“I am as certain of my diagnosis as I am of my name, Colonel. Fetch the patient some clean clothes, and you and I will talk.”
Orion’s relief was unseemly. He’d worried for Jeanette when food poisoning had brought her low, but Jeanette was an adult, and she’d clearly had Sycamore Dorning to fret for her too. These boys had nobody and nothing, and life had already been brutally unkind to them.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the lady’s hand and bowing. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Miss Pearson ambushed him with a hug—a swift squeeze, followed by a pat to his shoulder. For a small woman, she hugged fiercely. The embrace was over before Orion could fathom that he was being hugged, and that was fortunate.
He’d sooner have taken another bullet than endure Ann Pearson’s affection.
“The child is lucky to have you,” she said, stepping back. “I gather Benny is one of several children in your care.”
“They are hardly children anymore. They eat like dragoons and grow out of clothing almost before it’s paid for.” Orion cupped his hand to his mouth. “Watch the lantern, Benny. I’m off to find you clean togs and scare up the tisanes Miss Pearson has prescribed.”
Benny’s head appeared over the top of the ladder, bits of hay cascading down. “You won’t tell the others?”
Tell them what?
“You are suffering a brief indisposition,” Miss Pearson replied. “Perhaps something you ate disagreed with you. The colonel and I will discuss what’s to be done.”
Some silent communication passed between Miss Pearson and the patient. Benny shrugged and withdrew from sight.
“No more piking off,” Rye called up to the loft. “I don’t care if you have consumption, the Covent Garden flu, and sooty warts. You don’t desert the regiment just because you feel poorly.”
“Yes, sir.” The resentment Benny packed into the two mumbled syllables was reassuring.
“Come, Colonel.” Miss Pearson gathered up her basket and marched down the barn aisle. “I daresay Benny could use some sustenance, and I want a look at your medicinals.”
Orion followed reluctantly. “You’re sure the lad will come right?”
“Benny will be fine. Have you eaten supper?”
“No, and now that I know we won’t be measuring Benny for a shroud, I admit I am famished. The cook/housekeeper usually leaves me a tray on the hob before she departs for the night. You’re welcome to share.”
“Your help doesn’t live in?”
Rye crossed the alley and escorted Miss Pearson into the garden, where crickets sang a slow lament to winter’s approach. A cat skittered up over the garden wall, and fatigue pressed down on Rye like the darkness itself.
“My housekeeper lives around the corner with her daughter and son-in-law. I believe Mrs. Murphy has a follower and would rather see him on her own turf. My maid-of-all-work and man-of-all-work are a married couple—he also serves as my coachman—and they dwell over the carriage house.”
Miss Pearson moved through the night with the same easy assurance Orion associated with her in other contexts. She’d been comfortable in Jeanette’s sick room. In the Coventry’s kitchens, she’d been thoroughly at home.
“You have married servants, Colonel?”
“My former batman and his wife. I value loyalty over convention.”
“I suspect you value loyalty over almost every other consideration. My gracious, your roses are lovely.” Miss Pearson made her way down the cobbled path to the overgrown roses along the stone wall. “These are not damasks, and yet…” She sniffed. “They are marvelous.”
“Careful,” Orion said, pausing on the path. “That one is French and has serious thorns. A gardener at the Château de Neuilly traded me a pair of bushes for a few bottles of wine. Said that rose originated on the Île Bourbon.”
“Perfumiers would pay you a fortune for these roses.” She bent closer and took another whiff of pink blooms.
“I traded champagne fit for a king for that specimen. I was trying to sneak my best vintage into the cellars of the Duke of Orléans, but I suspect my wine never went beyond the servants’ hall.”
Miss Pearson made a pretty picture, sniffing the roses by the light of a gibbous moon. Something of poignancy tried to gild the moment, with the crickets offering their slow song and the thorny roses perfuming the night air.
She’d hugged him, was the problem. Nobody hugged Orion Goddard, and he liked it that way. Needed it that way.
“Your champagne was well spent,” she said, straightening. “Do your boys maintain this garden?”
His boys. They were his, though he didn’t dare think of them in those terms. “They do, with some guidance from me. Shall we go in?”
“I suppose we ought to. Benny can’t spend the night in that stable.”
“I’m sure he has on many an occasion. Benny’s my best sentry. Likes his privacy and thinks deeply as a matter of habit. The other fellows don’t quite know what to make of him, but they worried at his absence.”
“You worried at his absence,” Miss Pearson replied as Orion ushered her into the hallway that led to the pantries and kitchen.
“Nearly panicked,” Orion said. “The lads have eaten, so if you’re hungry, we’ll have to forage. Drew!”
Drew trotted across the corridor from the servants’ hall. “Sir? How’s our Benny?”
“He ate something that disagreed with him and needs a clean set of togs brought over to the hayloft. A basin of warm water and some rags wouldn’t go amiss either, though he’ll want privacy if he has to clean up. See to it, please.”
“Aye, sir.” Drew bowed to Miss Pearson—where had the lad picked up that nicety?—and scampered up the steps.
Miss Pearson began opening the kitchen’s cupboards and drawers. She was on reconnaissance, clearly, and because Orion knew only the basics of survival when it came to the kitchen—bread, butter, jam, cheese, that sort of thing—he let her explore.
The tray on the hob held a bowl of lukewarm soup, as well as bread and butter. Many a night, Orion had subsisted on the same, but he was truly hungry and for once wanted something more substantial.
“The chophouse will be open for another hour,” he said, “or we can manage sandwiches if that will suffice.”
Miss Pearson left off pillaging and gave him the oddest look. “Sandwiches will do, and we begin by washing our hands. What is Benny’s full name?’
“Benjamin,” Rye scrubbed up at the wet sink and moved aside so Miss Pearson could do likewise. “The boys all choose their names when they come to live here. Drew, for example, is Andrew Marvell Goddard. Drew was smitten with the poet’s epitaph ‘the ornament and example of his age, beloved by good men, feared by bad, admired by all, though imitated by few; and scarce paralleled by any,’ or something like that. That Marvell talked the crown out of hanging Milton impressed Drew as well.”
Miss Pearson rummaged in her basket and set a tin on the worktable. “And you gave the boys your family name?”
“Goddard is the only name I have to give them.” The only name Orion had to defend, and he’d made a bad job of that mission thus far. With Jeanette safely married and another good harvest all but complete, he’d see his name properly cleared.