Judas Flowering Read Free

stair, ready dressed for supper, golden ringlets glowing against the white shoulders exposed by her low-cut dress. Then, seeing Mercy Phillips, “Oh, the poor thing!” She picked up blue silk skirts and came hurrying down to join them. “What happened? No, don’t tell me. Not now.” She held out both hands to the girl. “Come with me, dear. Tomorrow will be time enough to talk. Hart, send me Sally with some hot milk and a dash of rum. And tell them to start heating the water for a bath. Or”—with Mercy Phillips’ arm in hers, she recognised her exhaustion—” “perhaps you had better help us upstairs first.
    â€œNo need.” The girl’s neat chin went up. “If you don’t mind touching me, I can manage.”
    â€œMind? Nonsense!” Hart had never been so near to loving his cousin. “Come, dear. Aunt Martha, will you excuse me from supper?”
    â€œWell!” Mrs Purchis watched angrily as the two girls climbed the stairs slowly, arm supporting arm, one a Dresdenlady, the other a figure to scare crows. “I hope you know what you are doing, Hart!”
    â€œIndeed I do. I’m going to tell Sally about the rum and milk, and that hot bath. And will you excuse me from supper too? I will be sadly late, I’m afraid, by the time I’ve made myself fit to be seen.”
    â€œNo matter for that, child. It’s a poor world if Winchelsea can’t wait for Purchis. I’ll explain to your Aunt Anne.”
    â€œDo, Mamma.” He was at once grateful and aware that something basic had changed between them. She might call him “child” as she had always done, but she was treating him, now, as the man he felt himself. “And Francis?”
    â€œDines out. I quite forget where. I know your aunt was not best pleased. Low company, she said.”
    â€œOh? Francis gaming again?”
    â€œIf that’s the worst of it. Which we must hope. Dear Hart, what a comfort you are to me.”
    â€œNo credit to me that cards bore me to death. Now, do you make my peace with Aunt Anne, while I do Cousin Abigail’s commissions and make myself presentable. Ten minutes?”
    â€œAs many as you need, dear boy.” Something had indeed changed between them.
    In the servants’ quarters, Hart found that Abigail’s orders were already being obeyed, milk and water both heating on the great outdoor range. It was a reminder, as if any were needed, of how complete was their lack of privacy in a house full of servants. Lucky they are our friends, he thought, hurrying upstairs to his own room, where Jem awaited him with his evening dress laid out on the bed and hot water in the basin.
    â€œMust I?” He looked with distaste at black knee breeches and silk stockings.
    â€œYou know you must, Mr Hart.” Jem and Hart had grown up together and he spoke with the ease of long friendship. “Missus Mayfield, she’s in a pretty tearer already, long of Master Frank’s being off again. You’ll never turn her up sweet in day clothes. She’s wearing her black tonight.” He pulled an expressive face.
    â€œOh, is she?” Hart sighed and laughed, and let Jem help him out of coat and bloodstained shirt. Everybody in the house knew that when Aunt Anne Mayfield put on her mourning black, there was trouble coming. Everybody in thehouse knew everything, he thought, dabbing carefully at dried blood.
    â€œThat was some branch you ran into,” said Jem, confirming this. “Basilicum powder, I think, and a plaster to hide the worst. And I’ll tell Sally to cut the young lady’s nails for her.”
    â€œThanks!” Impossible not to laugh, but then, on a grimmer note, “Her father had just been killed, Jem. The less anyone knows …”
    â€œNo one knows nothing. ‘Cept we got a guest, and you’re going to be late for dinner, and the poor madam’s having a bad time with