She nodded, swallowing the food in her mouth before replying. "'E likes 'er almost as much as me. I can't thank you enough, Mr. Ludlow, for findin' 'er."
Jonathan nodded, accepting her thanks. "How old is your boy?"
"'E be four in two month's time and can't hardly wait till the day. Says 'e wants a pony, a dog, and a cat." She laughed and shook her head. "I told 'im I could manage a cat, but certainly not a pony. Silly boy." Jonathan could see the pride in her eyes when she spoke of her son, and it did her credit.
"You know the small mare in the stables called Tranquil?" asked Jonathan. "Once the weather clears, perhaps on one of your afternoons off, you could bring your son for a ride."
"Oh, 'e would like that very much, sir!" she exclaimed, her smile wide.
Mrs. Notley smiled as well, and Jonathan quite liked the approval he spied in her expression. It inspired him to add, "Tranquil does not get ridden so much as the other horses and could use more exercise. Please feel free to make use of the beast whenever the opportunity permits."
"Oh, thank you, sir! Jimmy'll like that above anythin'. I cannot wait to tell 'im the news!"
Mrs. Notley did not vocalize her thanks, but the admiring look sent his way was one Jonathan would not forget anytime soon. Like a warm cup of restorative tea, there was a power in her gaze, infusing him with a sense of wonder and goodness. How interesting that only an hour before he had felt the opposite.
Mrs. Notley stayed at his side as they ate and continued to introduce him to the servants that dared to come near or returned for more food. Jonathan discovered that Harry was an avid fisherman, Drew had a knack for cards and recently won a gold pocket watch from a wager, Watts enjoyed flying kites, Charlie was saving every farthing to purchase a race horse, and the timid Alice supposedly had a remarkable voice.
"'Tis true," said Mrs. Notley, causing a rosy blush to appear on Alice's cheeks. "I've caught her singing many times when she believed no one could hear, and she is utterly brilliant. I only wish we could convince you to perform for us now, Alice."
The maid's eyes dropped to the floor, and she shook her head emphatically. "Oh no, ma'am. I could never."
"You could, and you should," said Mrs. Notley firmly. "God did not give you that voice so you could bury it in the still room. Only think of the happiness you could bring to others by simply sharing your talent. It always fills my heart with joy when I hear you sing."
"I'll think on it," was all Alice managed to say before making her escape.
Jonathan watched the girl disappear into the still room, wondering if her voice was as angelic as Mrs. Notley made it out to be. Regardless, it felt good to know something more about his servants than what they did for him. He rather enjoyed spending time with them in this way, when household matters could be put aside and the focus placed on more personal things.
Once everyone had finished with their meal, Mrs. Notley proposed a diverting guessing game and arranged them all around the large table in the servant's hall. She directed them to think of two correct statements and one incorrect statement about themselves—something that no one else in the room might know. The rest of the group would be required to determine which statement was fact and which was fiction.
"As our man of the hour," she said when she had finished with her explanation, "I think Mr. Ludlow should take his turn first."
Jonathan squirmed, not knowing what to say. What facts could he possibly tell his servants about himself? What sort of fiction would be believable? "Since this is your grand idea, Mrs. Notley, I think it should be you who takes the first turn so that you might show us by your example how to play."
"Aye," called Harry from the far end of the table, slapping the table with his hand. "Let's 'ear what you 'ave ter say, Mrs. Notley."
She appeared unperturbed and nodded. "Very well." She pressed her lips together and crinkled her forehead in thought. After a moment or two, her brow cleared, and she said, "Statement one: It has always been my secret wish to perform on the stage at Drury Lane. Statement two: I believe every man ought to know how to dance, and—"
Harry immediately leapt from his chair and raised his arms. "I know 'ow to dance, Mrs. Notley," he declared, gesturing for her to join him. "Come and let me show you."
"Perhaps that can be one of your truths when it is your turn, Harry," she teased.
Everyone laughed, and Harry said, "Come now, Mrs. Notley. Won't you be my partner?"
"Oh, do sit down, Harry," she replied, a red hue touching her cheeks.
Jonathan experienced a moment's jealousy at the easy camaraderie the two shared. Had Mrs. Notley been flattered by the invitation? Did she wish to dance with the footman? Did she blush from embarrassment or because she had feelings for the man?
Jonathan suddenly wished Harry to the devil.
"For my third statement," Mrs. Notley continued, returning to the game, "I once caught a field mouse with my skirts."
More laughter was heard, along with comments like, "'Ow can a person catch a mouse with a skirt?" and "'Appen she likes ter watch men dance" followed by Harry's comment of "That's why you wouldn't dance with me, ain't it, Mrs. Notley? You'd rather stand back and admire my 'andsome figure."
Boisterous laughter followed that remark, but Mrs. Notley merely rolled her eyes and shook her head.
Jonathan remained silent while the others continued to joke and speculate. The incorrect statement was obvious. Anyone who knew Mrs. Notley at all would know that she had no desire to perform on any stage—be it at Drury Lane or in a drawing room filled with local society. Her frequent blushes testified to the fact that she was anything but an attention seeker.
"You're all gormless," Sally said to her peers. She lifted her gaze to Mrs. Notley and said firmly, "I'm sayin' it's the one about the mouse."
"What is your opinion, Mr. Ludlow?" Watts asked, drawing him into the debate.
The room fell silent as though the servants had only just recalled their employer was present. Jonathan leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, feeling the desire to tease Mrs. Notley for no other reason than to show Harry that he shared a connection with her as well. He quirked an eyebrow as he answered the question. "I believe Mrs. Notley would rather run through the snow without a coat and in her slippers than seek the stage at Drury Lane."
"Run through the snow in 'er slippers?" Harry said. "She'd 'ave to be daft ter do such a thin'."
"Yes, quite daft," Jonathan agreed, unable to keep the smile from his lips. "And we all know that our housekeeper is anything but daft. Isn't that right, Mrs. Notley?"
Her cheeks became redder still, but her lips began to twitch, showing that she had taken his teasing in stride. "Like any human, I can be daft on occasion," she admitted, neatly side-stepping his teasing. "But when it comes to performing in front of others, especially on stage, Mr. Ludlow is correct. I would never seek for, or even delight in, such an opportunity. I can only pray that Mr. Ludlow will retain my services so that I will not need to resort to the stage for my bread."
"I am tempted to dismiss you just to see you attempt it," said Jonathan. "But alas, I do not know what we should do without our Mrs. Notley. I have become rather fond of dry and crispy pastries and am certain no other housekeeper could make them as you do."
Everyone burst into laughter, and Mrs. Notley glared at him, or at least attempted to glare. Her eyes brimmed with too much amusement for anyone to believe she was truly offended.
"You are quite the court jester, Mr. Ludlow," she said. "Perhaps you can do better with your statements?" The look in her eyes silently challenged him to come up with something that might fool her and the rest of the group.
Having given the matter more thought, Jonathan was ready to take his turn. "Statement one: I have won a barebacked horserace while riding the animal backwards. Statement two: I once wagered my dignity in a game of cards and lost."
"'Ow can you wager dignity?" one footman asked.
"Rather easily, actually," said Jonathan. "I w
as required to compose a poem and perform it at a crush of a soirée, and I am no poet."
"I should like to hear that poem," said Mrs. Notley, appearing delighted by the prospect.
"How do you know that is not my incorrect statement?" Jonathan challenged.
"Because it is far too specific."
"As was my first statement. Perhaps my last statement will be specific also."
"Very well, sir. What is your final statement?"
He continued to watch her. "I have quite literally swept a beautiful woman off her feet." There, what would she have to say to that?
Nothing, it seemed. Her cheeks flamed, and she cast a covert glance around the room as though worried the others had deduced that Jonathan had been referring to their recent encounter. He was glad to see that she had been diverted from wanting to hear the dreadful poem he'd written.
"What do you mean by swept?" Sally asked, appearing confused.
"Exactly what it sounds like," answered Jonathan. "I picked her up and carried her off."
"Off ter where?" Harry chortled.
"The destination was not part of my statement," said Jonathan, though he took great delight when Mrs. Notley's face turned a darker hue of red.
"Is your incorrect statement about the horse race, sir?" asked someone.
"I think it's the poem," said another.
"It's got ter be the last," said Mrs. Caddy. "Mr. Ludlow is too well bred ter ever pick up a woman and carry 'er off… somewheres." Her cheeks flushed as she finished that thought.
"What do you think, Mrs. Notley?" said Jonathan, noticing she'd been silent throughout the discussion. "She had only to guess between the first and second since she already knew the third was true. Would she guess correctly? He found himself hoping that she would, as though it would somehow prove that she cared for him at least a little.
He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until she answered.
"I believe that you won a barebacked race, but you did not do so seated backwards."
A slow smile stretched across his face. "You have guessed the incorrect statement correctly, but the facts incorrectly. If you must know, I did race a horse seated backwards, but I did not win. I lost by a large margin to a pretty little girl named Cecily, who rode a pony facing forward. I fear my ego was crushed that day and has not recovered since."
Laughter filled the room once more, and Jonathan shared a smile with Mrs. Notley. It lasted only a moment before she continued with the game and instructed Sally that it was now her turn. As the housemaid gave her statements, Jonathan only half listened. He was too preoccupied with his beautiful housekeeper and the unexpected birthday gift she had given him. This night had been a gift, he realized as he relaxed further into his chair, feeling at ease amongst his staff. For the first time in a very long while, he felt a return of his old self—the Jonathan who had not taken things quite so seriously as he did these days. He used to think that part of him was forever lost, but perhaps it had merely been shut away for a while, waiting for the right person to show himself to again.
The hour was nearing midnight, and the house was quiet at last. Sally had only just returned from visiting her son and had given back the coat and boots Cora had let her borrow. Although cold and wet, Cora immediately donned them and crept down the stairs to the kitchen, doing her best not to disturb those who had already taken to their beds. All day long, she had been craving an opportunity to escape into the glistening world of white for a soothing stroll through the snow. She wanted to breathe in its freshness, relish the calm and gentle quiet, and touch the tender snowflakes with the tips of her fingers. Euphoria filled her at the mere thought of it, making it difficult to keep her steps careful.
At the bottom of the stairs, she entered the kitchen and immediately stiffened. Mr. Ludlow was seated at the table with his back to her. He must have heard footsteps for he twisted his head around and lifted a questioning eyebrow when he spied her.
"We must stop meeting this way, Mrs. Notley," he said. "I'm beginning to wonder if you ever sleep."
"Forgive me, sir," she said quickly. "I did not mean to intrude on your solace. I had thought everyone had gone to bed."
He shrugged and gestured to the plate in front of him containing a partially eaten slice of cake. "As I'm sure you have already surmised, I wanted to sneak another bite of cake with no one the wiser, but alas, you have found me out. I will no longer be able to blame the missing portion on Harry as I had planned to do."
Cora smiled. "Harry is always deserving of a good prank. If you should like to point the finger at him, I will gladly remain silent on the subject."
He chuckled and returned to his cake, taking another bite. "You will join me, won't you Mrs. Notley? I don't believe Mrs. Caddy has ever made a cake quite this flavorful. There is a touch of lemon in it, is there not? I am quite fond of lemon."
Cora remained by the stairs. "So I've noticed. You seem to enjoy the lemon tarts above all others and your favorite dessert is lemon cream."
He glanced back at her. "Was it your idea, then?"
"I merely suggested that Mrs. Caddy try flavoring the cake with a few squeezes of lemon. She was good enough to oblige me."
He did not respond right away, merely continued to gaze at her as though searching for an answer to a question. Cora had no inkling of what he might be thinking and she shifted uncomfortably, wondering if she ought to have escaped out her window and scaled the stone walls instead of coming down the stairs. If she had known he would be here, she would have taken her chances with the window.
He finally spoke. "You seem to know me better than I know myself these days, Mrs. Notley."
"I am certain that is not true." Perhaps it was the dim lighting, the lateness of the hour, or the romantic, snow-covered landscape in the background. Whatever it was, the comment sounded much too intimate for her comfort. Cora was suddenly most anxious to flee his presence.
She cleared her throat. "This will likely sound childish, but I would very much like to step out of doors for a time and enjoy the snow before it melts away. Forgive me for happening upon you at such an hour, sir. I wish you the happiest of birthdays and will leave you to your cake."
She quickly strode towards the servant's entrance and grabbed hold of the knob, intending to escape as quickly as possible.
"But I have seen you, Mrs. Notley. And as your employer and a gentleman, I cannot allow you to venture out at this late hour alone."
What nonsense! Surely he did not mean to deter her. She had been waiting far too long for this treat and refused to allow him to stop her. "Do be serious, sir. You and I both know that I will be quite safe. If it will ease your mind, I will promise not to stray far from the house."
The stool screeched as he stood. Oh dear, what was he doing? He was on his feet and moving towards her. Why? Did he plan to accompany her? Barricade the door? Touch her face in that intimate way as he had earlier? Whatever his reason, it could not possibly bode well for her.
"Truth be told," he said, removing her hand from the knob and placing it in the crook of his arm, "I have been longing to take a jaunt through the snow as well. I do hope you will allow me to accompany you."
The mere touch of him made her feel as though she stood before a roaring fire. She wanted to relish his nearness and draw closer to him, to smell the lemon on his breath and feel the contours of his arms and shoulders beneath the smooth superfine of his coat. He had a mystifying aura that continually bewitched her into a trembling state of longing and confusion.
Good heavens, this would not do at all.
He began leading her in the direction of the great hall, but Cora resisted, pulling her hand free and stepping away from him. "Of course you cannot accompany me, Mr. Ludlow. You have not finished your cake." It was a silly excuse, but Cora's befuddled brain could not conjure up a more substantial reason for him to remain behind.
"Come now, Mrs. Notley. It is still my birthday, and my wishes ought to be granted, don't you agree?
You cannot be so cold as to deny me the pleasure of an evening stroll in the presence of your company."
"But, sir—"
"No buts." He reached for her hand again and placed it on his arm, covering it with his own. "I beg you not to sour what has become a surprisingly good birthday for me. Simply agree to let me join you, and allow me to bask in the delight of the day for a while longer."
Cora stared at him, trying to think of some way to extricate herself from this situation. How could he possibly think this a good idea? She could not walk out with him. She would not. And yet how could she refuse him after such a speech—or rather, plea?
Curse the man for being a constant plague on her emotional state. Why had he needed yet another slice of cake? Why could he not keep to his room as he usually did?
"Have I convinced you, Mrs. Notley? Take another look out the window and tell me you do not wish to go out."
Cora opened her mouth to say precisely that, but one glance at the brilliance of the scene melted the words from her tongue. The beauty called to her, telling her she'd be a fool to miss this rare opportunity.
"I…" she hesitated, knowing she should not agree and yet unable to say as much.
"Very good then." Mr. Ludlow took her silence as agreement and began leading her through the kitchen. Against her better judgment, she allowed him to take her to the great hall, where he relinquished her hand so that he might he shrug into his greatcoat and pull on some gloves and a hat. His boots, she noticed, were still on his feet.
With a slight creak, he pulled open the large wooden door and stood aside, gesturing through the opening. "After you, Mrs. Notley."
One look outside, and Cora felt the last of her willpower slip away. Her feet began to carry her forward, taking her into the glowing night where chilly air blasted her face and crept through the cracks and crevices of her coat. But Cora did not care. The air felt fresh and clean, rather like a new beginning. Her spirits lifted and soared, and she picked up her skirts to trot down the steps, her smile growing with each crunch of snow.
The Rise of Miss Notley (Tanglewood Book 2) Page 14