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Authors: Miriam Minger
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gave
no sound. At once Corisande rushed to her side, but Donovan got there first,
lifting the stricken, heavyset woman in his arms with nary a grunt.
"Have you any brandy?"
Corisande nodded. With a last glance at her father, who
seemed oblivious to the commotion as he tended his geraniums, she led the way
back inside, skirting the puddle of spilt goat's milk and smashed crockery by
the door just as Linette, Marguerite, and Estelle, Luther yapping at her heels,
came shoving and pushing into the kitchen.
"What's wrong with Frances?" blurted out
Estelle.
"Oh, Corie, is that him? The man you were kissing?" came Marguerite's excited query, her eyes agog.
"I wasn't kissing—" Corisande's sharp retort
died at the warning look Donovan threw her; instead, she focused upon helping
him seat Frances in the high-backed settle near the open hearth. "Linette,
fetch Papa's brandy from the cupboard, but watch out for that mess. Quickly
now!"
The twelve-year-old did as she was bade, her eyes very
wide as she brought forth the dusky brown bottle, her gaze more upon Donovan
than Frances. "You do look like a Gypsy, just as Johnnie Morton said."
"So I've been told." Donovan accepted the
bottle from the young girl and poured a generous amount in the glass Corisande
held out to him, watching silently as she urged the housekeeper to drink. Frances
coughed a few times as she swallowed, her pale eyelids fluttering, but within a
moment she'd downed the entire amount, her color much improving.
For good measure, Donovan poured her a second glass, then helped himself to a healthy swallow, the rich, amber
liquid providing molten warmth all the way to his stomach. He needed
fortification, too, surrounded as he was by a near fainted housekeeper, a
bride-to-be with the temper of a shrew, a trio of girls who could but stare at
him, and a scruffy-looking dog, more rat than canine, that persisted in
sniffing ominously at his boots.
Oh, yes, let him not forget that poor wretch, the
Reverend Easton, puttering near dotty as a hatter in the garden, and his new
temporary family was complete. It was enough to make a man drink, and he did,
taking another good swallow, grateful at least that the brandy was far better
than passable.
"Your father has a commendable taste in spirits,"
he said to Corisande, not missing the slight flaring of her eyes. "French,
best quality. Haven't tasted the like since my regiment captured an enemy
general outside Madrid. The fellow was fleeing with his beloved supply on a
packhorse. Hated parting with it."
"It was a gift from a parishioner." Surprised
to hear that Donovan had been an officer in Spain and yet eager to change the
subject, Corisande turned her attention back to Frances, who'd downed the
second glass without any assistance at all and was now fairly glowering at her.
"Are you feeling better?"
"Ais, so I am, Corie Easton, even if 'ee gave me
one of the biggest shocks of my life. Marrying, are 'ee? An' I've never before
even seen the man!" Frances glanced at Donovan, saying in apology, "Pardon
me, sir, 'ee were kind to help me, an' I'm sorry to have come at 'ee with my
rolling pin. But Corie's like one of me own brood, she
is, though she's always been one to do exactly as she pleases. An' now jes
proves it." The housekeeper looked back at Corisande, her voice heavy with
disapproval. "An' what poor manners 'ee have too! You haven't even told me
your man's name—"
"Lord Donovan Trent, Frances, if you'd only let me
speak," interrupted Corisande, exasperated. "His brother is the Duke
of Arundale. I know it's terribly sudden—quite unexpected, but—"
"You're going to marry him, Corie?" Estelle
had scooped up Luther, hugging her little dog close as she gazed uncertainly at
Corisande. Before she could answer, Donovan sank to his haunches in front of
the child, his expression, to Corisande's amazement, grown almost tender.
"Yes, we're to be married—very soon, I'm pleased
to say. But you needn't worry about your sister.
no sound. At once Corisande rushed to her side, but Donovan got there first,
lifting the stricken, heavyset woman in his arms with nary a grunt.
"Have you any brandy?"
Corisande nodded. With a last glance at her father, who
seemed oblivious to the commotion as he tended his geraniums, she led the way
back inside, skirting the puddle of spilt goat's milk and smashed crockery by
the door just as Linette, Marguerite, and Estelle, Luther yapping at her heels,
came shoving and pushing into the kitchen.
"What's wrong with Frances?" blurted out
Estelle.
"Oh, Corie, is that him? The man you were kissing?" came Marguerite's excited query, her eyes agog.
"I wasn't kissing—" Corisande's sharp retort
died at the warning look Donovan threw her; instead, she focused upon helping
him seat Frances in the high-backed settle near the open hearth. "Linette,
fetch Papa's brandy from the cupboard, but watch out for that mess. Quickly
now!"
The twelve-year-old did as she was bade, her eyes very
wide as she brought forth the dusky brown bottle, her gaze more upon Donovan
than Frances. "You do look like a Gypsy, just as Johnnie Morton said."
"So I've been told." Donovan accepted the
bottle from the young girl and poured a generous amount in the glass Corisande
held out to him, watching silently as she urged the housekeeper to drink. Frances
coughed a few times as she swallowed, her pale eyelids fluttering, but within a
moment she'd downed the entire amount, her color much improving.
For good measure, Donovan poured her a second glass, then helped himself to a healthy swallow, the rich, amber
liquid providing molten warmth all the way to his stomach. He needed
fortification, too, surrounded as he was by a near fainted housekeeper, a
bride-to-be with the temper of a shrew, a trio of girls who could but stare at
him, and a scruffy-looking dog, more rat than canine, that persisted in
sniffing ominously at his boots.
Oh, yes, let him not forget that poor wretch, the
Reverend Easton, puttering near dotty as a hatter in the garden, and his new
temporary family was complete. It was enough to make a man drink, and he did,
taking another good swallow, grateful at least that the brandy was far better
than passable.
"Your father has a commendable taste in spirits,"
he said to Corisande, not missing the slight flaring of her eyes. "French,
best quality. Haven't tasted the like since my regiment captured an enemy
general outside Madrid. The fellow was fleeing with his beloved supply on a
packhorse. Hated parting with it."
"It was a gift from a parishioner." Surprised
to hear that Donovan had been an officer in Spain and yet eager to change the
subject, Corisande turned her attention back to Frances, who'd downed the
second glass without any assistance at all and was now fairly glowering at her.
"Are you feeling better?"
"Ais, so I am, Corie Easton, even if 'ee gave me
one of the biggest shocks of my life. Marrying, are 'ee? An' I've never before
even seen the man!" Frances glanced at Donovan, saying in apology, "Pardon
me, sir, 'ee were kind to help me, an' I'm sorry to have come at 'ee with my
rolling pin. But Corie's like one of me own brood, she
is, though she's always been one to do exactly as she pleases. An' now jes
proves it." The housekeeper looked back at Corisande, her voice heavy with
disapproval. "An' what poor manners 'ee have too! You haven't even told me
your man's name—"
"Lord Donovan Trent, Frances, if you'd only let me
speak," interrupted Corisande, exasperated. "His brother is the Duke
of Arundale. I know it's terribly sudden—quite unexpected, but—"
"You're going to marry him, Corie?" Estelle
had scooped up Luther, hugging her little dog close as she gazed uncertainly at
Corisande. Before she could answer, Donovan sank to his haunches in front of
the child, his expression, to Corisande's amazement, grown almost tender.
"Yes, we're to be married—very soon, I'm pleased
to say. But you needn't worry about your sister.
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