He sat on the wall at the edge of the courtyard in the rain and watched her snap each bottle on the rock and pour its contents into the well.

“That one smelled horrid.” She wrinkled up her nose.

“It did not.”

“You cannot smell them from all the way over there.”

“Care to wager on that?”

“I suppose not.” She shook another bottle dry then threw it down the well shaft. “We shall have to compensate these poor people for the ruination of their cellar.”

“Indeed.”

Rain pattered softly now on the glistening gray stone of the well and the grass between them, the dusk advancing into night.

“You can go inside, you know. I can finish here quite well on my own.”

“I do not wish to go inside.”

She sighed. “You do not wish to leave sight of all these bottles of wine, I suppose.”

“I do not wish to leave sight of a pretty girl.”

Her pulse did a little uncomfortable leap, which was silly, because although she had thrown off her spots and fat she was by no means pretty. But he was possibly a little delirious.

“If you can smell the wine from such a distance,” she said, willing away her swift heartbeats, “what else can you smell?”

“You.”

Another leap, quite a bit more forceful. “R-Really? What do I smell like?”

“Fresh air.”

If he’d said something silly, like roses, she would have known he was flattering emptily. Instead, warmth invaded her in crucial places that she couldn’t like. He made her feel hot and off kilter, but she could do nothing to satisfy that feeling, so she wished he wouldn’t.

“You are being metaphorical, aren’t you?”

“No. You actually smell like fresh air.”

His words pleased her far too much. Perhaps Mrs. Polley was right and he was the devil sent to frustrate her.

The remainder of the wine flowed down the well. She shook out her weary hands and wrists and followed him into the house.

“I am exhausted.”

“I am rather exhausted myself, and I only watched.” He drew the thick bolt on the front door and it thunked into place.

“How do you feel?”

“Do not ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, contrary to expectations, I don’t care for you in the role of nursemaid. To me.”

Expectations? “Why not?”

He looked down at her and his eyes seemed for a moment at peace, gently silver in the candlelight. “You ask too many questions, minx.”

“I like it when you call me minx. No one ever has, you know.”

“I confess myself somewhat shocked.”

“I am not yet out in society and there is no one around Glenhaven Hall or the Park that would call me such a thing. Except you. But you have so rarely visited.” She thought then an astounding thing, that perhaps she had not been entirely honest with herself about her memories of him, that perhaps she had remembered her brief encounters with him too well. “Will you turn in now?” she managed over the sudden hammering of her heart. “You do look tired.”

“I am, rather.” He bowed. “Good night, minx.” He turned and made his way up the stairs.

Diantha went to the kitchen still warm from the fire and draped Mrs. Polley with a blanket. Then she climbed the stairs and found the bed in which she and her companion had slept the night before, the linens still musty but dry. Curling up beneath wool blankets that smelled of camphor balls, she lay there with her uncomfortable thoughts and worried about him.

As day broke she woke with renewed courage and confidence. Sleep healed all ills, and she had thrown off her silly notions. Young girls would have foolish tendres for elegant gentlemen and she could not chastise herself for having had one herself, especially since he’d been so gallant that time. Today they would again set off on their journey and once they found her mother he would go his own way and she would no longer constantly think about him.

Snatching a piece of bread from the kitchen, with a light step she returned to the foyer. He stood at the base of the stair, hollow-eyed and gaunt-cheeked.

“Miss Lucas, if you would be so kind, I require your assistance.”

“To stand?”

He seemed to attempt a smile. “To drive me on a short errand.”

“An errand?” She felt wholly incapable of forming longer sentences. He had not recovered overnight. Her heart felt atrociously tight.

“Owen informs me that there is a village nearby, including a shop at which I might purchase several items of which I am in need. I fear that I am not up to my best this morning. I would appreciate your help.”

She swallowed back her distress and the intense desire to throw her arms about him. “You have it, of course.”

He gestured toward the door, his other hand clutching the knob at the bottom of the stair rail so that the knuckles were white. “After you, madam.”

“But there is no carriage.”

“The carriage house boasts a modest gig.”

“There is no carriage horse.”

“Galahad will suffer it. He has before.”

“He has?” She went at his side across the yard toward the stable.

“On occasion. Will you mind it?”

“Of course not. But why didn’t you send Owen?”

“He is sleeping, as well he should be. He has worked hard and deserves rest.”

“That’s very considerate of you.”

The gig was modest indeed; upon the box, they sat touching from shoulder to thigh. She could contrive no suitable conversation; the pleasure of this connection was too sharp.

The village was not far along the narrow road that ran beside the stream, tucked into a crevice of the valley. It wasn’t much of a village, in truth, only a handful of buildings and a squat stone church that in comparison to the abbey seemed negligible.

He seemed to know precisely where to go, pointing her to a cottage with a trellis festooned with vines that glistened with rain. He descended from the carriage and offered his hand.

She took it, which was strong but not steady. “I should probably be assisting you down.”

“As you are the one wearing skirts this arrangement must suffice.”

She squeezed her fingers into his. “You will tell me if I can help you, won’t you?”

“You are helping me now.”

Two men emerged from the next building and peered at them quite blatantly. Mr. Yale drew her hand onto his arm and nodded to them.

“Good day, sir,” one said with a narrowed eye, but he bowed. He was an older man, gruff of face and whisker and neatly dressed like any man of Glen Village back in Devon might be. Her escort nodded then opened the door accompanied by a jingle of bells.

Within, all was fragrant of roses, rosemary, and sage. Little brown bottles lined shelves, candles of many hues were stacked in piles about the place, and jars stuffed with dried herbs and prettily colored dried flowers. A woman with a mass of gray hair snaking around her head topped with an enormous cap stood from a rocking chair in the corner and came forward.

“Well well, sir. A good day to you!” She curtsied. “And to you, miss.” But she did not take her eyes off Mr. Yale, for which Diantha couldn’t fault her. “What brings a lady and a gentleman such as yourselves to my shop today, I wonder?” Then she did look at Diantha, an up and down assessing regard. But it had nothing of scorn in it, only curiosity.

“Good day, ma’am.” Mr. Yale produced a folded paper from his waistcoat pocket. “Will you be so kind as to supply me with these items if you possess them?”

She stared at him while she unfolded the paper, then glanced down. Her brow furrowed.

“St. John’s Wort . . . Milk Thistle . . . Powder of Cayenne . . . Laud—” Her eyes snapped up, this time assessing him it seemed. “You are in luck, sir. These I have, and a few other items you might like.”

“Ah. I hoped so.”

She gave him a close look then hurried to the back of the shop and through a door.

“Whatever is Powder of Cayenne?” Diantha whispered, but the woman appeared again.

“A pepper from the Americas, miss. Dried and ground to a dust.”

“A pepper?” She flicked a glance at Mr. Yale, but his attention seemed intent upon the little paper pouches the shop mistress was now preparing at her counter. “For what is it used?”

“Certain complaints,” the woman said, her fingers deft as she scooped tiny spoonfuls of red dust into a pouch, then opened a large jar and drew out several sprigs of dried weed with the faintest hint of purple clinging to the shriveled flowers.

Diantha leaned over the herbs, inspecting. “This must be the Milk Thistle. But I don’t recognize many of the others here. What a wonderful shop you have! However do you come to have all these plants?”

“There was a young gentleman lived here not too long ago, miss, who taught me about them.” She glanced at Mr. Yale. “Now, don’t you misunderstand, miss. Molly Cerwydn learned herb craft from her mother and nobody’s been better at it in these parts in a hundred years. But this young man, well, he’d been traveling all over the world to places where they’ve got healing tricks I didn’t know about, you see. So, being eager to improve my craft, I sat him down and bid him tell me what he’d learned. The people in this village, farmers, even the animals, they’ve been glad of it ever since.”

“Whatever happened to the young man?” She ran her fingertip down the side of a big glass jar. “Is he still here telling tales of exotic lands?”

“He’s gone off to who knows where, miss. Though he’s welcome to return when he likes. Everyone here would be glad to see him again.”

Mr. Yale cleared his throat softly. “Ladies, if you will excuse me, I’ll see that the horse is well.” He set a handful of coins on the counter and went out of the shop.

Mrs. Cerwydn wrapped the packets in paper and tied them with a string. “There, miss. Now then.” She looked Diantha over carefully. Then she dug into a deep pocket in her skirt and pulled forth a bottle of brown glass the size of her hand.

Diantha stared; she had seen such a bottle before when her father was ill. Before he died.

The herbalist reached for her hand, tucked the bottle into it, and nodded. “You see that your young man there has the caring he needs.”

But he was not her young man.

Diantha curtsied, took up the package and went out of the shop. Mr. Yale stood across the street with the whiskered man. He came across to the carriage, Ramses trotting along beside. He took the package and she could see clearly the strain upon his brow.

“Back to the house?” she said quietly.

“Back to the house.” His voice was taut.

“What were you talking about with that man?” Mr. Whiskers was still looking at them, and Diantha caught a glimpse of the herbalist peering out the window, and another face in a window in the next building too. “Everybody here is madly curious about us.”

“Villagers. Always like that.” He took up the reins.

“Don’t you want me to drive?”

“If necessary, in a bit.” He snapped Galahad into motion.

Mr. Whiskers stared them down the road.

“You don’t want that man to see me driving, is that it?”

“I don’t care what that man sees.” His hands were tight around the ribbons.

“Then, why—”

“The activity is useful, Miss Lucas. It provides me something upon which to concentrate.”

She turned her attention from the road onto his handsome face fraught with tension. “Is it that bad?”

A muscle in his jaw contracted. “It is that bad.”

Once back at the abbey, with Galahad unharnessed, he took the herbalist’s package and bottle, thanked her, and went into the house without awaiting her. She followed, but to the kitchen where she found Mrs. Polley sniffling over a pot of tea and a table spread with biscuit dough.

“It seems you’ve found sugar.” Diantha tucked her companion’s shawl tighter about her shoulders.

“The boy found it.” Mrs. Polley rolled out the dough. “He’s a wily one. I don’t like to know whose kitchen’s wanting now.”

“He stole the sugar from someone’s house?” She sat down beside the round little form of her companion. “Goodness, I’ve been gone from my friend’s home no more than a sennight and I’ve broken more laws than I can count.” And Mrs. Polley didn’t know the half of it, certainly not the laws of morality she’d broken. She picked at a corner of the dough, the tawny sugar crystals tempting. “I suppose I always knew I would come to no good end. My mother has.”

“Now, miss. You’ll find her and make it all right again.”