The Footman (The Masqueraders Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  “You have a patient, Mrs. Atwood.” She spun on her heel and was gone before Elinor could speak.

  As peevish as Beth had become, at least she’d put a chair in the foyer for her patient—who was none other than the girl Kerensa. She turned a tear-stained face to Elinor and leapt to her feet, her baby in her arms.

  “Oh, Mrs. Atwood, please help. Emblyn is dying!”

  ∞∞∞

  “It’s called cynanche trachealis,” Elinor said, filling the basin with steaming water. “Don’t worry, it sounds far worse than it is. Emblyn will be fine, we just want to clear her breathing a little. Hold her upright and support her head, Kerensa.”

  Elinor arranged the cloth so that it formed a loose tent over the baby and captured the steaming water from the basin.

  “Rub her back and talk to her,” she told the girl. “Babies get scared just like anyone else and right now she can’t breathe very well.”

  Elinor set the kettle on the hearth and pulled the bell pull before going to sit across from the terrified mother. They were in her study and Kerensa looked as frightened as a startled doe. It had taken Elinor a full five minutes to quiet her fears and get her to take off her wrap and sit.

  The door opened almost immediately and her dour maid’s face appeared in the gap.

  “Could you bring us some tea and another kettle of hot water, Beth?”

  Beth grunted but at least she didn’t slam the door. Elinor could only assume she’d restrained herself for the baby.

  “Now, we’ll just sit here and chat softly and she will be soothed by the sounds of our voices.” The infant’s breathing was still rough, but she’d begun to breathe more deeply and the bark-like quality had given way to a hoarse, raspy sound that was not nearly so horrific sounding.

  Elinor gave the younger woman a reassuring smile. “See, she sounds better already.”

  She nodded uncertainly, her blue eyes wide, like those of a porcelain doll.

  “How did you get here, Kerensa? Did you walk all that way?”

  “No, Billy Martin bringed me.”

  Elinor was certain that her earlier suspicions had been correct. Kerensa was what the local people would probably call piskey mazed or touched by pixies. What kind of man would father a child on such a girl?

  “How old are you, Kerensa?”

  “Five and ten.” She squinted. “Or mayhap six and ten. What month be it?”

  “It is November.”

  The girl nodded and crooned to the baby, apparently forgetting why she’d asked.

  Elinor realized she was gripping the arm of the chair in a vise-like grip and relaxed her hands. Who would do such a thing to a simple girl? She grimaced. Why even think such a question? The girl was uncommonly beautiful; there were probably plenty of local boys who’d be bewitched by such a lovely creature.

  “Be you going to marry Mr. Worth?”

  Elinor blinked at the question, her face heating. “No. Who told you such a thing?”

  The girls smile turned oddly sly. “I hear things.” Her eyes flickered around the room, as if she were hearing things right now. “The angels talk. They’m said they’d send Mr. Worth to help.”

  “Oh? To help you with what?” Kerensa’s eyes slid to the baby cradled against her shoulder. “With Emblyn?”

  The girl nodded. “He made the master stop his interfering and then he gived me the doll house.” Her blue eyes sparkled with a combination of love and hero-worship.

  “What master? Peter Cantwell?”

  Kerensa nodded. “He wanted to put another baban inside of me.”

  “Dear God,” Elinor whispered, blinking back tears. Out loud she said. “And did Mr. Worth stop him?”

  Again the sly smile transformed her ethereally beautiful features into something earthy and teasing. “Aye. He,” she paused, her smooth brow wrinkling with confusion, “gweskal?” She swung her free hand to illustrate.

  “He hit him?”

  She nodded vigorously, her face wreathed in smiles, the expression making her truly glorious.

  Stephen had beaten Peter Cantwell for assaulting this young girl? Her head whirled as Kerensa sang to the baby. They were still sitting that way when the sound of raised voices came from the hall.

  “No, Mrs. Kennett, you may not go in there.”

  “I know my goddaughter is in there with a sick baby and nothing—especially not you, Miss No-Better-Than-You-Should-Be—will keep me away from them!”

  Elinor hastened to open the door before the women began trading blows.

  “Mrs. Kennett,” she said, smiling from the housekeeper to Beth and back again. “Please, do come in.” She stepped back and the housekeeper swept inside.

  Elinor reached out and squeezed Beth’s hand. “Thank you.” For the first time in days, Beth smiled back at her.

  Elinor turned to find Mrs. Kennett holding Emblyn, cooing and bouncing the baby, who was responding with a rather raspy chuckle. Obviously Emblyn would be in good hands.

  “Just a bit of the croup, is it?” she asked Elinor.

  “Yes, she will be fine. Kerensa was worried about her.”

  Mrs. Kennett glared at her goddaughter. “She should’ve come to me.”

  Kerensa’s lips quivered and Elinor was afraid she would begin crying and upset the baby. “Kerensa, why don’t you take Emblyn to the kitchen and have some tea. I know Beth just made some gingersnaps.”

  The girl grinned like the child she was, her smile fading slightly when she looked at her godmother. The housekeeper grudging handed over the baby. “Mind you keep her warm and upright.”

  The door shut and Elinor gestured to the chair the girl had just vacated. “I wonder if I couldn’t have a few words with you, Mrs. Kennett?”

  “It depends.”

  Elinor glanced at her tight-lipped face. What would be the best way to approach such a subject? It turned out she didn’t need to bother.

  “I daresay you’re wondering about Kerensa’s cottage and what it means?”

  “Well—”

  Mrs. Kennett didn’t seem to hear her. “It’s not the way it looks. Mr. Worth has naught to do with her, he just provides her with the cottage and enough to go along.”

  Hostility was rolling off the other woman in waves. Elinor smiled. “Not for a moment did I believe Mr. Worth was keeping Kerensa as a mistress.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “The truth is, your goddaughter mentioned how she came to be in the cottage and who the father of her child is.”

  “Pffft! That girl can no more keep her tongue behind her teeth than she can add up two and two. She were sworn to secrecy about that,” Mrs. Kennett said, her veneer of sophistication slipping with her lapse in speech. “Now Mr. Worth will be unhappy when he finds out.” She shot Elinor a particularly look. “Not that he’ll find out anytime soon seeing as he’s left Oakland. For good.”

  A wave of heat washed over her face. Elinor was always amazed that servants knew what they did. But what else could you expect when one person lived in a house and was served by dozens of others?

  Elinor studied the hostile woman across from her and carefully considered her next words.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Blackfriars

  1817

  Stephen was inspecting the first of the renovated guest rooms when the massive iron-strapped door flew open and bounced off the stone wall. Elinor stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing, her chest heaving, her hair disheveled and loose. Stephen’s jaw dropped; she looked bloody glorious.

  And angry.

  Fear knifed through his joy. “My God, is anything wrong with the baby?” His eyes dropped to her midriff when she didn’t answer. “Elinor?”

  She planted her fists on her hips. “Don’t you dare Elinor me. You left Redruth, Stephen! You left me!”

  Stephen blinked and cocked his head. He could not have heard what he thought he’d heard. “But, darling, you asked me to leave.”

  “Darling.”

  The way her eye
s widened and the odd hissing sound that escaped her lips made the word sound oddly menacing. In fact, his words seemed to be causing her to double in size. He held up his hands.

  “Elinor—”

  “You said you would never stop loving me. You said you’d never give up.”

  He blinked. “I haven’t. I won’t.”

  Her gray eyes opened even wider but she seemed, at least temporarily, to have run out of words. He took the opportunity to inhale the sight of her. Dark smudges beneath her luminous eyes and the chalky pallor of her skin told him she was tired, most likely from the long journey. Why had she come all this way?

  Just thinking the question was like whacking a hornets’ nest with a stick. Questions, hopes, fears, worries, and concerns buzzed in his skull, each one armed with its own particular sting.

  Beyond all common sense, hope was the first emotion to pierce his confusion; joy surged in his chest. Why had she come? Surely it could only be for—

  Stephen forced his elation back down while schooling his features into an impassive mask. For some reason, he thought Elinor would object if he broke into song or howled in triumph.

  Instead, he gestured to the sitting area. “Would you like a seat?”

  Her eyes flitted toward the collection of chairs and settees. And then they jumped to the room beyond: a bed chamber. A room all but filled with an enormous four-poster bed. She jerked her eyes away, swallowed, and limped heavily toward the sitting area.

  Stephen wanted to scoop her up in his arms and carry her when he saw her drooping shoulders. Instead he closed the door before turning to face her. “When did you arrive in Trentham?”

  “Just now.”

  His eyebrows inched up his forehead and it took some effort to bring them back down. He cleared his throat. “Would you care to rest? Perhaps you’d like to freshen up? Or maybe I should ring for some tea and—”

  “I didn’t come for rest or to take tea.”

  Stephen lowered himself cautiously into a chair across from her, as if he were approaching a gentle forest creature and didn’t wish to startle it.

  She looked up at him with eyes that were dark with anger. “Why didn’t you tell me about Peter Cantwell?”

  It was the last question on earth he’d expected her to ask. “I’m sorry?” he asked, unable to come up with anything better.

  She frowned and he realized the skin over her cheekbones had pinkened. And then he knew what she was asking and his own face heated.

  She set her jaw and waited.

  Stephen took a deep breath and held it. He did not want to talk to her about Cantwell. Hell, he didn’t even want to think about Cantwell. Still . . . if it would get her to stay—he would talk about anything she wanted.

  “I first heard about him when I was staying at the inn in Redruth. The owner’s daughter had worked at Oakland for a few months several years ago. She gave birth to a child and then drowned herself not long afterward.”

  “Go on.”

  Stephen exhaled noisily. “It’s not a pretty story.”

  “I’ve already guessed as much.”

  “Why do you want to know about such things, Elinor?”

  “You know about them.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t want to. And now that it has been taken care of there is no need for you to have to hear about it.”

  “I want to know what you did after hearing about the girl at the inn.”

  “Elinor—”

  “Please, Stephen.”

  “Fine. After I heard that story I had Fielding look into the man. It wasn’t difficult to put together a picture—an ugly picture. He’d, er . . .” Stephen looked at the floor, the chair legs, the wall—anything but Elinor. Hell! He shoved a hand through his hair.

  “I’ve been married to a brutal, cruel man, Stephen. You needn’t worry about shocking me.”

  He sighed, but he answered. “Cantwell tampered with more than one lass in the area. In fact, it had gotten to the point where people no longer allowed their daughters to work at Oakland or even wander near the property—which is what the girl Kerensa did, just wander by.” Stephen swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. What kind of deviant would rape a woman of any age or condition—but especially one who was no more than a child? He pushed his hair back again. He needed to get it cut, it was driving him mad.

  “How many did Fielding find?” she asked, as relentless as any inquisitor.

  “Lots, Elinor; lots of girls. Some ran, some found a man to marry them and make their child legal.” He paused and looked away. “Three of them took their own lives.” He sighed. “Obviously there was nothing I could do for them, or most of the others. But I could help Kerensa and that, in turn, eased the burden on Mrs. Kennett, who’d been using most of her wages to keep the girl at a room in Camborne.

  “There were two others, girls who’d been driven to the edge of a decent life. Those I brought here to Trentham, where they’ve started new lives, calling themselves miner’s widows.” When he was finished with his dismal recitation he sat back and looked at her. Her face could have been carved from alabaster, but tension flowed from her in tangible waves.

  “And Cantwell?” she asked.

  Stephen didn’t bother to stop the bloodthirsty smile that twisted his lips. “Ah, Cantwell. Well, it turns out he was in the bag from gambling and other unsavory habits. Fielding recommended we find an unused mineshaft for him.” A soft snort made him stop. She was unsuccessfully fighting a smile. “I see you are of a like mind, my lady.”

  “It is difficult to see the purpose for such a man. However, I’m pleased you stifled Mr. Fielding’s first instinct—I should hate to see him hang. What did you end up doing?”

  Stephen flexed his fist at the memory of his favorite part of his first, last, and only interaction with Cantwell.

  “I told him I’d relieve him of the burden of Oakland and that he was no longer welcome anywhere in the neighborhood. I then found him a position on a ship leaving Plymouth.”

  Elinor’s brow creased. “A position?”

  “Yes, it seems there are many ships willing to take on even older, inexperienced sailors.” He coughed. “I believe there is a rather nasty phrase for it. In any event, I told him I’d paid the captain well to keep an eye on him. I also told him that if I found out that he’d ever hurt anyone again, I would kill him.”

  ***

  Elinor’s body experienced two distinctly different reactions at his words: one was a gradual lifting of the tiny hairs on the back of her neck at the lethal gleam in his eyes, and the other was a primitive tingling in her thighs.

  She took a deep breath and held it as she looked into his—today—matched pupils and he steadily returned her stare. He was a good man. The thought originated from the recesses of her mind and filled her with an almost crippling sense of relief and joy.

  Yes, he’d done cruel things—and was likely capable of more—but he was also kind and empathic and noble. A dam broke inside her somewhere. She loved him so much. So entirely, completely, utterly, and almost painfully. Just looking at him sitting there, made her want to weep. He was an intoxicating combination of strength and power with unexpected fragility and gentleness.

  What Cantwell did to those women had moved him. And when he was moved, he was the type of man who did something about it. Not to impress her, not to impress anyone. Just because it was the decent, human thing to do.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this, Stephen? Didn’t you ever think that such unselfishness might make me relent toward you?”

  He scowled. “I had no compunction about buying the mine and bettering conditions to gain your favor, Elinor, but you must think I am a cad of monumental proportions if you believe I’d seek to gain your favor on the suffering of young girls! My own mother was compromised by the local laird. And while I doubt he forced her, he certainly did her no favors.” He cut her a hard look. “No decent man puts a child into a woman and abandons her.”

  Elinor bit back
a smile at his obvious consternation. Everything he did and said melted her. It was pointless to fight her own fears—and she was so tired of the struggle.

  “Elinor?”

  She looked away from her thoughts and met his concerned eyes.

  “Are you sure you won’t let me ring for tea? You must be—” He stopped speaking when she stood and came toward him, his expression rewardingly confused, stunned, and thrilled when she lowered herself onto his lap. His arm slid around her as if he was embracing an item of unspeakable value.

  She took his face in her hands, his jaws taut beneath her fingers. “Stephen?”

  He swallowed, the color fleeing his face. “Yes?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  His hands clutched her body so tightly she gasped.

  And then it was his turn to gasp. “I’m sorry, darling, did I hurt you?”

  She chuckled and shook her head. “You’ll only hurt me if you say no.”

  A choked laugh broke from him and he used his good arm to grab her in a hold that was unbreakable.

  “You’re bloody well right I’ll marry you! I wasn’t going to tell you this, Elinor, but I was going to lock you up in the tower before I’d let you get away from me again.”

  “Blackfriars doesn’t have a tower, Stephen.”

  “I would build one,” he muttered into her hair. “I love you, Elinor.” His lips were hot and feverish against the top of her head and his arms tightened even more.

  Elinor drew in just enough air to speak. “I love you, too, Stephen.”

  He sucked in his breath and froze for a long moment before exhaling, his crushing grip suddenly weak. “You have no idea how long I’ve yearned to hear those three words from you, Elinor. I love you so much. I’m so grateful you’ve forgiven me. I promise that from this moment on I will do everything in my power to make you the happiest woman in the world.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “Oh, Stephen, you are such a dunce.”

  He threw back his head and shouted out a laugh before holding her at arm’s length and peering down at her face. “There’s the silver-tongued shrew I love so much. Tell me, my love, why am I a dunce?”