the moment. A light showed in one of the semi-basement windows, so at least some of the promised staff were present, but there was no rush to open the door. Perhaps the snow had muffled the sound of the carriage.
Paul, the groom, opened the door and let down the step. ‘The snow’s deep, my lady.’
‘Let me.’ Captain Markham jumped down beside him. ‘We’ll trample a path through. Put an arm around my shoulders.’ The two of them moved forward, stamping in unison.
‘What a good thing we found the Captain,’ Miri observed, watching their progress.
‘Thomas and Paul would have managed between them.’ At least the man did not have expensive clothing to ruin. She had noticed the worn boots and the roughly mended cuff of his greatcoat. If he had sold his commission then he ought to have bought himself some respectable civilian clothes with the proceeds and not be traipsing around the countryside in that state.
He came back to them, leaving Paul pounding on the front door. ‘It’s as cold as Satan’s ar—as cold as the devil, ma’am. I would wait there until someone answers.’
‘I am not shivering in a coach on my own doorstep, Captain.’ Or being managed by a man. She climbed down, ignored his outstretched hand and started up the trampled path. Behind her she heard him offering his arm to Miri, who murmured her gratitude. Then her right foot shot up, her left foot skidded to the side and she was falling backwards.
‘Oh—’ The very naughty word in Urdu clashed with a small scream from Miri, then an arm lashed round her waist and she was lifted off her feet and into Captain Markham’s arms. Really, the man’s reflexes were astonishing. So was the strength of his arm—Julia knew she was no lightweight, not with all five feet six inches of her bundled in layers of winter clothing. ‘Thank you, Captain, you may put me down now.’
‘Best not.’ He adjusted his grip, raising her higher against his chest and getting one arm under the crook of her knees.
‘Captain!’
‘No call for alarm, I have you safe.’
That was an entirely new definition of safe. Certainly her heart rate had kicked up in alarm. ‘I am not a turkey to be lugged about.’
‘No,’ he agreed, striding up to the door. ‘You are much easier to get a grip on and you aren’t shedding feathers.’
The door creaked open before she could think of a retort. The light etched a thin ribbon of gold on to the snow.
‘Yes?’ The voice wavered eerily.
She shivered and the arms holding her tightened in response. Oh, for heaven’s sake, this is not some Gothic novel! ‘I am Lady Julia Chalcott. This is my house. My solicitor wrote to say that I was coming to stay. Now kindly open this door properly and show us to the drawing room.’
‘Maa…’ It was a bleat. Which, as it issued from the mouth of a man who looked more like a sheep than anyone decently should, was appropriate. ‘Ma’am? We never heard from no solicitor.’
She felt decidedly at a disadvantage and gave a wriggle. An amused huff of breath warmed her temple. ‘You address me as my lady, and who are you?’
The man retreated into the depths of the dark hall as the Captain strode forward. ‘Light some candles immediately, please.’
‘Yes, maa… Sir. My lady. Smithers, my lady. The drawing room is there, but the fire isn’t lit.’
Nor were the covers off the furniture or the curtains drawn. Captain Markham set her on her feet and waited while she released her grip on his sleeve before he removed the candle from Smithers’s unsteady hand and walked round setting the flame to every candle in sight, then dropped to one knee and thrust a hand into the kindling laid in the hearth. ‘Dry, although I’d not take a wager that the chimney will not smoke.’
‘Er…’
That was an improvement on bleating, but there went her daydream about a cosy house and equally cosy staff. Efficient, cheerful, staff. ‘Tell Cook that we need tea, Smithers. And sandwiches and cake. Then send the footmen to bring in the luggage. I require bedchambers for myself and Miss Chalcott, a maid to attend on us, a chamber for Captain Markham and accommodation for my coachman and groom. Hot water. We will dine at seven.’
‘But there’s only me and Mrs Smithers, my lady. And the Girl.’ He somehow managed to give the word a capital letter. ‘And I don’t rightly know as how we’ve got any cake, nor anything much for dinner, my lady. Just the rabbit pie and the barley broth.’ Smithers’s face was a mixture of bafflement and deep apprehension.
The butterflies that had been flapping around ever since Captain Markham picked her up turned into a lead weight and sank in her very empty stomach. ‘Oh. The beds are aired, are they not?’ It was foolish optimism, she knew as soon as she spoke.
‘Er…’
No, that was not, after all, an improvement on bleating. ‘I had best speak to Mrs Smithers.’ She waited until he shuffled out of the door and turned to the others. ‘Captain, please will you light the fire? We must risk the smoke.’
‘Me lady?’ Julia turned, praying not to be confronted by another sheep, and was rewarded by the sight of Mrs Smithers, a birdlike woman in a vast apron, a ladle clutched in one hand. Over her shoulder could be glimpsed a freckle-faced child of about twelve. The Girl, presumably.
At least the ladle promised food of some kind. ‘Mrs Smithers. Good afternoon. As I explained to your husband, we require beds—aired beds—made up in three chambers. Fires lit. Hot water. Dinner for seven o’clock and accommodation for the coachman and groom.’
The other woman stared, her mouth working, then she plumped herself down in the nearest chair, threw her apron over her head and burst into tears.
Julia took a deep breath and turned to Captain Markham, the shredded remains of her Christmas fantasy fluttering around her like so many falling leaves. ‘Are you skilled at bed-making, Captain?’ she enquired sweetly.
Chapter Two
‘Bed-making?’ Giles drawled. ‘I have more experience unmaking them, I fear.’
He hadn’t thought the remark that risqué, but Miss Chalcott smothered a giggle with her hand and a wash of colour came up over Lady Julia’s cheekbones. She was tired and upset and he admired the fact that she hadn’t followed the example of the cook and given way to tears.
‘I will see that your coachman and groom have what they need, then I will return and light fires, fold dust sheets, chase spiders…whatever you require, ma’am.’
She regarded him, lips tight as she controlled her emotions, a tall woman with skin still glowing unfashionably from years in the sun. Her nose was straight, her eyes were blue and her hair, what he could see of it, was blonde. It was difficult under the brim of that bonnet and with the poor light in the room, but he assumed she was in her early thirties. Certainly her air of command and authority was striking.
‘Thank you, Captain.’ Her voice was still sweet, just as lemonade, imperfectly sugared, was sweet. Then she turned to the servants with a string of clear instructions that had Mrs Smithers mopping her eyes and hurrying from the room and Smithers tugging at the dustsheets as though his life depended on it.
Perhaps it did, Giles mused as he let himself out and walked round the house to find the stables. Perhaps she would produce some exotic Indian weapon and behead the lot of them if they disobeyed her orders.
He was becoming whimsical with weariness, but it had been a long day and his life was so upside down these past weeks that it was no wonder he found himself oddly stirred by this woman. Most likely it was the memory of the weight of her rounded body in his arms, the womanly scent