His Cinderella Heiress by Marion Lennox

dunking.
    â€˜Hey!’
    She looked up and wobbled, but she didn’t fall. She gave him a brief wave and kept on doing what she was doing.
    Intrigued, he headed over to see.
    She was messing with something under water.
    The water would be freezing. She had the sleeves of her sweater pulled up and she’d hauled off her shoes. She was knee-deep in water.
    â€˜What’s wrong?’
    She kept concentrating, her back to him, stooped, as if adjusting something under water. He stood and waited, more and more intrigued, until finally she straightened and started her unsteady way back to the shore.
    â€˜Done.’
    He could see green slime attached to the rocks underneath the surface. She was stepping gingerly from rock to rock but even the ones above the surface would be treacherous.
    He took a couple of steps out to help her—and slipped himself, dunking his left foot up to his ankle.
    He swore.
    â€˜Whoops,’ Jo said and he glanced up at her and she was grinning. ‘Uh oh. I’m sorry. I’d carry you if I could but I suspect you’re a bit heavy.’
    â€˜What on earth are you doing?’
    â€˜Heading back to the castle. All dry.’ She reached the shore, jumping nimbly from the last rock, then turned and proffered a hand to him. ‘Can I help?’
    â€˜No,’ he said, revolted, and her smile widened.
    â€˜How sexist is that? Honestly...’
    â€˜I was trying to help.’
    â€˜There’s been a bit of that about,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I don’t appreciate it; it’s just that I hardly ever need it. Bogs excepted.’
    â€˜What were you doing?’ He hauled himself out of the water to the dry bank and surveyed his leg in disgust. His boot would take ages to dry. Jo, on the other hand, was drying her feet with a sock and tugging her trainers back on. All dry.
    â€˜Washing tapestries,’ she told him and he forgot about his boots.
    â€˜Tapestries...?’
    â€˜The hall’s full of them. You should see. They’re awesome. But they’re filthy and most of them need work. I’ve brought one of the small ones here to try cleaning.’
    â€˜You don’t think,’ he asked cautiously, ‘that soap and water might be more civilised?’
    â€˜Possibly. But not nearly as much fun.’
    â€˜Fun...’ He stared at his leg and she followed his gaze and chuckled.
    â€˜Okay, fun for me, not for you. I’m obviously better at creeks than you are.’
    â€˜Creeks...’
    â€˜Streams. Brooks. What else do you call them? Whatever, they’ll act just the same as home.’ She gestured to the surrounding hills, rolling away to the mountains in the background. ‘Spring’s the best time. The water’s pouring down from the hills; it’s running fast and clean and it’ll wash through tapestries in a way nothing else can, unless I’m prepared to waste a day’s running water in the castle. Even then, I wouldn’t get an even wash.’
    â€˜So you just lie it in the stream.’ He could see it now, a square of canvas, stretched underwater and weighed down by rocks at the edges.
    â€˜The running water removes dust, soot, smoke and any burnt wool or silk. It’s the best way. Some people prefer modern cleaning methods, but in my experience they can grey the colours. And, as well, this way the fibres get rehydrated. They plump up almost as fat as the day they were stitched.’
    â€˜You’re intending to leave it here?’
    â€˜I’ll bring it in tonight. You needn’t worry; I’m not about to risk a cow fording the stream and sticking a hoof through it.’
    â€˜And then what will you do?’ he asked, fascinated.
    â€˜Let it dry and fix it, of course. This one’s not bad. It has a couple of broken relays and warps but nothing too serious. I’ll see how it comes up after cleaning but I imagine I’ll get it done before I