The Curious Tale of the Lady Caraboo Read Free

scattered. She looked up. A young man with thick dark hair was shooing the children away.
    â€˜Are you all right, Miss Worrall?’
    Cassandra stared at him but couldn’t place him. She knew every soul in the village. Her parents were the residents of Knole Park, the biggest and most important house in the district. But this young man, wading towards her through the pond, was a stranger, she was sure of it.
    â€˜Will – William Jenkins from the Golden Bowl.’ He ran his hand along Zephyr’s neck and the horse greeted him like an old friend. ‘You don’t remember me, do you, Miss Worrall?’
    â€˜Of course I do,’ Cassandra lied. She swept the wet hair away from her face and realized, too late, that she had merely transferred the black mud of the village pond from her hand to her cheek.
    She waded out of the pond, attempting to pull Zephyr along behind her. Zephyr didn’t move.
    William Jenkins gave the horse a firm thwack across his hind quarters and he obediently stepped out after her.
    â€˜I could have managed!’ Cassandra snapped.
    â€˜I am sure of it, miss.’ Will was looking straight at her with his cool blue eyes, as if he were her equal.
    â€˜Thank you. I will go home now.’
    â€˜If you’d like, miss,’ he said, ‘you could clean yourself up at the Bowl – well, not in the inn, naturally, but I could let you in the kitchen. There’s no one around the back – just myself, miss. Father’s away in the city.’
    Now she remembered who he was. Will Jenkins, the innkeeper’s son. Hadn’t he gone to London years ago? Hadn’t Fred knocked this savage down more than once when, as little boys, they used to play in the churchyard?
    Cassandra hesitated. She must look an absolute sight. It couldn’t hurt to try and clean up a little . . .
    â€˜Very well, my man,’ she said, and followed him with all the dignity she could muster round the back of the village inn.
    He was shorter than Edmund and Fred, but his shoulders were broader for sure, and the linen of his shirt was pale against his sun-browned skin.
    He looked back at her over his shoulder. He was smirking, she was certain of it, trying his hardest not to laugh as hard as any of those scruffy children. Cassandra scowled back at him. She thought she would have liked Fred to be here so he could have knocked him down all over again and wiped that smile clear off his face.
    The inn was dark inside, and the kitchen, although not unlike the kitchen at Knole Park, in that there was a fire and a large scrubbed table, was a good deal smaller and more cluttered. Herbs hung from the ceiling and the fire glowed red in the grate.
    Will Jenkins took a poker and riddled the embers, then put on a couple of logs. ‘There, sit yourself down by the fire and dry off, Miss Worrall,’ he said. ‘If you need some clothes, you could wear mine.’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t think so, William Jenkins! Some water, please, so I can wash my face, and then I will be off.’
    â€˜I didn’t mean—’ he began, but Cassandra glared at him. ‘As you wish.’ And he left her alone in the kitchen.
    She stood by the fire, unbuttoned her coat and opened it out. The dress underneath was damp, and no doubt she stank of pond weed. She noticed her reflection in the bottom of a copper pan: her golden curls were dishevelled and her face smeared with mud, not unlike the war paint of the Pequot or the Mohican. Edmund would think her ridiculous.
    She sighed.
    â€˜You are not hurt?’
    Cassandra spun round. How long had Will Jenkins been standing there?
    â€˜No, I am not.’
    â€˜And neither is Zephyr.’
    â€˜How do you know my horse’s name?’
    â€˜Stephen, the lad who works in your stables with Vaughan – he’s brought him down to be shod more than once. The animal’s a stunner.’ Will put a basin of water and a bar of