Never Turn Away (Kellington Book Six) (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

The fresh country air was brisk but clean, a far cry
from the coal fumes in London in winter.  Not knowing the countryside, Joseph
stayed to the road, taking in the pastoral setting.  It was a charming place
and he couldn’t imagine why Liam didn’t spend more time there.  Perhaps, the
association with his parents was too painful. 

The houses in the area were all of a size as
Liam’s.  The fields were covered in snow, but it wasn’t hard to imagine how
beautiful it would be in the spring and summer.  Joseph was by no means a
farmer, but he could see how a man could be happy with a life lived on the
land, though he didn’t have the first idea as to how someone might actually go
about it.

Suddenly, out of the stillness came a scream.  He
slowed his horse, trying to discern its source.  He spotted a small man in a
heavy greatcoat, grappling with a sheep in the middle of a field.  He wasn’t
sure if the sound had come from the man or the animal, but he gently kicked
Rocinante into a gallop toward the disturbance.

As he approached, the cause of the problem became
apparent.  The sheep had become entangled in what appeared to be some sort of
rope on the ground.  It was most distressed and was bleating – he was no
farmer, but believed that was the term – incessantly.  The slight man, who was
the size of a lad, was trying to get a hold of it without much success.  He was
wearing boots, a heavy greatcoat that had seen better days and his face and
head were wrapped in layers of wool, then covered with a cap. 

Joseph dismounted from a wary Rocinante, who was not
best pleased to be in close proximity to the distressed sheep.

“Allow me,” said Joseph, as he approached the lad
and the animal.  The boy was clearly distracted by his arrival and had turned
from the sheep, just as the animal tried to make a break from the rope.  “Be
careful there, or you’ll be knocked on your arse.”

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth, than
the lad was knocked on his arse, though the snow likely cushioned the fall. 
Joseph gave him a hand up, verily pulling him all the way off the ground. 
Perhaps farm lads weren’t quite as strong as he thought.

He turned his attention to the sheep.  One rear leg
was caught in a rope that was pulled tight into a knot.  The panicked sheep had
apparently turned round and round in a circle until the rope was wrapped around
all four legs.  It was also still bleating loudly.

“Is there a way of hushing this thing?” asked
Joseph.

That was met with a burst of laughter that sounded…

“You’re a woman!” said Joseph.  What the devil was
she doing out in the field, instead of her father or a brother?

“I am,” she responded.  “Thank you for the hand up
and the accurate gender assessment.  But I can tend to this myself.”

The snort that came from Joseph was distinctly male
in nature.  “I can’t very well leave this job to a woman.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because the animal looks like it weighs more than
you.  And, really, is there nothing we can do to quiet it down?”

His question was met by even louder bleating.

“I don’t think she likes you very much,” said the
woman.

Joseph raised a brow.  “Nonsense.  Females take to
me well enough.”

“I have yet to see evidence of that.”

That made him laugh.  It also made him smile
inwardly.  No miss in London ever would have been so quick with a retort. 
Perhaps what he needed was to spend time in the company of this farmer’s
daughter.  At least, that was what he assumed she was.  Her accent was
considerably more refined than someone country bred.  But she might’ve spent
time at a school where she picked up the speech pattern of London classmates. 
He couldn’t imagine she was from the local gentry.  No toff would ever send his
daughter out in the field to work.

“I will cut the rope if you can but hold the animal still,”
he said.  “Can you manage?  Or should we call your father or a brother?”

“I have neither father nor brother, sir.  And I
shall be as able to hold that sheep as you are to cut the rope.”

Had she just insulted him?  More importantly, no
father or brother?  Perhaps she was older than she looked.  He was often
mistaken for someone older than his two and thirty years – the result of a hard
life.  Perhaps her slight frame belied her age, as well.  He wished the scarves
would slip so he could have a look at her face.  Then a thought came to him and
he was surprised by just how disappointing it was.

“Perhaps your husband should be out here,” he said.

Now she snorted.  “Sir, before you continue on this
path, let me be clear.  I have no husband, no intended, no sweetheart.  I do
have three male cousins, but two are in London and the third in the wilds of
America.  So, now that I have established no male is coming to my rescue, can
you please cut the rope – if, of course, you are up to the task?”  The words might
have seemed waspish, if not said in such a tone as to leave him no doubt that
she was laughing at him, her and the entire situation.

“I believe my male person has just been maligned,”
said Joseph, as he unsheathed the knife he always kept in his boot.  “Now, if
you can just keep the sheep from moving.”

He watched with interest as the woman threw herself
into the task of calming the sheep.  But she was having little luck in the
endeavor.  The animal, though friendly enough, looked like it feared she was trying
to ride it.  She threw herself on it, but the sheep continued to move around as
well as it was able.

“I said to keep it still,” said Joseph, with some
amusement.

“I’m trying,” she said. 

Joseph crouched by the sheep’s right rear leg. 
Because of the snow, he had to feel for the rope.  He found a length that was
long enough to allow him to cut it without accidentally hurting the ewe.  He
moved his knife into position, began sawing away, then was butted in the head
by the animal’s hindquarters.

Joseph landed arse-down in the snow. 

His companion could not stifle her laugh.  “Are you
all right?” she asked, moving to tend to him.

“Don’t let go of the blasted animal!  The only thing
that hurts is my sense of decorum.  I’m afraid I shall have to use my pistol.”

“You’re going to shoot the rope?” she asked
worriedly.

“I’m going to shoot the sheep.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by
laughter so infectious even Joseph had to join in.

Once she finally caught her breath, she said.  “I
have an idea.  If we put her on her side, it might immobilize her enough for
you to cut the rope.”  Then she began trying to get the sheep on its side.

“Allow me,” said Joseph as he gently pushed the
woman out of the way.  With one swift move, he had the sheep on its side, holding
it there until the woman was able to take his place.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

“I have had more than my share of experience
subduing villains,” said Joseph, as he deftly cut the rope, then untangled it
from the ewe’s feet.

“And what crimes do you think this sheep has
committed?” 

The ewe chose that moment to exercise her freedom by
getting back on her feet and trotting away from them, with nary a bleat of
thanks.

Joseph could only shake his head.  “Besides knocking
both of us on our respective, uh, bottoms?  She clearly lured you out into the
cold and kept you from a warm fire.” 

“I am heartier than that, sir,” she said, with a
sparkle in her green eyes.

“But I am not,” he said with a grin.  “I never knew
the country could be so cold.”  He looked at her, wishing he could see her
face.  He hadn’t come to Oxfordshire for a flirtation, but perhaps he had found
one, anyway.

“I wouldn’t judge Caversham so harshly,” she said. 
“You might find it to your liking if only you give it a chance.”

They were interrupted by the return of the woman’s
horse, who’d been wise enough to absent itself from the entire sheep debacle.

“May I give you a foot up?” he asked.

She nodded then he lifted her onto the horse, which
she rode astride.  He became hard at the sight of her seated thusly, despite
the frigid temperature.   Rocinante ambled over, no doubt anxious to be moving
again.

“That is a beautiful horse,” said the woman.

“Rocinante shall have a swelled head to hear it,” he
said, mounting. 

“And are you taken to Quixotic missions?” 

Joseph couldn’t have been more pleased.  His
flirtation was with a reader.  This was getting better by the moment.  “In a
way, you could say I am.  My name is Joseph Stapleton and I’m a Bow Street
Inspector in London.”

“And what brings you so far afield?”

“I’m helping a friend.  The Duke of Lynwood.”  He
suddenly felt self-conscious.  This woman might be in awe of someone as exalted
as Lynwood.  And the last thing he wanted was to put up barriers between them. 
“While I am honored to call Lynwood my friend, I must admit I am still not at
ease in the world of the toffs – a world I visit only infrequently, I might
add.  I’m still just a working man from Cheapside.  I don’t fit into Lynwood’s
world, though I call him and his family friends.”

“I see,” said the woman, carefully.

Joseph could feel the chasm between them widening. 
“Truth is, I have little use for the peerage in general.  Too often they abuse
their privileges and expect to get away with whatever they want.”

“I certainly agree with you in that assessment.”

There, that was better.  “I sometimes wonder if just
a bit of adversity might be good for them every once in a while.  Some of them
seem almost useless.  The reason I’m here is that there’s a Lady Evelyn
Williams in these parts who asked for Lynwood’s help.   He speaks very highly
of her, and I do wish to be of assistance, but I hope she’s not a typical lady
who cannot even brush her own hair.”

“Yes, I can imagine how that would be tiresome,” she
said.  “Well, this is my home.”

Joseph turned his senses away from her long enough
to register the country manor in front of them.  A terrible suspicion crept
into his mind.  “Are you in service here?” he asked, as he dismounted.

“In a manner of speaking,” she said, as a groom came
running to take her horse. 

Joseph reached up to help her dismount.

She let him.

As she slid to the ground, she said “I am Lady
Evelyn Williams.”  Then she removed her scarves and hat to reveal red hair that
fell down in waves.  “And I brush my own hair.”

Joseph wanted the ewe to butt him in the head again.

*                    *                    *

Evelyn could not believe her luck.  The good and the
bad of it.  Unmarried at almost five and twenty, she was considered on the
shelf, though that didn’t stop the annual pilgrimage of fortune hunters who
chose to take their holidays in Oxfordshire hoping to win her favor, since it
was well known she rarely travelled to London.

It wasn’t like she’d ever foresworn marriage.  Quite
the contrary.  She’d looked forward to it as a young woman anxious to build a
new life after the death of her father when she was eighteen.  But she soon
came to the rather lowering realization that her wealth seemed to attract more
suitors than her personality.  Not that she thought there was much wrong with
her personality.  She was loyal, gave to charities and tried to help her
neighbors whenever possible.  But she was also well-read, inquisitive and could
not summon the ability to tolerate sapskull male suitors.  She was a
bluestocking and proud of it, though it seemed to give men a distaste of her. 
She had come to the conclusion that regardless of whom she might marry, she
would still have to live with herself.  And she had no desire to be a ninny.

She’d had a few disappointments since her come-out. 
Men she thought would like the real her, but liked her money more.  One
well-meaning gentleman had even told her she would be better served if she
appeared to be less smart and more agreeable.  She had responded by telling him
he would be better served with more time spent in a library and less time
dispensing asinine advice.

But though she had more or less accepted her
spinster state as a permanent one, it didn’t mean she had lost interest in
men.  It was all academic, of course.  She was still a maid and though far from
the gossips of the
ton,
country neighbors could be just as unforgiving
of the indiscretions of an unmarried lady as those in London.  She raised
enough eyebrows as it was by running her estate herself instead of depending on
a male relative. 

But she rather liked running things herself and there
really wasn’t a close male relative whom she could trust.  Her three cousins
had all been more than willing to assist, as long as they could supplement
their own incomes with the proceeds.  They were always hard up for money,
having wasted their blunt in gaming halls and on mistresses.