As he walks into the hospital he sees her, up to her elbows in water, scouring dishes. He walks around the ward, talking to the men, and he watches her as she works, cleaning and wiping the rough army plates as carefully if they were fine china. Her arms are slender, her wrists thin. He has wondered often how anyone so slight and small can do the hard work she does. He's seen her sag with tiredness against the wall when she thinks no-one is looking.
That first day, when she blundered into the library by mistake, he spoke to her kindly; asked her name and about her son. He was interested in her – a war widow with a young son, of course they will help her if they can. Doesn't he, the country, owe a great deal to men like her husband? He thought no more that that at first, but after he'd seen her, they'd spoken, he realised that night how struck he'd been. Her quiet dignity and poise in a strange place, talking to a strange man, her new employer; how small she is a world much too big. He thinks about her, about her son; wonders if there's anything he can do to help her. He doesn't say this to anyone, of course; earls don't think about housemaids. He doesn't ask himself why he thinks about this one. If he did he'd say it's the son that concerns him.
She carries the washing-up bowl of water out to the drain in the courtyard and he goes to the door to watch her. It's heavy – he can see her arms and shoulders strain. She puts it down, stands for a moment, hands pressed against her back, face tilted to the sun. Her hair is hidden under the maid's cap, and he can study her face without the distraction of the thick dark hair – her broad clear forehead and long nose, the high cheekbones and the curving, sensual mouth; wonders about brushing his fingers over her face and how soft her skin is. He thinks, has thought for a while now, that she's simply the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
She tips the bowl over the drain and watches the shining stream of water, lower lip pushed out with concentration. She pays attention to her work, whatever it is – Mrs Hughes says that she and Anna are the only maids who bother to think. What is she thinking now, as she stands with her hands steady on the emptying bucket? She gives it a final shake, straightens up, looks across the courtyard and meets his eyes. Sure as an arrow speeding into the gold, he feels the shock of her gaze right through his body. Hot blood is coursing through every single vein, and he has forgotten how to walk, how to talk, how to think. He can only look, and look at her.
She stands there, rigid, the bowl dangling forgotten from her hand. He is looking at her as she hoped and prayed from the first minute she saw him that he would look – as if the maid's drab uniform isn't there. As if he wants to reach out and count every bone in her body. Brush his fingers over every inch of her skin. She can feel her heart pounding so hard the blood is singing in her ears, and she stands there, they stand there, and the world has stopped turning – all she wants to do is look at him, and look at him for ever. She can't stand here, she shouldn't stand here, shaken and scalded by that look, but her knees are shaking and she can't move. Not to save her life, not if the world were crashing around her in flames can she take her eyes from his.
A door banging across the courtyard makes them both jump and look away. The world sighs, and carries on with what it was doing before this happened. She drops her eyes but as she walks back to the ward she can feel his gaze on her, and crosses the fingers of the hand in her apron pocket that everyone else will see a casual glance, not the look of deep longing and need that she has seen. He steps aside to let her pass, his eyes on the top of the white cap and the curve of her cheek that is all he dare allow himself to look at. Good morning Jane. Good morning my lord. They don't let their eyes meet.