It took him nearly an hour to get the fire started, and even more tinkering with the damper to keep the room from filling with smoke. Once it was done, he turned and saw Emily’s bed. At least four quilts covered it, lending evidence that she’d slept without a fire on more than one night. It bothered him to think of her huddled beneath the covers, struggling to stay warm.

“I’ve made us something to eat.” Emily’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and she stood at the doorway, a covered tray in her hands. There was no table, and she looked around as if searching for a place to set it down.

“Wait a moment.” He lifted one of the quilts off her bed and spread it on the floor. “We’ll eat here, in front of the fire.”

“An indoor picnic.” Her lips curved upward, as though she hadn’t expected it. “At least it’ll be warm.”

He took the tray from her hands and set it down between them.

“I apologize in advance for the food,” she began. “There wasn’t much in the house, and I haven’t had the opportunity to go and get more.”

“You didn’t have the money for supplies, did you?”

Her cheeks flushed, and she shook her head. “Not really. But we won’t starve.”

He lifted the cloth covering the tray and found two chipped plates. Thinly sliced potatoes were roasted and seasoned with salt and pepper. She grimaced at the plate, but forced herself to take a bite. “I’ve been eating potatoes for the past fortnight. I’ll be happy if I never eat another.”

“You won’t have to,” he promised. “I’ll see to it.” Guilt slid over him, and he decided that once he got her out of Hollingford House, he’d feed her the greatest of feasts, with succulent meats, soft breads and exquisite cheeses. He didn't exactly know what that would mean for her, but he couldn't turn his back on Emily Barrow. She had been his friend all those years ago, someone who had made his father's overbearing control more bearable. She didn't deserve a life like this, and by God, he was going to change it.

Upon his own plate, he spied something unusual. “Are those…ginger biscuits?”

Emily stiffened, though he hadn’t meant to insult her. “Taste them before you decide you don’t want them.”

“I’m sure they’re fine. It’s just that I didn’t expect to see them as part of my dinner.” Stephen reached for one to pacify her. Even if the biscuits were dry and tasteless, he’d eat them. It was possible that she’d only had flour and spices on hand.