Rosa leaned forward. “My father? How is my father?”
He glanced at her, and then focused on the potatoes he fished from the embers with a long pair of tongs. “You didn’t tell me he was senile.”
“He’s not sen…” But he is, and increasingly so. “He gets confused, and he forgets things, but some days he is quite…”
Mr Gavenor ignored her demurrals. “I hired someone to stay with him for the night.”
Rosa winced at the thought of her diminishing store of hen money. “I cannot afford…”
Mr Gavenor ladled stew over the potatoes he had cut, unruffled by her protests. “My responsibility. If I had not startled you, you would not have fallen, and you would be home with him now. Here. Eat.”
He pushed a plate over in front of her and slid the other to the place he’d set for himself, then pulled out the chair so he could sit down.
Rosa folded her hands in her lap, bowed her head, and murmured a request for blessing on the food and the cook, then looked up to find Mr Gavenor observing her, his fork in his hand, his eyes alive with interest in an expressionless face.
“Thank you,” she told him. “It is very kind of you.”
He looked down at his plate and dug his fork into the stew. “Potatoes were a good idea, but you should have kept to the couch. That ankle won’t heal if you keep putting weight on it.”
Gruff. But I have your measure, Mr Gavenor. You are a kind man. “I meant, thank you for hiring someone. Whom did you find?”
Mr Gavenor shrugged. “Miss Pelman recommended a Mrs Able. A rough woman, but she seems kind enough.”
Miss Pelman. What did she say about me? Nothing pleasant, that is certain. “Mrs Able is kind. But she drinks. A lot.”
“I noticed.” Mr Gavenor further proved her opinion of him by expanding on that wry observation. “I stayed until your father was comfortable. Toward the end, he seemed to know her. I will check again in the morning.”
Mr Gavenor finished his plateful of stew and potatoes in silence, then frowned at the amount left on her plate. “I am full, sir,” she explained. A little nauseous from the headache, and considerably smaller than the giant, who had not taken their size difference into account in his serving portions.
“You are a dainty little thing,” he observed. He ladled more stew onto his own plate and said, with every evidence of satisfaction, “And apples for after.”
It had been tasty and filling, but hardly an elegant meal. Rosa had managed much better when her larder had been full, which reminded her of her latest grievance against Pelman. “I was going to make a custard, but the milk is all gone.”
He cocked a brow. “You had a cow?”
“Goats. Three goats; two nannies, one with a kid at hoof.” A female, which she had planned to keep to expand the amount of milk and cheese she could sell.
“No goats here,” Mr Gavenor said. “Just the hens.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You had no room for the goats in that horrible hovel?”
It is a horrible hovel, but what choice do I have? Resentment made Rosa’s voice sharp, “Mr Pelman insisted the goats belonged to you, Mr Gavenor, so I suggest you apply to him for their return.”
“I see.” He took her plate and his through to the scullery, came back with two bowls, and busied himself with serving the apples. She waited for further comment, but he said nothing. He sees? What does he see? A great deal, she was beginning to think. Behind that still, calm face, a busy mind weighed facts and drew conclusions.
She accepted her apple, and enjoyed the mix of sweet and tart.
“Which was your bedchamber when you were here, Miss Neatham?” Mr Gavenor asked, once he had cleared his bowl. Rosa looked up, startled by the broken silence.
“I will take your trunk up and make up the bed. You sit here and keep your ankle up.”
He had brought her trunk?
“The back room on the left, overlooking the vegetable garden,” she said. “I do not know what to say. ‘Thank you’ seems so inadequate.”
Mr Gavenor shrugged off her gratitude. “My fault you fell. My responsibility to make sure you and your father are cared for.”
He took her bowl into the scullery then returned to give her orders, emphasizing his points with his fingers. “No moving. No putting more stress on that ankle. Do not even think about doing the dishes. I want you well and gone as soon as may be, Miss Neatham. How is your head feeling?”
“The willow bark tea helped,” she prevaricated. Sore, and I will be glad to be in bed.
“Another cup before bed,” he suggested. “I will put the kettle on before I go upstairs.”
He suited action to words, then left her alone in the kitchen with her thoughts and a final warning about staying in one place and not moving her ankle.
Gruff, but kind.
CHAPTER 7
The storm returned in the night, and they woke to persistent rain.
Bear carried Miss Neatham downstairs and set her up in the parlour with a book to read and strict instructions not to move. She proceeded to fret herself to flinders, though she tried not to show it. Each time he went in to ask her where to find something, or to bring her something to eat or drink, or just to check that she was following instructions, he could read the anxiety about her father on her open face.
He’d seen her bite back words all morning. “When will you go to the village?” she did not say, but the question was written clearly for Bear to see—a supposition she confirmed with her deep sigh of relief when he said, “The rain looks as if it is clearing. I’ll go down to the village now, Miss Neatham. I have a few things to buy, and I will check on your father.”
It felt good to stretch his legs. He’d chosen the bed chamber with the largest bed, but even that wasn’t big enough for a man of his frame. Still, he’d slept in worse. If it was too narrow and too short, the mattress was comfortable, and the linen clean, if much mended.
Evidence of the night’s storm met his eyes all along the road, in deeper puddles and streams, downed tree branches, and flattened crops. He’d be wise to plan for more rain to come, and should buy what they needed while he could.
Miss Neatham had clearly been a provident housekeeper, for the house was fully stocked with all the staples, but they could do with the milk she had mentioned last night and some fresh bread. He’d buy more meat, too. He could not help but draw the conclusion that her financial situation took a dire turn for the worse thanks to Pelman’s intervention on his behalf.
He would have to see how the situation could be corrected. Also, he needed to find out if Mrs Able was available for another week or so. Otherwise, Miss Neatham would go home to that horrid little hovel and put her ankle at risk by looking after the old man herself.
Probably best to check on the old man first. In the village’s main street, straw had been laid on the worst mud patches, but the steep alley to Miss Neatham’s abode was scoured into treacherous ruts, so he kept to the sides where a few inches of relatively dry ground gave his boots better purchase.
The quavering voice of the old man raised in a shriek distracted him from his focus on his footing. “Help! Murder! Help!” Neatham shouted.