Unexpected Danger

by Lisa E. Pugh

  Lara glanced out the window. “Why, there he is now, going into Mr. Logan’s shop. That’s a strange bit of luck.”

  The man Lara indicated entering the grocer’s store was not what Margaret would have expected. Her image of a butler was a tall, severe, funereal man, who was so old that he might have been Moses’ personal friend. Brenlaw was tall and certainly not young, but his face had a healthy fullness and rosy color. He smiled and politely greeted everyone who passed him.

  “Sherlock Holmes once said that a dog reflects the household,” Margaret mused. “I wonder what he would say about butlers.”

  Lara snorted. “Mr. Brenlaw’s probably just glad to get out of that house. I know I would be.”

  “Perhaps.” Margaret had not taken her eyes off the figure across the street.

  “Well, Mags, now is your chance to ask about the earl.”

  “Of course, you don’t have to,” Teresa pointed out. “You could just leave it alone and say no.”

  “True, I could.” Margaret rose from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried outside without looking back. The road, as usual, was fairly quiet. With a quick look left and right, she trotted across the street.

  “What do you think?” Teresa asked, watching with an evaluating gaze as her friend entered the grocer’s store.

  “She’ll turn down the offer,” Lara replied confidently.

  “You think so?”

  “She’s a fool if she doesn’t. What are you thinking?”

  “Well, I don’t think she’s a fool. No more than the rest of us. But she has a great deal of curiosity. She also may have as bad a case of the romantics as you do.”

  Lara rolled her eyes at the commonly used insult. “She wouldn’t risk her life just to satisfy her curiosity.”

  “People have done it before. I might, in her shoes.” She frowned, and then smiled. “But I am sure you’re right. Margaret is quite level-headed. She would never do anything truly dangerous.”

  Margaret walked into the shop in what she hoped was a casual manner. Inside, she was as nervous and excited as a tomcat crawling through an unfamiliar alley. Trying to school her voice, she called, “Good morning, Mr. Logan.”

  “Good morning, Miss Taylor,” The heavyset, brown haired and mustachioed grocer replied. “Oh, Miss Taylor, I don’t think you’ve met Mr. Timothy Brenlaw, Lord Yawron’s butler.”

  “No, I haven’t.” She acknowledged the stranger's bow and offered her hand.

  He took her palm with the utmost politeness, but he shook it almost reticently as if unused to the common greeting. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to shaking hands. It was not the traditional way to greet another person’s servant, after all.

  Margaret smiled, hoping to smooth over any faux pas she might have committed. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Brenlaw.”

  “And I you, Miss Taylor. I was just telling Logan here that we may need more provisions in a few weeks. I hope you will choose to accept his lordship’s invitation.”

  “I am giving it careful consideration. Actually, I wanted to ask you about that. How did he know about me?”

  “The village was buzzing about your arrival for weeks before you actually arrived. The servants of the house were speculating like mad about you. He could not help but hear about it. And while observing the countryside with binoculars, he saw you stop at the gates the other day—‘looking up,’ as his lordship put it, ‘with such naked curiosity and shameless intensity that the house blushed’—he decided he wanted to meet you.”

  So that was when he saw me. Margaret stifled a smile. “I see. Still, dinner with a stranger?”

  “It was the most convenient time for him.” He grinned briefly. “He is used to things being convenient for him.”

  “Of course. I understand he doesn’t usually have guests.”

  In an instant, the man’s face turned grave. “No, miss. Not these fifteen years or more. We are all very happy that he is willing to entertain again.”

  “All?”

  “I am not his only servant. His old nurse, who now acts as housekeeper, is still a part of the household. And there are the footmen, the parlor maids, the chambermaids, the cook and her staff, and the grooms at the stables.”

  “He rides?”

  “Yes. He is not the total recluse people believe. No, he rides around the grounds quite often. His life is lonely, but it has its amusements. Shall I tell him you will come?”

  “Ah.” Margaret paused.

  Trying to convince her, he casually pointed out, “It will not be just you and him. Since he has been isolated up there, he has permitted us to join him at table. In that way, his meals are not so boring.”

  “Can I rely on you to act as chaperone?” she asked, “Or should I regard you the way servants are portrayed in Gothic literature, soldiers totally loyal to their masters and not to be trusted?”

  He blinked at her direct question. She could not tell if he was amused or scandalized. Thinking a moment, he answered carefully, “My allegiance and sympathies may be to my employer, but I do not wish to see his reputation tarnished any more than I would wish that on you. Mister Logan can speak to my own and my family's honor, or lack of it. If you let several of your friends know of your plans, nothing nefarious can happen to you without someone noticing.”

  “That is true. Mr. Logan?”

  The shopkeeper turned from tactfully sorting shelves behind the counter, so it did not seem he was listening, and raised an eyebrow. “Given your original question, I'm amazed you would accept information or assurances from any of us in town. For centuries, our families were dependent on the Tobiases. In some ways, we still are.”

  Margaret laughed. “You forget that I have heard you in the pub. You are far more socialist than traditionalist.”

  The gruff man smiled. “Still, I'm flattered that you'd trust me.”

  “I do. Teresa and Lara say good things about you, and I trust their judgment.”

  “I can tell you this, miss. I have known Timothy here since we were young boys. I've never known anyone more honest or reliable. If he gives you his word on something, it's gospel. Even if it goes against his best interest.”

  Turning back to the butler, she asked, “Will you promise to see me through this adventure safely, Mr. Brenlaw?”

  “I will.” He sighed in obvious relief. “If you come to the house, I will make certain nothing offensive or untoward happens to you. You will be treated as an honored guest, and no one—and I mean no one—will accost you under our roof, on the estate, or anywhere between there and your house. I swear on my life.”

  She stared at him speculatively a moment longer. He sounded about as genuine as a man could sound. The pride and assurance in his voice inspired confidence.

  Straightening her shoulders, she replied, “Then yes, I’ll come.”

  “Thank you, miss. Good day, then.” Repressing a smile very badly, the man bowed slightly, touched his hat, and departed.

  As soon as he was gone, Margaret turned to the grocer. “Oh dear. What am I going to tell Teresa and Lara?”

  Mr. Logan rested both hands on the counter and leaned on them. “The truth, I suppose. Not much else you can tell them, is there?”

  “No, I guess not. Thank you for the introduction and the testimonial.”

  “My pleasure. And don't believe everything you hear about his lordship. I may be 'more socialist than traditionalist' as you say, but that man doesn't deserve the talk that surrounds him.”

  “I tend to make up my own mind. Ta!” With a wave, she strolled out of the store.

  As soon as Margaret reached their table, Lara remarked excitedly, “You were gone a long time. What happened?”

  Margaret sat down calmly, braced herself and admitted, “I told him I’d go.”

  “What?” Teresa cried.

  “You must be joking!” Lara added.

  Margaret shook her head. “I assure you, I’m not.”

  “Do you have any idea how dang
erous that is, Mags?”

  “This isn’t some Gothic horror story. He won’t be chasing me around with a hatchet or locking me up in the dungeon.”

  “You never know…”

  “He’s not alone there. The house has plenty of servants. And, Teresa, you told me yourself that Brenlaw is a good man. He said he would make certain nothing would happen. Mr. Logan also assures me that his word is good. Besides, he doesn’t seem the sort to lure unsuspecting females into what the novelists call ‘his master’s web of debauchery.’ ”

  “Maybe not and yet…”

  “Besides, according to Brenlaw, he doesn’t spend all his time in the house. He gets out onto the estate and rides.”

  Teresa scoffed, “And that indicates a sane man?”

  “I thought it would, especially for landed gentry.”

  “Perhaps so, in just about any other case but this one.”

  “At least he’s not stuck in that house all day.”

  Horrified, Lara tried again, “Please, Mags, reflect. You’re planning to go to the house of a man you’ve never met—an isolated house, mind you, miles from anywhere.”

  “Yes, I know. I can’t explain it. I’m just trusting my instincts.”

  Teresa blew a ring of smoke into the air. “The risk to your reputation should be enough to give you pause.”

  “It’s not like I plan to stay the night.”

  “An hour or two can produce notoriety just as easily. Take care.”

  “The offer of the position of chaperone still stands,” Margaret suggested, glancing at her companions expectantly. “No? I didn’t think so.”

  “Teresa’s right,” Lara commented. “You can’t risk your life and reputation.”

  “Brenlaw assured me that nothing was going to happen. He has a good reputation in this village. Surely his word in my favor should count.”

  Teresa snorted. “Now you are just being deliberately naive. A place like this thrives on gossip, the more prurient the better.”

  Margaret paused. Worry and fear flashed over her face. A shudder ran up her spine. She knew the sort of rumors Teresa meant. Could she tolerate such slanders? And for what? A man she had never met?

  And yet, the writer and journalist in her could not give up such a fascinating story or abandon such an enigma. Maybe it was her “romantic nature,” but something about his situation called to her. It drew her like a moth to a flame. Hopefully, it would not have equally disastrous results.

  She stiffened her spine and set her face in stubborn lines. “Say what you like. I’ve accepted the invitation, and I can hardly withdraw it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would be… impolite.” Margaret scowled, daring her friends to laugh at her explanation.

  “Mags, what’s a little rudeness compared with your life?” Lara insisted.

  “I won’t have him thinking that I was scared off by wild tales.”

  “Why should you care what he thinks?”

  “He took a risk inviting me. You both said he hadn’t invited anyone there in years.”

  “And if the rumors prove true?”

  “If they prove true, then you can put on my tombstone, ‘Here lies Margaret Taylor, a conceited bitch who just wouldn’t listen to her friends.’ ”

  “We just might have to do that,” Teresa remarked dryly.

  Chapter 3

  As the days passed, Margaret began to wonder if her friends were right. What did she really know about this strange earl? She only knew what Teresa and Lara told her, and most of that was conjecture. How would the village interpret her visit?

  Why did he invite her in the first place? It was a strange thing to do. She was new to the district, he did not know her, and her family was not of a rank that would make such an invitation obligatory, even under ordinary circumstances.

  She had almost convinced herself that a polite withdrawal would be for the best, when a dozen white carnations were delivered to her door. The note attached simply said:

  Miss Taylor,

  Thank you for accepting my invitation. It was very kind of you. I look forward to meeting you on the twentieth.

  Christopher Tobias, Forty Fifth Earl of Yawron.

  “I wonder if this man can read minds,” she wondered. “He certainly timed these flowers right.”

  She studied the note. It was definitely in the same hand as the first message. This time, the elegant penmanship was a little more cramped and sharp. If words could have a personality, she would describe this brief missive as nervous and excited. There was a suppressed agitation, implying the writer had kept himself under tight control while writing. It seemed Lord Yawron was looking forward to her arrival.

  What must it be like to live for fifteen years with no friends at all? Servants were not friends, no matter how liberal the employer. Barriers still existed. He or she could not have certain kinds of discussions with them. Brenlaw was probably intelligent enough to have such conversations, but there were always boundaries of propriety and pride.

  She had experienced a few periods of social isolation, but she was able to move somewhere else and make new connections. She was not tied to any one place. There was nothing physical about her that would prevent or even hinder building new friendships.

  If Lord Yawron had been seriously injured or maimed, any chance to start over would be severely hampered. His roots were here, and his estate was here. He could be just as alone in London as in his home village. Given what Brenlaw said about his lordship's expectations, he probably would not tolerate pity or rejection from anyone, stranger or friend.

  “I’ll go. It is probably the most ridiculous, reckless, and irresponsible thing I have ever done, but I want to meet this man.” Sighing, she shrugged. “I have always been too curious for my own good.”

  Turning the situation over in her mind, she went to get a vase.

  The big day arrived with squalls and sheets of rain. If she believed in omens, Margaret would have said the tempest did not bode well. However, never one to have the weather dictate her behavior beyond her choice of clothes, she removed a sleeveless black evening dress—a fashionable yet modest two-and-a-half inches below the knee—from her closet and began to get ready.

  Her hair was short, so a few moments with curling tongs were all she needed to achieve the look she wanted. She adorned herself with simple earrings and her favorite glass-bead bracelets and necklaces. Taking into account his upbringing, she was a little conservative with her eyeliner and other makeup. She considered, for a moment, wearing her feathered headband. In the end, she settled for a simple diamond hairpin with a slight flourish of red feathers.

  Best not push too much modernity on the poor boy, she thought with a smile. Then with a final check in the mirror, she pulled on her slicker and rain hat and headed out the door.

  She left early on account of the storm. Even so, the country roads were atrocious. She had to drive slowly to avoid doing real damage to her beloved Morris motor, a dependable dark green automobile she had worked hard to afford.

  Arriving at the estate entrance, she stopped her car and began to open the door. Two figures scurried out of the gloom, men with mackintoshes and slouch hats. They signaled for her to lower the window.

  “Miss Taylor?” One of the shadows asked.

  “Yes?”

  “We was told you was coming. Just you stay where you are, miss. We’ll open the gates for you.”

  Quickly, they pulled the portal open. They were efficient and focused, their serious faces occasionally lit by the car’s headlights. With a thank you and a wave, Margaret started up the long drive.

  The approach to the house looked unkempt and sagging, but it might have been the storm’s work. There were huge oaks with overhanging limbs on either side of the road. The lightning revealed that she was traveling through a large wood. Blazing white flashes displayed the trees in startling, almost frightening silhouettes.

  How large is this estate? Margaret wondered as the road twis
ted and turned up the hill.

  After driving about a quarter-mile, a faint, steady glimmer indicated that Margaret was, at last, approaching the house. The road curved, and suddenly she was facing the mansion. Her headlights illuminated the entrance’s carved door and glistened off the wet stones of the facade. Candles lit the rooms on the lower floor. The flickering light glowed through the windows, some of which were stained glass and clearly of great age.

  As a proper butler should, Brenlaw met Margaret at her car with an umbrella. In full uniform, he looked much more as she had originally imagined him. With detached politeness, he opened the car door and guided her inside.

  Once within the massive doors, he took her coat and hat and led her through the front hall. He was fastidiously correct and eminently professional. Yet Margaret could see a hint of satisfaction in his eyes and a ghost of a smile on his lips.

  Well, he’s certainly glad I’ve come, she thought.

  Armed with a candelabrum, Brenlaw showed her through the dark foyer. The room's high ceiling disappeared into inky darkness. Above their heads, a shadowy minstrel gallery ran the perimeter of the room.

  He guided her slowly through a long hall with imposing historical portraits lining the walls. The blank stares of the art unnerved her. The whole thing was chillingly closer to the Gothic tales she had mocked so casually the other day.

  Finally, he opened a door into a spacious chamber, a sort of drawing room, and indicated the large lighted fireplace. “If you would like to warm yourself for a moment, I’ll bring you something to drink. His lordship will be down presently.”

  She gratefully crossed the room to the large fire. “Thank you, Mr. Brenlaw.”

  “Please, miss, it’s just Brenlaw here.”

  “Oh.” She turned to him and blinked, startled.

  “It’s custom.” The butler shrugged apologetically.

  “Of course. I understand. Sorry.” She had forgotten the practice. It had been years since she lived in a home with a manservant, or, indeed, any servant after she left her mother's house.