Lady in Rags

Chapter Two: A Strange Woman

"Yes. I'm hungry." She stared at the arm she offered him in distaste. "I can walk alone, Sir. I am no invalid."

He let his arm fall to his side and smiled coldly. "I can see that."

She followed him to the dining room, which like the hall was only half-renovated still. There were no curtains yet on the windows, and she could see right down through the darkness into the glowing lights of Greater Hough, all laid out like stars had fallen and come to rest in the valley.

A footman stepped forward from the wall. "Five more minutes, Sir."

"Of course. Go see to it."

The footman disappeared. Mr Armiger went to the sideboard. "Would you like wine, Miss Baker?"

"Please." She stood against the windows, looking down into the town, and wondering what it would be like to truly live in a house like this, with a view, instead of a miserable, ramshackle cottage with draughts and mice.

Mr Armiger appeared at her side, and handed her a glass.

She sipped, the course of alcohol down her throat quelling her nerves. "Mr Armiger, whose dress am I wearing? Mrs Roper is too old, and, anyway, these are not servant's gowns."

"My wife's."

The wine was suddenly bitter in Verity's mouth. She put the glass down on the table and left the room without a word.

"Miss Baker!" Armiger loped after her. "Verity!"

He took her arm, and she turned and slapped him. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the hall. He let her go, and she trembled, sure he would hit her next.

Instead he rubbed his cheek and winced. "Good God, you must have wrists of steel."

"You, Sir, you are a disgrace to your class." Verity's voice shook with anger. "Where is your wife, that you come to this valley and pretend to be a bachelor to buy virgins from their fathers?"

Armiger's expression went cold, and he stepped back, his cheek still red with the impact of Verity's hand.

"She lying six feet under, in a grave two thousand miles from here, along with our infant son."

Verity flushed, and then felt a chill sink through her soul. "I'm so very sorry," she whispered.

"They died last winter, and that is why I returned to England."

"I'm sorry, Mr Armiger."

She examined him properly for the first time, and could see now that he was younger than she had first thought, perhaps twenty-eight, and that he was not the ogre she had in mind during the walk here. His hair was streaked with grey, like an old man's, but the lines on his face, around his eyes and brow, were from worry, not age, and with his sharp, aggressive bones, and angular, strange black brows, and impervious grey eyes, he was very handsome, in a queer, almost frightening way. Looking at him reminded Verity of looking at a grand line of mountains, or down from a tall wall. It made her stomach swoop in a strange, pleasant fear.

"I do not blame you."

"You do not – mind me wearing your wife's dresses?"

"I mind far more than I thought I would." He cracked a bitter smile. "But I have no other dresses, and you can hardly go naked, and I refuse to look any more upon that rag your father gave you."

A gong sounded down the hall.

"Dinner is served." Armiger offered his arm to Verity, and this time she took it. Perhaps he is just lonely, she thought desperately, filled both with pity and fear for this strange, handsome widower.