by Thea Devine
"They must. I've had her forever." She noted abstractly that he was very much older than she. She was amazed she could even string two words together, he was that magnetic, and so very powerful.
"Then they will," he said, his brow furrowed. And then he remembered it all. "Right. You're Renbrook. The long-lost partner's daughter. The one for whom he's been paying out guilt money all these years."
He doesn't want you here.
Emily was too perceptive by half.
It would pay to remember that by the grace of God, it could have been her home, her horses, her butler, her attitude . . . Guilt money . . .
Belatedly, she digested what he had said. "Guilt money?"
He brushed it off. "Did I say that? You must have misunderstood me."
She knew she hadn't. She knew what he meant. And he meant to be unkind. "He asked me to—"
But he knew that already and interrupted her. "Why wouldn't he? You come virtually free, my dear girl. You'll pay for every shilling he ever laid out for you, trust me."
And feel no guilt nor shame, either, Jancie thought angrily. "And what about you?" she asked bluntly. They were at the steps now, and he was hauling her up to the front door.
"Oh, hell—me? I'm spending every cent in the family coffers as fast as I can. I'm Lujan, by the way."
Lujan, the heir. As opposed to Kyger, the younger brother. Yes, her father had written of both, of him particularly. Perpetually in trouble, always raising hell, perennially in debt, and no doubt down from London right now for that very reason.
But still, for all the dissipation in his face and the weariness etched around his mouth and eyes, he was a force of nature. The
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minute he erupted into the room, all attention focused on him. Emily, sensing an opportunity, jumped from the basket and scooted under the sofa where Olivia Galliard reclined, smelling salts to the ready at Lujan's unexpected appearance.
"What now?" Hugo demanded.
It was a blunt initiation into the family dynamic; they didn't even notice Jancie was there—or they didn't care. Lujan had the right of it: she would be a servant, a piece of furniture, part of the wall.
The elegant, opulent walls and furniture, paid for by the sweat of her father's brow and Hugo's perfidy. She could calculate to the shilling what kind of money had been spent on that room.
But that was beside the point, now she was here. Or was it?
And Lujan, taunting Hugo and Olivia—what to make of him? He was reckless, ruthless, and blunt, and he'd totally forgotten she was there.
Or—in the face of Hugo's wrath, his manners went out the window as well.
She preferred to think that, but no—
"How much?" Hugo asked, a tinge of sarcasm lacing the question.
Lujan shrugged. "The usual. Hello, Mother."
“I'm ill," Olivia whispered.
"She can't take these disruptions," Hugo said. "You have to leave."
That didn't even bother Lujan. Rather, it reminded him that he'd brought a piece of flotsam in the house with him. "Oh— Mother. This is the Renbrook girl—and her cat—where's the cat?— come to . .. what exactly is she going to be doing for you?"
Was there a malicious note in his question?
Olivia levered herself up onto her elbow. "Come here, Jancie. Let me look at you."
Jancie shot a look at Lujan, who shrugged, and then she moved so that Olivia could see her more clearly.
"You look like you could hardly lift a fly."
"Well, she was about to carry that heavy suitcase, and the cat, back to the village, Mother," Lujan said lazily, "so I'm fairly sure she can cope with anything you might need her to do."
Olivia fell back on the couch, and then popped back up again.
Satisfaction / 11
"A cat, did you say? I don't like cats. You'll have to relegate it to the barn."
"But she's a very good cat," Jancie said, holding on to her temper. "She's been my companion for years, and I wouldn't dream of—"
"If you want to stay—and I assume you do—you must send the cat to the barn," Olivia said. "There can be no argument about it. From you."
That fired Jancie's temper. "Then perhaps I should go, because I will not tolerate anyone being so cruel to my cat."
Olivia looked taken aback, and Jancie felt a prick of conscience. Olivia really was ill—it showed in her face, in her pallor, in the effort she was making to defuse her son and welcome Jancie.
So she added, "I'm very pleased to be of whatever service to you that I can, but I will have my cat, and if that isn't satisfactory, I will find work in the village until I can join my father in India."
"That's the way, Jancie," Lujan interposed, amused. "And face it, Mother, you're paying this poor child no recompense at all compared to the value of what she will be doing for you. You can at least let her have the damned cat. Or she'll be on the boat to India in no time."
A note of derision in his voice for sure, given all the exigencies before that could happen, so Jancie ignored him.
"I'm too tired to argue." Olivia eased herself down again. "The cat stays out of my sight until I decide what is best."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You won," Lujan whispered loud enough for Olivia to hear. "Good for you for standing up to her. You must, you know."
But Jancie didn't know anything except she didn't think she liked Olivia all that much. And she knew she disliked Hugo just because of what had happened to her father.
And the house, so lovely on the outside, was a veritable mausoleum within, judging just by the parlor, and it depressed her, even with its expensive, elegant furniture. And then Emily had utterly disappeared, and might well be eaten by the butler by now, and that terrified her.
And Lujan was too cavalier about everything, and cared about absolutely nothing. Not one to depend on. Not an ally. Not an
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enemy, even. He was a cipher, not to be parsed out by the likes of her.
So much for her boarding school education.
She saw a movement under Olivia's sofa. Emily!
I'm here . ..
Cornered. And no way Jancie could get her out.
"This is—" Hugo's voice, bringing her attention back to him. "This is Bingham, Jancie." She turned to find the paper-thin man with the disapproving lips. "He'll take you to your room so you can get settled in."
Emily!
She threw a backward glance over her shoulder. No sign of Emily—just Lujan's dark, mocking gaze following her progress out, and the distinct impression he knew everything she was feeling and thinking.
******************
It was a commodious room, adjacent to Olivia Galliard's bedroom, but since it was at the back the house, it was also dark and gloomy. The windows faced west, which meant she would have the waning light of day, at which time she would probably be busy with Olivia.
No sunshine in this house, in this room, in her life—ever.
The furniture looked to be castoffs that had come to the extra room when they had been replaced elsewhere. Good enough for a dirty girl. Better than she had a right to expect, some might say. But still, it was a large room with comfortable furniture, a beautiful fireplace, and a utilitarian desk by the window where she could write to her father.
She wasn't sure she wanted to write to Edmund yet. She didn't know yet what to make of Hugo and Olivia, so what would she tell him?
Hugo lives in a quite luxurious house deep in the countryside with a butler and servants and periodical visits from his rakehell son. The younger one has yet to put in an appearance. Perhaps he hides when Lujan is around? The rooms are beautifully appointed with furniture and decorations that anyone would admire, and if it hadn't been for Hugo's greed, this might have been our house . . .
Satisfaction/ 13
She hated everything about it. Everything. Including the fact that she and her father were so beholden to him because Edmund had no proof that they wer
e anything more than his charity cases now.
And she would be Olivia's companion until. .. Hugo had never specified just how long she was expected to stay.
Until Olivia—no, don't think that way. Yes, Olivia had looked pale and weak and ill, but that didn't mean that with some judicious care, she might not recover.
Until forever—trapped at Waybury House until she was old and decrepit, and they buried her in the woods. . .
Stop it!
She had no idea what was expected of her. At the least, she would be feeling her way through the minefield of this family's relationships, expectations, and her father's and Hugo's mutual past. Things she couldn't know about, and Hugo did. Things, perhaps, he hoped that Edmund had forgotten.
And maybe her father had. Maybe not every memory had come back cleanly and clearly. Maybe he hadn't remembered correctly, maybe the true story was dimmed by time, and that perspective held sway. Maybe it had been blasted out of his consciousness altogether, and everything he remembered was a fable that he had invented to explain his failures.
No matter. Every step of the way, every minute she was here, she knew she would feel those tentacles of resentment that it could have been her, her father, and her mother, alive, living this life and enjoying these comforts. And it would take every ounce of willpower not to be strangled by those thoughts.
She wondered if Hugo had suggested she come here to rub her and Edmund's noses in it. Oh but, no—that was the most uncharitable thing she had thought yet. . .
She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, a flick of black and white.
And there came comfort. . . Emily. Somehow Emily had found her way upstairs and found her, just like Emily had found her all those years ago, when she had been a scruffy, scraggly cat who had wandered into the school's kitchen alley one day and attracted her attention.
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And once she was bathed and her patchy black, tan, and white coloration was revealed, she had proved to be a most elegant cat, and her slanty golden eyes were ageless and wise.
She looked like an Emily, but Jancie couldn't say why she thought so. It didn't take a day for Emily to become her companion, playmate, and confidant, the one with whom she had conversations and commiserations, who mirrored back and agreed with everything she thought and felt.
If the headmistress had ever got wind of Emily .. .
It didn't bear thinking about, even after the fact. She'd come too close to being turned out here on account of Emily.
But this was the thing: Emily was her family, and she knew instantly, the first day, that she needed Emily as much as Emily needed her.
As Emily sensed Jancie needed her now.
She hopped up onto the bed and prowled up and down its length in her elegantly measured way. Owww.
Emily was hungry.
Jancie rubbed her ears, gave her a body-enveloping hug which she wriggled out of, and then Jancie began unpacking her sorry wardrobe. Black bombazine dresses, two. Brown dress trimmed with velvet, one. Two pairs of shoes. Three sets of undergarments. A half-dozen very well mended pairs of stockings. No frills. No trims. No jewelry. A dirty girl's wardrobe, made for practicality and work, but at least she was not consigned to the garret here.
Yet.
How different things might have been, had Edmund not been blown to the sky that day in Kaamberoo . . .
She must stop thinking like this.
Mrrrow, Emily said, curling up on the bed.
"I will get you something to eat, I promise," Jancie told her. "But you must stay here." She hoped the cat would stay there. A little dish of milk would do for now, though the last thing she wanted to do was explore the house.
But she supposed she must learn her way around sooner than later.
Black bombazine . . . she stared at herself in the mirrored door of the armoire. It could have been lace and pearls. Satin and gold. Diamonds and . . .
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.. . diamonds . ..
Her heartbeat accelerated. Where did that thought come from?
She shook it away.
But—it was only natural to think of the diamonds, after all. Especially now she was here.
She had never allowed herself to think about it. In all the years and all the times Edmund had recounted the story, she had never voiced out loud the thing that tiptoed around the back of her mind . . .
What if there were more diamonds? What if Hugo could never have spent what he took from the Kaamberoo pipes? What if there were enough diamonds even now for Edmund, for her?
God—what was she thinking?
Ungrateful! Greedy! Edmund did not want this . .. this wasn't why she had come, this wasn't what she was here for. She had to stop resenting that a share in all this had not come to her father and her by the grace of everything that was fair and holy.
No one could change the past. And if a man did not have the morality to make amends to the partner he had exploited, then he would get his just reward in the next life.
It wasn't for her to say, to judge, to take revenge.
Owwww.
She looked up abruptly, jolted from her thoughts.
I’m hungry.
And wasn't that the most important point? Repining would get her nothing. She should be grateful, satisfied—she had a roof over her head, a decent education, a father still alive, and a job to do.
It was enough. Enough for any girl in her circumstances.
She looked at Emily, curled up on the bed, as she went out the door.
Wasn't it?
Enough?
Chapter Two
"So there you are, finally," Olivia said fretfully. She was still reclined on the sofa, hut with a cloth draped over her forehead. "I needed you an hour ago."
Jancie immediately felt herself prickle up. "Surely it hasn't been an hour, ma'am. I was only unpacking and seeing to . . ." Better not to mention Emily, come to that. "Unpacking my clothes, ma'am. Now tell me what I can do for you."
"Rinse out the cloth, for one thing."
There was a porcelain basin on a nearby table. "The water is cold, ma'am. Would you prefer warm water?"
Olivia raised herself slightly off the sofa. "Cold? Cold? It was just brought to me. How could it already be cold? Oh, very well, ring for some warm water ..." She sank back onto the sofa and, noting Jancie's confused look, waved her hand in the direction of the fireplace. "Over there. Quick, my girl."
Bingham duly appeared.
"We need warm water," Jancie said.
"And be quick about it," Olivia added. She looked at Jancie. Jancie looked at her. "Sit down where I can see you," Olivia said.
That would be at the foot of the sofa, Jancie surmised, and she pulled a chair in as close as she could.
Satisfaction / 17
"So there you are," Olivia said. "Edmund's child . . ."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And of course you know the whole story."
No, ma'am. I know my father's story . . . "Yes, ma'am." Dear God—this woman might have been my mother . . .
"Mr. Galliard did try to find out what happened to your father those many years ago," Olivia said after a moment.
Did he—really? Jancie didn't trust herself to speak.
"Your father said he'd had a concussion, that for a long time he had no memory of the events."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Everything was stolen, you know, by those madmen who kidnapped my husband."
Why did Olivia feel she had to explain? "Yes, ma'am."
Olivia waved her hand. "Waybury comes down to us from my family. We're so fortunate. But for that, Hugo might have entered the Indian service, or some such thing, as well."
"Truly, ma'am." Perspective—everyone had his own perspective. Olivia could pretend all she wanted that Hugo had come back from Kaamberoo penniless, but Jancie didn't believe Olivia's version of their history. Not for one moment.
"Well, then," Olivia continued briskly, "we need to talk about duti
es."
"Yes, ma'am."
A maid entered the room carrying a bowl of water. Olivia motioned her to set it down on the nearby table, and remove the one there. Then she handed Jancie the cloth, and Jancie rinsed it and gently laid it back across Olivia's brow.
"My duties, ma'am?" she murmured.
"Yes. Yes. Duties. I am very ill, you know. The doctors can do nothing. It only wants that I remain comfortable and without any strain. There are medications, which you will monitor and give to me—Hugo will explain all that. You'll be my companion, you'll write my letters, you'll read to me. Can you play the piano?"
"No, ma'am, I can't." But in fact, she could play some; she loved music, and she had taught herself some rudiments of the piano, deep in the night, dampening the keys so no one could hear her after she slipped into the music room. But that was not for Olivia to know. "There was no money for such niceties in
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my situation," she added softly, meaning it to be a subtle reproach.
"That's too bad," Olivia said, wholly missing it. Or ignoring it. "I do so like a soft, sweet sonata now and again."
"Perhaps one of your sons plays?"
Olivia laughed; or rather, it was a harsh, huffing sound. "No, my sons are neither of them musically inclined. Lujan is inclined to bad manners, and Kyger is ever angry, and always working. No, forget I said that. Where were we?"
"Going over my duties," Jancie said, ticking them off in precise order. "I am to monitor your medicine, write your letters, read to you, and generally be your companion, and make sure that you are comfortable at all times."
Olivia sent her a sharp glance. "Yes, exactly. I do expect your loyalty, Jancie, after all we have done for you."
All? All? Stuck me in an attic for eleven years and made me work in the school kitchen from the time I was five years old? ALL they did for me?
Jancie swallowed hard, clenched her fists, and kept her expression as impassive as she could. All. But that was Olivia's perspective. "Am I to act as your maid as well, ma'am?" She tried to keep her tone even, but something in the way she asked the question made Olivia look at her again.
"No. I have someone to tend my clothes and help me bathe and dress. Your duties will be just as we have discussed."