He might think he was calling all the shots, but she would prove otherwise.
He ordered for himself and joined her at the table.
“Twentyman,” she mused. “Where does one get a name like that?”
“That’s a story,” the jolly woman said, coming up from behind Cait to set two ales before them. “My husband’s family was originally called Lydell. It’s said that one of the Lydells pole-axed twenty men, hence the name Twentyman.”
She walked away.
“You English are strange,” Cait said flatly.
Jason snorted, shaking his beautiful dark head.
Though Mrs. Twentyman had three serving maids to help her, she made it a point to bring Jason and Caithren’s supper herself. The pie smelled divine. Its flaky crust was filled with gingery mushrooms and melted cheese, and Cait was in heaven with the first bite.
“Delicious,” Jason told their hostess. “Newark was Royalist during the war, was it not?”
Mrs. Twentyman took that as an invitation to seat herself. “Aye, we were. Hull, Coventry, and Nottingham turned against King Charles in the troubles, but Newark was a loyalist stronghold.” Warming to her subject, she hitched herself forward. “In 1642 the king paid a visit here, and the whole town turned out to greet him. There are secret underground passages where the wealthy people deposited their deeds, jewelry, and valuables during the war for safekeeping. One leads from our cellar,” she confided.
“Secret passages?” Her curiosity piqued, Cait focused on Mrs. Twentyman while she stabbed blindly at her lettuce. “Where do they lead to?”
“They crisscross beneath the marketplace, connecting in various spots. Besides stashing their treasures there, some Royalists used them to hide.”
Cait took a sip of her ale. “Were they in danger?”
Mrs. Twentyman glanced around, making sure her serving maids were doing their jobs. “Most certainly they were in danger. As long as I live, I shall never forget one morning when their worst fears were confirmed. A party of Roundheads were spotted on Beacon Hill, waiting to attack.”
Caithren toyed with her cake. “What happened?”
“My husband’s grandmother brought an old army drum out of her house. It needed repair, but it could still make a racket. Her young grandson, my husband’s cousin, sounded the alarm, boldly striding through the town, beating the drum loudly, shouting, ‘Who will stand up for King Charles?’”
“And they did,” Jason told Cait. “They supported him courageously.”
“Yes, indeed. They had few guns but put on a brave show with their pitchforks and staves and whatever they could find. That day their luck was in. The Roundheads took one look at the mob and made a hasty retreat. Thanks to the loyal citizens and their little Twentyman drummer boy, Newark was still free.”
“Sadly, only for a while,” Jason put in.
“We withstood three sieges,” Mrs. Twentyman said proudly. “Of course, I was but a babe at the time.”
Feeling full after half her pie, Cait leaned back in her chair, lulled by the storytelling lilt of their hostess’s voice and the quiet roar of the other guests eating and conversing around them. She yawned behind her hand.
Mrs. Twentyman began to rise. “Poor dear, you’re sleepy. And here I am yapping away.”
Cait shook her head. “Your stories are wonderful, really.” When another yawn forced her mouth open, she blushed. “But I am tired.” She glanced at Jason, then back to the nice woman. “Do you think you might spare a little vinegar?”
“Vinegar, milady?”
“To mix with the nectar from these.” Caithren pulled the marigolds out of her pocket. “My ankle is a wee bit swollen, and it will help.”
“Will it, now?”
“Aye.”
When Mrs. Twentyman began stacking the plates, Cait noticed something on her hand. She reached across the table and touched the woman’s thumb. “And if you squeeze a wee smidge of juice from a dandelion stalk on this wart, it will clear up in no time.”
A little gasp came from Jason at her forwardness, but the innkeeper’s wife looked pleased. “I will try that, milady. First thing tomorrow.”
Cait smiled. “I would love a bath.” She looked to Jason. “Assuming you can afford it?”
The minute the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Mrs. Twentyman had been treating them like husband and wife, but a wife would know what her husband could afford. Cait was mortified, thinking now the woman might realize they were sharing a room but not married.
Jason exchanged an embarrassed glance with their hostess. “I think I can manage that,” he said carefully.
“And I shall be needing some decent clothes.”
She wasn’t surprised when Jason didn’t argue. “I’ll do my best to find some while you bathe. Let me just see you up to the room.”
“You’ll be needing clothes?” Mrs. Twentyman asked.
“Aye. And a night rail. Mine went…missing,” Cait explained feebly.
Mrs. Twentyman looked between them, obviously curious. “I can lend you one of my sleeping gowns,” she said generously.
When Jason eyed Mrs. Twentyman’s ample form, Cait kicked him under the table. “I’d surely appreciate it,” she said.
“Then I’ll fetch one and send it up along with a bath and the vinegar.” With one last puzzled glance, the woman smiled and took herself off.
Jason leaned to rub his ankle, eyeing Cait’s half-eaten pie. “Are you going to finish that?”
She shoved it toward him wordlessly. He ate three bites, then looked up with a question in his gaze, and she passed him her leftover sallet as well. She sipped at the last of her ale while she watched him make her food disappear.
“If you’re wanting to go upstairs,” he said, “I’ll be needing to keep the key.” He eyed the remnants of her cake, then shook his head and sat back. “In case you fall asleep before I return.”
The thought of sharing his room made her nervous, but she knew she had no choice. Her gaze wandered to the door in the corner. She was exhausted, aye, but not quite ready to go upstairs and face the night.
“Do you think that door leads to the cellar?”
“Probably.” His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“I’ve a hankering to check out those tunnels.” She rose and started toward it.
“Wait.”
