“I am perfectly capable of peeling vegetables, mixing batter, and sewing that button back on your waistcoat,” she insisted, and he quirked his smile at her and gave in.
Whenever the rain stopped for more than a few minutes, he left them to walk over to Thorne Hall. “I am no builder,” he told Rosa, “but I’ve learned a few things in the last year or two. I need to get some idea of the number of local men I’ll need to hire when my work crew arrives from Liverpool, and that depends on what can be saved, and what must be demolished.”
He made copious notes in a small notebook, which he transcribed into a large ledger each evening.
Father was comfortable with him, which was a blessing, since Mr. Gavenor took over all of the embarrassing personal services, at least when he was home.
“He’s a good lad, this man Lord Hurley sent,” Father said. He had never lost the habit of speaking in front of the servants as if they were deaf, and he was convinced Mr. Gavenor was a servant, though some days he thought him a valet or footman from Thorne Hall, and others he went further back in his memories to his days at Cambridge and even to his childhood.
At least twenty times a day, he asked Mr. Gavenor his name, and each time received the patient reply, “They call me ‘Bear,’ sir.”
Father usually called her Rosie, though sometimes even that dearly loved name escaped him.
“Rosie is short for Rosemary, which was my mother’s name,” she explained to Mr. Gavenor after dinner one evening, while Father dozed in his chair. “I am told I look a little like her. And, of course, I am much the same age as she was when she died.”
Rosa and Mr. Gavenor relaxed in separate chairs on either side of the hearthrug. Rosa held a glass of blackberry cordial, and Mr. Gavenor, a glass of brandy.
“You must have been just a little girl,” Mr. Gavenor said.
“Eleven. It has been nearly twenty-five years and I still miss her. So does Father, of course. She was the great love of his life.”
Mr. Gavenor took a sip of brandy, his long fingers caressing the glass. “Did you come to live at Thorne Hall after she died?”
“Oh no. My father was librarian there when he married Mama, and Lord Hurley gave them private apartments in the library wing. I grew up at Thorne Hall.” An only child, she had a playmate and companion in her mother. Lord Hurley and her father kept busy about their own affairs.
Her mother and both men insisting that she was a lady, she was not allowed to play with the children on the local farms. Nor was she welcome at the only other home within easy reach that had a child of a similar age. No one had ever explained the source of the feud between Threxton Grange and Thorne Hall, but Rosa knew the futility of asking to play with the boy and two girls growing up in that family. Instead, she peopled her world from her imagination. Her friends were the portraits and animal heads on the walls of Thorne Hall, and the people in the books in the library that was her father’s charge and passion.
Then Mama died. For months beforehand, she had been teaching Rosa the tasks that made up her daily life, and her last words to her daughter were, “Look after your father.”
“I was eleven,” she repeated. “Old enough to take charge of our apartments. Old enough to make sure that Father remembered to eat and had everything he needed to do credit to his position.”
Mr. Gavenor seemed about to speak, but changed his mind and took another sip of brandy.
Rosa hastened to add, “He has always been so absorbed in his work, you see.” She took a small mouthful of blackberry cordial and let the rich flavors seep across her tongue. The role of audience had always been hers. An interested listener was a new experience and seduced her into explaining, “Lord Hurley and Father built the library between them, but Father was the one who loved the books for what they contained. Lord Hurley was a collector. He wanted the oldest, the rarest, the most unusual. He wanted to boast to other book lovers about the treasures he had found. Father wanted to understand the people and times the books described, and the people who wrote them. Lord Hurley used to say they made a good team, for Lord Hurley had the money to indulge Father’s passion and Father had the knowledge to make Lord Hurley’s reputation.”
“It sounds like a lonely life for a young girl,” Mr. Gavenor observed.
Was she lonely? She missed her mother, of course, but she had always been alone except for the servants, her parents, and Lord Hurley. “I had the servants for company, and I spent a lot of time in the library. Father taught me Greek and Roman so that I could transcribe his notes for him. Hebrew, too, before his mind began to fail. We even used to take our meals in there. Father found it hard to leave the library when he was on the trail of something new. Lord Hurley would join us sometimes, and he always had amusing stories to tell.”
“You said you moved to Rose Cottage eight years ago. Was that when your father could no longer care for the library?”
Rosa shuddered. “He almost set it on fire,” she said. “He had always been forgetful. I really did not realize how bad he had become until the night he set every candle he could find burning in the library. If Lord Hurley had not wanted to check a reference, one of them might well have caught a drapery or paper… He and Father woke me, arguing. Father insisted Lord Hurley was trying to burn the books, which was nonsense, of course.”
Once again, Mr. Gavenor said nothing.
“We tried to keep him in his apartment. Lord Hurley appointed a footman to follow him everywhere. He grew more confused about where he was and when. In his own mind, he and Mama were young again. He began to wander at night, looking for Mama, or perhaps for something else. In the end, Lord Hurley gave us the cottage so that I could keep him safe.”
***
‘Gave,’ she said, but not in writing, according to Pelman. Bear knew that the new Baron Hurley had succeeded his great uncle six years ago. He’d told Bear that he’d been to see the estate once. “It was a disappointment, I don’t mind telling you, Gavenor. I knew my uncle was a warm man, but most of his fortune was tied up in books. The money pretty much went up in smoke the night my uncle died. The whole library wing was gutted.”
The fire had not killed Hurley, who had been found in his room on the undamaged side of the house. “The shock of the fire,” his successor thought, though Bear wondered how the old lord had known about the fire if he was on the other side of the house, and why he stayed in his bed chamber if he did know.
Had Neatham anything to do with that fire? As if prompted by his thought, Miss Neatham said, “Of course, when Lord Hurley died, we lost the servants he sent to look after us, but I have managed well enough. Except, once Father no longer had a footman sleeping in the same room, he used to wander when he woke in the night. That is how he hurt his back. He’d go to Thorne Hall, looking for the library or Lord Hurley or Mama, and two years ago, he was upstairs in our old apartments when the floor collapsed.”
Her eyes filled with an old grief and she lowered them, put her glass down and picked up the piece of sewing lying atop her workbasket.
Bear still wondered about the fire, but she clearly needed a change of topic. “A new gown?” he asked, nodding toward her busy hands.
“Yes, for Mrs. Raby at Three Oaks. Her Sunday-best gown. I promised it to her for next weekend, and I still have four more long seams to go.” She glared at the fabric as her busy needle darted in and out.
So, Miss Neatham, born to the gentry, scholar of Greek and Latin, raised in the biggest manor house in the neighborhood, took in sewing for farmers’ wives. Bear managed to keep a frown from his face, but not by much. Lord Hurley and Neatham had not done well by Miss Neatham.
Chapter Ten
The next day had long, fine spells between rain showers, and Bear was able to spend most of the day at Thorne Hall. He came home with a pocketful of notes to the appetizing aroma of roast meat.
He frowned at Miss Neatham from the doorway of the parlor. She sat in the chair where he had left her, her foot propped up, the picture of demure
obedience. “You have been in the kitchen, Miss Neatham,” he growled.
She smiled, not one whit discomforted by his tone or his scold. “You have been out in the rain, Mr. Gavenor, and will be glad of a warm meal.”
Bear surrendered to the grin that kept trying to break out. “Not a great deal of rain, today. When it started again, I walked home.” No. Not home. A brief stopover while he got on with his job, for all that he had spent the day resisting the urge to return to the warmth of Miss Neatham’s nurturing care.
He looped back the curtain to show her the rain pattering against the glass, then stilled. “Miss Neatham, stay out of sight. There’s a visitor coming to the door.”
The rider—anonymous in a heavy rain cape and hood—dismounted, tied his horse to the gate post, and opened the gate. Bear went into the hall and shut the parlor door behind him, ready to open the front door when the knock came.
The caller was Pelman. Of course, it was. “Gavenor. I rode up to see how you are. My sister was concerned about you, all the way out here on your own.” The man did his best to peer over and around Bear, who blocked as much of the doorway as he could.
“Kind of her, Pelman. But—as you see—I am well.”
“Can I come in for a minute and dry off?” Pelman asked. “I am as wet as a fish.”
Bear could think of no reasonable way to refuse, little though he wanted to invite the man in. “Yes. Yes, of course. Come through to the study and I will pour you a brandy.”
“Thank you. I don’t like the look of the bridge back down the road a bit. If that goes, you’ll be cut off. Best come stay with us, Gavenor.” Pelman followed him down the hall. Thank the gods, Miss Neatham was a tidy soul and insisted on everything being put away where it belonged. He opened the study door and ushered Pelman inside. “Yes, pack a bag, my dear fellow,” Pelman said, “and come back with me. We have plenty of room.”
“I will not, though I thank you for the invitation.” Bear had many reasons for declining the invitation, and—unless he missed his guess—any he shared with Pelman would be shared with the whole village. “I have all I need here, and the rain cannot last forever. I can get out during the clear spells and I’ve made a start on surveying what the manor needs in the way of repairs. If I move into the village, I’ll be too far away to fit my work around the weather.”
“Well, if you say so.” Pelman accepted the offered brandy and took an immediate swig, not waiting for it to warm. “To be honest, I thought I might find you tucked up in a love nest with Rosa Neatham. No one in the village has seen her since before the storm started, and you carried her father off a few days ago, apparently.”
Disgusting maggot. Apparently, he had misjudged young Georgie, or the whole village would know precisely where Miss Neatham and her father were living. “Which I would hardly have done if Miss Neatham was my mistress, Pelman.”
Pelman gave a casual wave of the hand. “Oh, whatever one might say about our Rosa’s morals, no one can deny she is a devoted daughter. So, you do not have her here?” He peered at Bear as if evidence of Miss Neatham’s whereabouts might be written on his forehead.
“On our brief acquaintance, I thought her a most ladylike and demure creature.”
Pelman laughed, a bark of a sound. “Yes, she gives that impression. She is a tigress in bed, though, I can tell you. The baron taught her some famous tricks. Of course, he was used to London paramours.”
Courtesy or no courtesy, Pelman was an inch from being hurled into the nearest puddle. “I am finding this conversation distasteful, Pelman. And I must say, if that hovel from which I removed Mr. Neatham was the standard of accommodation you offer your mistresses, you are a cad.”
The man clearly had a death wish, for he continued unperturbed, “Once Rosa decides to be reasonable, I will find her something better.” He frowned. “Though if you have turned her head, I suppose she might keep being difficult. Still, you don’t plan to stay, do you? She’ll be mine in the end.”
Over Bear’s dead body, or Pelman’s, which was the better idea. “Time for you to leave, Pelman.”
Pelman tipped back the last of his brandy. “What? You are throwing me out?”
“It is time for you to leave. On your feet would be my preference, for I am a peaceable man.” Twenty-four years of war was enough for any man. Bear would not fight unless he had to, but he was considering an exception for Pelman. Pelman must have seen the urge to murder in Bear’s eyes, because he stopped grumbling, led the way back toward the front door, but suddenly stopped and hurled open the door to the parlor.
Bear came up behind his shoulder. A quick glance showed a blanket draped casually over the couch where Mr. Neatham lay asleep, hiding the man from view. Rosa had also removed her workbasket and herself. The room, at least from the door, appeared empty.
Bear let his anger color his voice. “Pelman, are you calling me a liar to my face? For I cannot imagine any other reason for you to open doors in my house. Let me make this perfectly clear. Miss Neatham is not my mistress. Furthermore, I do not believe she is, or has been, your mistress, and if you continue to insult her, I will feel impelled to introduce your teeth to the back of your throat.”
Pelman backed away toward the escape route of the front door, picking up his rain cape and hat as he passed. “Now, now. No need for violence.”
“I hope not, for I am a peaceable man.”
Once he reached the safety of the front path, Pelman turned back. “She is not worth it, you know, whatever she may have told you. Acts respectable, but everyone knows the aunt who ran off with a soldier to become a light skirt in London was really her mother, and the one she claimed as her mother was the baron’s mistress. A role she took up herself when Neatham’s wife died. I attended school with the current Lord Hurley, and he told me everything.”
Bear took a deep breath until the red faded from his vision. Pounding the man into the paving stones would not solve anything. “Pelman, you have done me several services. I have paid you for the information about the hall that you sent before I came. I have yet to pay you for securing this cottage for me, and for ensuring it was stocked with fresh food. Wait there and I will fetch the money for that now, and we shall part ways.” Bear closed the front door to prevent Pelman from re-entering and fetched his billfold from the study.
When he emerged from the house, Pelman stood in the same place, as if frozen, his jaw slightly dropped. He shook his head in slow disbelief. “You are… You are dismissing me as your agent? Over Rosa Neatham?”
Bear raised his eyebrows. “I cannot dismiss you, because I did not appoint you. Your old school friend recommended I use you for a couple of tasks. Here. Ten pounds should cover it.”
“I cannot believe you are dismissing me over a light skirt.” Pelman took the money and tucked it inside his coat, then glared at Bear. “She must really have you gulled.”
“Goodbye, Pelman.”
“I rode all the way out here to check that you were well, just to find that you are taking that whore’s part against…”
Bear took a threatening step forward and Pelman scurried for the gate. Obnoxious worm.
***
By the time Mr. Gavenor returned from seeing Mr. Pelman from the premises, Rosa had restored the parlor to rights. Thank goodness, Father had slept through the whole incident. He was sleeping more these days, which she appreciated on the one hand, and worried about on the other.
“Where were you hiding?” Mr. Gavenor asked with that amused quirk of the lips.
“Under the table,” she admitted, “with my work basket. And a very tight fit it was, too.”
“That was quick thinking,” he said.
To distract herself from the pleasure his approval gave her, she asked, “What did Mr. Pelman want?”
“To find out whether I am bedding you,” he said bluntly.
Rosa felt herself turn scarlet, though with temper or embarrassment, she could hardly say. “The horrid cur! He thinks everyone is of the same s
tamp as him, the lecherous, arrogant, nasty fool. I am sorry to bring such insult upon you, Mr. Gavenor.”
The amused twinkle reappeared. “Men do not consider themselves insulted if accused of attracting the attention of a pretty woman, Miss Neatham.” Then, with a frown, “I reproved him for the insult to you, however.”
“He asked me himself, you know,” Rosa admitted. “Starting when he first visited with the new baron, after Lord Hurley died. At first, I thought he was courting me. He was, I suppose, but not with marriage in mind. When he made his proposition, he was not pleased I said ‘no.’”
“The cad,” Mr. Gavenor said. “Has he been bothering you ever since?”
“Not all the time. He took up with Penny Able, and then there was a widow who came here to live for several years. But after Father’s fall, he has kept returning. He refuses to believe I would rather die than be his mistress.”
Mr. Gavenor’s lips twitched again. “He is a remarkably obtuse man. He refused to believe I was dismissing him as my agent.”
“You dismissed him? Why?”
Both blond eyebrows jutted toward his hairline. “You can ask? He has been persecuting you, Miss Neatham, and using me as an excuse for it. It is intolerable.”
Ah. When Mr. Pelman involved Mr. Gavenor in his campaign against Rosa, he ruffled Mr. Gavenor’s male pride. Rosa had seen pride drive both Lord Hurley and her father. Men were odd creatures. “He means to drive me into a corner where I have no choice,” she said, “and I cannot understand it. Why would a man want a mistress who hates him?”
“He is too puffed up in his own conceit to believe you hate him,” Mr. Gavenor said.
“He will have to accept it.” Rosa nodded firmly, determined to find some way to survive that did not include prostituting herself to her persecutor. “Even if I am driven to selling myself so I can look after my father, it will never be to Mr. Pelman. Although, I have not the first idea how one goes about seeking a buyer for such a service.” She gasped. “Oh dear. I cannot believe I said that out loud.” She hoped Mr. Gavenor would not think she was asking him… Her cheeks burned with such heat she could barely look at the man.
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