap. ‘Who are you?’

‘What you see, a humble pilgrim.’

‘Yes, I know that is what you would like me to think, Mr Peregrine, but I will tell you to your face that I find nothing humble about you!’