by Cheryl Bolen
She’d managed a teapot and chipped china as well.
Where had all the good china gone? Was that more of Haskill’s thieving?
“Your grace, shall I pour your tea?” she asked briskly.
George eyed her under droopy lids, scowling. “Black.”
She pressed her lips together as she poured and passed him a cup.
“Milk and sugar for me,” Andrew said.
“No milk. It curdled.” She stirred sugar into a cup, handed it to him, and filled bowls with thick stew.
“This is our supper?” George grimaced.
“If you’ll provide me a list of preferred foods, I’ll go into the village tomorrow.”
“I’ll make the list, duke.” Andrew dug into his bowl. “Inn fare, but tolerable for our first hot meal. Thank you, Mrs. Marlowe.”
“I’ll come for the tray when you ring.” She curtsied and steadied herself with a hand on the back of a chair.
Fatigue smudged the skin under her eyes, and she gripped her shawl. She was tired, and cold, and probably still wet from that long walk. Someone should have driven her. The innkeeper might have sent a note and he could have fetched her on his horse.
And she was likely hungry as well.
“Go, have your own meal, and turn in,” he said. “I’ll carry the dishes down.”
She looked from him to George, nodded, and slipped out.
George raised an eyebrow. “How very courteous of you, Mr. Andrews.”
“You were rather rude.”
“I was playing Andrew MacDonal.”
“A bit higher in the instep than I truly am.”
“Hmm.” George’s smile was sly. “Perhaps I’ll enjoy this role after all.”
Chapter 5
In her bedchamber, Filomena huddled near the growing fire, her damp cloak draping her.
Here she was, housekeeper in a duke’s castle, one with a meager supply of linens, chipped crockery, very little fuel for heating and cooking, and not a single servant besides herself.
She’d completely underestimated the difficulties of this challenge.
Oh, but the Castle was beautiful, magical almost, and this room was a godsend, and she was determined to be grateful. It was far finer than her cozy bedchamber at the vicarage, and undoubtedly meant for a high-ranking guest or family member, perhaps even the duchess herself.
Two windows were grimy, but they faced west, allowing for views of glorious sunsets. The fireplace with its carved wood and marble mantel shared a wall with an adjoining chamber. Whether a dressing room or bedchamber, she couldn’t determine. The entry door blended so well with the paneling that the locked latch had been almost invisible.
On the bed and windows, the faded curtains and hangings had once been a rich blue brocade. And this chair, though lumpy, had deep wings that held in the heat from the fireplace and kept the draftiness at bay.
Mr. Andrews had kept his promise and started a fire, thank goodness, and he must have set out the sheets for the bed. She’d snatched a few spoonfuls of the stringy mutton stew before coming up to retire. Passing the library, the low murmurs of the men’s voices had tempted her, but she’d resisted the urge to press her ear to the door.
The last thing she needed was to draw the duke’s attention to a lone woman under his roof. She’d hurried down the corridor, stirred the fire, made up her bed, and found the heavy nightgown stuffed into her valise.
After so many days without proper sleep, she was weary to her bones, but anxiety kept her awake.
It had been sheer chance to learn of the position of housekeeper at Kinmarty. Marlowe’s death last summer had been unexpected, leaving her casting about for a purpose. She’d had to vacate the vicarage for rented rooms and begin playing her new role of grieving widow until Marlowe’s estate was settled. Once she’d learned that she’d be able to support herself on her inheritance, she’d pondered her new freedom. On a whim, she’d gone up to London, inquiring with an agent about a position as governess or companion for a family traveling to the Continent.
It was then that news came of the old duke’s death, and she knew she couldn’t leave England. Evan and Penelope would surely come home to take up the title. She’d returned to her village, praying for a chance to make peace with them, to be a family again.
Some days later, the papers reported Evan’s death, and the hiring agent sent word of the housekeeper’s position in Kinmarty.
She stood and fed the fire. How many days until Penelope’s arrival? All she knew were the snippets gleaned from the gossipy agent.
It had been after the new duke’s departure for Scotland when his solicitor received word of Penelope’s plans. He’d sent an express to the new duke, and commanded that the Castle be staffed as quickly as possible for the duke and his family. No experienced London servants wanted to work in the Highlands. The agent was desperate. She’d barely had time to pack a trunk.
It had all been a whirlwind, because of the children. Penelope had children and she was bringing them home.
Tears pricked her eyes. Her ten years of marriage had been childless, and she faced a future stretching in unending loneliness. Penelope’s girls, the chance to know them, made all of this subterfuge and speed, and sacrifice worthwhile.
Sea travel could be unpredictable, but the hope was for the children to reach Kinmarty in time for the sort of Christmas their father had enjoyed there.
Did Penelope know her host would be an old enemy, Andrew MacDonal? She and the girls must have set out months before news of the old duke’s death could have reached them. The thought of her cousin facing Andrew alone with her children in tow had made Filomena’s decision to play housekeeper easy.
The logs crackled and popped, and another noise intruded. Someone scratched at her door.
Pulling the cloak around her, she reached for the poker. When she eased the door open, a dark shape brushed by her. The cat.
The intruder hopped into the chair, licked itself a few times, and curled up.
The boldness cheered her. “I suppose you may have my seat. I’ve warmed it up for you.” When she reached out a hand, the creature froze.
Wisely. The cat didn’t know her. It was hedging its trust as she must do also.
* * *
The next morning, the sound of a door closing woke her. A warm weight pressed against her and she lifted her head to find two green eyes watching her.
“Are we friends now?” she asked.
The cat meowed. Drawing her hand from under the covers, she reached out and rubbed the top of its head, inciting a deep comforting purr.
“When it’s this beastly cold, friends must stay warm together.” Filomena pushed back the covers shivering, hurriedly dressed, and went down to the kitchen, noting that, in the light of day, worn carpets, loose balusters, and layers of dust were all too apparent.
In the kitchen, a kettle of water steamed on the hearth. As she went to find a cup, the outside door popped open, letting in bright sunlight.
“Ah. You are up.” Mr. Andrews said. “Good morning.”
His smile lit the room. A square jaw, a prominent nose, and merry eyes all came together to make her breath catch. He would make for a good First Foot, the dark-haired man to be first across the threshold at the New Year’s Hogmanay celebration. Penelope’s girls would love the tradition.
Mr. Andrews advanced into the room. “It’s a fine morning after all that snow.”
His trousers hugged his thighs over well-made riding boots. Warmth curled through her into her cheeks, and she lifted her gaze.
In the clear beam of sunlight, the mossy green of his eyes glinted with humor.
As if he’d read her interest.
“The, er, duke and I are going riding.”
His gaze shifted away, but her pulse didn’t ease.
The castle was grimy, the larders bare and they had no staff, and he was going riding? “Should you not be seeing to hiring more servants? There is maintenance to be done, as well as the c
leaning.”
“Yes, it’s a miserable old pile, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully.
“No. Not at all. You mustn’t say that. Castle Kinmarty is lovely, it’s…it’s breathtaking, really and filled with so many astonishing details.”
“A fairy tale castle you said last night.”
That had been her first thought when she’d spotted it from the lane, and then when she’d seen the depictions of knights in the hall. “Yes, and it needs servants.”
“Is it not your job to see to the servants, Mrs. Marlowe?” He reached a hand into his coat and rummaged there.
“Housemaids, certainly. But a butler, footmen—I should think you would want to manage that.”
“The agent was supposed to hire the butler.”
“He confided that no one wanted to come so far north. Perhaps you might find someone within the local area.”
“Ah, here it is.” Andrews pulled out a slip of paper. “You might check in the village for Forbes. He was the old duke’s butler.”
Hire the housemaids, and the butler? What work did Mr. Andrews plan to do?
Before she could blurt out that question, he reached for her hand, sending a spark of lightning up her arm. He pressed the paper into her palm, a small smile quirking his lips.
Breathe. She reined in her pulse. Her purpose here was clear. She was here for the children, and Penelope, too, of course.
When he released her, she glanced at the paper, avoiding his gaze. It was the promised list of the duke’s favorite foods.
He’d wisely added nothing too exotic for Kinmarty.
Finding a cook would be her first priority. “What salaries might I offer?”
“As much as is required to fill the position. I shall leave that to your discretion.”
“Mr. Andrews, I have only just arrived. I’ve yet to tour the whole castle and evaluate the, er, challenges. You have only just met me. As the duke’s factor you should—”
“I should do what the duke commands.” He grinned again. “And today, he commands me to go riding with him.” He leaned in perilously close. “We are touring the estate boundaries, and he awaits me in the stables.”
Straightening, he walked to a cabinet, retrieved a flask she hadn’t noticed, and sent her a parting smile.
She poked at the fire and threw on a piece of wood from the dwindling pile.
They would need manservants sooner rather than later if they were to not freeze to death in their beds. For certain, the duke would not chop wood, nor would his handsome, cheeky factor.
What she’d seen of the inn patrons—men in shabby coats and scuffed boots—told her that work in Kinmarty might be scarce. Surely there were villagers here needing work.
Back in Hertfordshire, Mr. Marlowe had left household management to her, and she knew what it took to employ good staff. The best servants wanted a respectable household and good wages. She would offer good wages. Anyone willing to work at Castle Kinmarty would be decently paid.
Respectability of the household was another matter. She could only hope that with the title of duke, Andrew MacDonal would behave honorably.
A tour of the castle and an inventory of household items could wait until later that day. She hurried through her breakfast and pulled on her cloak.
The rare, late afternoon sun was descending as they turned down the lane toward the stone-walled stable.
“You’ve real prospects here,” George said. “The Castle is old but impressive.”
George was as optimistic as the housekeeper. “A fairy tale castle?”
George sent him a sidewise glance. “What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. You’ll have me seeing opportunities here.”
“There are opportunities. The hunting lodge can be let. And there’s iron ore, perhaps. I’ll write to my brother and have him send up a man to conduct a survey.”
“That would be capital, providing the cost is not too dear.”
“Consider it a speculative investment on my part. For a percentage share if the ground yields ore, of course.”
Andrew laughed. “And a permanent invitation to hunt. If this weather holds, we’ll track down that stag. Perhaps tomorrow.”
George patted his horse’s neck. “I’d best check this fellow over before planning anything. He’s been limping since the last turning.”
They entered the stable yard and Andrew reined up. A wagon stood near the kitchen entrance, with two men offloading cordwood onto a neat pile. They doffed their caps and bent back to their task.
A boy hurried out from the stables and reached for the horses.
“You’ve acquired servants,” George said.
Andrew glanced at his friend. “Is this your doing?”
They’d stopped at an outlying cottage and bought oatcakes and surprisingly good ale from the crofter and his wife, mentioning that the new duke was hiring staff. Perhaps George had slipped the man some extra coin.
“Not this quickly,” George said.
His heart lifted. It must be Mrs. Marlowe’s doing.
They dismounted and Andrew handed over his reins.
“Go on, I’ll catch up with you,” George said.
Andrew made his way to the kitchen where the scent of savory meat, onions, and yeasty bread sent his stomach growling.
Someone had worked another miracle here. The dirty crockery had vanished, and the sideboards held bulging sacks of foodstuffs and casks of drink. A stout woman turned away from a mound of dough and curtsied. A girl pumping water did the same, and a young boy darted out from a storeroom and bowed.
“Good day to you,” Andrew said, “have you anything ready to eat?”
The stout woman dipped her head. “Good hot bread, sir, and some ham. We can send up—”
“Slice some up for me now. And some for the, er, duke who’ll be here in a moment.”
They scurried around and moments later the girl wobbled a plate into his hand. She was a scrawny thing, no more than thirteen, shabbily dressed but scrubbed pink down to her fingernails, and she seemed to be studying his mud-speckled boots.
And, praise Juno, they now had a boot boy.
He thanked the girl, and she scooted away.
Marlowe had done well. “Where is the housekeeper, Cook?”
“Do you know, Duff?” The cook directed her question to the boy.
“Aye. Jest carried up wood to the nursery.”
“The nursery?”
Whatever would she be doing in the nursery? There were no children in residence at Castle Kinmarty, nor would there be. No matter what George said, he had no plans to get leg-shackled.
“Aye. And she wants more. I kin show you the way.”
Andrew knew where the nursery was. He and Evan had spent many happy hours there.
“Beggin’ your pardon sir, but Duff has pots to scrub,” the cook said.
The boy bit his lip, and gazed up through pale red eyelashes, his gaze hopeful.
Andrew swallowed a smile. Duff was no more than eight or nine. The nursery held hobby horses, and games, books and toys, and a grand set of tin soldiers. Putting those in order would be more fun than scrubbing pots.
He pulled a stool out. “Tap me some of that ale or whatever you might have. I’ll make quick work of my bread and ham while Duff gathers that wood.”
The cook’s eyebrows shot up, the boy grinned and scurried off, and a cup appeared on the table before him. He savored the warm bread, his compliments sending the fat cheeks into a blush, and pondered the miracles a good woman could accomplish.
Moments later he took the bundle of wood from the struggling boy. “Onward, Duff,” he said. “Lead the way up the stairs.”
“Here they are, miss.”
Filomena joined the girl bending over the open trunk in the nursery storeroom.
“Oh, well done, Kyla.” She’d been hoping there’d be dolls in the nursery from some long-ago MacDonal lass. “I’m so glad you found them.”
The girl’s blue eyes
widened as she lifted a small figure from the trunk. Richly dressed in century old blue brocade, the doll’s hair was the same pale gold as Kyla’s, her eyes a similar shade of blue, like Penelope’s. Perhaps Penelope’s girls shared her coloring and would appreciate this doll.
Though Kyla was at least twelve or thirteen, she handled the toy with the reverence 0f a much younger child, as well she should. Such a toy might set a villager back a year’s wages.
Filomena’s heart twisted. Her doll, Berenice, had been as fine as this one. One night, she’d woken to a flaming row between her father and mother, one that left her trembling under her covers. Berenice had disappeared the next day, along with her mother’s jewelry and her father’s prized paintings.
She shook off the memory and straightened. “And what have we here?”
Wedged at the back of the chest was a framed drawing. Two laughing boys gazed out of the gilt frame, their features sketched in bold pencil strokes.
This was surely Evan and his brother in a happier time. His girls might find it as cheerful as she did.
She set it aside and stood. She must somewhere find bed linens. “Why don’t you inspect all the dolls and check their gowns. We may need to make repairs before the children arrive.”
“What children would that be?”
The deep baritone sent a shiver through her and she turned, heat rising into her cheeks.
Chapter 6
Mr. Andrews stood in the doorway, the corner of his mouth twisted up, his hand gripping a tote full of firewood. A red head popped into view next to him—the kitchen boy. What was his name?
“Duff,” Mr. Andrews said, “can you manage this while I speak to Mrs. Marlowe?”
Duff took the bundle and Mr. Andrews ruffled the boy’s hair, sending it every which way. Like his own.
His hair was in disarray, his coat was dusty, and his cheeks were ruddy under his late afternoon stubble. He looked wild and fresh and incredibly masculine, and he made her toes curl in her boots.
“Have we visitors coming that I’m not aware of, Mrs. Marlowe?”