The Outcast's Redemption

‘Humility comes hard for a gentleman fallen on hard times.’

She was silent and Wolf gave his attention to the food. It was really very good, but it troubled him that she had been obliged to cook it.

‘You have only the two servants?’ he asked her. She bridled at his question and he went on quickly. ‘You have a large, fine church here and this area is a prosperous one, I believe.’

‘It was used to be,’ she told him. ‘There has been no one living at the Hall for several years now and that has had an effect. Without a family in residence our shopkeepers cannot sell their goods to them, the farmers do not supply them with milk and meat.’

‘But the estate is very large, it must provide a good living for many local families.’

‘With an absentee landlord the farms do not thrive and there is no money to maintain the houses. Many families worked at the Hall, when it closed they lost their positions. Some moved away and took up new posts, others found what work they could locally.’ She looked across the table at him. ‘There is much poverty here now. My father does what he can to relieve it, but his own funds are limited. We have very little of value in this house.’

Wolf understood her, but the fact she thought he might be a thief did not matter at that moment, what concerned him was that the people—his people—were suffering. Duncombe had told him the lawyers were being parsimonious with his money, but clearly they did not realise the effect of that. Richard should have started proceedings to declare him dead. Instead he preferred to put his own money into Arrandale.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as the weight of responsibility pressed down on him. He had thought himself unfairly punished, exiled in France for a crime he had not committed, but he saw now that he was not the only one to suffer.

‘How long do you intend to stay in Arrandale?’ Grace asked him.

‘A few days, no more.’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘It is growing late and I should indeed be grateful for a bed, Miss Duncombe, if you can spare one.’

‘My father does not turn away anyone in need.’

‘Thank you.’ He pushed aside his empty plate. ‘Then with your permission I will retire now.’

‘Of course.’ She rose as the elderly manservant shuffled back into the room. ‘Ah, Truscott, Mr Peregrine is to be our guest for a few days. Perhaps you would show him to his room. Above the stable.’

She took a large iron key from a peg beside the door.

‘The...the groom’s quarters, mistress?’ The servant goggled at her.

‘Why, yes.’ She turned her bright, no-nonsense smile on Wolf. ‘We have no stable hands now, so the garret is free. I have already made up the bed for you. Truscott will show you the pump in the yard and where to find the privy. I am sure you will be very comfortable.’

And I will be safely out of the house overnight, thought Wolf, appreciatively.

‘I am sure I shall, Miss Duncombe, thank you.’

Truscott was still goggling, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Wolf clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Come, my friend, let us find a lamp and you can show me to my quarters.’

* * *

The servant led him across the yard to the stable block, but when they reached the outer stairs that led to the garret, Truscott could contain himself no longer.

‘Mr Arrandale, sir,’ he said, almost wringing his hands in despair. ‘Miss Duncombe’s as kind as can be, but she don’t know, see. I pray you’ll forgive her for treating you like this.’

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ said Wolf, taking the key from the old man’s hands. ‘Your mistress is very wise to be cautious. I should not like to think of her letting any stranger sleep in the house. Now, go back indoors and look after her. And remember, tomorrow you must treat me as a poor stranger, no serving me any more of your best wines!’

* * *

Wolf climbed the stairs to the groom’s quarters and made a quick inspection. Everything was clean and orderly. One room contained a bed, an old chest of drawers and a washstand, the other a table and a couple of chairs. Wolf guessed the furniture had been consigned there when it was no longer of any use in the house. However, it was serviceable and the bed was made up with sheets, blankets and pillows upon a horsehair mattress. He lost no time in shedding his clothes and slipping between the sheets. He could not help a sigh of satisfaction as he felt the soft linen against his skin. After a journey of twenty hours aboard the French fishing boat that had put him ashore near Eastbourne, he had travelled on foot and by common stage to reach Arrandale. The most comfortable bed on his journey had been a straw mattress, so by comparison this was sheer heaven.

He stretched out and put his hands behind his head. He could not fault Miss Grace Duncombe as a housekeeper. A smile tugged at his mouth as he recalled her shock when the parson said he was to stay with them. She had come into the room like a breath of fresh air. Doubtless because she brought the chill of the spring evening in with her. She said she had been visiting a Mrs Owlet. He frowned, dragging back old memories. The Owlets had worked at the great house for generations. It was a timely reminder that he would have to take care in the village, there were many such families who might well recognise his lanky frame. Grace Duncombe had no idea of his true identity, but she clearly thought him a rogue, set upon taking advantage of her kindly father, which was why she was housing him in this garret. That did not matter. He was here to find out the truth, but he must go carefully, one false move could cost him his life.

* * *

It was Grace’s habit to rise early, but this morning she was aware of an added urgency. There was a stranger in the garret. She was quite accustomed to taking in needy vagrants at the vicarage, giving them a good meal and a bed for the night, but Mr Peregrine disturbed her peace. She was afraid her father would invite the man to breakfast with him.

As soon as it was light Grace slipped out of bed and dressed herself, determined to make sure that if their guest appeared he would not progress further than the kitchen. When she descended to the basement she could hear the murmur of voices from the scullery and looked in to find Mrs Truscott standing over the maid as she worked at the stone sink in the corner. They stopped talking when Grace appeared in the doorway.

‘Ah, good morning, Miss Grace.’ Mrs Truscott looked a little flustered as she came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I was just getting Betty to wash out Mr—that is—the gentleman’s shirt. So dirty it was, as if he had been travelling in it for a week. We didn’t heat up the copper, not just for one shirt, Miss, oh, no, a couple of kettles was all that was needed and look—hold it up, Betty—you can see it has come up clean as anything. All it needs now is a good blow out of doors and it will be as good as new.’

‘Did Mr Peregrine ask you to do this?’ asked Grace, astounded at the nerve of the man.

‘Oh, no, Miss Grace, but I could see it needed washing, so I told Truscott to fetch it off the gentleman at first light, saying I would find him a shirt from the charity box to tide him over if need be, but he said he had another to wear today, so all we have to do now is get this one dry.’

Betty had been nodding in agreement, but she stopped, putting up her nose to sniff the air like a hound.

‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Truscott, but ain’t that the bacon I can smell?’

‘Oh, Lordy yes.’ The housekeeper snatched the wet shirt from the maid’s hands and dropped it into the basket. ‘Quick, girl, it will be burned to a crisp and then what will the master say? Oh, and there’s the bread in the oven, too!’

Grace stepped aside and the maid rushed past her.

‘Give me the shirt, Mrs Truscott, I will peg it out while you attend to Father’s breakfast.’

‘Oh, Miss Grace, if you are sure?’

‘I am perfectly capable of doing it, so off you go now.’ Smiling, she watched the housekeeper hurry back to the kitchen then, putting a handful of pegs in the basket on top of the shirt, she made her way outside. The sun was shining now and a steady breeze was blowing. Grace took a deep breath. She loved spring days like this, when there was warmth in the sun and a promise of summer to come. It was a joy to be out of doors.

A clothes line was fixed up in the kitchen gardens, which were directly behind the stable block. As she crossed the yard Grace heard the noise of the pump being worked and assumed it was Truscott fetching more water for the house, but when she turned the corner she stopped, her mouth opening in surprise to see their guest, stripped to the waist and washing himself.

Her first reaction was to run away, but it was too late for that, he had spotted her. She should not look at him, but could not drag her eyes away from the sight of his half-naked body. The buckskins covering his thighs could not have been tighter, but although he was so tall there was nothing spindly about his long legs. They were perfectly proportioned. He had the physique of an athlete, the flat stomach and lean hips placing no strain on those snugly fitting breeches, but above the narrow waist the body widened into a broad chest and muscled shoulders, still wet and glinting in the morning sun. He bent to pick up his towel, his movements lithe, the muscles rippling beneath the skin. As he straightened she noted the black beard on his cheeks and watched as he flicked the thick dark hair away from his face. Droplets of water flew off the tendrils, catching the light. Like a halo, she thought wildly. A halo for a dark angel.

‘Good morning, Miss Duncombe.’

Her throat had dried. She knew if she tried to speak it would be nothing more than a croak so instead she inclined her head, frowning in an effort not to blush. She forced her legs to move and walked on, feeling very much like one passing a strange dog and not knowing if it was going to attack. The line was only yards away from the pump and, keeping her back to him, she concentrated on pegging out his shirt. Her fingers felt stiff, awkward and her spine tingled at the thought of the man behind her. She had noticed faint scars on his body, signs that he had not lived a peaceful life.

* * *

It was very quiet, perhaps he had gone, after all he had finished washing himself and it must be cold, standing in this chill wind, naked...

‘Thank you for going to so much trouble for me.’

She jumped at the sound of his deep voice. She turned to find he was very close, towering over her. He was towelling his wet hair and with his arms raised he looked bigger and broader than ever. The skin beneath his ribcage was drawn in, accentuating his deep chest with its shadow of dark hair. What would it be like to touch him, to run her hands over his skin and feel those crisp, dark hairs curling over her fingers?

Shocked, Grace stepped back and hastily picked up the washing basket, holding it before her like a shield while she tried to gather her scattered wits. She must answer him.

‘It was nothing. We c-cannot have you going about the village like a beggar.’ She began to move backwards, as if she was afraid to turn her back on him. ‘Once you are dressed Mrs Truscott will serve you breakfast in the kitchen.’