by Holly Newman
Damn the man! What did he want from her?
She grimaced suddenly when she saw Tunning ride up to the manor. She’d seen more applicants arrive over the past half hour. Soon she would be forced to sit through another nerve-wracking session with Tunning and his idea of servant material. Yesterday she’d been appalled at what she privately considered the dregs of human life being put forward to her as servants, to say nothing of the children! In the spirit of fair-mindedness, she thought perhaps this was merely an example of the difference between country servants and those available in the metropolis, though she did not remember any quite like this on her family’s estate.
That morning, however, she had done some judicious questioning of the couple of village women still cleaning at Larchside. Their comments, or rather hedging lack of comments, spoke volumes to Elizabeth. She didn’t know why Tunning should be trying to make a May game of her, but she would not acquiesce easily. It had been her intention to leave her shrewish temperament toward others behind her in London; however, Tunning might become an exception, particularly in light of the incident that occurred that morning in regard to the estate room.
It had been her thought to go through some of the old household records to find mention of suppliers in the area who had done business with Larchside in the past. They would be among the first she would approach with her custom. Her mind busy with lists of necessities, she almost slammed into the door when it inexplicably did not open under her hand. Jiggling the doorknob confirmed her suspicion. The room was locked. At first that circumstance was a mere annoyance, for it meant she must sort through the ring of keys at her waist for the proper one. Her mild annoyance rapidly turned to profound irritation when she discovered the key was not on her ring.
Muttering under her breath at the slipshod practices of Larchside’s supposed caretakers; Elizabeth went in search of Mrs. Atheridge for the missing key. She had not liked the smug, triumphant look that appeared on Mrs. Atheridge’s face at her query, nor had she liked the way she clasped her hands before her and rocked back on her heels. If the housekeeper had been a cat, she would have expected to see feathers or a mouse’s tail sticking out of her mouth. “I’m sorry, my lady, I don’t have it.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes heavenward. This woman was determined to be an obstructionist. “Well, where is it kept?” she asked patiently.
“I can’t rightly say, as Mr. Tunning keeps the key.”
Startled, Elizabeth spoke her first thought. “Why?”
Mrs. Atheridge shrugged and repeated her last statement causing Elizabeth to grind her teeth.
“And the outside door as well?” she finally asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
Elizabeth dismissed her, then went to her room to change her thin slippers for kid half-boots and to collect her pelisse. Already deducing what she would discover, she proceeded nonetheless out the front door of the manor and around the side to the estate room entrance. It, too, was locked.
She went for a walk then to clear all the cobwebs from her mind. The air was cold but the day was clear and crisp.
She climbed a hill at the back of the estate and discovered from there she could see much of the surrounding countryside. The village was not far away. She saw its stone church at the end of the road through the bare tree branches. To the north was a farm with neat buildings and well-maintained hedgerows. From her vantage point it stood in sharp contrast to the surrounding acres. Due to its proximity, as much as to the curving dirt track leading from it to Larchside, she took it for the Home farm.
Looking at it and its neighbors, Elizabeth couldn’t help but wonder how much of what Tunning said was truth and how much fabrication. The feelings he aroused in her breast made her believe it was the latter. But why? Well, Larchside’s restoration was nicely underway. It was time to turn her attentions elsewhere, and seeking the answers to this riddle was as good a direction as any.
Since the cold was beginning to numb her feet, she’d returned to the manor and the questions that lay there.
Atheridge rapped on the library door breaking her train of thought. “Mr. Tunning is here, my lady.”
“Show him in,” said Elizabeth, a calm, neutral expression possessing her features. It was time for a confrontation with the slimy toad, on her terms.
Tunning scurried into the room, rubbing his cold-reddened hands before him. “Ah, my lady, ready and waiting are you to begin?”
“As you see.”
He laughed heartily. “That’s what I like about you, my lady, always straining at the bit, and a sweet goer you are to be sure.” He winked broadly at her and laughed again at his witticism, then his lips curled into a leer. “To be sure, it is a real mystery why the Viscount would take his leave so sudden with a woman like you to warm his bed. Perhaps he doesn’t appreciate you properly.”
Elizabeth seethed, though the only outward manifestation of her emotional state was the white knuckles of her clenched hands. She had considered Tunning coarse, but never in all her dealings with the man had she imagined he could so far forget himself as to speak to her in such a manner. Could he actually have the effrontery to believe she might turn to him as a substitution for her absent husband? The idea was mind-boggling and left her momentarily bereft of speech.
“Oh, now I’ve gone and embarrassed you.” He swaggered toward the desk, a ridiculous lugubrious expression on his face. “Don’t you fret, my lady, old Tom Tunning's not one to be a gabble-box, but should you ever need a shoulder to cry on, mine are right broad.” He reached out to touch her shoulder.
Elizabeth shied out of his way, her jerky action toppling her chair.
“Now, my lady, no need being shy,” Tunning said, mistaking her action for coquetry. He extended a hand to help her up, a self-satisfied smile plastered across his face.
“Don’t you dare touch me you slimy toad!” she cried, giving voice to her image of him. She scrambled to her feet, placing the width of the desk between them. “How dare you infer, let alone think, I should be interested in you. Your insolence knows no bounds. Get your fat, sweaty person out of my sight!”
Tunning's face darkened. “Don’t you go getting high-and-mighty. From what I heard tell, you’re just run goods. You best remember who holds the purse strings around here and sweeten your tongue a bit. That fancy husband of yours left fast enough no doubt for more sprightly game.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, gold flame shooting out through her dark lashes. “You may hold the purse strings,” she said icily, “but you don’t control me. You would best be advised to rethink your attitude before I have you thrown off this property.”
Tunning laughed in her face, though something about her expression gave him pause.
“Tunning, Larchside is mine!” she spat. “It was part of my marriage settlement. Didn’t St. Ryne tell you? How remiss of him. So you see, ultimately, I am your employer. This time I am inclined to give you mercy, indeed, I fear your ignorance warrants it. Now get your carcass and those sorry excuses for servants you’ve brought here out of this house.”
Tunning's mouth opened and closed like a toad catching flies. The his beady eyes narrowed even more as his face took on a choleric hue. “You’ll rue the day you jibed at Tom Tunning!’’
Elizabeth, struggling to hide her trembling, merely lifted her hand and pointed to the door.
Tunning stalked out, slamming the door shut behind him.
Elizabeth’s breath came out in a rush, her limbs suddenly as weak as a rag. She stumbled to one of the wing chairs and sank into it. Raising her hands to her face, she let out long, shuddering sobs. It galled her to know she truly had no power over Tunning; it was all a farce. For all her bravado, St. Ryne could easily negate her words. She had no idea if he would even believe her if she were to relate the tale. She cringed even to contemplate Tunning's next actions if he were to divine the hollowness of her words. He could make life akin to Dante’s Inferno.
She slowly lowered her hands from her face,
balling them into fists that impotently pounded the chair arms. She wanted nothing so much as to scream her frustrations at the top of her lungs. She could not, however, afford to let Tunning hear of her immature behavior via the Atheridges. Ah yes, the Atheridges, Tunning’s spies. It would not do to show any sort of weakness to them. She must get her tears under control, her breathing regular, make it appear she was totally unmoved by the scene in the library, for she’d wager they’d know of it.
She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, willing each muscle in her body to relax. What was she to do? She still was without servants and now, and she distrusted Mrs. Atheridge wouldn’t poison her deliberately versus accidentally as her current cooking ability threatened to accomplish. There seemed to be many decent people in the village for all who came to help at Larchside had been good folk. How could she find others to assume permanent positions in her household? Who would know everyone in the area?
Her eyes flew open. The vicar! A vicar would know his flock. Perhaps he even knew some of the skeletons rattling around, like Tunning and the Atheridges. No doubt he would be expecting her to make a duty call anyway. Perfect. Tunning could not rant and rave at suggestions from a man of the cloth.
“Oo-oo,” Elizabeth mouthed silently, a devilish light glowing in her eyes. Tunning was about to receive the first comeuppances at her hand and if she played her cards right, he could not complain to St. Ryne.
The next morning, Elizabeth felt beset by locusts. Not only did tradesmen and craftsmen arrive to push and pull for her attention, but also her trunks of personal belongings arrived. So busy was she that it wasn’t until nearly teatime before she could slip away to trek down to the village and the little stone church she had seen the day before.
A brisk fifteen minute walk brought her to the rectory and moments later she found herself in a cheery little parlor facing a kind-looking white-haired gentleman.
“I am delighted, simply delighted by your visit. My oh my, are we now to discover our sleepy little village in the guidebooks as one of the country seats of a Viscount, heir to an Earldom?” he teased. A tittering laugh followed his words, and Elizabeth could not help but laugh with him.
“I wouldn’t know, sir, what these publishers deem interesting.”
“Oh, anything for a shilling, my dear, anything at all,” he assured her, his watery blue eyes fairly bulging.
“And what’s anything for a shilling, Father?”
Elizabeth whirled around to see a well-set-up gentleman in modest attire standing by the door.
“Ah, David, there you are. Let me make you known to our new lovely patroness, the Viscountess St. Ryne.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “This scapegrace young gentleman is my son, David Thornbridge.”
Elizabeth heard the warm pride in the vicar’s voice and her eyes pricked with tears. Oh, to have a father with such sensibilities! She willed the telltale moisture away and gracefully extended her hand.
“My Lady,” young Mr. Thornbridge murmured with just the correct degree of deference in his tone as he made his leg.
Elizabeth was impressed. She inclined her head slightly. “You are not, Mr. Thornbridge, a man of the cloth like your father?”
“No indeed, my lady. I am a manager with Waddley Spice and Tea Company in London.”
“Ah, I have heard of them.”
“They are very successful, my lady.”
Elizabeth’s eyes danced merrily. “To be sure.”
Not for the world would she divulge to this serious gentleman quite how she knew of Waddley’s. The Honorable Mrs. Cecilia Waddley, sole owner after the death of her husband, had been born the Honorable Miss Cecilia Haukstorm, granddaughter of a Duke, niece of an Earl. She had virtually been sold into marriage to the highest bidder to pay her father and brother’s prodigious gambling debts. Though she had been cut off from society at her marriage, her widowhood saw the doors reopen to her, for not even the highest sticklers continued her omission from their invitation lists. She was a delightful ninny hammer, though given to blue megrims, vapors, and sundry other ailments she swore were constantly threatening to take her life from her. Her dramatic highs and lows were considered by society to be as entertaining as Elizabeth’s own tantrums had been. No doubt they were filling her place to a nicety.
“You are lucky to get time away from your ledgers and quills.”
“My, ah, my employer is considerate of familial obligations to the point of insistence.”
“Yes,” Reverend Thornbridge said, the twinkle in his eye belying his frown, “and here I thought I’d managed to get rid of this young whelp.”
Elizabeth laughed delightedly. “You don’t fool me in the slightest, sir. You’re as proud as a peacock of him.”
“Please don’t tell him that!” David exclaimed. “You’ll start him spouting off about the sins of pride and you’ll never get out of here.”
The Reverend Thornbridge harrumphed. “Now don’t you go listening to my boy here. Too much city in him to my mind. Seems to me he’s the one who needs the lecture.”
David Thornbridge groaned, but his father chose only to spare him a quick sliding glance before continuing. “But tell me, my child, is there any way I can be of assistance to you in adjusting to your new home?”
“Actually, Reverend, there is. I am in need of servants. Many of the villagers have come to help clean the manor, and they’ve been good, decent people. Unfortunately, the people who have come to interview for permanent positions do not seem cut of the same cloth.”
“Let me guess, the people who have come to apply have all been brought to you by Mr. Tunning,” David suggested drily.
“David!” scolded the reverend.
“No sense wrapping it up in clean linen, Father.”
“No, please, Reverend Thornbridge,” interposed Elizabeth. “David is not implying anything I haven’t already guessed.” She sighed. “There is definitely something strange going on, though I don’t know precisely what as yet. Nonetheless, I still need servants, and as you surmise, I do not want any of Tunning’s ilk. The problem is it appears none of the village people will come forward to me directly.”
The reverend frowned. "I know. I can’t tell you all as I don’t have facts, only suspicions. But I can make a suggestion.” He spoke slowly, capturing her full attention with his eyes. “If you are planning to visit any of your tenant farms, you may wish to talk to Mary Geddy.”
Out of the corner of her eye Elizabeth saw David Thornbridge suddenly smile and nod, and this piqued her curiosity. “I’m afraid I don’t recall meeting anyone by the name of Geddy. Could you give me her direction?”
“She lives with her daughter and son-in-law, Ellie and Nat Humphries, and their son Gerald.”
“They’re at the Home farm!”
“Yes, but remember to visit them when you’re making your rounds.”
Then Elizabeth understood. She wasn’t to appear to seek out Mrs. Geddy, only to discover her. It was obviously for someone’s protection, but from whom and why? “Isn’t it fortuitous,” she said brightly, “that I’m planning just such a round of calls for tomorrow?”
David’s smile widened into a grin. “Yes, isn’t it? It is a great deal too bad I have to quit the neighborhood tomorrow. I should have liked to be around for this.”
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in inquiry and even though neither Thornbridge was inclined to say more, she felt she had discovered allies.
The next morning, a self-satisfied Elizabeth trekked down the well-worn lane to the Home farm. She had taken the reverend’s suggestions and visited the other farms. She was saddened to discover the tenants there a cringing lot. She promised herself she’d see that attitude changed. She hoped she would not find the same feeling at the Home farm. She glanced up from the ground before her to see its neat buildings in the distance. No, they would certainly be as different as their farm was from the others. She had high expectations for this visit, and her steps hastened.
A grizzled man and his younger image came out of the bam. Elizabeth smiled warmly. “Mr. Humphries? I am the Viscountess St. Ryne.”
“My Lady,” he said formally, touching his forelock. His son followed his example.
“Oh please, do not stand on such ceremony.” She was perturbed by his aloofness. “I just wished to make myself known to you. Is Mrs. Humphries about?”
The man turned to his son. “Fetch Mother, Gerry.” He instructed him like he was a child of ten rather than a strapping young man of some twenty plus years.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at his lack of a direct answer but murmured a polite thank you before attempting to engage him in conversation. “You are to be congratulated; this property is very well maintained.”
“Only as it should be,” was the taciturn response.
“Yes, so one would suppose.”
A cough was her only answer. She would have commented further in hopes of drawing him out if two women hadn’t followed Humphries’s son out of the house. The eldest and the smallest, a spry, silver-haired woman with snapping brown eyes and the bloom of youth still on her cheeks, quickly brushed past him, muttering admonitions to pick his feet up and stop slouching.
“This be gentry proper, get along with you now and mind your manners,” Elizabeth heard her say in the peevish tone that only the old used in the presence of those they loved. Elizabeth was brought to mind of her own nurse, Hattie, and she knew instantly she would like this woman.
“Milady, we are that much honored.” The woman bobbed a curtsy then grabbed her hand and patted it with her other. “Reet welcome you are to be sure. Now come along, come along inside and rest yourself and have a sip of cider maybe? Oh, this be my daughter, Ellie, and that lump who should’a brought you in first off is my son-in-law, Nat. That’s my grandson, Gerry. Oh my, I almost forgot myself. I’m Mary, Mary Geddy, and I must say you sure are a pretty sight for these tired old eyes. But come along.” She turned suddenly to Nat and her grandson. "You two wash up and come visit awhile, too, and no argle bargle.”