by Olivia Drake
Nevertheless, she could hardly refuse. As she stood, his scent of spice and leather wafted over her. Their gazes met and his faint, wry smile knocked the edge off her anger. She had the sudden impression that he sympathized with her discomfiture. Was she wrong to think he’d been mocking her?
The younger lady arose from the chaise and glided to Lord Simon’s side. Taking hold of his arm, she looked straight past Annabelle as if she didn’t exist. “Is His Grace nearby, Simon? Oh, I should very much like to see the dear boy.”
“Louisa simply adores children,” the older lady said, gracing her daughter with an indulgent smile as she picked up the pot to pour the tea into cups. “She will be an excellent mother someday.”
Annabelle saw straight through the woman’s attempt to push Louisa at Lord Simon. Goodness, could anyone be more transparent?
If Lord Simon noticed, he must not have minded, for he smiled at the woman beside him. They made an exceptionally handsome couple, dainty, fair-haired Louisa so ladylike beside his tall, dark form. By comparison, Annabelle was a blot of ink on a pristine sheet of vellum.
She was also a trespasser at this high-society gathering. The sooner she escaped, the better. Her cupped hands full of sugar, she bobbed an awkward curtsy and then edged toward the door.
“Miss Quinn,” Lord Simon called after her. “See if the boy is waiting out in the passage.”
Annabelle disliked the notion of ushering Nicholas into the drawing room. He would find it an agony to be cooed over by these ladies. Didn’t his uncle realize the difficulties of being shy? Maybe he simply didn’t care.
Much to her relief, the corridor was empty. She glanced up and down to be certain. Nicholas must have gone back to the nursery. “He isn’t here, my lord.”
Lord Simon flashed an apologetic smile at the ladies. “I’m afraid you’ll have to see my nephew another time. Whenever he vanishes, it’s quite impossible to find the lad.”
While his guests clucked and commiserated, Annabelle stood frozen just outside the chamber. Whenever he vanishes? Did Nicholas make a habit of running away because he was afraid of his uncle? She couldn’t believe how blasé Lord Simon sounded about the matter.
His lack of concern irked her. Nicholas was a defenseless child, not a stray dog or cat. It was time the man recognized that.
She stepped back into the doorway. “My lord, might I beg a word with you?”
He paused in the act of accepting a teacup from the older lady. His dark gaze skewered Annabelle, causing an involuntary rush of gooseflesh over her skin. Apparently he wasn’t accustomed to being summoned by the help.
He set down the cup, excused himself from his guests, and strode into the corridor to join her. “What is it?” he snapped.
Up close, he looked far too intimidating, and Annabelle half regretted the impulse that had goaded her to speak. But Nicholas longed for art lessons, and if she didn’t fight for him, who would? “I’d like to discuss His Grace’s schedule with you.”
“Now is neither the time nor the place.”
Despite his brusqueness, she kept her own voice even. “Then I must ask for an appointment with you at a more convenient time.”
Her show of cool self-assurance faltered when a loose strand of hair tickled her cheek. Since her hands were sticky with sugar, she attempted to swipe the piece away with the side of her wrist. But the action only caused it to shift across her mouth. Without thinking, she pursed her lips and blew it aside.
Lord Simon stared at her mouth. If anything, his scowl darkened. He yanked a folded handkerchief out of an inner pocket of his coat, shook it open, and held it out to her. “Clean off your hands,” he growled.
Startled, Annabelle glanced at the pristine white linen, then at him. “That won’t be necessary. I can wash up in the kitchen in a moment.”
“For pity’s sake, just do it.”
His voice brooked no nonsense, and after a moment’s hesitation, she dumped the crumbled bits of sugar into his handkerchief and dusted off her palms. He wrapped up the cloth and thrust it at her.
“There will be no appointment,” he stated, his face cold. “I see no need to meet with you.”
The hard edge to his voice rattled Annabelle. Dear God, had she overstepped her bounds? Did he intend to send her packing?
The very real possibility clutched at her. Why, oh why, had she committed so many blunders in front of him today? Having taught etiquette, she of all people knew proper behavior. He must think her inept and ill-mannered, an utter dunce unsuited to being governess to a duke.
“My lord, I ask only that you to hear me out.”
“I already know what it is you wish to say.” His mouth twisted disapprovingly. “I met Bunting on the road and he told me about the difficulties the two of you are having.”
“He did…?”
“I don’t intend to be subjected to another litany of complaints. Nor do I wish to arbitrate any squabbles in the schoolroom. Settle your own disputes with Bunting—or leave the castle. The choice is yours.”
Turning on his heel, Lord Simon strode back into the drawing room to rejoin his guests. Annabelle was left clutching the small bundle of his handkerchief. It was too late to explain that she’d merely wanted to ask him about art lessons for Nicholas.
Now, circumstances left her little choice. At the risk of losing her position, she would have to find a way to rearrange that wretched schedule herself.
Chapter 8
Descending the steep steps to the cellar, Annabelle breathed in the scents of baking bread and damp stone. It was just after dawn, and Nicholas would sleep for another hour. Hopefully, that would give her ample time to glean a little information from the staff.
On this subterranean floor, the servants performed many of their daily tasks out of sight of the gentry. Here lay the kitchen, the laundry, the wine cellar, the butler’s pantry, and various storerooms. She headed down a narrow corridor toward the soft glow of light that spilled from a doorway. As she’d surmised, it was the kitchen.
The cavernous chamber was much larger than the one at Mrs. Baxter’s Academy. Gleaming copper pots hung from hooks, and open hutches held stacks of dishes and glassware. Along one stone wall stood a hearth massive enough to accommodate a suckling pig.
A gray-haired woman with a white apron cinching her plump waist bent over the fire to stir the contents of an iron cauldron. In the center of the room, a pair of young kitchen maids in mobcaps chattered at a long worktable while they peeled a mountain of potatoes.
One of the maidservants glanced over at Annabelle in the doorway. The girl leaned forward to whisper to her companion; then they both fell silent and stared. Wooden spoon in hand, the cook turned around as if to chastise them.
The woman’s eyes widened at Annabelle, and she motioned to one of the maids. “Livvy, stop gawkin’ and come stir the kittle.”
The smaller of the two girls jumped up to take over the task. Wiping her knobby hands on her apron, the cook hurried forward. Her plain but pleasant features were flushed from the fire. “Mrs. Hodge, I am,” she said. “’Ee must be the new governess. Might I fetch ’ee some bruckfast?”
“A cup of tea with toast would be marvelous.”
Mrs. Hodge clucked her tongue. “A body needs more’n that t’ start the day. And ’ee shoulda rung the bell. Or sent Elowen t’ bring a tray.”
Annabelle had deliberately slipped out while the nursemaid was busy scrubbing the floor in the schoolroom. “I don’t mind coming down myself. Might I sit at the table here?”
The cook looked aghast. “In the kitchen? A lady like ’ee?”
Annabelle wanted to correct the woman. She might look the lady in the stylish bronze silk gown given to her by Lady Milford. She might speak and behave according to the posh manners she’d been obliged to teach at the academy. But she’d always felt most comfortable among the servants, for at least they did not look down their noses at her for having been born on the wrong side of the blanket. “I’m perfectl
y content staying right here, truly I am.”
“As ’ee wishes. These two hen wits are Livvy and Moira. They’ll fetch ’ee some fare.”
In short order, Annabelle sat sipping a hot cup of tea at one end of the worktable. Mrs. Hodge bustled around the kitchen, disappearing into the pantry for a sack of raisins and coming back out to prepare a tray of buns for baking.
With a shy smile, Livvy brought over a rasher of toast along with a dish of steaming porridge from the kettle and a small jug of cream. She bobbed a curtsy before hastening back to her potato peeling at the other end of the table.
Except for the girls at the academy who’d been practicing for their court debut, no one had ever genuflected to Annabelle before. The novel occurrence was a stark reminder of the gulf between her and the other servants. As governess, she occupied a place at the pinnacle of the hired staff. Her mission today, however, would be much easier if they viewed her as one of them.
While pouring a dollop of cream into her porridge, she noticed the two maidservants stealing curious glances at her. They had ceased their chatter and it was clear they felt constrained by the presence of a stranger. If ever she was to learn anything useful, Annabelle would have to extend the hand of friendship.
She caught the eye of the huskier of the two girls. “You’re Moira, aren’t you?” she said with a warm smile. “You delivered the tea tray yesterday to Lord Simon and his guests.”
A dull flush came over the girl’s broad features. “Beg pardon, miss, fer bumpin’ inta ’ee.”
“Nonsense, it was my fault, including the misfortune with the sugar. I’m afraid I was speaking to His Grace instead of watching where I was walking.”
Livvy clutched a half-peeled potato to the bib of her apron. “Oh, miss, I been thinkin’ ever since Moira told me wot happened. I’m wonderin’ if mayhap ’twas a pisky that tangled thy skirts.”
Annabelle held back a laugh just in time. The girl wasn’t jesting; she appeared utterly earnest, her eyes big and brown in her freckled face. Across from her, Moira bobbed her head in agreement. The innkeeper at the Copper Shovel also had warned about watching for piskies in the woods. A belief in such fanciful beings must be prevalent among the country folk in the area.
“That’s kind of you to say so,” Annabelle said. “But it wouldn’t be fair of me to blame my own misstep on anyone other than myself. Besides, I can assure you I didn’t see any piskies.”
Livvy leaned forward, her bony elbows braced on the table. “’Ee wouldna see them, miss. Such wee creatures are invisible t’ us. Oft times they play tricks and do mischief.”
Moira chimed in, “They be known t’ hide things, too. They like t’ curdle the milk and cause the bread t’ burn.”
“Just the other evenin’,” Livvy confided, “I saw their tiny lights on the hillside below the castle. ’Tis said they dance at night and leave a ring o’ toadstools.”
“Bosh,” said Mrs. Hodge as she pulled out a loaf of bread from the oven and then slid in the tray of raisin buns. “All this talk o’ lights an’ milk curdlin’! ’Tis what comes of idle minds.”
Annabelle shared the cook’s skepticism. All the incidents the maids had mentioned could be attributed to human causes.
Not wanting to scoff, she opted for diplomacy. “I suppose we’ll never know if it was piskies or my own clumsiness. I’m only thankful that Lord Simon didn’t sack me on the spot.”
“Oh, not his lordship,” the cook said while rolling out another sheet of dough. “He’s a hard man, t’ be sure, but a fair one.”
Fair? What about the coldhearted way he treated his nephew? Annabelle burned to ask, but she had to be careful. The staff would be very loyal to the master.
“That’s good to know,” she said. “By the by, he was kind enough to lend me his handkerchief to hold the sugar that I spilled.” Annabelle reached into her pocket and placed the sadly crumpled scrap of linen on the table. “I was wondering, Mrs. Hodge, if it could be washed and returned to him.”
“I’ll take it t’ the laundry myself,” Mrs. Hodge said, dusting the flour off her hands. “I be needin’ t’ have a word wid the footman about his lordship’s bruckfast.”
She took the handkerchief and trotted out of the kitchen.
The ploy had worked better than Annabelle had hoped. She’d wanted a chance to speak to the maidservants without being under the cook’s watchful eye. If she could coax them into her confidence, she might convince them to share their knowledge of the family.
Swirling her spoon in the bowl of porridge, she remarked, “I must say, I feel blessed to have found a position in such a fine house. Do you both like working here at the castle?”
The maids bobbed their heads in unison.
“’Tis better’n plowin’ the fields an’ milkin’ the cows,” Moira said, paring a potato and then passing it to Livvy for slicing.
“Or shovelin’ muck fer me dad,” Livvy added.
Moira wrinkled her nose. “Ew, ’tis a nasty chore, t’ be sure. Did I ever tell ’ee about the time I slipped an’ fell in a big steamin’ pile? Stunk fer a week, I did. No one would sit aside me in church.”
That sent the girls into a fit of giggles.
Annabelle steered them back on topic. “His Grace is such a dear little boy. It’s a pity he lost his parents at so young an age. If you don’t mind my asking, I never heard what happened to them.”
Moira’s face sobered. “’Twas a terrible wreck of their carriage. The duke was drivin’ the duchess when they was run off the road.”
“Happened in London,” Livvy said solemnly, “not long after Samhain.”
“Samhain?”
“The last day in October month,” Livvy said. “There’s bonfires an’ feastin’ an’ dancin’ t’ mark the start o’ the dark time o’ year.”
All Hallows’ Eve. Though curious to hear more about the local customs, Annabelle had too many other questions and too little time in which to ask them. “Do you suppose the accident caused His Grace to become so quiet and shy? Or has he always been rather timid?”
The two girls stared blankly at her. “Timid?” Moira said, pausing in the act of reaching for an unpeeled potato. “His Grace is some fine, weel-behaved lad.”
“He’s most polite and mannerly,” Livvy added in his defense. “We’re proud t’ serve him, we are.”
Their allegiance to the duke apparently prohibited even the slightest whiff of criticism. “Oh, I meant no complaint,” Annabelle said hastily. “I merely wondered if perhaps he might still be grieving for his parents. So that I can better assist him, you see.”
“Ah,” Livvy said with a sage nod. “Well, Elowen says he’s the very best o’ lads. She’d be sure t’ tell us if he was forlorn.”
Elowen, the nursemaid, seemed a rather dull-witted woman who wouldn’t notice a fly if it sat on her bulbous nose. Not that Annabelle intended to voice that opinion.
“Thank you,” she said, “that’s good to know. Any information you can give me about the duke and his family is a tremendous help.”
The maids smiled. They looked more relaxed now, their hands busy at peeling and slicing potatoes. “We’re most always in the kitchen,” Moira said. “But we do hear things from time t’ time.”
Not wanting to appear a rumormonger, Annabelle paused to savor a spoonful of creamy porridge. “I understand that Lord Simon became His Grace’s guardian last autumn. It must have been a comfort to the child to have someone familiar in the house during his time of grief.”
“Oh, but his lordship din’t know His Grace a’tall,” Livvy said. “They’d ne’er before met.”
Annabelle dropped her spoon. “Never?”
“Aye,” Maura confirmed. “His lordship was a captain in the cavalry. For many years, he was away fightin’ in foreign lands.”
Annabelle hadn’t thought Lord Simon the heroic sort. Now she saw him in uniform on horseback, barking orders to his men and leading a charge into battle. Perhaps the news explained his brusque
manner, for he must be accustomed to strict obedience. Then another picture entered her mind: Nicholas clutching the toy cavalryman in his hand. Was it possible that he admired his uncle as much as he feared him?
She would have to find out. The notion made her all the more determined to see if the rift between nephew and uncle could be bridged.
“Why does no one address him as Captain Lord Simon?” she said.
“The master thinks it too formal, seein’ how he resigned his commission,” Livvy said. “Mrs. Wickett told us so.”
“She’s the housekeeper,” Moira added, then blushed. “But I’m sure ’ee’s already met her.”
“It’s difficult to believe he didn’t return home on leave from time to time,” Annabelle said. “Nicholas is eight and that’s quite a lot of years to be absent from the family.”
The two maids exchanged a look. A silent communication passed between them as if they were debating how to respond to her comment.
“His lordship had good reason fer stayin’ away,” Moira said while glancing at the door. “But ’ee mustn’t think me a gossip fer sayin’ so.”
Too intrigued to finish eating, Annabelle pushed her bowl aside. “Please, do tell me. It’s important that I understand everything going on in His Grace’s life. I shan’t betray your confidence.”
“Well,” Moira said, “I know some that say his lordship was sweet on the duchess afore she was wed. They say the duke stole her away.”
“Lord Simon couldn’t bear t’ see his true love married t’ his older brother,” Livvy added. “’Tis said he enlisted in the cavalry and left England so he wouldn’t have t’ go t’ the weddin’.”
Annabelle sat back in her chair and tried to absorb the revelation. Lord Simon had once been madly in love with Nicholas’s mother. Was that why he wanted nothing to do with Nicholas? Because he couldn’t bear to look on the child who reminded him of his lost love?
Just stay out of my way. You and the boy.