pot to the table, Major.’ The boys scurried around, finding plates and knives and producing bread from a big stoneware crock. There was stew, simple and savoury with fluffy herbed dumplings floating in it, bread and butter, cheese, stewed dried apples and ale to wash it all down with. Hugo tried not to eat like a wolf, despite second and then third helpings being offered.
‘Thank you, ma’am. It is delicious, but I’ll not eat you out of house and home—you will not have been expecting to cater for a visitor tonight.’
Mrs Weston sent him one of her flashing smiles. ‘It is a pleasure to feed anyone who appreciates my food. And we will not go short, believe me. I have ample in stock for the winter and once we can communicate with the outside world, fresh supplies are not so very far away.’
‘Where are we? I must have passed between Berkhamsted and Hemel Hempstead in the dark—my map had turned to mush and I couldn’t read the compass with no light. I was heading, I hoped, for the road towards Northampton.’
‘This is the hamlet of Little Gatherborne. On the other side of the River Gather is Greater Gatherborne and we are about six miles from Berkhamsted that way—’ she pointed ‘—and about eight in that direction from Watling Street, which is the road you want.’
‘That’s a Roman road,’ Nathan piped up. ‘Joseph and I speak Latin so if there are any Romans left we can talk to them.’
Latin? Boys from a common ale house? He was beginning to suspect that it was a most uncommon one. ‘I think they have all gone, Nathan.’
‘How do you know my name, Major? No one else can tell us apart.’
‘Except your mama, I assume. I am used to having to learn the names of dozens of men at a time. You learn to spot The little differences.’
‘Your ears!’ Nathan jeered at his brother.
‘Nathan! The pair of you, clear the table and then off to bed with you. The major doesn’t want to hear boys squabbling.’
Actually, to his surprise, he didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. They were lively and sharp, and even on their best behaviour seemed to fill the room, but he liked their honest reactions to everything and their obvious devotion to their mother. It was not how he had been brought up, but then he had been raised as an orphaned earl from younger than these two were now, and in a very different setting. The mother of these boys seemed to encourage them to express opinions and emotions.
He tried to imagine his elderly guardians confronted by these two and had to suppress a grin. A gentleman is in control of his emotions at all times. Loss of control is a sign of weakness in a gentleman. The so-called tender emotions are for women and, in men, lead to weakness of resolve, vulnerability and effeminacy. The old boys had a complete certainty that he had imbibed very thoroughly. It had made him a good officer and landowner, but listening to the enthusiastic chatter now he felt an unfamiliar twinge of envy at their freedom.
Hugo got up. ‘Shall I check on the animals?’ He had to make sure Ajax was settling down with no ill effects from his drenching and it would get him out of the house and away from the disconcerting feeling that he was being absorbed into the family when he could not speak the language. That and the decidedly disturbing effect of Mrs Weston’s smiling hazel eyes on his equilibrium.
‘Oh, thank you.’ She looked up from a brisk discussion of how much washing was necessary for boys on a cold winter evening. ‘I would appreciate it.’
Either Emilia Weston was a very nice woman, Hugo thought, taking the lantern off its hook and lighting it before going into the stable, or she was not used to getting much help. Or perhaps both, which worried him. But there was not a great deal he could do to help; tomorrow he would be on his way. He would pay her well for his bed and board, of course, but still it left him feeling uncomfortable, as though he was watching a delicate thoroughbred mare being put into harness and made to pull a burden too great for her strength, however strong her spirit.
Ajax was dozing, one hoof cocked up, his jaw resting on the edge of the virtually empty manger. The horse opened his eyes and regarded Hugo lazily as he checked on the water buckets, ducked outside to make sure the pigsty was secure, then bolted the outer door. Hugo leaned on the horse’s rump for a minute or two, relaxing against the familiar bulk, his mind running round in circles. He was tired. Beyond tired, but not sleepy.
He went back into the house, bolting the door behind him. The taproom was empty, his pallet lying close to the fire promising rest if not sleep. Hugo began to check the shutters and front door locks methodically. His hand was on the open shutter when she spoke behind him.
‘Leave that one, please. Just turn down the wick on the lantern, but leave it alight.’
‘You are expecting someone?’ He did as she asked and turned back, steadying his breathing when he found himself face to face with her. ‘The rain has almost stopped.’
‘Expecting? No.’ Emilia Weston stood untying the strings of her apron, not a brisk mother or a damp, smiling temptress any longer, simply a tired young woman. All the more reason not to reach out and pull her into an embrace that would be anything but comforting, he told himself. ‘But then I was not expecting you either, and I assume it was the light from that window that brought you here. There may be other travellers out in this. I have made tea—would you like some?’
She turned before he could answer and went back into the other room. Hugo followed and took the battered old armchair opposite hers, flanking the wide range. ‘Thank you, I would appreciate that. Are stray travellers commonplace here, then?’ He guessed the tea was her night-time indulgence, an expensive treat. He would send some from the nearest town as a present.
She passed him a cup and leaned back with a sigh, her whole body relaxing with cat-like sensuality. ‘Ah. Peace at last. No, you are the first lost soul. But I would always leave a light in the window when Giles went out in the evening and I have never got out of the habit, I suppose.’
‘Giles was your husband, Mrs Weston?’
‘Call me Emilia, won’t you? No one calls me by my proper name any more. Yes, Giles was my husband. He died three years ago.’ She sipped her tea and stretched out her toes to the blaze.
Just how old is she? Hugo wondered.
‘Giles worked at night. He was a gambler, a card player.’ His expression must have betrayed his thoughts, for she added hastily, ‘Not a sharp, you understand. He never cheated, he was just a very, very good gambler. We eloped, I’m afraid. I was supposed to marry his elder brother—not that we were in love or anything, just one of those family things. You know?’
Hugo nodded. He knew how these things worked, although there was no one to arrange a suitable marriage for him, that was down to his own efforts. And he had better be getting on with it.
‘But Giles and I fell in love,’ Emilia said, gazing into the fire. ‘And Mama and Papa would not approve because he was the younger son and wild and I was only just eighteen. So we ran away. We were very young and very thoughtless. It did not occur to me how much shame I was bringing on my family.’
Her voice wavered and she glanced up, her face blurred by the rising, fragrant steam. ‘I am talking too much and shocking you, Major. I am sorry, but you will be on your way tomorrow and we will never meet again and it is so…soothing to talk to someone like this. But I will stop embarrassing you.’
‘No. You aren’t embarrassing me.’ Normally he would have recoiled from confidences like this, but he was intrigued and to talk to a woman in this way was a novelty. Besides, it was all about her feelings and he doubted she would expect him to reciprocate.
‘We are like ships that pass in the night. Or, no, that is too well worn a cliché. Perhaps we are two birds sheltering from the storm in a bush and we will fly away on our own courses in the morning. What happened, Emilia? And my name is Hugo.’
‘I remember.’ It was not as though she would forget anything about this dark, serious man who had arrived so