Julia frowned. She hadn’t thought of it in those terms before. “Is that what novel reading has done for you? Made you more empathetic?”

“It has.” He ran the brush through her hair for another long stroke. “And you as well, I suspect. Perhaps that’s why you’re so unlike your parents.” His deep voice tickled her ear. “It wasn’t them who raised you. It was romances and fairy tales.”

She smiled, even as a shiver traced down her spine at the huskiness of his words. “One could just as easily say I was raised by penny dreadfuls. And what kind of parent would Varney the Vampire make? Or Sweeney Todd?”

He chuckled. “Fair point.”

Her smile faded as he continued brushing. “Speaking of empathy . . . Is Mr. Beecham responsible for all the household chores?”

“God no. He’s too old for any of the heavy work. He attends only to the cooking and light housekeeping. And to tutoring the boys now they’re out of school.”

“What about the laundry?”

“I do the laundry.”

She cast him a startled look. “You?”

“Why not? It’s generally too taxing for Beecham—all that bending and scrubbing. And it isn’t as though I’ve no experience with the job. Any good soldier knows how to wash and press his clothes.”

Her brows knit. “Goodness. I never considered it.”

He gave her a wry smile. “I’ve found it’s better to be self-sufficient. It doesn’t pay to rely on people too much. You never know when they might be gone and you’ll be left on your own.”

Julia dipped her chin again so he could resume brushing. She hoped he wasn’t referencing her own plight. She didn’t think he was. Jasper wasn’t the kind of man for cutting remarks or innuendo.

No, she realized. He was talking about himself.

Had he been disappointed by the people in his life? Left without anyone to help him or support him?

She had the feeling he had. That he was used to being alone, though not entirely content in that state. What had he said to her in the carriage?

“I’m not unhappy. Not now you’re coming home with me.”

She recalled his words with a pang of sadness. Whatever his past—whatever he’d done—he didn’t deserve to be consigned to this remote place, lonely and friendless.

But she refused to feel guilty over it. She’d done nothing to cause his fate. His suffering was of his own making.

“Do you look after the stable, too?” she asked.

“We don’t keep a stable,” he said. “Not formally. We’ve no coach horses or carriage. There’s only Quintus and Musket.”

“And now Cossack,” she reminded him. “When do you think Lord Ridgeway will send them?”

“Within the week, I trust. Until then, we must rely on Musket and the dogcart. Beecham can drive them into Hardholme tomorrow to post your letter to Lady Anne, and to collect anything else we require from Taggert’s Market.”

“I must write to my bank in London, too,” Julia said. “I daresay I should have done so already. You’ll need access to my funds as soon as may be.”