A Woman’s Innocence

by Gayle Callen

  He glanced at Julia, who didn’t even raise her gaze to this squabble between brother and sister. Sam narrowed his eyes at Frances. “I promise I’ll come to ye first.”

  Her acquiescence could cost her her position, he knew. He wasn’t here to ruin things for his family. He promised himself to do his best to find other means to clear Julia first.

  “I’d also like a list of the staff, their positions, and their length of service. This will help me when I question them.”

  She nodded. “I’ll have it for you by the end of the day.”

  “Could ye spare a servant to show us about? I wouldn’t want to inconvenience someone as important as yourself, ma’am.”

  “It would not be—”

  “This is certainly a comfortable estate, ma’am. Would there be a lot of tenant farms?”

  Before she could get out more than a nod, he continued. “We’d appreciate a list of tenants, too.”

  Frances broke in before he could ramble on. “I can’t see why a list of farmers is necessary. This investigation is about Miss Reed, isn’t it?”

  “And why she might commit such a crime, Mrs. Cooper. It helps to know what motivates a criminal mind.”

  “I can’t believe Miss Reed is a—”

  “Are you gettin’ all this, Fitzjames?” Sam called, turning to find Julia frozen with her teacup to her mouth. Her finger positions looked decidedly feminine. He glared at her and lifted his own teacup silently. She quickly adjusted her grip.

  “Did ye forget your notebook again, lad?” he continued, shaking his head. To Frances he said, “I’ve instructed the lad to take notes, but hunger got the best of his stomach, I guess.”

  Julia indelicately stuffed an iced cake in her mouth.

  Frances sighed. “I shall notify you when luncheon is ready, Constable. But first I’ll show you to your rooms so you can refresh yourselves.”

  “Refresh ourselves?” Sam echoed. “We surely don’t need a bath, however kind ye are to offer one.”

  Frances grimaced. “I—I meant if you’d like to change clothes, or perhaps rest before the meal.”

  “Rest?” he said, standing up. “In the middle of the day? Surely you yourself are too busy for such a thing.”

  “I am a servant, sir,” she said between gritted teeth. “But guests are treated differently in this household.”

  “I am but a servant, too, Mrs. Cooper, though of the town of Leeds. But go ahead, show us to our rooms. We’ll—what was the word?—refresh ourselves.”

  Julia watched the very interesting emotions that played across Frances’s face as the housekeeper finished the last of her tea. Sam’s behavior was enough to drive anyone to madness, with the annoyingly slow speech, and the way his thoughts rambled from one to the next.

  Frances seemed to be escaping as she swept open the drawing room doors, only to find another maid dusting a table nearby.

  “Florence,” Frances said, “didn’t you already dust the hall this morning?”

  The girl’s face flamed beneath the curls escaping her cap. “I—I remembered I forgot this table, Mrs. Cooper.”

  “Finish it quickly and be about your duties.”

  The girl made a few last swipes at the table with her cloth, then hurried down a corridor.

  “Do you have luggage you wish the footmen to bring up for you, Constable?” Frances asked as she led them up a broad staircase.

  As they passed marble statues in recesses along the stairs, Julia remembered them as being some of her favorite hiding places for her treasures. Her snooping brother had never found these. Every time she thought of Lewis, she was shocked anew at Sam’s accusations. Until there was proof, she just couldn’t believe it yet.

  The farther away they were from the rest of the staff, the more she felt the tension begin to seep away. It was stressful to constantly worry that any gesture, any misspoken word, could mean her discovery.

  Sam was telling Frances about the portmanteau and saddlebags left with their horses, but Julia paid little attention. She tried to remind herself that this was home, this life she was fighting to preserve, but the manor had felt more like a museum than home. Home had been in the garden, where she might see Sam.

  But that was a lifetime ago. Where was home now? Hadn’t she been struggling her whole adult life to find it? And she was farther away than ever.

  They’d stopped at an ornate door, and Sam was frowning as he ducked his head inside. “Mrs. Cooper, we’d prefer rooms together with a door in between, if ye’ve got them. We’ve got much work to do, and don’t want to disturb the household.”

  Julia stared from one to the other, wondering who would win this battle of wills: Sam, who wanted to keep close watch on her, or Frances, who struggled with the impropriety of it all.

  The siblings glared at each other, until finally Frances said stiffly, “Very well, the next set of doors is a small suite, a sitting room with a bedroom on either side. Will that do?”

  “Immensely,” Julia said, glad that they would have neutral meeting ground in which to work.

  Brother and sister turned to stare at her and she tossed her head. “I’ll have many notes to transcribe, Constable, for us to keep a good account of our investigation.”

  One corner of Sam’s mouth turned up in faint amusement.

  Inside the sitting room, she tried to remember the last time she’d been in this suite. She’d explored every aspect of the manor when she was young, but since nothing had ever changed, she’d grown bored with that quickly. Her mother had never been the kind of woman who felt the need to redecorate every year.

  Frances stepped close to Sam, and he held up his hand.

  “No,” he murmured. “I’ll approach you when I feel it’s safe.” In a more normal voice, he continued, “What a fine room this is, Mrs. Cooper. I see there’s a desk. Could we have another for Fitzjames?”

  “I’ll have the footmen do as you request.”

  “So then I can come to you for our tour?”

  “Sir, I believe you mentioned assigning another member of the staff to—”

  “But ye know everythin’ worth knowin’, don’t ye, Mrs. Cooper?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  When Frances finally left, she seemed glad of the escape.

  Julia frowned. “Can we talk freely, Constable?”

  “Find your book and take notes of our conversation with the housekeeper, Fitzjames. I need to take a look about the room.” In a lower voice, he added, “And make sure your penmanship is not feminine.”

  For the next hour, she watched in amazement as Sam searched every foot of their suite, top to bottom, running his fingers along trim, patting patterned wallpaper as if it might conceal something. Every piece of furniture was moved aside to see what was behind it.

  “What are ye lookin’ for, sir?” she finally asked, when he stood in the center of the sitting room, his frock coat thrown haphazardly on a chair, his shirtsleeves up to his elbows.

  “The opportunity for someone to spy on us,” he answered, rolling down his sleeves. “And it seems that it’s impossible, unless someone is listening at the door, though there are three of them. If we speak quietly, close to the windows, we should be safe.”

  He motioned for her to follow, and then parted the draperies, looking out on the garden that stretched out below. She heard his swiftly inhaled breath.

  “Do you see your brother out there?” she asked softly.

  He shook his head. “I was thinking about last month, when I followed you here. I forced myself not to look for any of my family. All I did was scale the wall at night and watch you through the windows.”

  She put a hand to her throat. “Watch me?” Had she changed clothes before an open window? She should be dismayed at the thought, but she found the concept of Sam staring at her naked body far too intoxicating.

  He smiled. “Your room is on the second floor. Trust me, I did not scale the building to keep an eye on you. I just wanted to make sure you were here fo
r the night.” He turned back to the sunlit view. “But I never got a chance to look at the garden.”

  She moved up beside him, and shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun. “How does it make you feel?” she asked.

  “In some ways like home. I know every inch of the grounds, every type of soil and plant—except the interesting new ones Henry has since added.” He rested his head on his forearm, leaning against the glass pane. In a husky voice, he continued, “And in other ways, it was my prison.”

  She remembered her feelings of abandonment, of desolation when he’d first told her he’d be leaving. “You never wanted to be here,” she whispered.

  “That’s not true. It is, after all, the place in which my family still happily resides. Right now, I’d give almost anything to announce who I am, then just sit in my mother’s kitchen talking to them all.”

  “But because of me, you can’t.”

  “I’ve done a lot of things in my life because of you.”

  She inhaled swiftly, the shot of pain from his words almost more than she could bear.

  Then she saw he was watching her too closely. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “I’m not wanted for murder because of you. I was fulfilling my assignment when that happened. It’s not your fault.”

  “Then what do you blame me for?” she cried.

  He covered her mouth and looked to the door. With the other hand he pulled the draperies shut, leaving their corner suddenly dim. Her eyes went wide as she realized she might have betrayed them.

  He didn’t move away from her. To her shock, his other arm came around her waist, and the hand at her mouth went slack. He let his fingers touch her lips, slide along them from corner to corner.

  Julia felt as if the floor tilted beneath her, and she had to clutch his arms for support. This was Sam, touching her, holding her, fulfilling so many dreams she’d once had. But they were both adults now, aware of consequences she’d never had to consider. And there was a desperation in his eyes she’d never seen before.

  “I don’t blame you for my behavior, Julia,” he murmured.

  His arm tightened around her; his body became a supple wall against hers. She could feel his every breath, the pulse of his heartbeat, and her own heart answered the rhythm.

  “Then what have you done because of me?” She spoke against his fingers, but he didn’t move them, seeming to absorb her breathless words.

  “Fourteen years ago, I left Hopewell Manor because of you.”

  She was unable to think of a response, not when he seemed to be almost pressing her to him, his hands sliding down her back, and his fingers dangerously close to the swell of her backside.

  But he didn’t explain. Instead he lowered his head and kissed her, a brief touching of parted lips that was nothing like the rough kiss they’d shared in the tavern.

  It was the kiss she’d dreamed of as a young girl following him about the garden. A delicate thing, a worshipful thing. His mouth was soft. He kissed the pout of her lower lip, the bow shape of her top lip, even one corner. The brush of his mustache and beard should have tickled, but instead added to the experience. She moaned at the feel of his hand sliding slowly down her body. Wearing trousers instead of layers of skirts, she felt the indentation of each of his fingers as he cupped her backside and squeezed.

  His other hand feathered gentle caresses down her neck, and then gently he slid his finger beneath her collar.

  Her eyes, at half mast in wonderment, opened wide. His own did the same.

  Suddenly he was stumbling back from her, and she reached out a hand for him. She was cold without him, bereft, puzzled.

  He turned his back on her, his head bowed. “What the hell am I doing?” He straightened and stiffly said over his shoulder, “That was wrong of me. You’re under my protection, and this was an—an assault.”

  “Assault?” she echoed in a trembling whisper. “How can something that felt so wonderful be an assault?”

  “You’re not thinking clearly,” he said harshly, finally walking back to her. He seemed remote, as if he towered over her in his anger. “You’re dependent on me for your freedom—it’s only natural that you’d feel…close to me.”

  “You think this is something that just magically appeared inside me these last few days?” She went to touch him and he stepped back, leaving her hand awkwardly in midair. “Surely I showed you, when I was young, how I felt about you.”

  “The important phrase is ‘when I was young.’ You were fourteen when I left, Julia,” he said heavily.

  “Some girls are married at fourteen. They know their own minds.”

  “Not many, and not anymore.”

  “Country girls—village girls.”

  “But not daughters of the gentry. And certainly not to men like me.”

  She shut her mouth in consternation, for the black look he wore said he would not be reasonable. He put his coat back on, and took care fastening each pewter button. She suspected he was delaying having to look at her.

  Straightening her own coat, she felt the empty ache in her breasts. What had happened here? What did she have to do with his departure from her life all those years before, and why wouldn’t he explain it?

  Chapter 11

  Frances did not come for them herself. She sent Florence instead, who left after bringing hot water and clean linens and soap. Julia watched with dismay as Sam closed his bedroom door on her, and she reluctantly retired to her own chamber.

  Florence came back for them a half hour later, and led them down through corridors Julia found herself remembering as they went. Images of her childhood flashed in her mind, and the memories were sad. The formal dining room was immense, and the table had been set up with only two places at one end. Two footmen of matching height, wearing the ornate livery and powdered hair of their service, stood beside a sideboard with covered platters of food.

  Sam stared about him, looking rather awestruck. Then he cleared his throat. “Florence?” he called before the girl could leave.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “We don’t need to eat alone. Where is everyone else eatin’?”

  She blushed. “We have no other guests, sir. The servants even now sit down to their meal in the servants’ hall.”

  “Then take us there. We’ll get to know everyone.”

  The footmen betrayed no expression, but Florence looked aghast. “Mr. Jenkins would not have it, sir!”

  “Mr. Jenkins isn’t the one dinin’ alone, now, is he?”

  “He often takes his meals alone,” she protested.

  “Well, I don’t. Lead on, Florence.”

  Julia slid silently in line behind them. She knew Sam wanted to eventually talk to all the servants, and this was one way to begin encouraging their trust.

  But she also suspected he didn’t want to spend any more time alone with her than he had to.

  The servants’ hall was low-ceilinged and overheated, full of the smells of cooking and hardworking bodies. The laughter that had escaped out the door as they approached died into silence at their appearance.

  Frances sat at one end of the table, Mr. Jenkins at the other, with at least two dozen servants on benches between them, women on one side, men on the other.

  Frances shot to her feet. “Is something amiss, Constable?”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Cooper. Fitzjames and me didn’t know what to do with ourselves, all alone in that big room. We convinced Florence to lead us here.”

  The girl shot a pleading look at Frances, who calmly nodded.

  “Sit down and enjoy your meal, Florence.” She turned to all the avid faces around the table. “Everyone, these gentlemen are Constable Seabrook and Constable….” She turned to Julia. “Forgive me, sir, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Walter Fitzjames, ma’am,” Julia said. Her voice came out hoarse and uncertain, and her face heated as she became the focus of every pair of curious eyes. She wanted to look away, but instead forced herself to meet every gaze. No one show
ed anything but curiosity.

  Frances turned back to Sam. “Constable, please sit in my place.”

  “I won’t have it, ma’am. I’m but a workin’ man, though I’m a guest here. Surely someone can push aside and make room for us.”

  There was more room than it appeared, and Julia found herself seated with Sam on one side of her and a footman on the other. She did her best to remain shy with her eyes downcast, since she was frightened to death with so many people staring at her. Though Frances said only a few servants remained from ten years before, the rest had seen her but a month ago, or maybe even during her childhood, if some of them were the children of local farmers.

  She let the conversation resume and swirl around her, concentrating instead on holding her shoulders back, as if the awkwardness of the position would make her look more like a man. Sam made himself jovial and rather silly, and it seemed to relax everyone. His beard had filled in, and she was beginning to wonder if even she would have recognized him, acting as he was. She was amazed at how easily he made himself fit in, and then she remembered what had never occurred to her when she was younger: he’d been a servant. He’d repeatedly made clear that he didn’t want to hear about her long-ago feelings for him, and had said women of the gentry didn’t marry men like him.

  Did he see himself as only a servant? It seemed impossible that Sam, so larger than life when she’d been a child, might really think so little of himself.

  When the conversation around the table sank into a lull, Sam cleared his throat and slowly looked at all of them. “Constable Fitzjames and meself are here on business, as ye probably guessed. Ye know that your mistress has been arrested. Fitzjames and me want to sit down with ye one by one and talk. We’ll ask questions, and ye can answer as best ye can. All we want from ye is the truth, and we’ll be satisfied.”

  “Well, I believe none of it,” one old man said gruffly.

  He was dressed in old breeches and a patched coat, and Julia was certain that the smell of horses was coming from him.

  Sam regarded him with interest. “And your name, sir?”