by Karen Kirst
“What on earth are you doing, Reed?” she challenged, keeping her tone light. “You look like you’ve been caught in some mischief.”
He held out the furry bundle, a grin crooking the corners of his mouth. “Well, our collie had puppies and this one seemed a bit sluggish. The other ones are fine. This one, though, I thought I could liven up a bit if I brought her to the house. Davis, my head groom, seems to think she’s flagging.”
Hannah reached out to touch the collie puppy’s soft fur. “She’s so tiny,” she gasped. “Why, even her eyes are still closed.”
“Yes. I thought I could try feeding her myself with a bottle.” Reed tucked the puppy back into his jacket. “Madge, the collie, is a good mother. But the other three puppies are already taking up all her efforts, and this is the runt of the litter.”
“You can’t keep her out here much longer.” The sun was shining, but frost still sparkled on the ground. A little thing like this—already fighting for life—couldn’t last for very long in weather that was even mildly chilly. “Let’s go inside. The kitchen is probably the warmest area of the house.”
Reed nodded and tucked his hand around the puppy, closing her tightly into the warm wool of his jacket. Hannah’s heart surged at this small gesture of kindness. Who knew that Reed, of all people, would have a tender heart where small creatures were concerned? She would have never guessed that he was capable of that level of sensitivity and compassion.
She struck off toward the house, then turned back. “I don’t know where the kitchens are,” she confessed. Honestly, she had only really explored Jane’s side of the house, and this trek outdoors had been her way of broadening her horizons.
Reed paused, his brows drawing together. He shrugged slightly. “I must confess that I haven’t been to the kitchens for ages,” he replied. “In fact, it was so long ago, I had to stand on a stool to help Cook roll out dough for making cookies at Christmas.”
For some reason, the thought of Reed standing on a chair made her chuckle to herself. How much he had changed since those days, surely. Now he was a grown man, easily over six foot tall, with the stubble of a beard already darkening his chin, though it was still morning.
“I am sure they haven’t moved it since then,” she replied. “Lead the way.”
Reed sighed and then set off for the rear of the house. She followed, trying her best to keep her skirts clear of the frost. It was no use, though. Once they finally reached the back gardens, the hem of her skirt was well and truly soaked.
Reed hesitated for a moment after they climbed the back staircase. Then he squared his shoulders, lowered his head and opened the door.
Was he nervous? No, that couldn’t possibly be so. What had he to be anxious about? This was his house, after all.
Hannah followed him into the kitchens, which hummed with activity. Scullery maids and kitchen maids dashed about, while a woman barked orders at the top of her lungs. The woman’s red hair, which was fading to white, was tucked up under a cap and a large apron covered her ample form. She paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from her brow with the corner of her apron. When she dropped the fabric and glanced up, she spied Reed.
“Master John? Is that you?” She bustled around the wooden table she’d been working at, her arms outstretched. She gave Reed a quick hug, squeezing his shoulders. “Upon my word, it’s been ages. Have you come to make cookies, then?”
Hannah chuckled, and the sound caught the cook’s attention. “You must be the new seamstress working with Miss Jane. How do you do? My name is Mrs. Hawkes, though this scoundrel always called me Mrs. H.” She cast a fond glance at Reed.
Should she curtsy or nod? She had never been around servants for very long, for Uncle Arthur employed just a few. Then, of course, when they lost all their fortune, the Siddons girls had to make do for themselves. Unsure what to do, and with time dragging on, she finally just nodded. “Hannah Siddons, Mrs. Hawkes. So pleased to meet you.”
Mrs. Hawkes nodded in return, a kindly light kindled in her brown eyes. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She turned to Reed, placing her hands on her hips. “Well, then, are you here to filch something to eat? You know very well that I’ll be serving a meal in less than an hour.”
“Actually, Mrs. H., we need someplace warm and cozy for this mite.” He opened his jacket, revealing the puppy.
“Oh, the poor thing! Of course, let’s set the beggar inside here.” She flew over to a vast cast-iron oven, opening one of the many compartments with a quick turn of her wrist. She removed a pan of bread, which had risen beautifully, and tucked several thick towels inside. “There’s no real fire in here,” she explained, taking the puppy from Reed and placing it on the mat of towels. “But the heat from the stove reaches it just so—perfect for helping bread to rise quickly, and for bringing puppies to life.”
She closed the door just a bit, so that they could still observe the puppy. Hannah smiled. This was the best place in the world for that little one to be. She breathed deeply of the scents of newly risen bread dough, yeasty and warm. Her stomach rumbled in acknowledgment, and she pressed her hand over her middle. How embarrassing, or, as Susannah would say, how perfectly perfect.
She would never pass for an elegant young working lady, that much was certain. Surely Reed would tease her mercilessly.
If he heard, though, he gave no sign. Instead, he was staring intently at the puppy as she slept.
Mrs. Hawkes smiled, taking both Hannah’s hands in hers. “Would you like a bite to eat while you wait to see how the puppy takes to the warmth? I’ve a new loaf of bread, some fresh butter and honey. And I can have some tea ready, as quick as a wink.”
“That sounds marvelous, Mrs. H., thank you.” Reed spoke up in an abstracted fashion from his place in front of the stove.
Mrs. H. swatted him with a towel. “I was speaking to the young lady, Master John. Not everything is tied to your well-being, you know.” Her tone was light and playful, but even so, what cheek for a servant to give her master! The cook must have been employed by the family for ages to speak so freely.
John smiled and stirred himself from his absorbed state. “You are entirely correct, Mrs. H.”
The cook laughed and beckoned them over to a long oaken table in the middle of the kitchen.
“May I help, Mrs. Hawkes?” Hannah hated to sit down and be waited upon when there was obviously so much going on. “I miss cooking with my sisters. The busyness of this kitchen puts me in mind of home.”
“Bless you! Yes, please. I’ll boil the water for tea if you will slice the bread.” Mrs. Hawkes presented her with a loaf of golden-brown bread on a wooden tray and handed her a sharp knife. “And it’s Mrs. H. I don’t mind if you are cheeky with me, my dear. You have the look of a girl with a sharp wit and common sense.”
Hannah glowed under this unusual praise and set the tray on the table. As she sliced the bread, she caught Reed’s smiling glance. “What’s so amusing, sir?”
He shook his head. “Just—I can’t really say.”
“You had better say,” she commanded. Something in Mrs. H.’s free and easy manner caught in her attitude. “After all, I am wielding a knife.”
*
John laughed. “Ah, I see. I am bested by your ferocious nature.” Some of the pleasure faded from his heart as he glanced around the kitchen. “It’s just really…nice…to be here.” There was no real way to say it aloud, especially to someone as unfamiliar with his past as Siddons was. The warmth and ease of Mrs. H.’s ways, the good smells emanating from the kitchen, made him feel as though everything would be all right. Even the puppy, tucked away in its warm bed, would revive.
Siddons sliced the bread with the efficiency born, surely, of much practice. “It’s very pleasant here,” she agreed. “I can imagine, as a child, how this must have seemed like a wonderland.”
“It was.” He nodded. Siddons understood his fumbling explanations more than he did, even. “The scents, the sights, being so warm and
cozy on a chilly day—it was easily my favorite part of the Park. Save, perhaps, the stables.”
“Ah, yes.” Mrs. H. brought over a stack of plates—sturdy pottery, not the fine china she sent upstairs. “Master John would come through here, grabbing a basket of apples on his way out to the stable. If I saw him, I would demand he bring them back. Many’s the time, however, that his mother’s guests were denied an apple tart because this rogue had fed them all to the horses.”
John’s heart caught in his throat. Yes. Mother would invite everyone over to the Park at the slightest excuse, sharing the bounty of the kitchens and the estate with all the families in the county. Or, she would grab a large willow basket, stuffing it with provisions, on her way out to visit the tenants. Always, her thoughts were on making others comfortable.
She thought of everyone else, especially of her family. She had given up everything she had for him. If there was a God, why had He allowed that to happen? He, John, was not worthy of her sacrifice, not at all. Though he had tried to live as he would have wanted for her to live—enjoying herself and taking pleasure from life—it was painfully obvious that a great lady like his mother would never have approved of his high jinks.
Could he dwell on this thought of Mother without breaking down into tears like a child? No. He focused his full attention on Siddons as she placed a slice of bread on the plate and handed it to him. Then he gave the butter and honey as much of his focus as he could. By forcing himself to think only of the mechanics of his movements, he could banish the memory back to its hiding place until it was safe to blink again.
He took a bite of the bread, savoring its warmth.
The moment had passed.
Siddons sat in the chair across from him, pouring tea into a sturdy mug and handing it to him. “Here. Take this. It’s been quite a morning, hasn’t it?”
Did she suspect how close he’d been to acting like a fool? He shot her a glance from under his eyebrows, but she seemed to be casually intent on sipping her tea.
“Yes, it has.” He had to say something, take control of his own life once again. If, of course, a conversation with a seamstress in a kitchen could be considered his life in miniature. “So. Once the puppy is revived, I suppose I need to feed her?”
“Yes. I would think warm milk.” Siddons took a bite of her bread.
“Mrs. H, can you please warm some milk for me?” He raised his voice to be heard above the kitchen din.
“The milk is warm, and you can feed it to the pup with this bottle.” Mrs. H held out a glass bottle, which she had fitted with some kind of stopper.
“Is that the finger of a glove?” Siddons applauded. “Mrs. H, you are a brilliant woman.”
“Well, it’s been many years since we’ve needed a baby bottle around the house,” Mrs. H. explained with a warm smile. “But perhaps we will need one someday soon. Eh, Master John?”
John forced a smile, but it was hard indeed. In due time, Mrs. H, in due time. It was difficult enough to reconcile himself to the role he had to play as master here. Doing so meant taking full responsibility for all he had done. That would have to occupy his thoughts for the next several months. There was no room in his heart yet to think of love.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hannah put the final touches on her sketch and then turned the pad about so it faced Jane. “What do you think?”
Jane, who was sitting in the window seat, put aside her violin and squinted. “Oh, yes. Very pretty.” Then she picked up her bow and continued practicing.
Hannah tried not to sigh in frustration. She had been sketching some truly fetching costumes for Jane all morning, while Jane sat and played, making pleasant but noncommittal remarks about each drawing. She turned the sketch pad back around and deepened the shade of a ribbon with a few broad strokes of her pencil. “Oh, come now. This is much more than pretty. This is an organdy gown with a deeply embroidered skirt in a pale shade of pink, just the right color to heighten your complexion. It is topped off with a simple velvet Spencer jacket in a darker shade of blush pink and a fetching straw bonnet that ties under the chin.”
Jane laughed, drawing her bow across the strings with a lilting touch. “You sound like a High Street dressmaker.”
“I am a dressmaker.” Even though Jane was protesting a London Season, how could anyone protest such lovely clothes, made expressly to enhance her natural beauty? Why didn’t Jane take this venture seriously? Or at the very least, why didn’t she take a sincere interest in Hannah’s role? This was an amazing opportunity for anyone. In her own case, making this wardrobe was the start of something she could call her own, something that had the potential to make her independent.
“I apologize.” Jane sat up, putting her violin and bow aside once more. “I don’t mean to sound unappreciative. You must understand how this seems to me—all these frills and furbelows. I never had to worry about my appearance before. Now that all this emphasis is being placed on how I look and what I should wear, it’s difficult indeed not to feel like I journeyed to a new world.”
“Didn’t your mother prepare you for this?” Hannah turned her head to one side, regarding her sketch from a slightly different angle. Perhaps she should lengthen the jacket just a tiny bit. Jane needed to raise her arms often when playing, and each piece must be designed with that in mind, for Jane was as likely to break into a solo when wearing a riding habit as when wearing a ball gown.
“No. I was too young when she passed away. I was only eight years old. John was eleven, just a lad.” Jane sighed. “I am sure Mother would have seen to it, but when she died, Father was heartbroken. Indeed, our entire family was. Father didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t wish to—he said it broke his heart to see me unhappy.” She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her long skirt around her legs. “I wish my brother felt the same way.”
“I suppose he’s just trying to do the best he can,” Hannah pointed out. Jane was a dear, but so focused on her own thoughts and feelings that it blinded her to all her brother had done for her. Not many other men would have hired someone to guide a stubborn younger sister’s debut.
“He could save us all a lot of trouble and just let me wed where my heart has led me,” Jane replied, her gentle voice sharpening. “I do love your dresses, Hannah. Please don’t think that I hate your work. But every sketch just shows me how little regard my brother has for my feelings and wishes. It’s like every dress is a cell in a prison.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hannah fought to keep her tone light, but Jane’s attitude grated on her last nerve. Like her brother, Jane was rebelling against a very luxurious gaol. These were people who never had to worry about where their next meal was coming from, or how they would stay warm at night. It was difficult indeed to sympathize with either of them. “Why don’t you just enjoy having lovely clothes and attending dazzling parties? After all, if the Season ends without your engagement, then you can say you held up your end of the agreement. You would be in a much better position to persuade your brother that you should marry Timothy Holdcroft.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Jane murmured in a distracted fashion. After a moment’s pause, she added, “Will you help me get word to Timothy? You leave to visit Tansley in a week, do you not?”
“I do.” Hannah put aside her sketch, drawing in a deep breath. “But I have already made it clear that I will respect your brother’s wishes in this matter. He is my employer, and has given me orders not to interfere.” It was so sad to be put in this kind of position with Jane, who was a lovely person and someone whose friendship she enjoyed very much. In fact, Jane remained the only friend she had, and telling her “no” about anything was daunting. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Hannah expected Jane to simply end their friendship over her refusal to help foster her budding romance. She was resigning herself to losing this delightful closeness with Jane with each passing minute.
“I understand. I just wondered.” Jane gave her a sweet smile. “It will be nice for yo
u to go home and see your sisters again. I imagine you miss them quite a lot.”
Hannah nodded, for that was the correct reaction to Jane’s words. But in truth, she did not miss her sisters as much as she had thought she would. She could be frank in her own mind. It was actually very nice to have few responsibilities and no one holding her back, commenting on how she did what she did and how she should improve herself all the time. “I’m actually more worried about how my hat shop is faring. I haven’t received word from Abigail, and I left her in charge.”
“Then you will definitely want to visit your shop,” Jane agreed. “Perhaps you will even end up staying there, rather than in one of your sisters’ homes.”
“I certainly hope so,” Hannah blurted. Not that she didn’t love her sisters, but after her brief taste of freedom at Grant Park, staying at Susannah’s or Becky’s would be stifling.
Jane smiled and picked up her violin once more. She began playing a piece by Lully that she had been working on for the past several days. With each practice, the song took on a little more life. What had been hesitant at first was growing more assured and dynamic with each playing. With each playing, too, Hannah had learned to respect Jane’s space. She could not continue to interrupt and ask questions or opinions of each gown she sketched. She was quite on her own.
Hannah squinted at the sketch pad with a critical eye. There was nothing more to be done with this sketch, for the gown was as perfect as it could be. All that remained was purchasing the fabric and cutting out the pieces. Perhaps when she went home to Tansley, she could find several bolts of fabric at the village shop. It wouldn’t hurt to see how the French milliner was doing, either.
Somehow, though, the thought of the milliner stealing her business no longer stung. In point of fact, it was difficult for her to work up the same fire to continue fighting that had burned within just a few weeks ago. She flipped over to a fresh page on her sketch pad and picked up a pencil. The urge to sketch dresses had utterly fled. Instead, she allowed her mind to drift along with the sweet violin music, like a leaf catching the current of a small stream, and she merely sketched as she floated along.