Servants bowed and curtsied as they walked the gravel path to the front door, older ones smiling affectionately at Beranger, and the younger ones less at ease, not knowing what to expect of their new duke.
Beranger stopped before a tall, stately man. “Mr. Pencely,” he said warmly.
“Your Grace,” the butler said, his arms straight at his sides. “We were delighted to learn Lord Harry’s search for you in America was fruitful. My heart is full at this reunion. Too many years have passed since you left us.”
He turned his attention to her. “Your Grace,” he said with all the respect in the world. “Welcome to Ashbury.”
Emma gripped Beranger’s hand as they passed through a foyer guarded by several suits of armor, a plethora of swords crossed on the wall, and an impressive coat of arms tapestry. They were barely inside the grand house, and already she’d never experienced such opulence.
An impressive staircase of dark walnut filled one side of the entryway, large portraits of a regal-looking lord and lady the other. The room glimmered thanks to crystal gas chandeliers. The ceiling was so tall she couldn’t guess the height. Pencely led them to a set of tall double doors where another suit of armor stood at attention.
A feeling of wonder chased away Emma’s trepidation about meeting the dowager duchess and was replaced by exhilaration and anticipation. This is my wonderful new life. With my magnificent husband, whom I love with all my heart.
They entered the room.
Standing near the center, the dowager duchess and Lady Audrey were, in a word, stunning. The older woman wore a vivid blue velvet gown accented with creamy white lace at her collar and wrists. The close-fitting bodice showed a fine figure. Her chestnut hair was styled with tight curls on her head and around her oval face.
Lady Audrey reminded Emma of a mixture between Mavis and Lavinia. She had her older sister’s wide blue eyes and Lavinia’s glossy brown hair and heart-shaped face. Her narrow-sleeved, low-cut emerald gown displayed just a small swell of her breasts and was adorned with flouncing, a multitude of bows, and thick ribbon. On anyone else the embellished garment might have looked silly, but Lady Audrey shone, beautiful like a star in the heavens.
Emma allowed Beranger to guide her forward. He halted before his stepmother and half sister, the women’s expressions unreadable.
“Duke,” the dowager duchess said, putting out her hand to Beranger. “Welcome home.”
Beranger took her hand in his. What would he say? Emma wondered. Or call her? Gertrude had rehearsed with her what she’d thought the reception would be like, what to expect, but nobody had really known. Emma sensed Lord Harry behind her and knew her tutor would be there as well, judging her performance.
“Dowager Duchess,” Beranger said. “My happiness at being back at Ashbury is immeasurable. You look well. I’m pleased.”
Watching Beranger’s genuine smile and the heartfelt expression in his eyes, Emma recalled all the ways this woman had schemed time and time again against her husband when he was only a boy. Yet in an instant, he’d signaled that bygones were bygones. Her esteem of him grew even more.
“I’d like you to meet my wife, Her Grace, the Duchess of Brightshire, formerly Emma Brinkman of Colorado.”
The dowager duchess turned to Emma. “Duchess,” she replied, smiling so sweetly Emma felt like she was truly glad to meet her.
“My stepmother,” Beranger said to Emma. “Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Brightshire.”
They didn’t waste words here in England. Beranger’s stepmother, still smiling, took Emma’s outstretched hand and patted it.
“Ma’am,” Emma replied with a slight nod.
“And you must be Lady Audrey, my sister,” Beranger said, a certain pride ringing in his tone. “I’m delighted to meet you. I didn’t know you existed until a month ago. The fact that I have a sister is a great surprise to me, although it shouldn’t be.” They did the dignified hand holding, but then Beranger pulled her into a hug.
Flustered, Lady Audrey stepped back, toward a distinguished-looking young gentleman who’d been standing behind her. She performed a slight curtsy, murmuring in a silky, practiced voice, “Yes, Duke. And I you. I’ve heard a lot about my half brother, Beranger, and his different-colored eyes.”
Direct and to the point. Beranger introduced them, and Emma tried to get a feel for if they’d be friends, but the introductions had moved on to the fellow instead.
“Brig! Welcome home,” he chortled. “What a great surprise for all of us. Too bad Gavin’s not here as well. We lived through many adventures—some good, some not so good, and I believe even though you were younger than your brother, you were the ringleader.”
Emma hoped she didn’t look hopelessly lost already. At least Beranger had explained that the nickname Brig, shortened from Brightshire, would be used by friends and family, and that his father had gone by Brig for most of his life. That she could call him Brig, Brightshire, Beranger, or my love. He’d let her know with kisses that he preferred the latter.
The man speaking to him so warmly turned out to be the Honorable Justin Winters, a distant cousin. Emma had been frantically thinking through Gertrude’s lessons when Beranger had whispered that she need only address him by his name and that others would call him “Mr.” and not the cumbersome title “honorable.”
“Ringleader, yes. Truer words were never spoken,” the dowager duchess agreed, smiling prettily.
Justin ignored the dowager’s comment. He wore dark brown trousers of fine fabric. His slim-fitted jacket was open to a high-buttoning waistcoat, stiff collar, and a knotted necktie.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Brig! I was only eleven when you ran off, you heartless fellow. We were all worried.” His gaze cut to the dowager and then jumped to Emma. “I hope he didn’t tell you he wasn’t loved, because he was. At least by me. I practically worshipped the ground he walked on. Playing with him was always much more exciting than with Gavin. The late duke had a tendency to stay around the manor, while your husband enjoyed riding into the unknown hills, cave crawling, and exploring lake bottoms. Never a dull moment with this Northcott.”
Emma glanced at the dowager, who never seemed to let an expression cross her face that wasn’t expertly controlled. She was a master at hiding her thoughts. On the ship, Lord Harry had shared that when she found out Gavin was the illegitimate son—the sin she’d unmercifully wielded over Beranger’s head—she went into seclusion for months. After she emerged, the topic never once crossed her lips. Now here she stood proudly, as if the balance of power between her and her stepson had not shifted an inch in the sixteen years Beranger had been away.
Beranger held up a hand to stop the singing of his praises. “Justin is two years younger than myself, Emma, and being he was only a boy, he does not remember things as clearly as he should. I assure you—our childhood was not nearly as exciting as he claims.”
Justin smiled at Emma. “I can’t wait to hear about your adventures abroad. I want to know all about America and you and your sisters—American heiresses and owners of most of a Colorado town called Eden, am I correct?” He gave another bright smile, but she didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered toward the dowager and back. “We’re all family now. And as family, I’ll be the first to enlighten you of the peril threatening Ashbury. I’m not sure even Lord Harry knows,” he said, glancing at the older man, “because much of it has befallen us while he has been away.”
Beranger’s smile disappeared as Lord Harry stepped forward to join him. “Oh?”
“Gavin liked to gamble more than was prudent. Much of the fortune is gone. A large section of farmland has just been sold to keep this place running. I believe, Brig, you will have your hands full keeping things afloat.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Tonight is special. The duke has returned. But what a time to be thrown into the scullery without a whit of knowledge as to what was expected. Charlotte scoured a black spot on the bottom of a large copper kettle, scrubbing d
iligently—washing dishes she knew, but interacting with castle folks, even servants, was foreign to her. She’d spent most of her years in the back of her aunt’s bakeshop with a head filled with dreams.
Charlotte had been taking three cakes out of the wall oven the morning after Amelia’s return home when Aunt Ethel came storming into the kitchen, her nightcap askew, her wild gaze flying about.
“Amelia is burning up,” she’d said. “Get me some wet rags and some ice.”
Ice? Here in the bakeshop? There was no such thing. Charlotte had offered to go for the doctor, but her aunt informed her that she’d already woken Thomas up to dress. Charlotte had been ordered to wash and dress and take Amelia’s place at Ashbury.
“If she doesn’t show up this morning,” Aunt Ethel said, “she’ll be fired. You know how mean that duchess can be.”
Charlotte complied, lucky to catch a ride with the milkman, but she’d had no news concerning her cousin’s condition since she’d left. Thomas was supposed to bring word, but he’d not come.
Straining now, she lifted the heavy copper pot and dipped it into the rinse water, whose surface had collected a shiny film. That would need changing soon too. She set the pot upside down on the drainboard with the pile of other pots and pans she’d scrubbed, then paused to stretch her back in several directions. The ache of this work nearly made her long to be back in her aunt’s kitchen.
How in Saint Gabriel’s name did the cook and her underlings go through so many pots and pans? She dared not slow her pace. Soon one of the kitchen maids would arrive with another armload to be washed.
Toweling off the damp dishes and kitchenware, she put them away, trying to stay out from under the footmen and maids. The pots and pans to the kitchen. The china and crystal to a long cupboard in the hallway between the two rooms, which was locked with a key each and every time it was opened and closed. The key, attached to a long burgundy strap, was draped around her neck. If anything went missing during the time she had the key, she’d be responsible.
A kitchen maid sailed into the scullery. “Amelia! Where’s the large saucepan? The one that’s dented on the rim.” She frantically glanced around. “Have you hidden it to cause trouble?”
Hidden it? How outrageous. “I’d never do such a thing,” Charlotte stated as she turned from the sink, feeling defeated and tired.
The maid tipped her head. “I keep forgetting you’re Amelia’s cousin.” She drew her lip between her not-so-straight teeth. “Do you have any idea? It’s Cook’s favorite.” She rummaged wildly through the items Charlotte had just finished washing, knocking a pan to the stone floor. “Not here anywhere.” Her gaze narrowed. “Where’d ya hide the bloomin’ thing? I know your type. Anything to get attention. Don’t care how or why.”
Servants brought Charlotte caked-on, greased-up, and burned things all day long. How was she expected to remember where everything went? “I do remember the bent saucepan—but an hour or two ago. You’re sure it’s not already being used somewhere in the kitchen?”
The girl’s lip curled.
These people are not your family. You’re not in the bakeshop any longer . . . “Have you checked the lower kitchen shelf next to the medium-size cupboard where the dishes go?”
“Ain’t there. Besides, that’s just fer fry pans.”
How in the world do they expect me to remember one pan among so many?
The maid planted her hands on her waist. “I’ve searched everywhere. Come on, you’re gonna help.” She grasped Charlotte’s arm and tugged her into the other room. “Otherwise, we’ll both be plucking feathers for a month . . .”
Ah, a job I’m good at.
The kitchen was hopping like a hutch full of hares on hot coals. Servants were jumping this way and that, preparing the evening meal for the lost duke, as they called him, who’d returned after sixteen years away.
Charlotte pushed her hair from her eyes with the back of her hand and quickly searched the places she’d been, retraced her steps, and finally found the pot buried beneath several others in a large, heavy drawer.
“Be more careful where you put things!” the cook admonished after the emergency had been averted. The woman had been kind on their first meeting, but now that dinner was being served, her eyes looked cold and hard. She was only as good as her help.
Feeling chastised, Charlotte went back to the scullery, wondering again about Amelia’s condition.
“You’re new here,” the footman said, following her into the scullery.
“I’m only filling in for my cousin.” She dropped her gaze to the two sinks of water, which still needed draining. “As soon as she’s well, she’ll be back.”
“I see.” He was tall with a nice smile and dark hair. Amelia had said footmen were hired for their good looks and stature. To say he was handsome was an understatement.
“Jos!” the cook hollered. “These beef cakes need to go up.”
“Are you Jos?” she whispered, alarm spiking up her neck.
He nodded. “Jos Sleshinger.”
“You better get to work.” Before you get me in trouble.
He turned on his polished heel and was gone.
Relieved to once again be alone, she tested the water on the stove by dipping in her baby finger.
The same kitchen maid, who was Amelia’s roommate in the servants’ quarters on the top floor, clattered back into the scullery carrying an armload of china. “Be sure you empty your water and clean the sink before you start on the dinnerware.”
“I’m doing that now,” Charlotte responded, reaching into the cold, slimy rinse water to pull the drain. “But thank you for the tip. I appreciate you pointing things out.”
“I was the scullery maid before your cousin, and I’ll make sure you don’t get unmindful of your duties. If you do, I’ll get scolded.”
Charlotte tried a timid smile. Later tonight she’d be alone in a room with this girl. She wished they could become friends. “I’m sorry, but in everything I’ve learned today, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“I’ll bet a shilling you ain’t forgot Jos’s.” She raised a censuring eyebrow before marching away.
Charlotte glanced down at her grease- and grime-stained apron and began to laugh. Before she knew it, she was bent over the sink as she dried her eyes with her apron strings. What she’d thought was funny had turned into despair. She was exhausted and desperately needed a cup of tea.
“Is there something funny in that sink?”
The keys! She’d mistaken the jingle of keys for silverware being taken from the drawer in the next room. She whirled around. Mrs. Darling, the housekeeper and head over all the women downstairs, stood before her. If the missing pan hadn’t lost Amelia her job, Charlotte’s warped sense of humor might. What should she say? Beg for forgiveness?
“I, ma’am, er, no . . .”
“I distinctly heard you laughing, Miss Aldridge. I’d like to know why.”
She knows me.
“I guess I’m a little tired. And, well . . .”
Mrs. Darling’s eyes softened. “You’ve been flung into a difficult situation.” She came into the room and looked around. The large ring of keys she was known for was fastened to a leather belt she wore around her middle. As stern as she looked, Charlotte sensed she was fair.
“I’m changing the wash and rinse water now, to begin on those,” Charlotte said, looking at the china. “But first, I need to rid the sink of grease.” She glanced at the clock. It was almost nine, an hour before the staff took their own meals in the servants’ hall. But not the kitchen staff. All the rules had been spelled out to her more clearly than her actual duties.
Mrs. Darling lifted a brow. “Tonight will end soon enough. And then you’ll rest. Tomorrow will be easier.”
With that, the housekeeper was gone. Charlotte took heart. This too shall pass. And who knows, once I’m back in the bakeshop, I might even miss all the activity. Things have a way of becoming something different once they’re over.
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Taking the large bar of soap, she lathered her rag and cleaned the sink. Going to the stove, and being careful not to burn herself, she wrapped the thick towel around the handle of the pot and, with both hands, carefully carried it to the sink, poured a portion of water in to rinse the sink, sloshed it around, and repeated the process. Her arms shook with fatigue. Once the sink was clean and she’d plugged the drain, she dumped in the rest of the water with great relief.
The strong feeling of being watched made her turn. She wished the scullery had a door, so she’d not be so visible to anyone passing. She expected her grumpy roommate or the housekeeper again. Maybe even the bold footman.
She almost dropped the empty pot on her feet.
“Excuse me.” The young man Verity had mentioned visiting the bakeshop—the Honorable so-and-so—stood there. He pointed to a bright scarlet stain on the front of his white shirt.
“W-wine?” she asked, struggling to speak through her suddenly dry throat.
He shook his head, his charming smile making her light-headed. “Something better. Raspberry currant sauce. Would you know where I might find some hot milk, pretty miss? I hate to ruin a perfectly good shirt.”
CHAPTER FIVE
In the wee morning hours, Beranger, who’d been unable to find sleep, pulled Emma closer to his side and drew the heavy counterpane over her shoulders. Since the fire had dwindled to coals, the bedchamber had cooled considerably.
He lay in the huge bed, one arm resting behind his head, the other holding Emma, her head resting on his chest. Darkness still hovered outside the windows. Intent on seeing the sunrise, she had requested they leave the drapes open. He’d complied, eager to do her bidding and ensure her happiness. She was everything to him. He’d not let her be hurt or regret their decision to wed. As if reading his thoughts, she sighed in her warm cocoon and snuggled closer, running her palm over his naked chest.
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