by Wilma Counts
She found draperies—both for windows and for beds—in need of thorough cleaning and repair. The linen closets were full of items needing mending and carpets cried out for serious beatings. A coating of dust lay over most of the house—even to some extent in the most used rooms: the library, a drawing room, the dining room, Lady Elinor’s chamber, his lordship’s chamber, and the nursery. Well, that was one chore that could be handled immediately.
Nell was obviously embarrassed at seeing matters through the new housekeeper’s eyes. “It—uh—needs some doing,” she offered.
“It needs a great deal of doing,” Kate said. “But never mind—soap and water, some beeswax—and a healthy dose of elbow grease—will bring things about.” Kate deliberately made her voice more confident than she felt.
The truth was, she found the task daunting, but not impossible. It was, she thought, a wonderful house. Her first impression had been right. The house was large—far larger than any she had known intimately before the move to Wynstan Castle. Unlike the cold showplace that was the castle, though, this house fit comfortably into its surroundings.
“The house appears to have been constructed from local stones,” Kate commented as she and Nell crossed the slate floor of the entrance hall.
Nell chuckled. “Well, you might say so. The stone was originally quarried for the abbey up the Kenrill River. The first earl used stones from the abbey for this house—least, that’s what me da says.”
“A not uncommon practice when the monasteries were destroyed in Tudor times,” Kate observed. She liked that bit of history about the house. And she loved the use of natural stone and heavy, natural timbers throughout the building. A wonderful home, but sadly neglected. She shook her head in mild dismay.
Nell seemed to read her expression and offered apologies. “Lady Kenrick—his lordship’s stepmother—she never liked it here. Used to live in London mostly. She’s in Bath now. Lady Elinor is near blind. An’ Mrs. Preston—well, she was gettin’ on, you see.”
Kate murmured sympathetically as they climbed the stairs to the nursery rooms, only three of which were in use. One was a large general purpose room that doubled as a schoolroom and playroom, one the nursery maid’s chamber, and the other belonged to the earl’s young daughter. The other five chambers in the nursery suite were kept closed, Nell explained. One was a larger bed-sitting room for a governess. They were all cold and smelled faintly musty.
Kate and Nell found the nurse and her charge in the larger room, which had clearly been designed to accommodate a good many more people than the two it now engulfed.
Nell made the introductions. “This here’s Nurse Cranstan and Lady Cassandra,” she said, sounding very formal. Kate thought the young maid’s voice had taken on a reserved, even apprehensive note.
“Mrs. Cranstan,” Kate said with a nod. “I am Mrs. Arthur, the housekeeper.”
“Yes, I know.” The other woman’s tone was almost curt. “And it’s Miss Cranstan—or just plain Cranstan.”
Kate judged the Cranstan woman to be in her fifties. Her dark auburn hair was liberally streaked with gray and worn in a severely drawn back bun. She was a tall, spare woman with plain features. She had a brusque, no-nonsense demeanor.
The child seated quietly at a small table, however, was far from plain. She was small with straight, coal-black hair that hung nearly to her waist. She looked up when Nell said her name, turning on Kate a pair of blue eyes that were especially startling, given her very dark hair and golden complexion.
“What a beautiful little girl,” Kate said softly. “How do you do, Lady Cassandra?”
Before the child could react, the nurse spoke in an admonishing tone. “How do you greet someone properly, Lady Cassandra?”
The little girl scooted down from the chair and executed an awkward curtsy. She turned solemn, intelligent eyes on Kate, but said nothing. Nor did she smile.
“She doesn’t talk much,” the nurse said. “And she still has a lot of heathen ways about her. I doubt we will ever make a proper lady of her, but his lordship insists we try. And heaven knows I do try.” The woman heaved a much-put-upon sigh. “ ’Tis hopeless, though. Her hair won’t take a proper curl, no matter how hot the iron or how tight the rags, and she is as stubborn and contrary as any wild animal.”
Kate was appalled at the woman’s crass speech in front of her charge. The little girl gave Miss Cranstan a dull, enigmatic stare. There was none of the liveliness or interest one would expect in a child of five or six years. Nevertheless, Kate had the distinct impression that Lady Cassandra, despite her extreme youth, possessed a very accurate view of her nurse.
“Children do have minds of their own.” Kate tried to sound noncommittal and bit her tongue against adding that wise adults treasured and nurtured those independent minds.
“Well, this one certainly does,” Nurse Cranstan confided. “Why, just getting her dressed of a morning is a chore.”
Kate looked more closely at Lady Cassandra’s dress. It was an elaborate pink affair with a high ruffled neck and a profusion of ruffles and ribbons. She wore fancy slippers. The little girl looked uncomfortable in garb that could hardly be considered standard schoolroom or play attire.
“Is something special planned for her ladyship’s day?” Kate asked.
“Oh, no,” Cranstan said with a note of superiority. “I always try to dress her properly, though.” The nurse snatched up a porcelain doll with yellow hair and a dress similar to the one worn by the child. Cranstan thrust it toward the girl. “Here, darling. Go and play now.” The endearment seemed forced.
The girl took the toy and retreated to a window seat, where she sat looking disconsolate. Kate, feeling sorry for her, followed her gaze to a high shelf on which sat a rag doll dressed in an outfit Kate thought must be some sort of American Indian clothing.
Cranstan noted the direction of their attention and gave a mild snort. “Can you fathom that? She’d rather play with that filthy rag than the beautiful doll his lordship brought back from London for her. Had a devil of a time getting that—that thing away from her.”
Kate surmised that it was not a new housekeeper’s place to correct the child’s well-established nurse, but her instant fury at the woman’s obtuseness would not allow her to remain silent. “Perhaps it is merely a matter of wanting to cling to something familiar,” she said.
The nurse sniffed. “She needs to get rid of her heathen ways and learn to be a proper English girl, though how she will ever be accepted in polite society with those Indian features is beyond me.”
Kate bit her tongue and exited the nursery along with Nell.
Immediately the maid seemed more at ease. “Nurse Cranstan, she’s pretty strict.”
“It would appear so,” Kate said.
“Miss Mortimer recommended her to Lord Kenrick’s attention,” the girl said.
Kate did not want to encourage gossip among the servants by asking who Miss Mortimer was and why his lordship had given such credence to her recommendation, but she left the nursery with a much lower opinion of her employer than she had heretofore entertained. How could the man subject that beautiful child to such a rigid, restrictive atmosphere?
CHAPTER 5
Jeremy watched his new housekeeper leave the library. What on earth had possessed him to hire a woman whose appearance and demeanor recommended her more for a ballroom than a stillroom? An apron about her waist emphasized delectable feminine curves, and that ridiculous mobcap did little to hide the soft, wispy curls about her face. He shook his head in self-disgust. He supposed he had been thinking with some part of his anatomy other than his brain. And that line of thought would not bear pursuing at all. She was, he reminded himself, an employee—and this Lord Kenrick, unlike his predecessor, would not be dallying with the help! Three months. In three months, perhaps Margaret could find him a proper housekeeper.
“Well, Aunt,” he challenged. “What do you think?”
“Your new housekeeper sounds efficient. Yo
ung, though. Is she pretty?”
“Pretty?” He feigned disinterest. “Yes, I suppose she is—for whatever that matters.”
“Oh, it could matter,” his aunt said sagely. “Time will tell.”
Jeremy snorted. “The vicar’s wife is reading novels to you again, isn’t she? The two of you—filling your heads with romantic nonsense.”
His aunt laughed merrily. “You, my boy, could use a bit of romance in your life!”
He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Finish your nap, Aunt Elinor. I have work to do.”
In the next two days, he became aware of subtle—and some not so subtle—changes in the Hall. He noticed the smell first. Fresh air and beeswax chased away the pervasive mustiness. He had come into the library one afternoon to find the windows wide open and papers on his desk exactly where he had left them, but firmly anchored by a paperweight, an inkwell, and an intricately carved, fist-sized image of a buffalo, given to him after his first hunt with the Arapaho. A young maid was on her knees industriously polishing the legs of the furniture.
“Should I leave, my lord?”
“No. Finish your task,” he said.
“I’m near done. Mrs. Arthur, she wants it done proper-like. She wouldn’t let me touch the top o’ the desk none, though.”
“Good,” he said firmly. His desk was messy—but it was sacred territory. He was glad the housekeeper realized that.
He also began to notice what appeared on his plate at mealtimes. Suddenly, his meals presented not only an eye-pleasing variety of color and texture, but subtle blends of herbs and spices added to meats and vegetables enticed the palate. The second evening, he sent a footman for the housekeeper. She appeared in the dining room as he and his aunt were finishing the evening meal.
“You wished to see me, my lord?”
He wiped his mouth with the napkin and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, Mrs. Arthur. We’d like to compliment you on the meal.” Well, that was true, he told himself, as he carefully ignored that he had also just wanted to see her. “It was quite fine.”
“Thank you. I shall pass your praise on to Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Mrs. Jenkins was responsible for this?” He gestured at his empty plate.
“This meal bespoke a hand other than that of Mrs. Jenkins,” Lady Elinor said.
“Well, I do make an occasional dish. I love to cook and Mrs. Jenkins is kind enough to share her domain. I happened to notice the herb garden—it was quite overgrown. Also, I found an assortment of spices in a chest in the housekeeper’s rooms. I imagine Mrs. Jenkins simply did not know they were there.”
“Hmm,” the earl grunted noncommittally. His aunt merely nodded.
“Will that be all, my lord?”
“Yes—uh, no.” He felt an inexplicable urge to keep her near. Later he attributed it to the fact that, other than Aunt Elinor—whose conversation centered on local gossip—there was no one else in his household he could engage in real, non–duty-related conversation. Only recently had he become fully aware of this lack in his life. In America, he had enjoyed the camaraderie of fellow fur traders in the wilderness, and during the months he and Willow spent in St. Louis, he had developed a companionable friendship with a local minister and a lawyer. All of those people had been his equals. Here, he was in charge—responsible—and it was hard to discuss philosophical or political issues with people whose very existence depended on getting along with him. Here was a woman who struck him as knowledgeable and conversant with affairs of the world—and she was decidedly easy to look at too. “How are you getting on?” he now asked the housekeeper.
“Quite well, my lord. The staff have been most helpful.”
“Even Wilkins?” he asked, not bothering to mask a shade of amusement and concern.
“Yes. Even Mr. Wilkins,” she replied with a smile.
“Very good.” He felt they both knew they would not openly discuss the butler’s offended sensibilities unless it proved necessary to do so. “And have you had time to consider your duties overall?”
“I have, my lord. And I have examined the household books. I believe we can manage as is—for a while, at least.”
He raised a brow in surprise. “Indeed?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Reluctantly, he let her go then.
Leaving the dining room, he saw his aunt to her chamber, then visited the nursery. It was his habit to spend time each evening with Cassie, regardless of how much—or, lately, how little—time he had spent with her earlier in the day. His visit gave Miss Cranstan a break each evening during which she could sip cider and socialize with other staff members. And it gave him precious time alone with his daughter.
She was, as usual, prepared for bed when he arrived. He hugged her close, savoring the fresh, clean smell of her. With her long black hair braided into two plaits, she reminded him strongly of her mother, though Cassie’s eyes were a brilliant blue where her mother’s had been what he thought of as deep Indian brown.
He was not sure why, but his dead wife had occupied his thoughts even more than usual lately—always with a tinge of regret. And guilt. He had long since let go of his grief, though he supposed the regret for what might have been would always haunt him.
What might have been—had either of them been of a different temperament. There was a wildness about the beautiful Willow that had had nothing to do with her being half Indian. On their very first meeting she had captivated him—as, indeed, she captivated all men. He could hardly believe his luck when she chose him among all the men pursuing her. Rich fur traders and brave Indian warriors seemed to have more to offer her than a greenhorn Englishman. Perhaps it was his being “different” that attracted her. He had not cared. All he wanted was her. And the feeling was mutual—for a while.
Familiarity breeds contempt, he thought. Well, it had seemed so at any rate for the capricious, volatile woman he had married. In retrospect, he realized that she had already shown signs of restless dissatisfaction when she—unhappily—found herself pregnant.
“Papa is sad?” Cassie’s plaintive question roused him from these less-than-happy memories.
“No, Poppet. You always make me happy.”
He nuzzled her smooth cheek and tickled her lightly, making her giggle. She was his carefree Cassie again, but only for a moment. Then she seemed to remember herself and she straightened.
“How was your day?” he asked. “Did you and Ned play outside today?” The two children had become acquainted the day before—when it had rained all afternoon.
“No, Papa. English girls don’t play wild boy games.” There was a note of regret in her voice.
“They don’t? Who says so?”
“Miss Cranstan. She says proper English girls must not run around like wild heathens.” She reported this in total innocence.
Jeremy thought the nurse’s remark decidedly crude, but he could not bring himself to believe it had been truly malicious. “Perhaps Nurse Cranstan is right—at least partly,” he said. “But it is all right for you to have fun.”
“Yes, Papa,” she replied in a serious tone.
“Shall I tell you a story of a beautiful girl who could run faster than any of the boys in her village?”
“Oh, yes, please!”
Her eagerness showed a spark of the old Cassie. So, transplanting the characters from Greek myth to an Arapaho tribe, he related the story of the fleet-footed Atalanta.
“That was a good story, Papa,” Cassie said with grave approval.
He grinned and hugged her tighter. Miss Cranstan returned and he kissed Cassie good night. He waited as the nurse put the child to bed.
“A word, Miss Cranstan,” he said when she came out.
“Yes, my lord?” Her tone was coolly superior.
“I should not think it necessary to speak of ‘wild heathens’ to my daughter,” he said.
“If, indeed, I used such a term, I meant nothing untoward by it,” she said defensively. “ ’Tis but the sort of thing one says in pas
sing. I often did so with Miss Mortimer.”
“Among themselves English people often use such terms indiscriminately, not realizing how advanced many other cultures truly are. I want my daughter to accept and take pride in her heritage—English and Arapaho,” he explained, then added in a firmer tone, “I prefer that you not use terms like wild heathens with Lady Cassandra.”
“Of course, my lord. I had not realized she was quite so delicate in terms of language.” Her tone made it clear that she thought he was overreacting, and Jeremy did not want to exacerbate the issue, so he let it drop.
The next day Nurse Cranstan’s former charge, along with her parents, came to call. Jeremy and Lady Elinor received the visitors in the formal drawing room, which was larger and more elegant than the comfortable room the family usually chose.
In the interest of keeping the proprieties, Sir Eldridge Mortimer announced, he had accompanied mother and daughter when they had seen fit to pay a neighborly call on a fellow landowner, an unmarried man at that. One could not be too careful with a young lady’s reputation. The man had greeted Aunt Elinor politely, but these comments seemed to overlook her presence. In any event, there the three were: in the Kenrick drawing room, sipping tea and making small talk.
Mortimer was a robust man in his fifties with a shock of black hair that refused to show more than the barest hints of gray. Jeremy’s acquaintance with him had occurred only in recent months, for Mortimer had moved to the area while Jeremy was in America. Mortimer was one of those ambitious self-made men one often saw on the fringes of society: men whose financial ambitions had been realized and who now turned their aspirations—or those of their wives—to the social sphere.
Well, why not? Jeremy reasoned in a live-and-let-live manner of thinking. Mortimer’s knighthood was a recent one, conferred, according to Phillips, after a hefty “loan” to the always financially pinched Prince of Wales.
Jeremy turned his attention to his female guests. In contrast to her more flamboyant husband and assertive daughter, the mother was a gray little pigeon of a woman. She seemed content to allow her husband and daughter to carry most of the weight of the social amenities, though she had graciously inquired after Lady Elinor’s health.