Sherbrooke Twins

“Poor Willie, and all he wanted was a kiss.”

She shuddered.

“Now, I want you to keep that coat real close. Just keep thinking how good you feel. No illness, Corrie. That’s one thing we can’t afford.”

The coat was wet, but she pulled it close. It was better than nothing. She looked at James, his white shirt damp, the wind slicing through it, making the sleeves billow.

It started drizzling again.

They didn’t see a single living creature until after the sun was up. They heard cows mooing.

“Glory be, I don’t believe it,” Corrie yelled. “Where there are cows there have to be people to milk them.”

Hand in hand, they ran in the direction of the mooing. There was a farmhouse, the back of it facing the sea, the front bordering a narrow road, and on the other side was a good-sized pasture and beyond the pasture, a forest of elm and maple trees. The house was built of gray stone, a hulking ugly house with a barn attached. At the moment, it was the most glorious structure either of them had ever seen.

“Oh, there’s smoke coming out of the chimney. That means it’s got to be warm in there.”

They ran to the front of the house, panting, and James called out, “Is there anyone here? We’re in need of assistance!”

From behind the closed door, an old voice said, “I don’t give no assistance to no one. Go away.”

“Please,” Corrie said, “we mean no harm. We’ve been walking all night and are very wet and cold. Won’t you please help us?”

“Yer rich coves, from the sound of ye.” The door opened a crack, and a very old face, seamed deep by years in the sun, and eyes a bright, intelligent blue, peered out at them.

“Wot’s this? Oh my, ye’re both a rare mess, ye are. Come in, come in now.”

The door went wide, and James and Corrie walked into the house, James ducking before the lintel would have knocked the top of his head off.

It smelled like vanilla inside.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Corrie said, sucking in that wonderful smell, turning to the wrinkled old woman, swathed in a huge apron that covered nearly all of her. “What a delightful house you have, madam. Thank you so much for letting us in. And it’s so very warm.”

“Please, ma’am,” James said. “We’ve been in the rain all night and I’m very worried about Corrie.”

“Aye, I can see that,” the old woman said. “I’m Mrs. Osbourne, me man is out there wi’ the cows. Our milk is the best in the district. I’ll give ye a cup o’ milk, all nice and warm, that’ll make ye jig again. Now, ye’re both wet, let me find ye something to wear.”

Mrs. Osbourne disappeared into another room, and James realized that behind the door past the kitchen was indeed the barn.

“Corrie, I want you to hang my coat over that chair and get yourself close to the fireplace. We’re nearly home.”

When Mrs. Osbourne came back after only a few minutes carrying a pail of milk, she said to Corrie, “Aye, little dearie, let me pour ye some nice fresh milk, then we’ll get ye into some nice dry clothes.”

Corrie drank the warm milk gratefully then handed the mug to James, who finished it off.

She followed Mrs. Osbourne into an old-fashioned bedchamber with a lovely big bed and a huge trunk at its base. Mrs. Osbourne left Corrie there to change into a long shapeless gown of indeterminate gray with a high neck and not a single ruffle or flounce. Corrie thought it was a lovely dress. She was humming as she stripped off her wet clothes and laid them all spread out on the floor, careful not to let them touch Mrs. Osbourne’s blue rag rug. She could hear Mrs. Osbourne speaking to James, but couldn’t make out her words.

She toweled off her hair and untangled it as best she could with her fingers. She was warm, her belly filled with the lovely milk, and she was more than ready to take on more kidnappers. Or smugglers. What an amazing night it had been. And James was all right. She’d seen to it.

She walked back into the sitting room. “Your turn now, James.”

When James took the men’s clothes into the bedchamber, Corrie said, “I thank you, ma’am. Lord Hammersmith was kidnapped. We both escaped and have been walking in the rain nearly all night.”

“A lordship is he? Well, I suppose he should have a title attached to that beautiful face of his. I don’t think Mr. Osbourne’s clothes will fit him well, but at least they’re dry. Would ye like to buy some milk?”

Before Corrie could laugh or reply, James came out of the bedchamber dressed in Mr. Osbourne’s clothes. Corrie knew that beauty would have to be in the eye of a very biased beholder. The breeches, old and baggy, came only to his ankles. The dark brown cotton shirt didn’t quite meet over his chest, which made him look very manly indeed, what with chest hair poking out. She didn’t think she’d seen James’s chest since he was sixteen. Should she tell him that he would look magnificent indeed if he’d take off those ridiculous clothes?

Probably wise not to say that. She didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Osbourne’s feelings.

“You look very natty, James.”

“I’m warm and dry, as you are, Corrie. Thank you, Mrs. Osbourne and Mr. Osbourne as well. Once Corrie and I are home again, I will have the clothes returned to you.”

“So ye’re Lord Hammersmith, the young lady tells me. Ye’ve the look of a ducky lad. I believe that Mr. Osbourne had the look of ye afore the years wore on him and knobbled his knees, and all those dratted cows kicked him in the head too many times.” And Mrs. Osbourne curtseyed to him. “I’ll feed ye. Mr. Osbourne can sell all the milk this morning. Goodness, I already hear the wagons coming down the road.”

After the most delicious porridge and eggs and toast either Corrie or James had ever eaten in their short lives, they both felt too tired and stupid to do anything except sit at that table and try to stay upright.

“Tired, are ye? Well, that’s no problem. How about a short nap afore Mr. Osbourne sees that ye get at least to Malthorpe, our village five miles down the road.”

James was so grateful that he nearly fell over his feet as he rose from his chair. He walked to Mrs. Osbourne, picked up her hoary hand, and kissed her knuckles. “We are very grateful for your kindness, ma’am. If you don’t mind, I would very much like for Corrie to rest a while. So much has happened.”

“I’ll have her in my own bedchamber, my lord, tucked in right and tight.”

“Thank you, ma’am. If I can perhaps assist Mr. Osbourne with the cows-” He stood there, the words barely out of his mouth, smiling his beautiful smile, when suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, hitting the edge of the table on his way to the floor.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CORRIE HAD NEVER been so frightened in her life. Riding on the back of a carriage for three hours on the tiger’s perch, the wind whistling up her wide sleeves, was nothing; climbing up on a rickety roof with a blanket-well, the list was long. But this was James. And he was sick.

Mr. Osbourne left his milking to strip James of his own clothes and put him into bed. He was still unconscious, his breathing heavy, and he was so very pale. Corrie couldn’t bear it. She’d taken his coat and left him in his shirtsleeves. She said to Mrs. Osbourne, “Is there a physician nearby? I must have a physician for him. Please, Mrs. Osbourne. I can’t allow anything to happen to James. Please.”

“Well now,” Mrs. Osbourne said, lightly laying her gnarly old hand on James’s forehead, “there is old Dr. Flimmy, over in Braxton. Don’t know if he’s still alive, but he birthed my three boys, and all of them survived, their mama included. Elden!”

Mr. Osbourne stuck his head in the bedchamber.

“Send little Freddie over Braxton way to fetch Dr. Flimmy. Our beautiful boy here is nearly pale as a corpse.” She saw Corrie’s face blanch. “Sorry.”