by Dorothy Mack
She was closing one of the linen presses, too dispirited to continue the task, when a knock sounded at the door. Her heartbeat, which had slowed down over the last half-hour, began a rapid tattoo in her breast again as she crossed the floor to open the door.
Somers stood there, his thin features inscrutable. “The general presents his compliments, miss, and desires you to wait upon him in his room.”
“R— right now, Somers?”
“Yes, miss, if it should be convenient.”
Sarah recognized the polite rider as the mere concession to form that it was. The summons had come. There was not even time to glance into a mirror to check her appearance.
“Very well, Somers.” She stepped across the threshold, closing the door quietly behind her, and meekly followed the small lean figure toward the main staircase. It would have been quicker to use the backstairs that led out of the cabinet behind her grandfather’s bedchamber, but this was evidently to be a rather formal visit.
During that long walk, Somers did not so much as utter a syllable that would give her a clue as to what to expect, and Sarah was too frightened to ask any of the questions crowding into her head. She entered the withdrawing room on his heels and was led over to the door that Grace had pointed out earlier. It was still closed, but the valet gave a discreet tap and opened it for Sarah to step through.
“Mrs. Boston, sir.”
She sensed rather than saw that Somers had remained in the antechamber when he closed the door. Her eyes did a quick circuit of the room and located the tester bed against the shorter wall to the right of where she had entered from the middle of one of the long walls. She was vaguely aware of heavily draped windows on the walls to her left and a fireplace containing a merrily burning fire across from where she had entered, but her eyes had instinctively sought the figure propped up against the pillows of the huge bed. He was probably having a much better look at her than she was at him, she realized, standing quietly in the glow of a candelabrum on a nearby table while her eyes adjusted to the semigloom of the area by the bed.
Sarah’s first impression of her grandfather was one of immense stillness; in fact, it passed through her mind that he might be asleep, until she became conscious of a gleam of light that must be reflecting from his eyes. She received a fleeting impression that the rigid figure was in the grip of a strong emotion before the white hand on the coverlet relaxed its tight grip on the fabric. A voice that startled her with its unexpected strength snapped, “Well, do not stand there like a stick, woman, come in. You say your name is Boston?”
“Yes — that is, I —” In the act of charting her way safely around the obstacles of a table and an oddly placed footstool, Sarah realized she had mechanically repeated the lie that had gained her entrance to Beech Hill.
But before she could correct herself, that whiplash voice demanded, “What is the first part?”
“The first part?”
“Of your name, of course. Are you hard of hearing or just slow-witted?”
“I… Neither,” she managed, aware of his snort of disdain before she swallowed and said with determined civility as she stopped about three feet from the side of the bed, “My name is Sarah, Sir Hector.”
“A good plain name, Sarah; it was my wife’s name.”
“Yes, I know,” Sarah murmured, intent on studying the gaunt-featured face glaring at her from his nest of pillows. This then was the man who had played such a vital though invisible role in her life. Somehow she had never gone beyond her childish picture of her grandfather as a stone-faced giant, domineering, unyielding, loud-voiced, and harsh, whereas…
He was speaking again, roaring actually, and she stared at him blankly. “I … I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t bother telling me your wits don’t wander, girl, because I wouldn’t believe you. I asked you how you knew my wife’s name was Sarah?”
“I heard it mentioned, Sir Hector. I —”
“In the servants’ hall, I collect. That’s all servants know how to do these days: gossip about their betters. So you are the prize housekeeper Eversley found in London, are you?”
“Well, I —”
“Did he interview you personally?”
“No.” Sarah stopped, scenting a trap. “Actually, Sir —”
“I thought not. He’d have seen you were much too young for the position. What did you do, girl, smile at the agent and flirt with your eyelashes?”
“No, I did not,” Sarah said firmly, feeling that she had wandered into Bedlam and determined to clear matters up if her grandfather would ever allow her to complete a sentence. “Sir Hector —” she began.
“Well, you must have used some kind of female trickery on him because anyone but a fool can see you’re nothing but a chit of a girl. Still, that custard you made was very tolerable indeed. Reminded me of the way the kitchen made it years ago. I’ll think it over and talk to you tomorrow.” Sir Hector’s voice had diminished considerably by the end of this speech. Though beginning to be concerned that he might have overtaxed his strength, Sarah was desperate to make her explanations while she had his ear.
“Sir Hector, I must tell —”
“Not now, girl, tomorrow. Send Somers to me when you leave.” The general waved a dismissing hand. The piercing eyes that had followed her progress into the room closed abruptly.
Sarah stared into the shuttered face of the old war-horse for an undecided moment and conceded defeat. She turned, taking her frustration with her, and soberly delivered Sir Hector’s message to the waiting Somers before heading back to her own quarters at a much slower pace than when she had come this way fifteen minutes earlier.
Her brow creased in frowning concentration, Sarah went over the strange interview just concluded. She had been mentally prepared for an acrimonious scene with her grandfather, though she had rather expected cold uncaring formality from him. What she had not expected after such an epoch-making event was this flat feeling of anti-climax. Nothing had been settled. She would have to stoke up her courage all over again tomorrow to present Richard’s case to her grandfather.
The face of the man she had just left stayed with Sarah long after she had attained the comparative privacy of the housekeeper’s room. One thing the abortive meeting had accomplished was to remove forever the image of a gigantic ogre that had shadowed her childhood. It had not been possible to assess accurately the size of the man lying in his bed, but whatever stature the general may have maintained in his prime, at eighty-six he was a gaunt old man whose flesh was inadequate to cover a once substantial frame. She’d still have known him anywhere by the thin beaky nose and large nostrils that her father had also possessed. Even Richard at eleven was developing a restrained version of the same distinctive profile. Sir Hector also had a full head of silky white hair at his advanced age, perhaps another family trait that might be considered to offset the hawkish nose.
Sarah recalled her first impression that the man staring at her with piercing dark eyes had been rigid with some strong emotion. By the time she had come close enough to see his features clearly, that impression had been banished by the cold calculating expression that was no doubt natural to him. That at least accorded with the picture she had carried around in her head all these years — that and the parade-ground voice, which in timbre and strength would do credit to an active sergeant major. She had never pictured her grandfather as mortal, or even old, however, and the man she had just met was obviously both.
As Sarah slowly prepared for bed on her second night at Beech Hill, she reflected soberly that she might well have been too late had she allowed herself to be swayed by Lottie’s arguments urging a postponement of this meeting until the weather should have improved.
CHAPTER 4
The man frowning over a letter he was reading was too engrossed to hear the opening of the breakfast-room door. He did look up as a light footstep sounded on the parquet floor, and his dark-browed, dark-skinned face lightened into an affectionate smile.
/> “Good morning, Mama. You are looking very pretty and bobbish today.”
“Why, thank you, dearest. Can’t you simply taste the hint of spring in the air today? Good morning, Timpkins. Thank you.” This last was addressed to the butler, who pulled out a chair for the viscountess with a flourish and as broad a smile as a well-trained butler ever permits himself.
“How many times must I remind you not to encourage Timpkins to flirt with you, Mama?” The teasing drawl was pitched softly as the butler left the room.
But Lady Eversley said, “Hush, Mark, he might hear you. I will not have you making sport of our faithful Timpkins.” The smile trembling on her pursed lips negated the severity of the scolding words. “I must say, though, I am relieved to see you can joke this morning. You were scowling so fiercely when I entered that I feared you’d had bad news.”
“You mean this?” Lord Eversley tapped the paper he had laid down on his mother’s entrance as he pushed the cream pitcher closer to her. “Not bad news, just puzzling. It’s a note from the general asking me to call in at Beech Hill so he might thank me for finding him a gem of a housekeeper.”
“What’s puzzling about that?” Lady Eversley set her straight white teeth into a slice of toast with a satisfying crunch and put up a dainty fingertip to catch a dribble of butter at the corner of her lips, which she then proceeded to lick clean.
“Better not let Aunt Abernathy catch you at that trick. She’d be mortified.”
Lady Eversley looked up quickly and blushed, deepening the amusement in her son’s eyes.
“Don’t look so guilty, Mama. You escaped your elder sister’s censorious eye forever when you married Papa. She cannot pursue you into your own home with her prissy notions of proper conduct for a lady.”
“No, but Elmira was nearly always in the right of it, you know. I fear I was a sad trial to her.”
“Not for long. Papa snapped you up within a month of your come-out, happily for Anthea and me. Just imagine if he had preferred a pattern card of propriety like Aunt Abernathy. It’s too horrible to contemplate.” Lord Eversley delivered himself of a theatrical shudder, which brought a dimple out of hiding at the corner of his mother’s mouth.
“Now you are being ridiculous,” she scolded, “and you didn’t answer my question. What is so puzzling about the general wanting to thank you for finding him a new housekeeper?”
“The fact that unless I have totally misunderstood my latest communication from Coke, the woman he engaged for Beech Hill is not due to arrive there until tomorrow.”
“Probably she was able to get away earlier, after all.” Lady Eversley returned her attention to her interrupted breakfast.
Lord Eversley pushed back his chair and rose. “Most likely, that is the story. Anyway, it is time I was looking in on the general again. His condition seems to have worsened rapidly of late. Rydell is worried about him and so am I — enough that I thought it my duty to write to Horace Ridgemont last week. I received a reply from him yesterday. It seems the whole family is about to descend on Beech Hill.”
“Like a pack of jackals!”
“As you say, Mama, but the general did not exactly encourage the affections of his children over the years.”
“I know. I have not forgotten how harshly he treated poor Gerald. It broke Lady Ridgemont’s heart in the end, but for all his faults, I cannot think he deserves the ingratitude I always sense in Horace and Adelaide. He has been more than generous to them and their children, but they never visit him except when they want something. There is a pettiness and hypocrisy about them that they never learned from either of their parents.”
The viscount put comforting hands on his mother’s shoulders and bent down to kiss her soft cheek. “They are his family, such as they are, and they have a right to be apprised of his deteriorating health. If I had not written, Rydell would have.”
His mother turned slightly to smile into concerned dark eyes as she patted one of his hands. “Of course, dearest. Now, you had best go warn the general about what is in store for him. And perhaps the new housekeeper too, poor soul,” she added feelingly. “I do not envy her the next few days.”
The new housekeeper at Beech Hill awoke that morning with no inkling that her state was pitiable, but only a firm resolution to make the explanation to her grandfather that she had been unable to make during their first meeting. Time was running out on her. It would be so much less embarrassing for all concerned if she could make her request and secure her grandfather’s answer today so that she might remove herself from the house before the real housekeeper arrived. She was considering when might be the best time to beard the lion in his den when another summons was delivered by Somers. This time, however, she kept him waiting for a moment while she washed her dusty hands and neatened her hair. She needed the assurance that she looked presentable when she made her confession to her grandfather and put forth her request.
As he had the evening before, Somers opened the door into the general’s bedchamber for her and announced, “Mrs. Boston,” before closing it behind her. This time, however, the draperies were pulled back from the three long windows, letting sunlight flood the room, illuminating the snapping dark eyes of the man in the bed and glinting off the gold fob and tiepin worn by a second gentleman with equally dark and even more forbidding eyes.
Sarah was brought up short by the sight of the tall broad-shouldered man rising from a chair near the bed until he fairly loomed over her. Her eyes flew to the watchful old man in the bed. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Sir Hector. Somers must have been mistaken. I was told you wished to see me, but I’ll come back later when you are disengaged.”
“No, no, Mrs. Boston, stay. I thought you would like to meet the person through whose good offices you were engaged to come to Beech Hill,” Sir Hector replied in the most moderate tone of voice Sarah had yet heard from him. “I have just been thanking Lord Eversley for his assistance and was persuaded you would wish to do likewise.”
Sarah froze as the sense of her grandfather’s words penetrated, and her hands grasped each other tightly in front of her to still their tendency to tremble. She had been tinglingly aware of a controlled menace radiating from the silent spectator but had kept her eyes fixed on the figure sitting up among the pillows. There was nothing for it, of course, except to brazen it out. She gathered her courage about her and turned to meet the black-browed stare that had been trained on her since she had entered the room.
To her credit she did not flinch from the scorching contact, and her voice, though a trifle weaker than she would have preferred, sounded composed in her own ears as she agreed, “Yes, certainly. How do you do, Lord Eversley?” She remembered just in time to drop a demure curtsy.
The viscount’s bow was sketchy at best. “Your servant, ma’am … Mrs., er, Boston?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Sarah replied, her chin tilting as she heard and resented the questioning inflection.
“My agent, Mr. Maxwell, did not mention that the person he had engaged was so young,” Lord Eversley continued in an abrupt manner.
“Perhaps because he did not consider me too young for the position, sir.”
“In view of your long years of experience at housekeeping on a large estate?”
Sarah’s resentment grew that he should play cat-and-mouse with her, and she cast all caution to the winds, replying coolly, “In view of my satisfactory performance over a moderate span of time in a bustling country house on a slightly lesser scale than Beech Hill.”
“May one ask why you found it necessary to leave so satisfactory a position?”
“My employer died suddenly and his widow closed up the house to return to her old home to support her elderly parents, who were in failing health.” She tacked on a hasty “sir” at the end and turned again to her grandfather, who appeared to be following the quick exchange with an expression she might almost term sly amusement on his hollow-cheeked face. “You must be wishing to get on with your visit, Sir Hector. If yo
u will excuse me, I —”
“The general and I had finished our little talk before you came in, Mrs … Boston,” Lord Eversley intervened smoothly. “As there are one or two questions I would like to ask you about my agent, and as I see our host in growing tired, may I suggest we both retire and allow him to rest.”
Sarah would have said her grandfather was looking remarkably alert, but even as her eyes sought his, a look of exhaustion crept over his features and he waved a dismissing hand. “Yes, yes, I must rest now. I’ll see you in the next day or so, Eversley.”
“After you, Mrs. Boston.” The viscount was holding open the door almost before Sarah realized he had moved over to it with the quickness of a cat, cutting off her escape. Wordlessly she passed through, looking straight ahead.
Seeing Somers making a show of tidying up some ornaments on a tabletop in the antechamber, Lord Eversley took her elbow in a light grip and said, “We’ll go into the library, Mrs. Boston. We won’t be disturbed there.”
Sarah followed him straight across the width of the great hall and into the antechamber corresponding to her grandfather’s for the suite in the south-eastern corner of the house. He opened a door in its long inner wall and she found herself in the corridor behind the great hall, certainly the shortest route to the library, though not the most public. It was no comfort to Sarah to note the gentleman’s familiarity with the layout of his neighbour’s house.
He pushed open the library door and stood back. She had no option but to enter, though she took only a step or two before turning to confront the domineering and antagonistic figure of Lord Eversley. Strangely, her initial terror of discovery had faded, leaving a residue of resentment against the man who had aroused the uncomfortable emotion. After all, she intended to make herself known to her grandfather at the earliest opportunity. Though she would naturally prefer that the situation not become known in the neighbourhood, she considered herself capable of dealing with this rough, uncivil man.