by Wilma Counts
Several days in the field with farmers and sheep had seen the pile of paperwork and mail on his desk grow astronomically. He had ignored long enough problems of labor, supplies, and equipment for the cotton mill. A flooded shaft in the coal mine demanded attention as well. Perhaps if he cut the hours of shifts in the mill, he could avoid letting workers go. The mine manager assured him the pump could be repaired—this time.
This time. He ran a hand distractedly through his hair, wishing he had someone to talk all this out with, someone to help him see the issue more clearly. What could he do if those cargo ships failed to make port? What if the price of wool fell even lower? What if . . . ?
He spied a missive from Phillips. It was an unusually weighty letter. Speaking of cargo ships . . . Opening it, Jeremy was amazed to see another letter from Phillips—this one addressed not to him, but to his housekeeper! Phillips was writing the housekeeper? Jeremy had left London in such a hurry, it had not occurred to him to wonder how Phillips had happened to find the available Mrs. Arthur—who had previously worked in a duke’s household, at that. Jeremy reached for the bellpull to send a footman in search of the housekeeper again.
Meanwhile, he read the message Phillips had sent him:
I do apologize for being the bearer of bad news, my friend, but it appears that at least two vessels of the fleet of five in which we invested went down during a storm in the Indian Ocean. The five were traveling together to ward off pirates, you know. This information comes from survivors whose lifeboats had drifted far off course. They suffered egregiously, but were eventually picked up by a clipper that only this week arrived in England. There is no word yet on the other ships, but surviving crew members fear the worst.
P.S.
Would you be so kind as to deliver the enclosed letter to Mrs. Arthur? I am relying on you to handle this message with the utmost discretion.
J
Jeremy sat stunned for several minutes, thinking of the lost lives, lost ships, and lost cargo. Having himself battled the furious storms of a capricious Mother Nature for years in North America, he thought he could appreciate fully the sacrifices—and the drive—of men who went to sea. Still—such a terrible waste of life....
There was also, of course, the matter of ships and cargo. He wondered if other investors had put as much of themselves into this venture as he had. It went far beyond money. He had, in effect, wagered his and his daughter’s future—as well as that of the entire earldom. The profit would not in itself have paid the debts Mortimer held, but along with the mill, the mine, and the sale of the wool, he just might have managed to squeeze out from under the knight’s weighty boot. Now, perhaps he and Phillips and the others could realize something. He recalled Hartwick’s comment the other night: “Hope springs eternal.”
He shook his head in resignation and drummed his fingers on the desk. Time will tell, he thought, and meanwhile, it simply was not in his nature to give in without trying to salvage what he could.
He reread the letter, dwelling this time on the postscript and the letter for Mrs. Arthur.
Utmost discretion? Bloody hell! What was going on here? Was there some sort of liaison between Phillips and Mrs. Arthur? Had she been his mistress whom Phillips just happened to help to a job out of town? He shook his head. No. Impossible. That would be totally out of character for Phillips; Wally was besotted with his pretty blond wife. And Jeremy would have staked a bundle—if he had one—that such behavior would be totally out of character for Mrs. Arthur too.
Mrs. Katherine Arthur. Why was there no man’s name in front of that Arthur? And why had he not questioned that before? Was Mrs. Phillips involved in some sort of charity helping fallen women? No, that scenario did not fit his Mrs. Arthur, either. His Mrs. Arthur? Perhaps she would open up after reading the message from Phillips.
Answering a second summons from her employer in less than an hour, Kate knocked tentatively on the library door and entered at his bidding.
“Yes, my lord?”
“I have here a letter from Walter Phillips for you,” he said, giving her a keen look.
She felt her whole being go very still. She imagined the color draining from her face. “A l—letter? F—for me?” Oh, dear Lord. It could only be bad news.
“A letter.” He held it out to her.
“Thank you.” Her hand trembled as she took it. He might have been extending a hot poker to her for all her eagerness to take it.
“I hope that yours, at least, is not bad news,” he said. “However, if you need anything—”
She took a deep breath and regained some of her composure. “I’m sure it isn’t. Mr. Phillips handled a minor legal matter for my husband. This is probably the final confirmation. But, if you will excuse me—”
He nodded, his expression unreadable.
She scurried from the room, berating herself. If she had to lie, surely she could have come up with something more believable than that! She went to her rooms, glad Ned was engaged in solving the riddle of the garden maze. She ripped open the letter, scanned it quickly, then reread the brief message more slowly, fear clutching at her painfully.
My dear Mrs. Arthur. (At least he had remembered not to address her as Lady Arthur!) I do not want to alarm you unduly, but Wynstan has hired a Bow Street Runner to trace your whereabouts. My wife and I put him off by informing him of your family ties—in Cornwall, we thought—but I fear he will come back to question us and our staff again and eventually, he may put you and your son on that mail coach north. (In retrospect, perhaps having Mrs. Sealy accompany you was not such a good idea, matters of propriety notwithstanding.) Lawrence is keeping me apprised of the duke’s actions. We should be able to give you ample warning if the situation becomes critical.
P.S. You may want to divulge your circumstances to Kenrick. He is a good man.
She sat down heavily and clenched her fists. No. She would not panic. Not yet. As a diversionary tactic, their coach ticket had been to Durham, a hundred miles farther north. The runner would have to go north and fan out from there into dozens of towns and villages. Surely she and Ned were safe for some time yet. And if worse came to worst, she could return to London and book passage to Canada. Thank God that Arthur had engaged men like Mr. Phillips and Major Lawrence to look out for her interests.
As for informing Lord Kenrick of who and what she was—no. The fewer people who knew, the safer Ned would be. And—how could she reveal herself as such a fraud?
CHAPTER 9
The next day, as Jeremy set about solving the most immediate problems of the huge concern that was the earldom as a whole, he received welcome news: The mine was once again in full operation. The labor problems at the cotton mill, however, required his presence, so he informed his aunt and Cassie that he would be gone for a day or two. He also made such members of the staff who needed to know aware of his plans: Wilkins, Miss Cranstan, and Mrs. Arthur.
His aunt, of course, wished him well and assured him she would be fine. He needn’t worry about her. Cassie was another story. In a comfortable chair in the nursery, he held her on his lap as he told her he was going away. Her chin trembled and tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Can’t I go with you? Please, Papa. I’ll be good. I promise.”
He held her tighter and pressed his head to hers. “I know you would, Poppet. But the mill is no place for a little girl.” Even as the words left his mouth, he had a mental image of children scarcely older than his daughter working long hours in both the mill and the mine. Child labor was a fact of life, but that did not mean one had to like it or approve of it. Faint rumblings of protest were heard now and then in political circles, but it would take an act of Parliament to effect any change—and the Seventh Earl of Kenrick had yet to take his seat in that august body.
Cassie patted his cheek. “I could stay in the carriage,” she begged.
“No, sweetling. You couldn’t. Now stop crying, please.” He wiped tears from her cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be back soon a
nd then we can do something really fun. All right?”
She brightened. “A picnic?”
“If you’d like.”
“Can Ned and his mama come too?”
“If you’d like.”
This promise mollified her and she kissed him good-bye with an eager smack.
Although he could have left it up to Wilkins to inform the rest of the staff of his impending absence, Jeremy chose to inform Mrs. Arthur himself. He felt an inexplicable urge to see her. Well, maybe not so very inexplicable—but he was also still intensely curious about that message from Phillips. Instead of summoning her to the library, he tracked her down in the stillroom. She was sorting a basket of fresh flowers and herbs and hanging them to dry. She was not immediately aware of his presence and seemed lost in thought—or worry—her brows knit.
“Mrs. Arthur.”
She turned abruptly, knocking the basket to the floor, spilling fragrant greenery. “Oh, my lord! You startled me.”
“I’m sorry. Shall I go out and come back in?”
She smiled. “No, of course not. Did you need me for something?” She stooped to gather the spilled herbs.
Oh, yes, he thought, admitting to this realization as he bent to help her. Their hands touched briefly and their heads were close as they retrieved the basket’s contents. He was aware of the fresh, earthy smell of the herbs and of the light lilac scent he had come to associate with her. They both stood and he handed her a sprig of something pungent. His gaze holding hers, he was acutely aware of her person and he thought there was answering awareness in her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “I came to tell you I am leaving for a day or two, depending on what I find at the mill.”
“I see. We shall try to ensure all is safe while you are away.”
He thought she was trying to convey a pleasant optimism she might not feel, for a strained look about her eyes belied her tone. “Well,” he said lamely, “I just wanted to be sure you were all right, that your news from Phillips yesterday was not upsetting.”
“I’m fine,” she said cheerfully.
He was sure he detected a certain false note to her tone, but he could not force her to confide in him, now, could he?
“You seem to have restored order to this room.” He looked around just as though he knew what a stillroom should look like. However, he had seen this one on his initial tour after arriving back in England. Messy and neglected and dirty, it was then of little concern to the new lord. Now he observed a number of jars on dust-free shelves, all neatly labeled, and several branches of herbs in various stages of dryness hanging overhead. Two covered crocks stood in a corner.
Mrs. Arthur turned quickly, picked up a sprig from the worktable, and held it out to him. “Doesn’t this smell wonderful?”
He sniffed it. “Mint.”
She held out another. “Try this.”
He bent nearer to smell it. “Mint as well?”
“But different. Spearmint and peppermint.” Her voice seemed to catch as she held his gaze again.
Slowly, almost without being conscious of the action, he pulled her to him and pressed his mouth to hers. For a moment she was very still, then her arms encircled his neck and she responded feverishly, hungrily, pressing herself closer. He uttered a low groan and deepened the kiss. She still held a sprig of mint in her hand and he later supposed it was that smell that brought him to his senses. He released her abruptly and stepped back.
“I—I am sorry, Mrs. Arthur. I—I should not have done that.”
“There’s no need to apologize, my lord.” She did not look away, but she did look embarrassed.
“I would not take advantage,” he stumbled on.
“Please. Forget it.” She looked down at the sprig of mint still in her hand. “It must have been obvious that I—that it—it was—well, mutual.” She lifted her eyes to his again, her own earnest and honest—and showing a degree of fear he wanted immediately to erase. “But I agree: it should not have happened. No offense offered; no offense taken.”
He broke the eye contact. “Well, then—”
“Did you have some special task for me to fulfill in your absence, my lord?” Her tone now was very businesslike.
He assumed the same demeanor. “No. However, I’ve promised Cassie a picnic when I get back, and she specifically ask if Ned and his mama could come too.”
“I’m sure Ned would enjoy that.”
“And his mama?” He smiled.
“Hmm. She might too. We’ll see.”
Inexplicable need, indeed, he chastised himself repeatedly on the long ride to the mill. “Just could not control yourself, could you, Kenrick?” He relived the warm earthiness of the stillroom coupled with the light scent of lilac and mint and recalled the absolute rightness of their bodies molding together. Was he turning into his father after all? Even as he berated himself, he recalled with infinite pleasure the way she had responded.
Kate too was subjecting herself to a good deal of self-censure. She should never have allowed that to happen. And to have responded as she had was totally improper. Why, she was no better than those wanton widows soldiers used to joke about so! Worse, she had been oblivious to the very real danger the incident could pose. What if the earl thought her so lacking in morals he would dismiss her? Never mind his own role. Romantic dalliance between masters and servants invariably ended with servants paying the price of such. Oh, dear God. If she lost this position, what would happen to Ned?
Well, she would just have to see that it never happened again, she decided, as she went about her usual duties. She was annoyed, though, that she had to come to that decision over and over again.
The housemaids at Kenrick took turns overseeing the nursery so that Miss Cranstan could have her dinner with the rest of the staff in the servants’ dining hall. Kate knew that, in the hierarchy of servants, Miss Cranstan valued herself at the top and felt everyone else should do so as well. The woman dearly loved to gossip, though her conversation lent itself more to pronouncing her opinions than exchanging information and ideas with others. Among the staff, Miss Cranstan made no secret of her opinion that the Kenrick earldom would have a countess in charge of the Hall before the year was out—and that the front-runner for that role was her former charge, Miss Charlotte Mortimer.
No one contradicted Miss Cranstan at dinner, but Rosie Davis later expressed the fervent hope that the woman was wrong.
“My cousin is a housemaid for the Mortimers,” Rosie said to Kate as the two of them arranged a tray for Rosie to take up to Lady Elinor. “An’ that Miss Mortimer—she’s spoiled an’ hateful! Had a girl fired because she overheard a footman say the girl was pretty.”
“That surely can’t be true,” Kate said.
“That’s what Cousin Jane said. An’ she also said Miss Mortimer don’t like it none that Lord Kenrick dotes on his daughter so. Said stepchildren belong in boarding schools.”
“Good heavens!” Kate said, feeling guilty that she allowed Rosie to divulge this much. “Jane should probably guard her tongue more. Most employers do not like having private business broadcast so.”
“That’s what me ’n Nell told her.” Rosie looked contrite and left with the tray.
Kate returned to the servants’ dining room as the others were finishing. Miss Cranstan was saying in a put-upon tone: “He said he’d be gone a day or two. But my half-day off is day after tomorrow and he made no plan for what I’m to do with the child. Usually he does something with her then.”
“I’ll be glad to watch over Lady Cassandra for you if his lordship has not returned,” Kate offered.
Miss Cranstan pondered for a moment. “Well—I would not want to put you to any trouble—”
“It’s no trouble. She can join Ned’s lesson, then the two of them can play outdoors if the weather is nice.”
“Well . . .” The nurse sounded only slightly reluctant. “I really did have special plans. Miss Mortimer and her mother are sending a carriage for me to visi
t them.”
“It’s settled then. I’m sure his lordship won’t mind.”
Kate saw Lord Kenrick’s absence as an opportunity to give carpets in the most heavily trafficked portions of the house a thorough cleaning. To this end, she set footmen and maids about the tasks of removing the carpets, hanging them over ropes strung between two posts, and beating them vigorously with paddles. The servants involved treated the job, a deviation from routine duties, as an adventure; there was a good deal of laughter and horseplay.
Mr. Wilkins and Miss Cranstan complained about the commotion and the dust and retreated to their respective rooms—sans carpets. When the floors had been scrubbed and the carpets replaced, Kate gave the staff free time and treated them to ale and cakes Mrs. Jenkins had prepared. Wilkins and Cranstan sniffed at this too, muttering things like, “When the cat’s away . . .” and “They’ll just take advantage . . .”
The following day was as dry and sunny as the previous one. Extending effusive, if not wholly sincere, words of appreciation to Kate, Miss Cranstan left to keep her appointment with the Mortimer women. Lady Cassandra happily joined Ned’s lessons and Ned happily showed off the very superior knowledge a two-year advantage gave one. The lesson over, Kate considered the little girl’s attire.
“Ribbons and ruffles for outdoor play? I don’t think so.” Telling Ned to finish a line of sums, she took Lady Cassandra up to the nursery rooms.
“So,” Kate said. “Where are your play clothes kept?”
The girl opened a closet door and Kate examined several garments. “No, darling. Your play clothes.”
Lady Cassandra looked puzzled. “I wear these. ’Cept for riding.”
“Well, there must be something here,” Kate muttered and began opening doors and pawing through drawers. “Ah-hah!” She found a plain cotton dress and a matching cotton pinafore. “This will do nicely—easily washed and ironed.”