He gave her one swift, all-encompassing glance, gave a brusque nod, and moved to the window. He stood there, gazing out across the night-dark moors in silence.
By his position, he was waiting for the women to finish bustling around, but she could tell by his grim expression that something had disturbed him earlier.
It took her back to the first time she’d ever seen him, at her brother’s wedding. She’d found him rather intimidating back then, so tall and handsome and elegant and sophisticated—the kind of man she just knew she’d never be able to talk to without making a complete fool of herself.
But she’d watched him, nevertheless, unable to take her eyes off him. The wedding reception had been held at her former school—Miss Mallard’s, where Emm had been a teacher—and all the girls—all the females there, in fact, old or young, married or not—had made such a fuss of him.
He’d been perfectly charming. The rumors were that he was a dangerous rake who’d recently been jilted. Or had jilted some poor girl—the stories were contradictory, but the girls at Miss Mallard’s didn’t care which it was, they just loved flirting with a handsome man. The hint of danger that lurked about him only added to their enjoyment.
He’d handled their attentions with lazy indifference, those winter-green eyes of his glinting with subtle amusement. She couldn’t hear what he said, but it seemed to her that every time he opened his mouth all the girls giggled and sighed and fluttered their eyelashes.
Of course the schoolgirls at Miss Mallard’s rarely met any men, except at church and they were mostly ancient, bald or toothless, so any halfway decent-looking man was guaranteed to have girls twittering around him. A man like Edward Galbraith, lean, dark and crisply elegant, with a hard, clean-shaven jaw, a bold nose that was not quite straight, and a firm, masculine mouth—well, any female would be dazzled.
Even if she didn’t have the courage to talk to him herself.
He’d flirted easily with any female drawn to his orbit, which was most of them, Miss Mallard included. But somehow, Lily thought, it wasn’t in any way . . . personal. It was as if he’d been presented with a kitten, petted it absently so it purred happily, and then set it down, all without noticing or caring which kitten he had. Or what happened to it afterward.
As if women were all the same to him: old, young, pretty, plain.
But once, just for a few moments, when he thought himself alone and unobserved, she’d seen him gazing out over the company with the bleakest expression. She remembered thinking then that he had the saddest eyes she’d ever seen.
Then someone said something that drew him back into the present, and it was like a blind coming down—the bleakness vanished as if it had never been, and he was the sophisticated rake again.
Had he been jilted? Was he heartbroken? Something had to account for that desolate expression.
She studied him now as he stared out into the darkness. The last dying light had faded and the moon was hidden behind clouds. She couldn’t quite read his expression; she could only see his stern, unsmiling profile, but his body looked tense, his jaw clenched tight.
“There now.” Mrs. Baines stood back and surveyed the preparations with satisfaction. “There’s faggots to start with—”
“Faggots?” As far as Lily knew a faggot was a bundle of wood, not round meaty balls in some kind of gravy.
“Savory ducks, then, some people call ’em,” Mrs. Baines said.
Lily looked closer. “They don’t look like ducks to me.”
“Of course not, young miss—they’re made of pig’s liver, pork and bread crumbs,” she said, as if Lily were showing appalling ignorance.
“What’s that spiderwebby stuff they’re wrapped in?”
Mrs. Baines laughed heartily. “Pig’s caul, of course. Ah, you Londoners . . .” She shook her head.
“Famous for her faggots, Ma is,” Betty said proudly.
Mrs. Baines smoothed her apron modestly. “Best in all Yorkshire, I’ve been told, though I don’t know about that.”
Edward turned away from the window and Lily was glad to see the bleak expression was gone from his eyes. There might even be a faint glimmer of amusement, though in the lamplight she couldn’t be certain.
“I’m sure they’ll be delicious, Mrs. Baines,” he said.
Beaming up at him, Mrs. Baines waved him to the table. “Now, sir, sit yourself down and make a start on ’em while they’re hot. You got to eat, keep up your strength, fine big lad like yoursel’. I’ll away back to the kitchen, and Betty and one of the boys will bring the rest up in a few minutes.”
Lily hid a smile as he held a chair for her to be seated. With his lean, rangy build, Edward was apparently the kind of man that women enjoyed feeding. Her brother, Cal, was the same. Nobody was suggesting Lily needed to keep up her strength, even though— Heavens! It must be days since she’d eaten.
She hadn’t felt at all like eating before. The drug had made her feel so queasy. But now—her stomach rumbled again—she was ravenous.
Betty was back in a twinkling with the rest of the meal, assisted by her little brother Jimmy. She placed all the dishes on the table and directed Jimmy to bring a couple of jugs over. “There’s Pa’s best ale for you, sir—he said to tell you sorry, but we don’t carry table wines, no call for ’em around here, see. And Ma thought the young lady might like a bit of barley water?” She gave Lily a worried look.
Lily nodded. “Perfect, thank you, Betty.” When she was a little girl, Nurse used to give her barley water when she’d been sick, and now it was just what she felt like.
Betty gave a relieved grin and wiped her hands down her apron. “Right, then, if there’s owt else you
