by Tessa Candle
Tilly's laugh was more of a guffaw than a womanly giggle, which made him like her even better. "Very well, if you think it will help. But as I was saying, in truth Mrs. Steele has endured worse things than this recent violence."
"Indeed?" Frobisher was sceptical. Women so often exaggerated trifles. "Was she toyed with by some coxcomb to the eternal wounding of her heart? Or did her best friend betray her confidence and tell the dark secret of her soul—that she had once forsaken a Sunday mass to go gather wild strawberries?"
Tilly shook her head. "You are trying too hard, Bish. You saw her most recent peril. Her tribulations are quite real, though I cannot reveal them. What you witnessed yesterday is all of a piece with the endless threats and assaults of Lord Screwe. But she has a spirit of survival in her that would inspire admiration, I think, even in the most unwilling heart—if its owner were honest."
"Admiration?" Frobisher actually lurched backwards. "You should banish any idea of the sort, Tilly. There are a handful of women that I tolerate, and the only ones I admire are safely married."
Tilly's features twisted up into a wicked smile. "Ah. One of those."
"That is not what I meant." Frobisher turned in desperation to Rutherford. "Is this to be my reward for running your wife's errands?"
"Sorry, old boy." Rutherford fetched a brandy from the sideboard and handed it to Frobisher in compensation. But the faithless friend smirked and added, "Virtue must be its own reward, you know. However you may be sure that Tilly has no desire to make a match between you and Mrs. Steele."
"No, indeed," conceded Tilly. "She has no need for any more misogyny in her life—even of the pretend kind."
Frobisher was left to stew over whether he were more unhappy about being dismissed as a misogynist, or as a mere pretender. He decided it was safer to give no reply to the teasing duchess, and instead addressed Rutherford. "I suppose you will be pleased to hear that I have had some success in our project."
"Our project, do you call it? I believe I suggested in the strongest terms possible that you give up chasing Mrs. Colling."
Frobisher frowned thoughtfully. "I know she is not all she seems, or perhaps all she ought to be. However I think you may be wrong about her—that is to say, I believe there may be much more to her story than you know. We should perhaps reserve judgement."
Tilly sighed and turned her eyes heavenward, but said nothing.
Rutherford looked sincerely worried. "I cannot believe I am hearing this from you, my friend, who so rarely reserves judgement against any of the female sex. But I hope you will at least have a care and will not take any risks in hunting for her."
Frobisher shook his head. "I do not see how I could be taking any fewer risks than I am at the moment. I traced her to a certain region of London, where she was seeking a room to board in. But my efforts were disrupted by the precipitous need to bring Mrs. Steele to you. In truth, I have been leaving the remaining work to the servants. That should be safe enough."
"But then you may stay in the countryside. Your servants will send you word from London if they discover anything."
"I could, but I might lose an opportunity that way. I planned on returning to London immediately, but I find that I am delayed, for Lady Goodram proposes to call on my mother this afternoon, and it would be an unpardonable rudeness if I were to flee my home beforehand. And in any case, Paul Field—the lad who helped me trace her—is to bring a friend to see me. It is this John Pines fellow who escorted Mrs. Colling to the boarding house. I thought I might get more information out of him if I spoke with him—and I should like to reward him for his goodness in helping her."
Rutherford rolled his eyes. "Good lord, it is worse than I thought. You are bent upon going about the countryside and paying everyone for their kindness to this devil in petticoats."
Frobisher scowled at Rutherford, but sipped his drink in silence.
Tilly intervened, "So, as irksome as it is to you, Bish, we shall at least have the pleasure of your company for this day." She clapped her hands. "Delightful! I shall throw a little dinner party for us all, this evening. What do you say to that?"
Frobisher swallowed as though his gorge were raising. A dinner party with a flock of women, and only Rutherford to protect him? A fate worse than death. "I believe I should find it more uplifting to talk about your interrogation of the prisoner. I see you do not have blood spatters on your skirts, so I assume you have not got anything useful out of him."
Tilly tossed her head and played along. "I prefer a more mental approach to extracting information. You must not underestimate the frailties of the human psyche."
Frobisher turned to Rutherford and gave him a look to say, you see? I told you so.
"But if I had got something useful," Tilly continued, "I should have told you both straight away. He will not directly admit that he is working for Lord Screwe, yet."
"That sounds about right." Frobisher set aside his brandy tumbler, and took a cup of tea instead. "A practiced criminal knows how to keep his mouth shut, though he never can resist using it to sneer."
"I think we need to press him harder," Rutherford suggested.
"I do not believe he is such a practiced criminal. Indeed, I think he fears Screwe. And I am not going to burn him with red hot pokers." Tilly lifted her chin.
"That will not be necessary." Frobisher held up a hand. "But your husband has a point. It may not have occurred to you, but this fellow is probably accustomed to living pretty rough. His current accommodation must be much more comfortable than his regular lodgings. Take away his blanket and bed—give him some straw to sleep on, but only if he is helpful. Give him nothing but the minimum of water to drink, and one piece of bread a day—the bits the kitchen staff give to the pigs will do. Then after a couple of days, offer him better fare for information."
Tilly looked doubtful. "Charming. But I think my methods will work better, given a little time."
"I find the turn of your mind alarming, Bish." Rutherford was trying to sustain an arch look.
Frobisher pursed his lips in distaste. He would not be saying so if his wife were not in the room. "And I find the stagnation of yours tedious. Marriage has rotted your brains, Rutherford—no offence intended, Tilly. I always knew it would. I simply had no idea it would act upon you so quickly."
Rutherford laughed. "You keep telling yourself that, but that bitter taste upon your palate is sour grapes, my friend. However, in my case, it may be that there was not so much brain in the first place."
Even Frobisher was not so surly as to take advantage of this self-effacing comment. But it was further evidence of how altered his friend was: he gave up the fight too easily. The stallion was now accustomed to the quiet pastures of the mare, and no longer even thought of jumping fences. It was very sad.
When Frobisher returned to Fenimore Hall to freshen up before his lady visitors arrived, he came across Mr. Patton, who was waiting on a bench in the entry room and stood abruptly when Frobisher walked in.
Frobisher started. "Mr. Patton! I did not know you were here."
Mr. Patton looked embarrassed. "No one received me. But the door was unlocked, so I made bold to walk in and wait for you here. I thought a servant would show up eventually."
It was Frobisher's turn to be embarrassed. This was a pretty shoddy reception. Thank God, Lady Goodram had not been treated to such insolence. Mr. Patton would not think much of it, at least. But where the ruddy hell was all the staff?"
"I am surprised and disconsolate that you have been left to shift for yourself in this way, sir. If you will leave your hat here and wait in the parlour, I will see what is detaining the servants." Frobisher did not ring the bell. He marched straight into the servants’ work area, where the housekeeper was, and demanded of her, "Where is Jones?"
Her face reddened as she sputtered, "I did not know your lordship had returned. Your lordship's mother is out taking a turn in the grounds, and—"
"I did not ask where my mother is. What I wa
nt to know is where all the ruddy servants are, starting with Jones."
She twisted her apron and gaped at him.
Frobisher tilted his head and proceeded sarcastically, "Jones… you remember him. About this tall? The butler of Fenimore Hall, who has precedent over all of the servants, none of whom seem to be doing their ruddy jobs? Surely you recall him now?"
She swallowed and recovered herself. "Um, yes, your lordship. I believe he is—well, he went to see the new hermit."
Frobisher was speechless for a moment. He did not know that the new hermit had arrived, but he supposed that Mr. Patton had come to inform him of the fact. It was unfathomable to him how the house butler could possibly think he had leave to go gadding about merely because there was a hermit to see.
"Then perhaps, in his absence, you can tell me why I found a guest seated, holding his own hat, on the bench where the doorman should be?"
"I cannot imagine, my lord. The womenfolk never do that sort of work here, and the upstairs girls are all about their business. They mayn't have heard the arrival—"
"What I am hearing are a lot of excuses, Tredding. I could have a word about the upstairs girls, as well, but for the moment I will constrain myself to a simple direction: go find the servants that should be in their places and put them about their business. I shall expect someone to bring tea to Mr. Patton and myself in the parlour, immediately. And when Lady Goodram arrives, if there is not such a show of immaculately perfect service fit for a princess, many, many people are going to lose their places. Do I make myself understood?"
The woman curtsied deeply. "Yes, my lord. Right away, my lord."
"And do you understand that the marquess of the manor should never have to have this conversation?"
She blushed more deeply. "Certainly, my lord."
"Good." Frobisher's sense of justice tweaked his conscience, and he added in slightly softer tones, "I appreciate that you are being tasked with this because you happen to be one of the few here who is not out on the gad, and this may seem unfair. Only know that your diligence has not escaped my attention."
The woman appeared to relax slightly at this observation, and Frobisher had a momentary pang for having so terrorized her. He turned to leave and then paused at the door, and added in the driest voice he could muster, "And when Jones returns, please tell him that I wish to speak with him, if he can spare the time."
Chapter 29
Rosamond ran her hand along the worn wooden windowsill in the front room of her new cottage. The place was dust free, but depressingly empty. The bleached buff colour of the stone floors was as bright as a thorough mopping could make it, but had not a carpet to take off the chill. And although this main room was meant to serve both as a dining and kitchen area, no table occupied the space to invite company to stay. The small fire in the fireplace tried its best to cheer this inhospitable void, and the rough stonework hearth before it could serve as a low bench for warming one’s back, but on the whole, the place lacked a feeling of hominess.
Past the kitchen and through a door-less entrance was a cramped sitting room, where a single wooden chair and small table stood. Another smaller window lit this chamber, from which a door opened into a bedroom, furnished only with a pile of straw to sleep upon.
She was relieved to find that the building was less decrepit on the inside than it had been made to look on the outside, but it was nonetheless very sparsely furnished and humbly appointed. Mr. Patton had explained to her that this was for cosmetic reasons, that the marquess had particularly desired a ramshackle sort of aesthetic to lend an air of mystery and danger about the hermit who was to reside there. But he assured her that the marquess had not wanted his hermit to be uncomfortable.
"His hermit!" She scoffed internally. The whole arrangement was further evidence of the lord's self-indulgent silliness. She stopped herself. It would do no good to hold him in contempt. It might make her incautious, and she needed to maintain the charade. And anyway, since witnessing his rescue of the woman and her child servant, she had difficulty thinking any real ill of Frobisher. If he were merely another idiotic, selfish nobleman, why should he have been at all concerned, or put himself in harm's way?
Of course, he might have been motivated by some attachment to the woman—she corrected herself—some acquaintance with her. But there again, it did say something about him that he should be friends with a person of such obscurity. She did not appear to have even a middling class status—perhaps not precisely poor, but certainly not wealthy.
And she had struck Rosamond as being much older than him, too. Decked out in that old fashioned way, like part of a passed over era. All she needed was a high powdered wig to make herself a perfect gothic fright. Of course, Frobisher did insist upon wearing those antiquated, long lace cuffs, so they might have unfashionable taste in common. Still, he must have been motivated by compassion and not passion, mustn't he? She wished she could be sure.
But it was folly even to be thinking about such things. What difference did it make to her whether the marquess were a good man or a foolish one, or to whom he had attachments? He was now her employer, and that was all that mattered. Her business was not assessing his character. It was persuading him that she was a hermit—a male hermit—and providing such entertainments as that entailed.
Still she had to laugh at her absurd situation. It was completely ridiculous that she should have ended up here, of all places. No matter how she tried to flee the area, some force drew her back.
She was the hunted who had curled up in the den of the hunter—right at his feet. And yet, might it not be the best way to go undetected? All this time Rosamond had been thinking that she was perversely afflicted by the fates, but she could now see how circumstances might serve her purpose.
She was situated in a place where Cousin Peter could never expect to find her. And although it was true that she was now perilously close to another group of people by whom she would—after her cousin—least wish to be discovered, they were not likely to detect her subterfuge. Setting herself up as a hermit at Frobisher's estate was such a madly brazen move that no one would ever suspect her of it.
She straightened her spine. She just needed to remain concealed for a short time. This could not be terribly difficult, for Frobisher was still in London. She grinned. If, as she suspected, he was engrossed in searching for her there, he might be there for some duration. She could remain as his hermit for this brief interval while she thought up her next move, and never have to see him.
This thought made her sad, which made her chastise herself again. She really needed to get a hold of herself.
Her thoughts were interrupted by movement along the path to the cottage. She watched through the window as a man she had never seen before approached the front door. From his dress she made him out to be one of the house servants, and from his bearing, one of some rank in the staff hierarchy. She did not wait for him to knock but went to the door and opened it, assuming her best surly hermit grimace, and grumbled, "What do you want?"
"I—" stammered the man, "I had heard that you had arrived." He took a moment to re-assert his air of superiority. "And I am come to see the new hermit. That is… I wish to welcome you and assure you that you may have access to servants' meals at the manor. If you wish I can have them delivered to you. I am the butler of Fenimore."
Rosamond tilted her head. "Do you mean to say that you came all this way to offer me the hospitality of the great house?”
The man straightened and inclined his head in assent.
Rosamond was amused at the grandness of a gesture that took credit for the generosity of another. "And do you do this on the instructions of his lordship?"
"I am not precisely acting upon his directions. However I believe I am acting upon his inclinations." The man seemed relieved to have come up with this concession so neatly.
"Very well. I thank you for putting yourself out to give me this message, sir. And I thank you for your kind inclination." Rosamond wa
s about to close the door, but the man raised a hand. "Yes?"
"Only I had thought—I had heard..." He swallowed and adjusted his clothing. "I had heard that you read fortunes and such."
Rosamond sighed. "I had hoped not to begin my duties so quickly, however if it is your fortune you will have, then come." She waved him into the cottage. Although this man was a bit foolish, he was the highest ranked servant in the household and it might be good to have an ally. Besides which, reading a palm often provided the reader with more information than it did the fortune seeker. One never knew what useful titbits might be gleaned.
There was only one chair at the small, roughly made table—another means of affecting the humble and rustic aesthetic. However she did not object. She had lived in worse places. Rosamond gestured the man to seat himself while she stood and lifted his hand to scrutinize it.
She peered at the lines for some time, assuming an air of deep concentration, then mumbled, "Long, long service. Aye… Much thankless toil." While she uttered these phrases she watched the man's face and could see the air of agreement. It was just as she thought. He, like most people reduced to working for a living, felt himself unappreciated. And in her experience, working people always found the revelation that they were overworked and underpaid sympathetic. And it was, after all, usually true.
As she set his hand down on the table and folded her own tea stained and dirt smeared hands before her, she fixed the man's gaze in her own. "Sir, I read in your palm a man who has worked hard and yet has not attained his true due." Fortunes, like other cons, were always about money, love or power. "The hand worn with labour is always empty." She saw the flash in the man's eye. So it was money, then. It was safest to stop there and let him supply more information before she proceeded.
"True! You have a gift!" said the man. "That is how things are, exactly. However, did you not see anything more there—a resolution perhaps? A way someone might get the thing that has been denied?"