by Kruger, Mary
“So. What is this I hear?” Lady Augusta Helmsley sailed into the morning room of her Grosvenor Square home, her bosom preceding her like the prow of some magnificent ship. “Got yourself leg-shackled and didn’t tell me?”
“Hello, aunt,” Justin murmured, bending to kiss her cheek. She stared up at him, her dark eyes cold and beady, and Justin suddenly wished he had not tied his neckcloth so tightly. “Trust you’re feeling better?”
“Don’t think to play off any of your tricks on me, my boy. I’m wise to your game. Oh, sit, sit, never could tolerate you towering over me.” She stomped over to her favorite sofa, crimson and gilt, and Justin perched uneasily on the edge of his chair, which seemed much too fragile to bear his weight. “Offer you some refreshment?”
At the moment, Justin would have like nothing more than a stiff whiskey, but he was aware of Augusta’s strict regard for the proprieties. “Tea, I suppose.”
“Tea!” She stared at him. “What do you want to go maudling your insides with that stuff for? I begin to despair of you, boy. Tea, indeed. Fitch!” she roared.
The butler appeared at the door. “Yes, madam?”
“Bring us some Madeira, Fitch. And then don’t disturb us.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Aunt, must tell you—” Justin began, and Augusta held up her hand.
“Hold your tongue, boy, until Fitch comes back. Enough of a scandal now, without gossiping in front of the servants.”
“Yes, aunt,” he muttered, and leaned back in the gilt chair, which creaked ominously. Arms crossed on his chest, he managed to gossip on the latest on-dits, until Fitch had served the wine and then retired.
“So, boy?” Augusta said, as she sipped at her wine. “What is this mad start of yours and why was I forced to hear of it from Clarissa Lovelace?”
A smile briefly touched Justin’s lips; Aunt Augusta and Mrs. Lovelace were old rivals. “Enjoy Bath, aunt? Hear the waters are effective.”
“Don’t give me any of your sauce, boy.” She glared at him. “What I want to know is what you are about! You may be sure this marriage of yours is all the talk in Bath, yes, and here, as well. I want to know why you felt it necessary to make me such a laughingstock.”
Justin moved uneasily in his seat, his feet shuffling together. “Didn’t mean to, aunt.”
“No, of course not, you never do.” Her voice was biting. “Clumsiest boy I ever did see. And now what’s to become of you? You will take your seat in Parliament this January, Justin, but God knows now what good it will do. Certainly won’t help the Chatleigh name, as I had hoped.” She glared at him. “Good God, boy, even your father at his worst did nothing so bad.”
Justin squirmed. Had Augusta been born a boy she would have become the earl, and he suspected she would have been better at it than his father had been. Better, for that matter, than he himself was. “Could always do something else,” he said, mildly.
“Such as? Turn farmer? And how, pray tell, do you plan to restore your estate, since you made such a foolish marriage? I’ll wager she’s making demands of you already.” Justin’s face reddened. “Tell me, boy, how did you come to marry some unknown?”
“Well.” Justin shuffled his feet again.
“Stop that!” she snapped. “Well, boy? I am waiting.”
Justin resisted the impulse to run a finger under his collar. There was nothing for it, but at the moment he would rather be facing all of Napoleon’s armies.
Augusta heard him out in silence, as he told of finding a girl in his bed and the natural conclusion he had reached. By the time he reached the end of his tale, she was staring at him incredulously. “Do you mean to tell me,” she said, “that you were trapped by a country bumpkin of an innkeeper?” Her voice boomed out at the last words, and Justin winced.
“Afraid so, ma’am,” he said, draining his Madeira. This was worse than he’d feared. He’d received dressing-downs in his time from superior officers, but Aunt Augusta had them all beat.
“My God, even from you I wouldn’t have expected it, boy.” It was a measure of her agitation that she rose and began to pace the room, her cane thumping in counterpoint. “Got yourself into a pretty mess. And what do you do? Leave her at Chatleigh and come haring up to town.”
“What else could I do?” Justin retorted, stung. “Girl’s not fit to be in company.”
“Why? She breeding?”
“Good God, no!” This time he gave into his impulse, raking his fingers through his hair.
“Thank God for that,” Augusta muttered, sitting again. Since that was one of the rumors, it had been her fear that Justin was indeed trapped, but now perhaps something could be done. “Well, boy? And what do you intend to do?”
“Don’t know, aunt.” Justin leaned back, legs stretched out and arms crossed on his chest.
“What’s the girl’s family like?”
“Not much of it left,” he said, wishing for the first time that he had listened when Melissa had tried to tell him of her background. “Mother’s dead, so is her father. Got a younger brother and a stepfather, Sir Stephen Barton.”
“What!” Augusta sat bolt upright, and two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “Good God, boy, you have botched it.”
“Why?” Justin leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees. So there really was a stepfather. “You know of him, ma’am?”
“Yes. Too well. A rum sort. Last I’d heard he’d married some widow and gone through her money.” The look she gave her nephew was exceedingly cold. “Which means, boy, it will be very expensive to get you out of this.”
“There’s a way out, then?”
“Yes, but it’s going to cost. Me, not you.” She eyed him coldly. “I will get you out, but it won’t be easy. If you can assure me you haven’t touched the girl—”
“I haven’t.”
“Then perhaps we can arrange an annulment. But we’ll pay dearly for it, boy. I with money, you with your reputation.”
“God,” Justin muttered, crossing his arms again. He had married in the hopes of saving his name; now it seemed it would be smeared, no matter what. “Very well, ma’am, if you will tell me what you plan, I will go back to Chatleigh—”
“You? You most certainly will not. Made a mess of things already, boy. No. I will pull your chestnuts out of the fire.”
“Thank you, aunt.” Justin rose.
“Don’t thank me. You’re putting me to a great deal of trouble, boy.” The look she gave him was distinctly unfriendly. “I hope you will be worth it.”
The nightmare, about him, came again that night. When her hands stopped shaking Melissa fumbled for the flint on the table to light the tallow candle, and then sat, hunched up in the middle of the massive bed, her arms wrapped around her legs and her head resting on her knees. Would she never be free? Here she was, a married woman, haunted by memories and wanting nothing more than to be comforted. A pair of strong arms about her, a broad chest under her cheek, warm brown eyes smiling down at her, and lips that—
“Don’t be more foolish than you can help!” Melissa exclaimed. She must be in bad case indeed if she were thinking about her absent husband at a time like this. She could do without him. She could survive without anyone, if she had to.
Still, getting back to sleep would be difficult. The room was not conducive to rest, and she felt lost in the enormous bed. Finally, she swung her legs over the side, thrusting her feet into slippers and pulling on her dressing gown. If she could not sleep, she could at least work. She had yet to finish reviewing all the account books, and there was something about them that bothered her.
Some time later Melissa, sitting at the escritoire in her sitting room, lifted her head and stared unseeingly ahead. The account books were spread out before her, with several scraps of paper, covered with her neat writing, pushed to the side. It couldn’t be, could it? Her fingers traced down the column of figures again. But maybe it was. Certainly something was wrong here, with this column, and if her
e, elsewhere, as well? And if she were right, that meant…
Melissa shoved the account books aside. If she were right, then she had a serious problem, and she didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about it. If only her husband were here—but, no, she wouldn’t think of that.
Morning brought her little counsel. After breakfast Melissa took the account books to the drawing room, which was starting to show signs of improvement. The fireplace was swept daily, the tables shone with polishing, and, though the upholstery and the curtains were still shabby, Melissa had hopes of transforming this room, as well as the rest of the house. If she had cooperation, that is, but that was beginning to seem less and less likely. After what she had discovered, she doubted she’d get any help at all.
For a moment she rubbed her eyes, dazed from all the figuring, with the heels of her hands. Melissa had handled servants for years, but they had been old Selby family retainers, indulgent to a growing girl and competent at their jobs. The Jenkinses were a different story, surly and disobedient. They were, however, more than just insolent. They were also thieves.
Melissa had realized it when she had come across a bill for a new uniform for Rose, the scullery maid. She might have let that pass, had she not seen Rose’s much-patched and darned clothing with her own eyes. From there, once she knew what she was looking for, it was easy to see that the Jenkinses had conspired with everyone, shopkeepers and tradesmen alike, to cheat the estate. No wonder the butcher sent inferior cuts of meat, the greengrocer poor vegetables. With the earl absent it had been easy for the Jenkinses to pay inflated bills for poor goods, undoubtedly sharing the difference with the tradesmen. Someone would have to put a stop to it. Melissa only hoped she could.
For a wonder, Jenkins came promptly when she rang, and though his eyes flickered towards the account books, he made no argument when told to fetch his wife. That lady sailed in a few moments later, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “What is it, my lady?” she asked, without preamble. “I was just in the middle of baking.”
“This is more important,” Melissa said, looking up at the other woman. “I have been reviewing the accounts and I have found some irregularities.”
“Irregularities, my lady? But I can’t imagine what. Of course, Mr. Jenkins and me, we haven’t had none of your fancy schooling and we can’t do sums so good—”
“I think you can do figures well enough to steal.”
Mrs. Jenkins stiffened. “We ain’t no thieves!”
“No? Then how do you explain this?” Melissa asked, and detailed the discrepancies she had found.
Mrs. Jenkins’s face remained stony. “Times are hard, my lady, and things are expensive. Course, you wouldn’t know that,” she said, her voice savage. “Wouldn’t know what life is like for us poor people—”
“Oh, cut line! I know very well what things cost, I have been running a house for years!” Melissa glared at her. “I don’t want to have to take action, Mrs. Jenkins, but if you and Mr. Jenkins will not cooperate, I may have to.”
“And what will you do? What can you do? Oh, no, my fine lady, you won’t get far talking like that!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that it’s the earl pays the bills around here, and everyone knows he’s up and left you!”
Melissa stood up so fast her chair fell back. “Why, you insolent—”
“Careful, my lady. We can make life very unpleasant for you.” Mrs. Jenkins’s grin was evil. “And there ain’t nothing you can do about it.”
“Wait, I haven’t dismissed you,” Melissa cried, but the Jenkinses, already near the door of the drawing room, only laughed. A moment later the door slammed behind them, and Melissa was left staring at it.
Chapter Six
“Really!” Melissa’s hands clenched into fists. She had tried to treat the Jenkinses fairly, but this was too much. When the time came to fight, one had to fight. That she had learned. She was not Major Sir Richard Selby’s daughter for nothing.
She ran down the stairs and was relieved to see only Phelps in the hall. She spoke to him rapidly for a few moments. He looked at first incredulous, then angry, and, finally, determined. “Yes, my lady,” he said, when she had finished. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Good! You are with me on this, then?” she said, looking anxiously up at him, and not for the first time Phelps, gazing into her eyes, thought that the earl was a fool.
“Yes, my lady. I’m with you.”
“Good. Now, go! We must act quickly.” She turned, her hands suddenly cold and clammy. If only Chatleigh were here, she could face anything—Oh, nonsense! she thought, and headed towards the kitchen.
As in most great houses, the kitchen wing was a distance from the main block. By the time she reached it, Melissa was out of breath, and she took a moment to look around the room, composing herself. A good working area, she thought, long and wide with an enormous fireplace, but sadly old-fashioned. When matters had been settled she would see to modernizing it, at least installing a Rumford stove, since Cook at home liked hers so much. At the moment, however, that was the least of her problems.
The Jenkinses were at the other end of the room, standing by the table and apparently arguing. “Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins,” Melissa said, her voice clear and carrying, and they looked up, startled, aware of her for the first time.
Jenkins recovered first. “And what does her ladyship want?” he sneered. “Best get upstairs where you belong and not bother us.”
Melissa took a deep breath. The time for nervousness was past. “I’ve come to give you another chance. Will you cooperate with me, or won’t you?”
Jenkins looked at his wife, and they both grinned. “And if we don’t, what’ll you do, eh, my lady? Write to the earl about it? If he’ll even answer your letters.”
That was so close to the truth that Melissa had to bite back a retort. “The earl left me in charge here—”
“Ha!”
“—in his absence, and I must do as I see fit. If you won’t cooperate then I’ll have no choice but to dismiss you.”
“And what if we don’t go? Eh?” Jenkins advanced upon her, one stubby finger pointing for emphasis, and Melissa stepped back. “What will you do then, my fine lady? Eh?”
“You’ll go,” Melissa said quietly, wondering about the wisdom of confronting these people alone. The polite facade had fallen from Jenkins’s face and he looked menacing, his eyes cold and hard, and his mouth twisted into a sneer. “The earl will be behind me on this.”
“Oh, will he?” Jenkins grinned. “Don’t think so. No, my lady.” He took another step, and Melissa suddenly came up against the wall. “We’re staying, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.”
Oh, where was Phelps? “Then I shall have to call the law down upon you,” she said, somehow keeping her voice calm. Jenkins was very close, and there was no escape.
His laugh was low and triumphant. “You won’t,” he said, and Melissa recoiled, from the smell of onions on his breath and the menace in his voice. “Got no proof.”
Melissa raised her chin. “I have the account books.”
“Not anymore, you don’t. Mother!”
Mrs. Jenkins came forward. “Yes, Mr. Jenkins?”
“Best go get the account books, while my lady and I have a talk.”
“I don’t think so,” a voice said, and Phelps stepped into the room, blocking the doorway. “Stand away from her ladyship.”
Jenkins barely glanced at him. “This don’t concern you.”
Phelps reached out a big hand and pushed Jenkins away. “You’re wrong,” he said. His voice was quiet, but there was something so solid and determined-looking about him that Jenkins pulled back. “It is my concern.”
“And mine.” The groom stepped in from the passageway leading from outside.
“Mine, too.” The gardener, followed by his assistant. “Sorry we took so long, milady,” he added. He carried a spade; the groom, a pitchfork. For the first time the
Jenkinses looked uncertain.
“Are they bothering you, my lady?” Phelps asked.
“Yes, Phelps,” Melissa said. He knees sagged with relief as she slipped past Jenkins. “Did you get it?”
“Yes, my lady. Got their strongbox right here.”
“What!” Mrs. Jenkins surged forward. “But that’s our money! You got no right—”
“I have every right! It is the earl’s money, is it not? Estate money? Small price to pay for all you’ve taken over the years.”
“Shall I show them out, my lady?” Phelps asked, coming swiftly to stand before Melissa as Jenkins surged forward.
“Yes, please, Phelps. Now.”
“You’ll make us go, just like that?” Mrs. Jenkins’s voice rose. “After all the years we’ve worked and slaved, to let us go without a character?”
“Be glad I don’t turn you over to the authorities!” Melissa snapped.
“All right! We’ll go.” Jenkins stared hard at Melissa. “But you’ll regret this, my fine lady.”
“I doubt it. Phelps, if you would?”
“With pleasure, ma’am!” Grinning, Phelps sketched an ironic bow to his erstwhile superiors. Their heads held high, the Jenkinses sailed past him, and Melissa drew her first easy breath since the confrontation had started.
“My lady?” Liza peeked out from the scullery. “Is it true? Are they really going?”
Melissa turned. “Yes, Liza. They’re gone.”
Liza came into the kitchen, followed by Rose. “What now, my lady?”
“Well.” Melissa gestured them closer. “Now we start work. Yes, Liza, I know there are few of us, but I plan to hire more staff.”
“For me, too?” the gardener said.
Melissa smiled. “Yes, for you too. I want this house to shine! We have a lot ahead of us, but as long as we work together, we can do it. Have I your support?”