Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,56
it was in good condition. Mrs. Brown was directing the men to move those pieces out.
“Mrs. Brown!” Pru greeted her with a wave.
Mrs. Brown beamed. “What do you think?” She waved at the room.
“It looks so much lighter and airier. Is that a word? Airier? I had no idea it could look like this here.”
Mrs. Brown’s chest all but puffed up. “This was how it looked when I was about your age. Lady Beaufort always kept the house in perfect order. Now that Clopdon has hired these two footmen, we can restore it to some semblance of what it was.”
“Footmen?” One of the knots of concern in Pru’s belly loosened. Mr. Pope now had a valet, a groom, and footmen. Surely that was a good sign. Would it be enough to persuade his father that he did not belong in an asylum?
Pru would make sure of it.
She pointed to a couch the two footmen were lifting and carrying out. “What is wrong with that couch? It looks in good condition.”
“Blood stains,” Mrs. Brown whispered.
“I suppose the blood wouldn’t come out,” came a voice from behind her. Pru and Mrs. Brown turned around. Pru jumped at the sight of Mr. Pope. She had not even heard him approach, not surprising considering the pounding.
“Good day, sir,” Mrs. Brown said.
“Mr. Pope,” Pru said, not able to keep a smile from her face. “You look well.”
And he did. He was dressed in a dark coat and trousers with a deep green waistcoat and a simple neckcloth. His hair, as usual, fell over his forehead and covered his damaged eye. But he had more color in his face and it looked fuller. Gone was the gaunt man she had first met in the informal gardens. This man was still thin, but he was beginning to look healthy and well.
“My head is pounding along with the hammering,” he said. “I believe you promised me a walk out of doors today, and if that glare from across the room is any indication, the weather is fine.”
“It is indeed,” she said. “Mrs. Brown, would you tell Mrs. Blimkin Mr. Pope and I will have our lesson out of doors today? We shall return in about an hour.”
“Of course, Miss Howard.”
She put her arm through Mr. Pope’s, guiding him into the foyer and through the front door. “Why is there blood on the couch?” she asked.
“Slight error in judgment,” he replied. She saw his hand go to his pocket, the same pocket where he kept his pistol.
“Do you always carry your pistol with you?” she asked as they stepped onto the lawn. She paused, not certain which way he would want to go. She knew where she would like to walk—the informal gardens. She had missed them these past days.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“Why?”
“It’s a comfort.”
“Not to anyone you point it at, but at least you are doing that less often. Do you have a preference for where we walk?”
“You choose,” he said.
“The informal gardens?”
“Lead the way. I can see even less than usual in the sunlight.”
She did lead the way, and when they were far enough away from the house that the hammering faded and the sunlight was muted by the damp cool of the shadows under the trees, Pru paused and looked at Mr. Pope. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’ll have to be more specific, Miss Howard.”
“Pru, remember? And why didn’t you tell me about the asylum?”
His face, which she had noted he was already quite good at keeping expressionless, went quite blank. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s no use lying,” Pru said. She tugged at his arm, leading him to a large log where they could sit. It had obviously been placed in just this spot for just this reason. It was set firmly in the earth and overlooked a small ravine that led down to the brook. If they kept along the path, they would descend gradually, but at this spot, the drop was steeper. “Mrs. Brown told me.”
“Mrs. Brown should keep her mouth shut.”
Pru sat and pulled him down beside her. “She only wants to help you. All of us want to help you. I don’t understand why you won’t take help when it’s offered.”
“Because I’m not helpless!” he roared, jumping to his feet. Pru grabbed his wrist, afraid he might step too close to the edge of the ravine. He shook her off. “I’m not a child who needs his hand held and his face wiped after eating. I’m a grown man.”