“Can I ask you something?” he said when she’d finished washing and had started to dry.
“What?” she said warily.
“What is your name?”
“It’s Woodford,” she told him. “Miss Madeleine Woodford.”
“MissWoodford?” He tried to hide his surprise.
“Yes, miss,” she said tersely. “Why?”
“It’s just . . . all those children.”
She laughed, suddenly realizing his train of thought. “You thought they were mine? All five of them? Jane, the oldest, is twelve. How old do you think I am?”
It was a rhetorical question, but he gave her a thoughtful, considering look, from head to toe, and she felt herself flushing under his gaze, instantly self-conscious. Wanting, absurdly, for him to like what he saw.
“I don’t know,” he said. “About . . . twenty-five?”
“Twenty-two,” she said crisply. So she looked older than she was. Wonderful. Every woman’s dream.
“The children are my brothers and sisters, half brothers and sisters, to be precise. They are my father’s children by his second wife. They are—we are orphaned.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle.
“Thank you.” She felt little grief for Papa. The children might, though it was her opinion they grieved more for the idea of Papa. And much more for the loss of their home. “Now, if that’s all . . .”
“Are they my clothes?” He pointed to the hooks beside the bed, which were all she had as a wardrobe these days.
“Yes, but you’re not well enough—”
“I want to check if there’s any identification in them. I don’t suppose you looked.”
“The vicar checked. There is none.”
“Didn’t you look? Weren’t you curious?”
She bit her lip. “I did look, yes, but—”
“But what?”
“I only checked to see if you had money.”
He sank back against the pillow and just looked at her. “I see.”
She felt her cheeks warming. “It’s not what you think—well, it is, but—” She was floundering. “I needed to know if you . . .” She trailed off, knowing how bad it sounded.
“Had money?”
The dry note in his voice flicked her on the raw. “Yes, because you were so badly injured I didn’t think twice about sending for the doctor. Later I wondered how I could pay him—I have no money—so when the vicar sent the portmanteau, I wondered if . . . if you could pay.”
“I see. And did I have money?” His voice was cool, dispassionate. Judging.
She nodded. “Plenty, thank goodness.” A thick roll of crisp, new banknotes.
“And did you pay the doctor?”
“No, he didn’t even mention money. He wasn’t sure you’d live through the night. It’s a very serious injury, you know. You were bleeding an awful lot. And then there was fever.”
