by Jane Ashford
“What?”
“I am in need of help in the house. Particularly cooking.” After the toothsome scones, he simply could not face another greasy pie. “As well as some help shifting things.” James examined the skinny boy. Not much muscle there, but once he was properly fed… “Perhaps Ned could do that. And run errands. Accompany you to the market, I suppose.” The other children peeking out from behind the woman’s skirts were girls. Smaller. James was no good at judging ages. “What are your names?” he asked them.
They ducked out of sight. “Jen and Effie,” said their mother.
“Too young to be working, but…”
“I kin work,” said the larger one, reappearing. “I kin scrub. And peel taters. And tend chickens. I ain’t afraid of chickens.” Her small face was taut with anxiety, every muscle visible.
James felt a pang. “How old are you…Jen?”
“Eight. Plenty old enough to work.” She spoke as if she’d heard this phrase very often in her short life.
“I see. Well, would all of you like to work for me?”
The desperate hope that appeared in the woman’s eyes pained him. “The house is in a poor state,” James added.
“It’s daft,” said Ned.
“You’ve been inside?”
The whole family froze like rabbits spotting a snake.
“I looked through the winders, like,” replied Ned.
“Ah.” The boy seemed quick. James imagined that he’d slipped in to see what he could pilfer. James didn’t blame him, though that must stop now. “Well then, you have seen that there’s much to do.”
“I’ll take any sort of work, milord,” said the woman. “We all will. Don’t matter how hard.” Her breath caught in her haste to assure him. “I can cook plain dishes. Not like you’re used to mebbe.” Her face creased with distress.
“They must be better than what I’ve had lately.” James made up his mind. This had unfolded felicitously. More for the Gardeners perhaps than for him, but…he would try it out. Where was the harm? “Come into the kitchen where it’s warmer, and we will set out a plan. Wages and so on.”
Mrs. Gardener took a step forward as if she still didn’t believe he meant it.
“I have scones,” James said.
The smallest child burst into tears.
***
“Ah, there you are. Just in time for the waltz.” Prince Karl offered his arm as if Cecelia belonged to him. She wanted to say that she was already engaged for this dance, but it wasn’t true. She had only just arrived at the ball, and he was the first to approach her.
Cecelia looked up at the tall, blond figure. The prince’s dress was always vaguely military, without being a uniform. He was undeniably handsome, with his pale skin, jutting cheekbones, and hazel eyes. The satirical set of his lips was…intriguing. He appeared constantly, distantly amused, as if the world was a comedy presented for his entertainment. It made her wonder about his opinion of England.
With James’s disappearance, society seemed to have decided that there was an agreement between her and the prince, even though nothing had been settled or announced. Prince Karl’s attitude certainly encouraged this view. His proprietary air annoyed her, but she also felt a lingering enjoyment at her new status in the ton. To become an acknowledged belle at this stage was a guilty pleasure. Cecelia felt she shouldn’t savor it, but now and then she still did. She accepted his arm and walked onto the floor.
The music began. Prince Karl pulled her slightly too close—not quite to the point where a young lady might complain. But very nearly there. A quick glance told her that he knew this. He had judged it to a nicety. And he was enjoying his own skills.
He was a good dancer. He added turns and flourishes that drew admiring glances. His arm at her waist was masterful. His conversation was more interesting than many another man’s. He seemed truly interested in her ideas. She couldn’t say if the partiality he exhibited was love. She didn’t know him well enough.
But there were quite a few points in his favor, and he seemed primed to offer for her. Briefly, she contemplated accepting him. To actually become a princess would have been unimaginable a few short weeks ago. But the title wasn’t the chief temptation. Prince Karl opened the possibility of a more adventurous life than she’d thought to have. She would live in another country, learn a new language and customs. She might even contribute to the welfare of a different people. The prince seemed ready to listen to her. That was an interesting thought. If James had not existed, she might have…
But he did. And Cecelia wasn’t certain she would ever feel as deeply about another man. Even though that was folly.
“Daydreaming, Miss Vainsmede?” Prince Karl asked. “Is my dancing…insufficiently exciting?”
The look he gave her promised more earthy attractions. Cecelia’s cheeks heated. “Not at all.”
“Ah. That is good. I am pleased I have the ability to…excite you.”
This was more than light flirtation. It skirted very near the line. “Dancing is always invigorating,” she replied.
He smiled down at her, acknowledging an evasion. That was another thing: he was intelligent. She could never pledge herself to a stupid man.
The music ended. Prince Karl held her for a moment longer than was strictly proper, releasing her just as she might have protested. Cecelia gave him raised brows. He laughed as he stepped away. His games were an innovation in her life. She had to admit that.
Cecelia turned toward Sarah and Charlotte, who were standing on one side of the ballroom. When they reached them, the prince bowed over her hand. “Alas that I must dance with another,” he said. Nodding to the other young ladies, he moved away.
“Not one of us apparently, Sarah,” said Charlotte.
“Shh! He’ll hear.”
“I don’t think he or I would care if he did,” replied Charlotte.
“You don’t like Prince Karl?” Cecelia asked her.
Charlotte started to speak, paused, then said, “I’m not certain whether it’s that, or merely pique at being so thoroughly ignored.”
“He is extremely…focused,” said Sarah.
“You are excessively kind,” replied Charlotte. “I have always said so.”
“Thank you.”
“I did not mean it as a compliment.”
Cecelia laughed as the two exchanged grimaces that had surely originated at a much earlier age.
Another set was forming. They were all invited to join it, and the ball made its stately, predictable way through the night. Prince Karl did approach Cecelia for a second dance, but this time she was spoken for. He received her refusal with gratifying regret.
Cecelia danced. She partook of the delicate supper provided. She danced some more. She missed James, whose absence was still a sensation among the ton. They had stood up together at nearly every ball in the last two seasons. It was odd to attend one without his suave presence. At least people had stopped asking if she knew where he’d gone. She’d honestly denied it at the beginning. Now that she knew, she preferred not to lie.
She was still thinking about him the following morning when a footman found her in the drawing room and handed her a folded note. Opening it, she recognized James’s handwriting. “Who brought this?”
“A street urchin pushed it into my hand and ran away,” the footman replied disapprovingly.
Aunt Valeria looked up from her notetaking.
Nodding a dismissal to the servant, Cecelia read the words. James wanted more money. He asked politely, promising to return any sums advanced. This meant he was still at the ducal town house. She let the sheet of paper fall to her lap.
“What has a street urchin to do with you?” asked her aunt.
“My…friend merely employed him to carry the message.”
“Lacking a servant?”
“I su
ppose,” Cecelia said, conscious that it was an evasive answer.
“And which friend would that be? Surely not one of your young ladies? That makes no sense.”
Aunt Valeria gazed at her, waiting for an answer Cecelia did not wish to give. Not for the first time, or the hundredth, Cecelia noted how much her aunt resembled Papa. Both of them were plump and blond, with a bland air that disguised acute minds. She recognized the glint in her aunt’s blue eyes now, from years of seeing it in Papa. Aunt Valeria was curious, and she wanted her curiosity satisfied. She would not stop until it was. She didn’t care particularly about the underlying issue, but she would not be mystified. “It is a request for aid,” Cecelia tried.
“Some charitable endeavor?”
Could James be defined so? Hardly. Unless one theorized that exile amid piles of discarded furnishings was good for him? Cecelia allowed herself a nod.
“It is no use giving money to street children,” said her aunt. “That is a bottomless pit. You will make no difference.”
“I know that you think so.” Aunt Valeria had no interest in philanthropic endeavors, though she could sometimes be brought to feel for individuals.
Her flicker of interest exhausted, the older lady waved this aside and returned to her work.
Cecelia reread the note. Procuring the funds was no obstacle. She managed her father’s affairs and was well known to his banker. But if she refused wouldn’t James have to go home? And was that not best?
In the end she decided it wasn’t her decision to make. She would do as he asked one more time.
***
Later that day, once more in her drabbest gown, Cecelia returned to Tereford House, retracing her previous route. She found the stables empty and was disappointed that James had turned the poor family out. The back door was again unlocked, and she slipped through, to be surprised by sounds of conversation from the kitchen.
Quietly, she pushed the inner door open and discovered the woman she’d last seen in the stables bent over the hearth. A little girl of perhaps five stood next to her, staring at whatever was sizzling in a pan with avid anticipation. The woman poked at it with a toasting fork.
The child turned her head and noticed Cecelia. She gasped and clutched her mother’s skirts. “There’s a lady.”
The woman straightened and turned. She looked better. Her clothes were still ragged, but her face and hands were very clean and her hair was braided and coiled into a tidy bun. She dropped an unpracticed curtsy. “Good day, miss. His lordship said you might come.”
“He…did?”
“He said he expected you would.” She set aside the fork, wiped her hands on an apron that was more substantial than her gown, and added, “Go and fetch him, Effie.”
The child rushed out.
“Would you care to sit, miss? It ain’t proper, being the kitchen and all, but there’s no other room, er, suitable. And I scrubbed everything clean.”
“Thank you.” She examined the low stools and rejected them. “I am Cecelia Vainsmede.”
“Emmaline Gardener,” the woman replied with another bob. “Missus,” she added as if Cecelia might have some doubt.
“You’ve moved in from the stables?” Was it possible that James hadn’t even noticed? No, of course not.
“To work for his lordship,” was the reply.
“I’ve hired the whole family,” said James’s voice from the doorway. He came in, wearing the same clothes as before, only dustier. He had shaved and washed, however, and brushed back his dark hair.
The first little girl trailed after him. Two older children followed. They congregated around their mother. “Mrs. Gardener, Ned, Jen, and Effie,” James added, pointing at each one as if to prove he knew their names.
“Hired them?”
Mrs. Gardener looked apprehensive at Cecelia’s sharp tone.
“Yes.”
Was he actually proud? Who was this new James?
“I take it you’ve brought what I asked for,” he said.
“I have.” She touched her reticule, which bulged with a roll of banknotes.
“Splendid. We’ve nearly cleared out one room, thanks to my new helpers.” James gestured at the two older children.
“I got a pony,” said the girl. Jen, Cecelia recalled. She pulled a small china horse from the pocket of her gown and displayed it.
“Come, I’ll show you.” James beckoned Cecelia, then held up a hand when Ned started to follow them.
The room where Cecelia had found him the last time was indeed nearly empty. A pile of discarded items could be seen outside the window. It rose in an untidy mound to just below the sill. “I shall hire someone to haul that away,” said James when he saw Cecelia looking at it.
“This remains your method? Throwing things out the window?”
“Why not? They are refuse. And it is impossible to maneuver inside the house.”
She had to admit that was true.
He extended his hand. She pulled out the money and gave it to him.
“Splendid. I’ve given Mrs. Gardener everything I had left to buy provisions. I think she’s worried that I’m as poor as she is.”
“James.”
“The whole family is staying in the servant’s old room in the basement. It’s rather a hole, with a single cot. I’m surprised anyone tolerated it. We unearthed some cushions for the children to sleep on.” He looked around. “I shall move them up here next, until we can clear more space. There’s no lack of furnishings, of course.” He offered a wry smile.
“James.”
“The children are more help than I’d expected. This seems like a treasure hunt to them. They make a game of it. I’ve let them keep a few trinkets to encourage that idea. It rather keeps one’s spirits up.”
“You can’t mean to stay here,” said Cecelia. But she wondered. She tried to remember when she’d seen him in such a carefree, ebullient mood.
“I can do as I like.” He turned away from her. “I have found some real treasures. Come, I’ll show you.” He walked out.
Cecelia followed. They edged along the cluttered corridor to the entryway and then up the stairs and down another hall. James disappeared through a doorway.
Entering behind him, Cecelia found a bedchamber with a canopied bed and conventional shaving stand. It was old-fashioned, but a relief compared to the oppressive crowding in the rest of the house. Three massive wardrobes lined up along one wall were the only reminders of that.
A table on one side held an array of objects. Cecelia spotted a beautiful silver creamer, an inlaid snuffbox, a tiara worth a great deal if the jewels were real. Surely they couldn’t be? There were some carved jade figurines and a small, exquisite cloisonné vase.
“Look here,” said James, opening a wooden box. “These are very old, I think.” He displayed a set of stone blades that looked as if they belonged in a museum.
“All of these things were in the jumble?”
“Stuck in nooks and crannies,” replied James.
“That’s idiotic. The old duke must have had some system.” The idea of none at all appalled her. Chaos made her brain reel.
“After sifting through the contents of just one room, I can state definitively that he did not,” James replied. “He seems to have had the mind and habits of a demented pack rat.”
“He needed help. But no one knew.” Cecelia wandered over to one of the wardrobes. She reached for the clasp.
“Don’t open that!”
But she already had. A landslide of clothing tipped out and fell over her. She was engulfed by a flood of fabric and the overpowering smell of camphor.
James caught her around the waist to steady her. “Every chest and wardrobe in this house is crammed to bursting,” he said. “That happens whenever one opens a wardrobe. Be grateful it was only cloth. Ned was battered by a hai
l of gravy boats.”
Garments continued to fall. Cecelia batted at them.
James pulled her from under the onslaught. She leaned against him, soft and fragrant in his arms. The top of her head was just at his chin. She felt delightfully curved and pliable.
She turned in his embrace and looked up. Their lips were inches apart. James became aware that they were in a bedroom. In their long association, they had never been alone together in a bedroom. The sheets beckoned. All these years and he had never kissed her. In these last few weeks, everything had changed. Desire flamed through him. He wanted to, desperately.
His arms started to tighten of their own accord. His head bent. Cecelia gazed up at him, unmoving. Anticipating? Could she be wondering what it would be like to kiss him? She blinked. Her lips parted. She drew in a breath.
And James suddenly became conscious of his disheveled state. He might be fragrant in quite a different way from her subtle perfume. He’d probably smudged her gown with dust.
He let go of her and stepped back.
They faced each other, drifts of the old duke’s clothes around their feet. Cecelia’s cheeks were flushed. Was her breath as quick as his? Did her heart pound? James was uncharacteristically speechless. He’d asked her to marry him, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask whether she might wish to kiss him. That was ridiculous. But somehow still true. He neither understood nor appreciated the dilemma.
He looked away, and his gaze immediately encountered the bed. Right there, seductive as a siren song. He dropped his eyes to the sea of fabric on the floor, and saw them as the scattered garments of two lovers in the haste of desire. If he picked her up and carried her to… No. That was unacceptable.
He took a step back. His left foot tangled in a dark-blue coat and nearly tripped him up. He reached down to pull it away. The cloth and workmanship were very fine. “Hah,” he said, holding it up as a diversion. “This might be one of Weston’s.”
Cecelia moved out of the mass of cloth. “I can’t quite imagine your great-uncle going to a tailor.” She sounded breathless.