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Tigress of the Shrubland (12)
He turned out at a chimney, like some unholy St. Nick. It was a warm evening, so the fire was not lit, but his coming startled the maid who was taking up a carpet to be beaten. Having done screaming, she shook her finger at him and wished to know what nerve and wherefore and so on.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said sootily, influenced by the place to speak in a long-abandoned style. His spindly figure dropped bits of ash on its way to regain its full height.
“And who do you suppose is going to clean that up?” she asked, more to his footprints than to him. Then she sighed and smiled at the blue eyes blinking out of the dingy face. “I’ll go get the master.”
The young heir was absolutely delighted with his curious visitor. He provided him with a hot bath and set the maid to washing his clothes, then invited him to a late dinner. Both men felt invigorated by the unusual circumstances, the meal, and the wine, and went out together for a moonlit stroll, smoking cigars.
Charles found the village charming, even in the dark. The air was woven with jasmine, the…
