Snowflakes and Scandals

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Nell huddled on the stile at midnight in the rain, waiting for death, ruin, or some as yet unimagined fate, whichever came first.

She was wet through, hungry and cold, and bone-weary after running and running, and then trudging and trudging some more, for at least a dozen miles. Which should be far enough for safety from pursuit, at least for now. They wouldn’t immediately realize that she had left home.

The problem would be walking—staggering, more likely—another ten miles tomorrow, whilst remaining unseen and undetected. She couldn’t risk buying food with her few coins, for people would remember her. They always did. Any passing stranger might prove her undoing—and if that stranger were male, he would likely take advantage of her, too.

If she didn’t die from exposure first. Fortunately, as dying would likely be an unpleasant process, a horse and rider plodded up the hill toward her. A dog yapped, and the horse came to a halt.

“What have we here?” The rider spoke in a pleasant drawl from beneath a sloppy, wide-brimmed hat. “What soggy scrap of humanity has taken possession of my stile?”

“Your stile, is it?” she asked, wondering who he might be. He spoke like a gentleman. Theoretically, she was a lady, but she was about to take a step down in the world. One did, when one no longer had a home. “I hope you don’t need it just now, sir, as I’m too tired to stand.”

“My stile it may be, but it’s for the use of all and sundry.” He dismounted and swept off his hat with a flourish. “Rupert Wonderly, at your service.”

Heavens! Was this Sir Rupert, the recluse of Wonderly Manor? She must have taken a wrong turn after avoiding some drunken men, and was therefore not quite as far from her home—former home—as she wished. Which meant, unfortunately, that she was farther from her destination than she’d hoped.

“And who might you be?” he asked, shaking drops of rain off the hat and setting it back on his head. She wished she’d caught a proper glimpse of his face, but it was too dark.

“N-nell.” She shouldn’t have said that. She should have thought of a new name, but it was all she could do to control her shivers. Drops of the endless rain plopped onto her head and dripped off her nose.

“Well, weary Nell, we’d best get you indoors before you catch your death. Come, I’ll take you home.”

Horrors, no! “It c-can’t be done, I’m afraid. I d-don’t have a home.”

“Ah, but I do,” he said. “Come now, up you get.” He hauled her to her feet. “I’ll put you on Samson here, who delights in carrying forlorn maidens—not that he’s ever done so before, mind you—but in turn, you’ll have to hold the dog.”

In the darkness, she hadn’t noticed the tiny nose poking from inside his cloak. He passed her the furry little creature, which promptly licked her nose. “You’ve no choice but to sit astride, I’m sorry to say. Up you go.”

He lifted her easily, and awkwardly she settled herself on Samson’s broad back. Her skirt rode up almost to her knees! Thank heavens it was so dark.

She huffed to herself. A fate supposedly worse than death might involve baring a great deal more—and why else would a gentleman (a reputedly wealthy and eccentric one, with no regard for society) take her in?

“So this is what it’s like,” she muttered. “At least he seems youngish and reasonably pleasant, unlike others I encountered on the road.”

Had she said that aloud? Drat—her unguarded tongue! Was that why Stepmother had suddenly decided to get rid of her? Nell had worked hard. She’d always done her best, despite the unfairness and unkindness of it all.

Maybe Stepmother’s prediction that Nell would come to a bad end was, after all, correct. She was certainly headed there now.

“Yes, he smells of wet dog and naught worse,” Sir Rupert said. “I found him wandering a mile or so ago. Two homeless waifs in one evening—lucky me!”

Thank the Lord he’d misunderstood her comment. She should probably be frightened—becoming a kept woman was not an everyday occurrence—but all Nell could think of was a house, a fire, maybe something to eat, even a place to sleep…

Hopefully, he would let her sleep before having his way with her.

Sir Rupert shucked his cloak, shook it out, and mounted behind her, then slipped the cloak around her front and his arm around her from behind. He radiated blessed warmth. She hugged the dog close as Samson began slowly to move.

In silence, they plodded forward. The rain lessened to a drizzle, and she stopped shivering enough to think about what to call herself. She’d already confessed to being Nell, so she was stuck with that, but she needed a surname. Not her mother’s maiden name, for that was known in these parts. How about her grandmother’s? She’d come from Ireland, so that would do.

Suddenly, Sir Rupert asked, “Nell, do you by any chance know how to cook?”

What a strange question to ask of one’s prospective mistress. “Er…yes, sir, I’m a tolerable cook, although I’m better at baking.” She loved baking. No one made better cakes than Nell…but evidently Stepmother hadn’t weighed that factor in her decision to get rid of her.

“Splendid!” he said. They reached the top of the hill, the road evened out, and the horse, knowing it was near its stable, increased its pace. A few minutes later, they jolted their way along a drive and into a stable yard. A large, dark house loomed off to the left.

Sir Rupert dismounted and whisked Nell off the horse. Hurriedly, she tried to brush her skirts down whilst still holding the sleeping dog. Sir Rupert slung the cloak around her shoulders. “This will cover you.” He took the dog and shouted for a groom.

A drowsy lad came out of the stable to take Samson and handed Sir Rupert a lantern. His master thanked him and hustled Nell through a maze of garden paths toward the rear of the house. He opened a door with a key and led her into a kitchen lit dimly by the coals in the hearth. The room smelled heavenly—of warm, mouthwatering food.

He shook off his hat, tossed it onto the deal table, stirred the coals into flame, added a log, lit a few candles, and turned to Nell with a grin. “I’ll go wake Mrs. Overton,” he said, and hesitated, gazing at her for a long, startled moment.

If he wasn’t already planning to make her his mistress, he would now. All too often, men lusted after her.

He shook himself, a bit like the furry creature now shaking water onto the flagstone floor. “Put a kettle on to boil, Nell, and you might like to root around in the larder for scraps to feed the dog.”

“Good to look at, too,” she murmured, then covered her mouth with a gasp, but he was already gone, thank heavens. She’d only had a glimpse of his face. Not handsome—rather what is known as craggy—but his smile was the sort to warm not only her heart, but her whole being.

Perhaps being ruined would not be so very bad at all.

Meanwhile, she removed her sodden bonnet and pelisse, hung them near the fire, and did as she was told. Did a gentleman about to take a mistress also expect her to work in the kitchen? Possibly; gentlemen were not to be trusted with servants, or so she’d overheard. She never meant to eavesdrop, but when doing servants’ work, how could she help but hear them talk amongst themselves?

And since she was also a member of the family, albeit a despised one, how could she help overhearing other conversations not meant for her ears? A lucky thing, too, or she wouldn’t have known the danger in which she stood.

She shook off thoughts of her former home, picked up a candlestick, and found her way to the larder. She broke a heel of bread in pieces, put it in a bowl with a bit of milk, and gave it to the tiny dog, who eagerly lapped it up. A big ginger cat, which had been curled up near the hearth, woke demanding its share, so she fed it as well.

She was turning this way and that before the fire, attempting to dry her muddy, sodden dress, when Sir Rupert returned.

“A cook, sir?” A plump, middle-aged woman, wrapped in a dressing robe and still wearing her nightcap, followed him into the kitchen. “That’s a Christmas sort of luck, I’d say.”

“Indeed, Mrs. O. This is Nell, who can cook but is better at baking. Nell, this is Mrs. Overton, without whom my little kingdom here would fall to ruins.”

Mrs. Overton huffed. “Such nonsense, sir.” Nell curtsied, and the housekeeper said, “You poor slip of a thing, you’ll catch your death in those wet clothes.” She frowned. “You’re too thin, child. You could do with some feeding up.”

“Yes, please,” Nell said, and clapped her mouth shut. Had she been impertinent again? According to Stepmother, every word out of her mouth was disrespectful, if not downright rude.

The housekeeper chuckled. “I see the kettle’s already on the boil. Good girl. And you’ve fed the cat and…ah, a little dog. Is he yours?”

“No, he’s yet another waif,” Sir Rupert said, before Nell could answer. “Found him on the road, lost and shivering.”

“Well, as strays go, a dog’s better than a mule, I must say. I’ve kept some soup warm for you, Sir Rupert, and there’s plenty for our new cook as well.”

“A mule?” Nell blurted.

“Yes, indeed, Sir Rupert brought home a stray mule one fine day, but we found its owner before long. What’s your surname, lass?”

“McGinty, ma’am,” Nell said. She didn’t like to lie, but what choice was there?

“Ah! That’s a good Irish name. I see you’ve found the teapot. Make the tea, there’s a good girl, whilst I see to your supper.” She removed a pot from the side of the hearth and hung it on the hook, then stirred it vigorously, while Sir Rupert fetched bread and set to work slicing and buttering it.

What a strange man he was proving to be! And what a pleasant housekeeper, with not a hint of disapproval on her kindly face. Try as she might, Nell couldn’t reconcile in her tired mind the combination of brisk kindliness, impending debauchery, and employment as a cook.

Nell found soup plates and spoons and set them on the table. Did Sir Rupert mean to eat in the kitchen? Surely not; the master of a household never dined with his servants. On the other hand, a gentleman didn’t usually slice and butter the bread, either.

She opened her mouth to ask, shut it just in time, and crept over to Mrs. Overton to whisper, “Shall I bring his to the dining room, ma’am?” Not that she had the faintest notion where that might be.

“No, no, Sir Rupert’s not one to stand on ceremony. Not only that, the dining room is icy cold and the kitchen is warm. As is his bedchamber, for he warned me he would come home late.” She paused. “Now, where am I to put you, child?”

Not in Sir Rupert’s bed, it seemed. Somehow, Nell managed not to blurt that.

“I have it. I’ll put a truckle bed in my chamber, and you shall sleep there. You will be a great help, I’m sure. The maids will be delighted you’re here, as we don’t have the staff to cook the Christmas feast as well as prepare the Great Hall for ever so many guests. Cook’s down with the ague, you see. It comes on from time to time and leaves her very weak, poor thing. She’ll not be well in time for Christmas, but we have her book of recipes and all her notes, and everything we’ll need is here.”

They sat at the table to eat, and Nell thought wearily, As long as they don’t ask too many questions, as long as they don’t learn the truth about me, as long as Stepmother doesn’t find me before I leave here…everything will be fine .

A discussion with Mrs. Overton was inevitable, but at least she waited until Rupert had finished breakfast, which he took alone in his study, as usual.

“She may be able to cook and bake, Sir Rupert, but she’s not really a servant,” Mrs. Overton said when she returned to his study for the tray. He’d eaten every bite of the sausages, coddled eggs, and the most delicious soda bread he’d ever tasted, with butter and Cook’s raspberry preserves.

“I believe you’re right, Mrs. O,” he said, “although I can’t quite pinpoint what made me wonder—except perhaps her accent, which is that of a lady.”

“She’s not only well-spoken, but is fully literate,” Mrs. O said. “She skimmed through Cook’s cookery book this morning and read her notes, which is not easy to do, as Cook’s handwriting is atrocious. Her clothing is of decent quality, that of a lady in straitened circumstances or perhaps a servant in a well-to do household. Her pelisse, in particular, is worn but of excellent quality. I have given her some old clothes to wear until hers have been washed.”

“She’s certainly in straitened circumstances,” Rupert said. “If you’d seen her, drooping on the stile in the rain… I had no choice but to bring her home.” And once he’d seen her properly, framed by candlelight…

God help him. What was he to do?

“Aye, no doubt, sir, and that dog too—a little pest, he is. Or rather she—it’s a female, an elderly one, if I judge aright. Did you notice her collar? It’s a pretty thing with green stones set into the leather. I wonder who she belongs to?”

Rupert shrugged. “Perhaps someone will come to claim her, but in the meantime she may stay here.”

“Aye, but in the stables, where she’ll do fine. As for the girl, she ran from someone or something, I assume, and came a long way on foot, for her feet are paining her, that’s plain to see. However, she didn’t coddle herself. Woke early, dressed in the clothing I gave her, and immediately began to make breakfast.”

“And what a wonderful breakfast it was,” he sighed.

“She has already made friends of the maids, as well as the groom and gardener, who came in for a quick cup of tea to keep out the cold.”

“She does have a certain charm,” he admitted.

“I looked through her belongings while she was in the kitchen. Didn’t feel good about doing so, mind you, but I felt obliged. One must be a Good Samaritan, while at the same time exercising caution with strangers.”

“Understood. I appreciate your diligence, Mrs. O.” Which was true; somebody had to behave sensibly, and he feared he wouldn’t be the one.

“The pocket of her pelisse contained a small reticule with a handkerchief, a comb, several shillings, and a gold ring set with sapphires.”

“A ring!”

“Yes, Sir Rupert. It may be paste for all I know, but somehow, I think not. It’s a piece of jewelry only a lady would possess.”

“Or a maid who speaks like a lady, and who immediately fled.” The penalty for such a theft would likely be hanging. His very soul cringed at the thought of Nell meeting such a fate.

“She doesn’t have the air of a thief,” Mrs. O said, “but one never knows, I suppose.”

He took a deep breath; no point in buying trouble. “Well, let’s not worry about it for now. Keep your ears open, and maybe we’ll find out who she is. In the meantime, let’s be thankful we have a cook for the accursed celebration.”

“A Christmas celebration is not accursed, Sir Rupert,” Mrs. O said sternly.

“No, but it’s a dead bore. I don’t dislike conversing with the men—it’s good to keep abreast of matters—but doing the pretty to their wives and daughters is not my idea of a pleasant time.” He had purposely cultivated a reputation as a recluse, but was sufficiently young and well-mannered that the daughters all saw him as husband material, and their mothers encouraged them in this pursuit.

Mrs. O tutted and left with his breakfast tray. He turned to his plans for restoring the damaged section of the house—a useless attempt to calm his mind. He’d been awake half the night, thinking about Nell.

Love at first sight.

It was the stuff of fairy tales, and yet it had happened here and now—to him.

Perhaps he should go to the kitchen and take another look at her. She was young and nicely-formed, and he’d quite enjoyed holding her close on the horse, but he hadn’t seen her properly until they were in the kitchen. Perhaps the candlelight had misled him. Perhaps he would realize that she was just another prettyish girl in a world full of such girls, none of whom interested him.

He had long ago decided not to marry unless he met a woman who was perfect—perfect for him, that is. Not perfectly beautiful or perfectly well-bred or perfectly proper or any other such tedious kind of perfection.

Acting on the assumption that no such perfect-for-him woman existed, he’d gone his relatively carefree way, with family members dotted here and there, a few good friends, and some obliging servants to care for his house and estate. What more could a man wish?

He certainly didn’t wish for a wife. He didn’t exactly not wish for a wife, either. He’d just happily assumed he wouldn’t find the perfect one, and would while away his life in comfortable solitude.

Oh, the devil. He’d been overtired last night, after a long ride from a funeral in Oxford. He intended to get this over with here and now. He stood and strode briskly from the room.

Long before he reached the kitchen, the singing stirred his soul. He hastened forward and paused in the doorway to stare.

“ The holly and the ivy ,” sang Nell, stirring a pot on the stove, damp, dark curls clinging to her flushed cheeks. She shone with vigor and liveliness, sweetness and her own unique light.

“ When they are both full grown ,” Peg sang, as she scrubbed the pots and pans.

“ Of all the trees that are in the wood ,” Millie trilled, breaking stale bread into crumbs.

And Nell again: “ The holly wears the crown .”

“Perfect!” Nell wielded her spoon like a baton. “All together now: O, the rising of the sun, and ?—”

She saw Rupert and broke off, covering her mouth, and the others stopped as well, bewildered. They knew he wouldn’t object, but… Did lovely, angelic Nell fear a rebuke?

Hurriedly, he took up the chorus. “ And the running of the deer!”

The others joined in. “The playing of the merry organ, Sweet singing in the choir.”

He smiled, trying not to gape at Nell. “Sweet singing indeed, ladies!”

“Good morning, sir!” Peg and Millie chorused, curtseying, and Nell hurriedly followed suit.

Rupert cleared his throat. “I see all is well this beautiful winter morning. Thank you for the excellent breakfast. What are you making now, Nell-who-bakes-so-well?”