Free Angel In My Bed by Melody Thomas

Salehurst. My mother’s side of the family grows hops. We used to, but our last crop failed three years ago.”
    His gaze still on Sir Scott’s headstone, David wasn’t listening as she spoke of bad weather cycles and lack of tenants to help with the land. He wanted to ask her questions about her father’s military unit. Mostly, he wanted to know why Munro’s casket hadn’t been on the same steamer that left Bombay as Meg.
    â€œIf you drink ale in these parts, I guarantee it is my family’s brand,” she was saying. “Victoria wants Nathanial to learn to manage these lands. Unfortunately, as you can see, he may not have land to manage by the time he comes of age.” Her blue gaze lifted to the church, and she sighed. “Not much remains anymore. Most everyone has left. Including many of the servants. Except for Mr. Doyle. He works these grounds.”
    David looked past her, through the thicket of trees. Higher on the bluff, the yellow stone manor peered out over the countryside from a throne of brambling roses and crowning oaks.
    â€œI’m afraid it will be difficult for you to move in tonight,” she said. “Will you come to the cottage and meet Grandfather?” she asked, the top of her blond head barely reaching his chest as he stood. “Besides, it is getting late and you must be famished. Sir Henry will be pleased to meet you, especially since you’ve paid the taxes on the land. We can wait for Victoria together.”
    Turning away to release the reins of his horse, David wondered what Meg would think walking into the cottage and finding him present. He was suddenly quite famished.
    â€œAre you always this friendly to strangers?”
    â€œYou’re no stranger to Victoria.” The brisk chill brought apples to her cheeks. “And I do see a family resemblance. You have dark hair and you’re tall.”
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    A rainstorm was pummeling the ground by the time Victoria arrived at the cottage after dark. The back door flew open and Bethany appeared like a silhouette against the light. Mr. Rockwell sat on the front seat of the buggy, his face hidden beneath a wide floppy hat. A black slicker swallowed him.
    â€œSomeone is here,” he yelled over the rain.
    Victoria tightened the hood around her face and looked toward the barn where she saw a beautiful black horse pulled out of the rain. A stiff wind whipped up her skirt and cloak, and she captured its length with her hand. “Mr. Shelby is in the barn. He’ll see that you get dry clothes. When you’re finished, Mrs. Shelby will feed you and give you a bed for the night. Tomorrow we will see to your permanent lodgings.”
    She directed him to the barn, then to the smaller cottage behind. A steady rain had softened the ground into mud. Victoria lifted her skirts as she ran across the yard and over the cobblestones that marked the path to the back door. The former hunter’s cottage was an unassuming two-story, gray stone thatched cottage. A century’s growth of ivy twined through the crevices in the stone. She could smell smoke from the chimney.
    â€œVictoria!” Bethany launched into her arms as she entered the mudroom. “I was in the kitchen and heard the buggy. Look at you. I was beginning to get worried. Are you all right? You said little in your note. You must be freezing.”
    Water dripped into a puddle at her feet. Bethany helped her remove the sodden cloak she had stolen from David’s closet. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back sooner. How is your grandfather? Has he been soaking his foot?”
    â€œHe’s playing cards.”
    Victoria remembered the horse in the stable. “Who is here?”
    â€œI’ve got the most wonderful surprise for you.”
    Bethany took her hand and led her down the long corridor to the back of the cottage. Men’s voices sounded from Sir Henry’s bedroom.
    David was sitting beside the