Beneath the Major's Scars. Sarah Mallory

beg your pardon,’ said Zelah. ‘I did not mean to put you to all this trouble.’

      It was a poor enough olive branch, but it worked. Major Coale gave her a rueful look.

      ‘And I beg your pardon for losing my temper. My manners have lost their polish.’

      The door opened and the footmen came in with the first dishes.

      After such an unpromising start Zelah feared that conversation might be difficult, but she was wrong. The major proved an excellent host, exerting himself to entertain. He persuaded her to take a little from every dish on the table and kept her glass filled while regaling her with amusing anecdotes. She forgot her nerves and began to enjoy herself. They discussed music and art, the theatre and politics, neither noticing when the footmen came in to light the candles, and by the time they finished their meal Zelah was exchanging opinions with the major as if they were old friends. When the covers were removed the major asked her about Nicky and she found herself chatting away, telling him how they filled their days.

      ‘Hannah is so good with him, too,’ she ended. ‘Thank you for sending her to help me.’

      ‘It was Mrs Graddon who suggested it, knowing the girl comes from a large family.’

      ‘Nicky adores her and would much rather play spillikins with her than attend to his lessons.’

      His brows rose. ‘Don’t tell me you are making him work while he is laid up sick?’

      She laughed.

      ‘No, no, but I like him to read to me a little each day and to write a short note to his mama. He is reluctant to apply himself, but I find that with a little encouragement he is willing enough. And it is very good practice for me.’

      ‘Practice?’

      ‘Yes, for when I become a governess.’

      She selected a sweetmeat as the butler came up to refill her glass. The major waved him away.

      ‘Thank you, Graddon, that will be all. Leave the Madeira and I will serve Miss Pentewan.’ He waited until they were alone before he spoke again.

      ‘Forgive my impertinence, ma’am, but you do not look old enough to be a governess.’

      She sat up very straight.

      ‘I am two-and-twenty, Major Coale. Not that it is any of your business!’ She bit her lip. ‘I beg you pardon. I am a guest in your house—’

      ‘Guest be damned,’ he interrupted roughly. ‘That is no reason you should endure my incivility. Being a guest here should not put you under any obligation.’

      Zelah chuckled, her spurt of anger dying as quickly as it had come.

      ‘Of course I am under an obligation to you, Major. You have gone to great lengths to accommodate us. And how could I not forgive you for paying me such a handsome compliment?’

      He gave a short laugh and filled their glasses.

      ‘So why are you intent on becoming a governess? Can Buckland not support you?’

      ‘Why should he do so, if I can earn my own living?’

      ‘I should not allow my sister to become a governess.’

      ‘But your father was a viscount. Reginald is only a brother by marriage, and besides, he has a family of his own to support.’ She picked up the glass he had filled for her and tasted it carefully. She had never had Madeira before, but she found she enjoyed the warm, nutty flavour. ‘I would not add to his burdens.’

      He reached out, his hand hovering over the sweetmeats as he said lightly, ‘Perhaps you should look for a husband.’

      ‘No!’

      The vehemence brought his head up immediately and she was subjected to a piercing gaze. She decided to be flippant.

      ‘As I am penniless, and notoriously difficult to please, I think that might be far too difficult. I do like this wine—is it usual for gentlemen to drink it at the end of a meal? I know Reginald prefers brandy.’

      To her relief he followed her lead and their conversation moved back to safer waters. She took another glass of Madeira and decided it must be her last. She was in danger of becoming light-headed. Darkness closed around them. The butler came in silently to light more candles in the room and draw the curtains against the night, but they made no move to leave the table, there was still so much to say.

      The major turned to speak to Graddon and Zelah studied his profile. How handsome he must have been before his face was sliced open by a French sabre. It was a momentary thought, banished as soon as it occurred, but it filled her with sadness.

      ‘You are very quiet, Miss Pentewan.’

      His words brought her back to the present and she blushed, not knowing how to respond. In the end she decided upon the truth.

      ‘I was thinking about your face.’

      Immediately he seemed to withdraw from her.

      ‘That is why I wanted you upon my right hand, to spare you that revulsion.’

      She shook her head.

      ‘It does not revolt me.’

      ‘I should not have shaved off my beard!’

      ‘Yes, you should, you look so much better, only—’

      ‘Yes, madam? Only what?’ The hard note in his voice warned her not to continue, but she ignored it.

      ‘Your hair,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I am surprised your valet does not wish to cut it.’

      ‘I have no valet. Graddon does all I need.’

      ‘But I thought he was a butler …’

      ‘He does what is necessary. He was with me in Spain and brought me back to England. He stayed with me, helped me to come to terms with my new life.’

      ‘And Mrs Graddon?’

      ‘She was housemaid at Markham and decided to marry Graddon and come with him when I moved here.’ He raised his glass, his lip curling into something very like a sneer. ‘You see, my misfortune is their gain.’

      She frowned.

      ‘Please do not belittle them. They are devoted to you.’

      ‘I stand corrected,’ he said stiffly. ‘I beg your pardon and theirs.’

      ‘I think you would look much better with your hair cut short. It is very much the fashion now, you know.’

      He leaned closer, a belligerent, challenging look in his eye. It took all her courage not to turn away.

      ‘I need it long,’ he said savagely. ‘Then I can bring it down, thus, and hide this monstrous deformation.’ He pulled the ribbon from his hair and shook the dark curtain down over his face. ‘Surely that is better? I would not want to alarm the ladies and children!’

      He was glaring at her, eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin, taut line, one side pulled lower by the dragging scar.

      ‘Nicky is not afraid of you,’ she said softly. ‘Nor do you frighten me.’

      For a long, interminable time she held his eyes, hoping he would read not pity but sympathy and understanding in her gaze. He was a proud man and she was dismayed to think he was hiding from the world. To her relief, his angry look faded.

      ‘So would you have me trust myself to a country barber?’ he growled. ‘I think not, Miss Pentewan. Perhaps next time I go to London—’

      ‘I could cut it for you.’ She sat back, shocked by her own temerity. ‘I am quite adept at cutting hair, although I have no idea where the skill comes from. I was always used to trim my father’s hair, and since I have been at West Barton I have cut Nicky’s. I am sure no one could tell it was not professionally done.’