Chapter 3

“Wherein introductions are made.”

“Henry, get out the way, there’s a good fellow.” Jack came back into the room carrying a thick pile of blankets. He let them fall, and they dropped to the floor with a dull thud as dust rose in a plume.

“We’ll need to get those wet clothes off her, off you, too,” Jack added, tutting and shaking his head. “Go and get changed before you catch your death, you great lummox,” he scolded as Henry glowered his displeasure. He folded his massive arms and Jack sighed. “You can’t stay, it ain’t proper.”

“If you can stay, I can. I want to see,” Henry objected.

Jack stared at him, taken aback. Well, that was unexpected. Henry had never shown an interest in women before, though to be fair, he’d not seen one for a good eight years. He’d never seen a pretty piece like this one in his life, that was certain. Jack frowned, wondering just how much trouble was about to rain down on them. They’d had an issue with that maid one time, and … Well, there was no point in thinking about that now.

To his relief, the girl stirred again. Within seconds, she was sitting bolt upright in her chair and looking wide-eyed with terror. As well she might. Jack realised how this must appear to her, both staring down at her as they were. He held a hand out and took a step away.

“Don’t worry, miss,” he said, hoping his tone remained fatherly and reassuring. “You’re quite safe, only … only you need to get those wet things off before you freeze to death.”

Her eyes widened even farther, and Jack pulled at his collar, uncomfortable with the whole situation. Damnation. Served him right for lamenting their solitary existence. This was what he got for wanting more.

Jack’s eyes drifted down and for the first time, he noticed the full swell of her belly as the sodden material clung to her slender figure. Ah. That explained a lot. A wave of pity rushed over him and he crouched down at her feet.

“I’m sorry, miss, but it’s just me and Henry here, see,” he said with a smile. He hid it again as she looked ever more ill at ease. Clearing his throat, he carried on. “You’re safe, but I got no maid to help you. You reckon you can do it by yourself?”

She gave a taut nod and Jack sighed with relief. One hurdle crossed.

“Right you are, then.” He got to his feet, wondering how hard it would be to remove Henry from the room. “You wrap yourself up in those blankets and sit by the fire, I’ll come back with some hot soup.”

“There was a bag …” she ventured, and Jack heard the cut-glass tones of an upper-class voice with dismay as he noted the quality of her sodden gown. Damn. That was all they needed, a blasted lady to babysit. No doubt she’d have some titled father or brother out looking for blood. Jack kept such thoughts to himself, his expression impassive. 

“I’ll find it,” he said with a nod. Turning around, he gave Henry a stern look. “Come along, Henry.”

Henry shook his head.

“Henry, you can come back when she’s out of those wet things,” he said, his tone firm, praying Henry wouldn’t dig his heels in. “Now come along. You know your father made you promise to take care of yourself, reckon he’d be pleased if you caught your death of cold, do you?”

***

Isabella watched as Henry glowered but left the room this time. Jack turned and gave her a brief nod, closing the door behind him. She let go of the breath she was holding and looked around her. The fire was blazing in the big marble hearth, at least, and she forced herself out of the chair, moving closer. The trial of removing her sodden clothes alone, and with fingers frozen to the bone, was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Knowing Henry was eager to lend her a hand added a determination to her actions, however. Knowing Jack would be back with soup gave her an extra sense of urgency.

Wrapped in several layers of warm, if itchy, blankets, Isabella pulled the chair as close to the fire as possible and sank into it. She knew she’d been lucky today. If not for the rather forbidding and peculiar Henry, she would even now be floating face down somewhere miles away. As she suppressed a shudder, she fought the urge to cry. A pitiful outburst now would get her nowhere. If she wanted to survive and give this baby the life it deserved, well, she’d need a backbone. Pragmatism had brought her this far, and she was no romantic, for sure, so she needed to consider her options. To her distress, all of them involved getting married and doing it fast.

Now the world knew her shame, and she was under no illusion that Alice hadn’t shared her sorry tale by now. This meant her opportunities had narrowed to meagre proportions. Maybe a local landowner, though? There was bound to be a country squire in need of a wife? She recoiled at the idea before scolding herself. This was not for her. Her life had never been her own. Before she had lived her life at the whims of her mother, now she would do it for her child. At least this choice was hers to make.

Miserable and shivering by the fire, Isabella made a mental list of the men she might throw herself at. There were several gentlemen farmers in the region, though she used the gentleman part with reserve. There was Squire Booth, who beat his horses and would likely do the same to his wife, perhaps his child, too. No, he wouldn’t do. Mr Goodfellow, but he drank, and his teeth were rotten. The stench of his breath was beyond anything endurable. Knowing she had to consider him all the same did not lift Isabella’s spirits. John Smyth was as fat as a whale and spittle collected at the sides of his flabby mouth when he spoke, which was often and at considerable volume. She shuddered at the idea and stifled a sob.

A knock on the door sounded and Jack entered again, carrying a tray. Isabella watched as the man placed it on a nearby table and then lifted a bowl of soup. He carried it to her, placing it in her hands and handing her the spoon. It was hard to lift the spoon to her mouth without spilling it, she was shaking so, but Isabella set herself to it. Jack sat back, watching her in silence as she ate.

Isabella lifted her eyes, relieved and somewhat surprised to find no judgement in the man’s eyes. She had seen him take in the evidence of her disgrace before he’d left the room. She’d not bothered trying to hide it, either, she was too exhausted to pretend any longer.

The soup was thick, bland, and the worst thing her refined palate had ever tasted. She ate every drop, grateful for the warmth as it slid down her throat.

“I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid,” the fellow said with a wry smile as he reached to take the bowl from her. “Helped take the chill off, though, eh?”

Isabella nodded, pulling the blankets tighter. They smelled of dust, the faintest tinge of mildew, but she believed the ice in her bones might melt now. The door opened again, no knock this time, and the man called Henry strode through. She sucked in a breath, startled again by the sheer size of him.

“It’s all right,” Jack said, his voice low. “Henry’s a … a bit special, but he don’t mean no harm.”

Isabella glanced back at Jack in horror. “He’s mad?” she asked, terrified as the hulking brute moved closer.

Jack’s face was full of anger in an instant, his eyes growing hard. “He ain’t nothing of the sort,” he growled. Isabella stiffened, realising that upsetting these two men was not in her interests.

She kept her mouth shut, deciding it was safer, and watched with confusion as Henry placed a large bag down and then pulled up another chair.

“You got your bag, then?” Jack demanded of him with a snort. “Don’t suppose you thought to search for her things, too, eh?”

The big fellow said nothing but settled a wooden board on his lap, placed a sheet of paper on top, and then reached for a pencil.

“What’s he doing?” Isabella demanded as Henry’s dark eyes settled on her. His gaze was searching, intense, and she had the strangest feeling he could see right through her. She didn’t want that. She felt exposed enough as it was.

“Henry’s an artist.”

Isabella looked around, rather astonished. The pride in Jack’s voice had been unmistakable. Who were these strange people? Henry was sketching now, his pencil moving with speed across the paper, his eyes flicking from the page to her and back again as he drew her. What manner of mad house had she stumbled into, for heaven’s sake?

“Does he have to do that?” she demanded, pulling the blankets tighter still. All at once, she had the distinct impression she was being studied like a curiosity, something under glass. Come and see the bearded lady, the two-headed goat, the half-drowned, pregnant Lady Isabella. “Make him stop!” she cried, blinking back tears. Good heavens, wasn’t her humiliation comprehensive enough? She didn’t need a record.

Henry jolted, a look of panic in his eyes as he glanced at Jack, who made a soothing motion with his hand. Isabella looked between them as Jack turned back to her and shook his head.

“Can’t do it, miss,” he said, his tone apologetic but firm. “He won’t, and he’ll get upset if you try to stop him, so I’d advise you to put up with it.”

Isabella put her face in her hands. The desire to break down and sob her heart out was almost overwhelming, but she’d sunk low enough. Losing what little remained of her dignity in front of these two strange men was a step too far. She sucked in a breath, trying to steady herself when a gentle touch at her hands made her glance up again.

Isabella gasped, stifling a scream as she found Henry crouched beside her, his large hands wrapped around her wrists. She stared at him in horror, her heart thudding with fear, but found only curiosity in his expression. His eyes were brown, a deep, warm colour, flecked with bronze. The impression that he was half-man, half-bear only grew at close quarters.

“I want to see,” he said, his voice deep and calm as he placed her hands in her lap, one over the other. He moved away again, picking up his paper and pencil and going back to work as Isabella stared in astonishment.

“Drawing and painting, that’s Henry’s life, miss. Seems like you’re his new project.” Isabella noted the troubled light in Jack’s eyes as he spoke. It didn’t make her feel any better.

“Who are you?” she demanded, finding something of the imperious tone she’d been known for, that of a woman who was used to being obeyed. She needed to know whose charity she was relying upon. Isabella had thought at first glance that they were farmers, but Henry’s voice, gruff at it was, was that of an educated man, one of her own class. The room she was in was not that of a farmhouse either. It was dusty and neglected, but the size, the grand marble fireplace, the quality of the furnishings … This was a grand house.

“I might ask you the same thing, miss,” Jack said, a considering expression in his eyes as Isabella lifted her chin. She’d have to tell him. He’d find out soon enough. “Still, I’ll go first, if you like,” he added, a warm smile easing her humiliation just a little. “I’m Jack Heath and I’ve worked here since I was a boy.”

“Where is here?” Isabella asked, racking her brain to think of all the grand houses in the area, close to the river.

“This is Barcham Place,” Jack replied, his voice even as he studied her. He was looking for her reaction, she realised. “And that there is my employer, Henry Barbour.”

Recognition dawned. “The bear of Barcham Wood,” Isabella whispered as a shiver of fear flickered down her spine.

Jack sat forward, pointing a finger at her. “I don’t want to hear that, miss,” he said, his voice low, but full of anger just the same. “He ain’t like most folks, I’ll grant you, but he ain’t mad and he don’t do no one no harm that don’t bother him.”

Isabella jolted at the fury behind the words and gave a little nod, too disturbed and shocked to do otherwise. She glanced back at Henry, but he was immersed in his drawing. The conversation either hadn’t troubled him or hadn’t registered at all.

“Now,” Jack said, sitting back in his chair with an air of anticipation. “Who are you?”

***

“Lady Isabella Scranford,” Jack murmured for the at least the tenth time as he shook his head. He’d made up a bed for her in one of the many closed off rooms in the huge building. There were plenty to choose from.

From the shadows under the young woman’s eyes, she was too tired to protest about the thick layers of dust, the mismatched bedding, and the possibility of damp sheets in the unaired room. He had put a bed warmer under the covers for her and piled up the fire. That was as close to luxury as she’d get tonight. He’d shut the door on her with a sigh of relief, aware that he was only storing up trouble for tomorrow, but what else could he do? He could hardly throw a woman in her condition out of the house after all she’d been through. It would be sheer wickedness.

It was late now, and he and Henry were sitting at the kitchen table, Henry chewing his way through a heaped pile of thick, cut bread and butter.

“What the devil are we do to with her?” Jack wondered aloud, turning his mug back and forth by the handle with a distracted air.

Henry stopped chewing, a rather challenging light in his eyes that made Jack raise a hand.

“Now, Henry, lad,” he protested, knowing what was coming. “She’s not ours to keep. It’s not like a blasted rabbit or a mouse or shrew you want to study. She’s a woman, and a bloody top-lofty one at that.”

Henry narrowed his eyes.

“I’ve heard plenty about the lady Isabella,” Jack continued, knowing only too well that there would be a devil of a scene. Henry had his heart set on drawing and studying the wretched woman, and that would only spell trouble. “She’s a proper bitch,” he said, hissing the words as though they might be overheard. “A nasty piece of work, if ever there was one. Treats the staff like dirt.” Henry was unmoved by this information, as Jack had known he would be. “And she’s got one in the basket,” he added, cursing himself as the unfamiliar term made Henry frown. Damnation. Too late, Jack remembered Henry’s fascination last year when he’d discovered one of the stable cats was pregnant. Henry had drawn and studied the creature for weeks. The birth had been something he’d drawn in anatomical detail and had found captivating.

“What’s in the basket?” Henry demanded, interest alight in his eyes now.

Jack groaned and consigned his wretched tongue to the devil. “Nothing, Henry, never mind.”

“What’s in the basket?” The tone was harder this time, a thread of anger beneath the question.

Jack rubbed a weary hand over his face, feeling the scratch of his beard under his fingers. It was useless. Henry would never let it go.

“She’s having a baby, Henry,” he said, worn out all at once. They should both be in bed and Lady bloody Isabella far from here. “That’s why she was in the river, I reckon. Trying to do away with herself and her bastard.” Jack frowned, shaking his head with sorrow. For all she was bound to cause them ructions, and despite what he’d heard of Lady Isabella, he couldn’t help but pity her.

Henry was quiet, that unnerving stillness he sometime found settling over him as a slight frown crinkled his eyes. He was thinking hard about something.

“She won’t stay, Henry,” Jack warned, feeling a prickle of anxiety as Henry’s frown deepened at his words. “She needs to find someone to take her in. Some bloke to marry her and save her from ruin. Though from what she says, the story will be all over the county by now.”

He shuddered as he considered her options. There weren’t many men who would take another man’s bastard on, but then, she was a beautiful woman. There were those who would snatch the opportunity to get their hands on a lovely young wife. He had an idea of who those old satyrs would be, too. Poor little bitch. Still, that was her problem, not theirs. Jack just needed to get her out of the house as fast as possible. The devil knew what kind of trouble she would cause otherwise.