by Jane Ashford
Their visitor perked up. “What sorts of things, Your Grace?”
James struggled to remember. “Some old flint knives.”
“Indeed. We count collectors of ancient artifacts among our clients.”
“There were powder horns for muzzle-loading muskets,” James recalled.
“A rotating bookstand carved with miniature gargoyles,” said Cecelia. Was she laughing at him?
“And many knives,” said James. “Daggers, poniards, dirks, a stiletto, just in one room.”
“Perhaps it was the knife room,” suggested Cecelia. Her eyes were certainly laughing. Part of James shared her amusement. Another part felt ridiculed.
Mr. Nordling seemed to be searching for a polite response to this catalog.
James was afflicted by a wave of stubbornness. “I find some of the stranger things interesting,” he said to Nordling. “I should like them kept out for me to look over.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Would you wish to come every day?”
When one put it that way, he didn’t really wish to.
“So much of it is rather strange,” said Cecelia.
She thought she knew what he was thinking. Blast it, she probably did know. But that didn’t mean he had to confirm her conclusions. “I will call here each day at six,” he declared. “And you may show me what you have found.”
Cecelia looked surprised, which was gratifying.
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Nordling. “I will bring my people in first thing tomorrow to begin the work.”
“Agreed.” The word sounded official. James liked that. “I will see you out.” As he herded the fellow toward the stairs, he turned to say to Cecelia, “I will see you back in the kitchen.”
“My proper place, Your Grace?” she murmured.
James wasn’t certain whether Nordling heard this, or understood the sarcasm if he did. But he hustled the man out, thinking that it was quite unfair of her to mock his efforts when she had been urging him to do more for years. In fact, it seemed she didn’t care to give up an ounce of control. She was too accustomed to managing him.
Returning to the kitchen, James found the entire household there, digging into a pan of scones fresh from the oven. He couldn’t blame them. There was nowhere else to sit in the house. He’d be glad when that was remedied. The hotel was feeling cramped as well.
“I’m going on to look over two houses for rent that might do for us,” Cecelia said, as if she’d heard his thoughts.
It annoyed James that she could do that when he usually had no idea what she was thinking.
“I don’t suppose you wish to come along?” she added.
“I do,” he answered, clipping the phrase.
Cecelia could tell this was a lie. Or perhaps that was too strong a word. But he certainly did not wish to view houses for rent. That was plain in his face. Why not just say so? James was behaving very strangely. “I am happy to manage this alone,” she tried.
He frowned as if she’d said something irritating. “That will not be necessary.”
She couldn’t ask what was wrong before the entire Gardener clan, and she was in no mood to suggest a retreat to the previous duke’s bedchamber for private conversation.
“Now?” he asked, gazing at the scone in her hand as if it was a personal failing.
And with that, Cecelia realized he’d set up another contest, this one between the two of them. That explained his pushing forward with Mr. Nordling. As always, James was intent on winning, and he couldn’t evade the house visits because that would be some twisted sort of defeat. So very typical. What she didn’t understand was why James saw it so. He’d bargained for someone—a wife—to take on his work. He’d even admitted that she was more skilled at it. Hadn’t he? Surely she hadn’t imagined that?
In any case, she was playing her part. It was quite unfair of him to be contentious when she was trying to do as he’d asked. Also irritated now, Cecelia put aside her scone and rose. “We will need a hack.”
James hailed one not far from Tereford House, and they rode in silence to the first address Cecelia had been given. It was a compact wooden edifice that looked newly painted.
“Not a fashionable neighborhood,” James commented as they stepped down from the cab.
“It is quite temporary,” replied Cecelia.
“But so out of the way.”
“The season is nearly over.”
“Indeed. So why stay in London?”
“Where do you propose to go?” Cecelia asked. If he wanted to be snappish, she could match him.
He had no answer. She knew he’d often visited his bachelor friends in the summer months. Before he could suggest Brighton, she added, “And what about your daily visits to Tereford House? At six sharp.”
He frowned. “It is some distance away.”
“You can get a horse.”
“I have a horse, Cecelia. You’ve seen me riding in the park.”
“Oh yes. So that’s settled then.” She went to knock on the door.
Mr. Dalton was inside, having procured the keys from the owner. Being an extremely efficient man of business, he’d also acquired details about the property, which he reviewed as they walked through. “Only one sizable reception room,” he said. “The furnishing are new, however, and the kitchen has been brought up to date with a closed stove.”
She would have to find a cook to make use of it, Cecelia thought as they walked up the stairs. As well as other staff.
“Two decent bedrooms,” continued Mr. Dalton. “And two that are…”
“Small and shabby,” said James, having barely glanced into them.
Mr. Dalton bowed his head in acknowledgment. He was familiar with James’s dilatory manner from years of assisting with the trust. Still, Cecelia felt that James wasn’t giving him enough credit. Mr. Dalton had gone to some effort to find possibilities for them. “It is very clean,” she said.
James shot her a sardonic look. “There is another, I believe? Cecelia said two houses?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Let us go on to that then.” James turned to the stairs.
The second candidate was a short walk away, further from the hub of fashionable London. It was larger, however, built of red brick with ornate stone lintels.
“Some merchant had aspirations,” James commented.
Mr. Dalton had these keys as well, and they entered to look over two spacious parlors at the front of the house, a dining room and smaller one at the back. “There is a garden,” Mr. Dalton pointed out.
Cecelia examined it through a window. The plantings were nothing special, but it was a pleasant walled space.
“Kitchen below, quite tolerable,” Mr. Dalton continued. “There are four good bedchambers here and servants quarters on the third floor.”
They went up to survey all of these. “I think this would do,” said Cecelia as they returned to the entry.
“The furnishings are dowdy,” James replied.
“But endurable until we get our own new things.”
“Oh, if you are to be satisfied with the mediocre.”
This was too much. He was deliberately provoking. “You know very well I am not!” said Cecelia. “But if you are concerned, we can go around all the warehouses together.”
James couldn’t quite hide a wince.
“I know of one that has hundreds of fabric samples for draperies and chair coverings,” Cecelia added.
James looked queasy, and she felt a flash of triumph. The only sort of purchasing he cared for was at his tailor. And, she supposed, when he had bought his horse. All else had been provided by his landlady.
“There will be so very many things to choose from,” she said.
One of James’s hands jerked as if to ward off a curse. He closed it into a fist.
&
nbsp; Mr. Dalton had moved a few paces away. During the years when Cecelia and James argued over trust business, he’d cultivated a sort of motionless invisibility.
“We will take this house,” Cecelia told him.
“I have not made up my mind,” replied James.
She glared at him. Silently. Challenging, not reproachful. Certainly not apologetic. She knew from long experience that she could outwait him.
After a time James looked away. “I suppose it will do,” he muttered.
Mr. Dalton waited a moment, then said, “I will make the arrangements. The cost is quite reasonable.”
James started to speak. But he seemed to think better of it. His jaw tightened, and he turned to the door.
“Very good. Thank you, Mr. Dalton,” said Cecelia.
“Shall we go?” asked James, impatient now.
“I will stay a little longer,” she answered, feeling contrary. “In case there is anything we need, I want to—”
“Make a list,” interrupted her new husband, the phrase an accusation.
“Precisely so, James. A thorough and intelligent list.”
With a sound rather like pfft, he swept out.
Mr. Dalton of course said nothing. And he had, of course, brought paper and pen, including a clever portable ink bottle. He arranged them on a table in one of the parlors, and then was good enough to sit there and note down items Cecelia called out to him as she paced about the house. Gradually, shouting mundane requirements up or down the stairwell—more saucepans, three proper vases, a larger wardrobe, and some oil lamps—she recovered her temper. James was undoubtedly using whatever method he’d created to do the same. The process was familiar.
But the circumstances were not. This was not the past. They were man and wife. She didn’t want to contend with him. She certainly didn’t want him to see her as an adversary. He looked at life as a continual battle—very well. She might not be able to alter his outlook. But she should be an exception. Surely he wished her to be?
Cecelia stood at the linen press, smoothing a pile of bedsheets with pensive melancholy. The pleasures of physical passion were entrancing, shattering, but they were not all of life. And apparently they did not change everything.
Twenty
They moved into the rented house the following day. Cecelia’s maid and Ned came with them, along with James’s things from his former rooms. Cecelia sent for her clothes and other personal items from her father’s house. She thought it fortunate that neither of them had too many possessions, if one didn’t count the mass left by his great-uncle Percival, which she refused to do.
When her trunks arrived on a cart the next day, Aunt Valeria came with them. She walked through the house as the carters unloaded, her round face sulky. “Really, Cecelia, I do not see why you have set yourselves up in this distant place. You might easily have come home.”
“Papa’s house is no longer my home,” Cecelia pointed out.
“Of course it is. And if you would only return, you might be some help to me. Really, you are familiar with everything that needs to be done, while I am not. The servants miss you sadly.”
Cecelia could easily believe that. Aunt Valeria was an erratic mistress. Cecelia experienced a brief, unworthy temptation to hire the staff she knew away from her father. Of course she could not be so underhanded. Except, there was Janet, the cook’s assistant. She’d thoroughly learned her trade and begun to chafe under Cook’s orders. She would be moving on to another position soon, no matter what Cecelia did. And Archie, one of the footmen, was on the verge of leaving as well. He’d told her he hoped to find a place in a larger household. He might like to come here, as the first of a ducal staff that would be much larger in time. Her father’s household would carry on quite well without these two. Perhaps even more smoothly. And Aunt Valeria wouldn’t even notice they were gone. She never could tell the footmen apart. “I’m sure you will settle in very soon,” she said to her aunt.
“I do not want to settle in,” replied her aunt. She might have meant to be plaintive, but the word came out sulky. “They ask me things. When I am trying to concentrate.”
“Send them to Mrs. Grant,” Cecelia suggested. Her father’s housekeeper was extremely competent.
“Well, I do, but she seems to think I should have opinions on the most trivial things. New types of coal scuttles!”
“Tell her that you are happy for her to make decisions,” Cecelia suggested.
“I have. She does not appear to believe me.” Aunt Valeria pulled a long face.
Cecelia had liked to supervise, and Mrs. Grant was accustomed to working with her. But the housekeeper would actually relish the chance to take more into her own hands. “I will send her a note explaining that you are quite serious,” she told her aunt. She would mention Janet and Archie in the letter. She suspected that Mrs. Grant would see losing two of her junior servants as an acceptable trade for greater scope.
All this proved to be true. Janet and Archie accepted her offers with alacrity and moved themselves in that very evening. Janet was delighted to rule her own kitchen and suggested two girls of her acquaintance to assist her. Hoping she was not establishing a tyranny, Cecelia agreed.
Thus, the next morning, there was expertly brewed tea and fresh baked bread, along with the dishes Cecelia customarily ordered. She waited for James to notice this minor miracle, but he appeared to take a fine breakfast in a completely new household for granted. “I found a cook,” she pointed out.
“Ah? Yes. This jam is quite good.”
Which of course had been purchased; there had been no time to make jam. This was the heedless James she knew. Testing him, Cecelia added, “I shall be looking for other servants today. Would you care to join in the interviews?”
“What about Will Ferris for a butler,” he replied.
“Mrs. Gardener’s brother?” She was nearly certain he was joking.
“I like his style.”
Cecelia did, too, but it was not that of a majordomo. “Perhaps some other post—” she began.
“He has a great deal of pride, you know. And he is quite capable.”
“I have no doubt of that.” She did doubt that he understood all of a butler’s tasks. “But another position might be better. I was thinking we should talk to the Gardeners about whether they would like to be in town or the country. We will have many positions to fill, since we must assume that Uncle Percival left his properties…unkempt.”
James stared at her. “You don’t think they’re all like…”
She saw visions of endless chaos in his eyes but could only shrug.
James groaned. “I believe I shall go to the club.”
Knowing she would accomplish more in his absence, Cecelia encouraged this plan. And by late afternoon, she’d found everyone she required for now and felt smugly efficient. She would have been happy to share her successes, and be praised for them, but there was no sign of James. She was upstairs making ready for bed when she finally heard him call her name.
Footsteps bounded up the stairs, and he appeared in the bedchamber door. “Prince Karl has left England,” he said. “Word is buzzing about town.”
“Has he?”
“Couldn’t tolerate the taste of his own medicine seemingly. You routed him.” James’s glance was admiring. “Tipped him a leveler, as they say.”
She enjoyed his approval, though not the way it was framed. And she did not, of course, mention the two men’s actual fight. That would be folly.
“Also, I found a new valet.”
“Did you?” That was one position she had left to him.
“Henry Deeping’s man knew of a fellow. Served old Falcourt until he died last month, and as you know Falcourt was always complete to a shade.”
She didn’t know, but she nodded anyway.
“The valet’s not a doddering fossil t
hough. He’d only been with Falcourt two years.”
“Oh, good.”
“So I went right over and engaged him. I knew you wouldn’t want me to delay.”
Perhaps this was meant to be an excuse for his lengthy absence. Cecelia didn’t require it.
“Bingham, the sneaking cur who stole Hobbs from me, is sorry now. He looked nohow when I told him. Because if he’d left Hobbs alone, he might have had Phipps, you see. A much better choice.”
James looked elated. How he liked to win. “So you have paid Bingham off for his sneakiness,” she responded.
“And more.”
“Well, bravo.”
James bowed as if to an appreciative audience. “And then I had to go by Tereford House, as I’d told Nordling I would.”
Definitely excuses, Cecelia decided. She was enjoying them a little. She continued brushing her hair. “Have they made a good beginning?”
“It’s going much faster with a team of brawny haulers. And Nordling’s keeping a close eyes on things.”
“Will you tell him to keep an eye out for the family silver? And china? I don’t want to purchase things we may find later in one of those piles.”
“Umm,” said James. He finally had a bit of attention to spare for his surroundings. “There’s a fresh scent in here. You’ve made the bedchambers very pleasant.”
“It’s potpourri.”
“Ah. It’s become a very comfortable room.”
“I hope to make you comfortable.”
“Only that?” He came over and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Well, more than comfortable perhaps,” said Cecelia. She turned from the mirror. He bent. Their lips met. The kiss began softly and rapidly rose to incendiary.
They had acquired some skill in removing their clothing by this time. In this at least they moved in perfect unison. And they’d learned the caresses that roused passions to a fever pitch—fingertips on silken skin, flurries of kisses. James made his wife cry out in delight, and his own release was like drowning in pleasure. Sleep overtook them in each other’s arms.
But the next morning, the deluge of business descended on their heads once more, so different from the soft and fiery intimacies of the bedroom. James’s new valet arrived early, and Ned had to be placated because James had forgotten to tell him that Phipps had been hired. Other new servants were joining them as well, and the house felt nearly as chaotic as great-uncle Percival’s for a time.