Promises and Primroses

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Mrs. Oswell was the first to speak. “Lord Howardsford,” she said, talking across Julia. “Have you heard that Miss Hol­lingsworth is nearly as passionate for dogs as Mr. Mayfield is?”

  “I had heard. I understand that Mr. Hollingsworth was quite invested in the field.”

  This time, Lord Howardsford did not look across the table, and neither did Mother. And Mother did not remark on a comment made about her family. Again. Instead of tracking the conversation involving her late husband, she was taking careful bites of her soup.

  What was going on?

  “Yes,” Julia said. “My father bred Springer Spaniels all of my life.”

  Julia mentally began fitting together the odd pieces she’d seemingly tripped over these last few minutes. Mother had celebrated her fifty-fifth birthday just after Christmas. A quick glance to Lord Howardsford and a calculation of Peter’s age, him being the first son of the second son, pointed toward the probability that Lord Howardsford was likely within a few years of Mother’s age. She had debuted in London. He had lived in London as a young man. Had they known one another? Julia would have asked the question right at that moment except she knew it would disrupt the party.

  “You should recount Bumbleberry’s whelping,” Mr. Mayfield said.

  Conversation paused as the guests looked toward the head of the table. Julia felt a lurch in her stomach. Mr. Mayfield met her eye, smiled, and then looked around the table. “Miss Hollingsworth was remarkable.”

  “I was present,” Julia clarified, though she both appreciated and was embarrassed by the unexpected praise. “Mr. Mayfield was in town, and the handler was not available.”

  “She helped deliver the pups,” Mr. Mayfield said. “And every one of them survived.”

  Julia’s face flushed. He had never praised her so publicly nor had he mentioned her work with the dogs for weeks.

  Mr. Mayfield waved toward her. “Recount the story, Miss Julia,” he said with an encouraging smile. “I think they will find it of great interest.”

  She could tell by the slightly frantic tone in his voice and the hyper-intent look in his eyes that he was acting tonight, playing the part of Lord of the Manor or some such. She didn’t like it—not the clothes, not the part he was playing, not the fact that she felt like she was on the outside of something. Yet, with talk of the dogs, he was drawing her in despite herself.

  Julia took a breath, and then recounted the story simply, delicately, and without drawing undo praise to her efforts. The guests were attentive despite discussing a topic that was surely not typical for such a formal dinner. Even Mother listened without interrupting, which was not what Julia would have expected since she did not like dogs and was sensitive to etiquette. She acted as interested as anyone else, though her tension was building. Acted. There was a great deal of acting going on tonight, only they forgot to give her a part.

  “She has continued attending to Bumbleberry and the pups,” Mr. Mayfield said when she finished. “And has involved the girls.”

  Mother put down her spoon and turned toward him. “So, Mr. Mayfield, would you say your dogs are your occupation?”

  Julia sighed. A gentleman did not define himself with an occupation, which her mother very well knew.

  “More of a hobby, I would say. I am lucky to be able to pursue it.”

  “He sells his dogs all over Europe,” Lord Howardsford said proudly. “A German count purchased—what was it—three hounds last year?”

  “Four—three yearlings and a dam. He is starting his own pack and wanted clean bloodlines.”

  “It really is remarkable,” Mrs. Oswell said. “I was already part of the household when Mr. Mayfield purchased his first two dogs. He is very efficient in his care of them.”

  Mr. Mayfield smiled at his former servant, and Julia felt a stab of jealousy—a completely inappropriate stab of jealousy. He and Lydia had worked together for many years, both before and after Mrs. Mayfield had died. They were family; of course, they would have an easy accord with one another.

  The vicar, who had been listening more than participating, cleared his throat. “I find it very interesting that Mr. Mayfield breeds for pedigree, or, as he stated, clean bloodlines.” He turned toward his host. “Will you elaborate on that, please?”

  “Oh, well, I have two packs, really. One is a purebred line—the bloodlines can be traced back generations, and I have certificates to the effect. That pack consists, you could say, of perfect representations of the foxhound.”

  “That is the line the German nobleman purchased from?” Lord Howardsford asked.

  “Yes,” Peter said. “Some people prefer perfect lines.”

  “And the other pack?” Julia asked, noting how relaxed he became now that he was talking about his dogs.

  “Are bred for attributes,” Peter said. “Temperament, intelligence, or perhaps the length of the snout or tail, or overall build and bearing.”

  “I would expect that both would be valuable,” Mr. Oswell said. “But for different reasons, correct?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Mayfield said. “In fact, attribute is often more valuable than pedigree for working dogs, such as hunters. There are those who want the pedigree, and will pay for that assurance, but if a man truly wants a hunting dog, he will look for attribution first. Clean bloodlines is only one aspect to consider.”

  “Here, here.” Lord Howardsford spoke so softly that Julia thought she might be the only one to have heard it. She looked at him, who looked at her mother, who looked at her plate.

  Julia then looked at Mr. Mayfield, who was watching her.

  Julia

  The sound of the house coming awake broke Julia away from her dream, which faded as soon as she blinked at the dark ceiling of her room. Having no window meant the room was always dark, but her body had developed its own clock during her years in London. She knew it was approximately six o’clock a.m. and allowed herself ten breaths of stillness before getting out of bed and turning up the lamp. The light-blue day dress she’d dropped to the floor last night still lay in a heap, and the yellow dress was draped over the bedpost.

  When she reached the servants’ hall, she faced Colleen coming from the opposite direction, her arms full of clean linens. Julia smiled in greeting, but Colleen did not smile back and knocked her with her shoulder as she passed. The maid did not apologize or look back. Unfortunately, Julia had come to expect such treatment.

  Julia took her blue cape from the rack near the kitchen door and let herself out into the morning chilled by night and alive with sounds and smells and colors. She pulled the sides of the cloak around her until the walking had warmed her enough that she could let the fabric billow out behind her.

  The oddness of last night’s party overtook her thoughts, and she reviewed and reviewed it a dozen times. The company had retired to the drawing room together rather than allowing the men their time to smoke and enjoy their port. She’d not had opportunity to ask her mother direct questions.

  She’d watched Mother and Lord Howardsford circle around one another while interacting normally with the other guests, and yet she had also caught each of them watching the other without that person’s notice more than once.

  Mr. Mayfield had interacted with Julia differently. He was still wary but more relaxed. They had spoken of the periodical about collies she’d borrowed from his study. The more they talked about dogs, the more they both relaxed until, by the end, she’d almost forgotten he was her employer.

  As the morning sun continued to rise, Julia checked the watch pinned to her bodice—half past seven. Mother would be returning home soon. A hired carriage would come for her at noon, after an early tea, which meant Julia had limited time to get the answers she felt she deserved.

  She turned back toward the house. She always attended to Bumbleberry and the puppies before she woke the girls at eight thirty, but she might need to hu
rry through the routine today. The girls could tend the puppies in the afternoon, which would give Julia more time this morning.

  Julia let herself into the dog yard, ignoring the yipping and jumping hounds located across from Bumbleberry’s pen. Most mornings, Mr. Mayfield took the foxhounds on a chase, a rabbit or pheasant tied to the back of his saddle as he galloped through the countryside. She could always tell if he’d taken the hounds out by the way they reacted when she arrived, and today it was obvious they had not yet been exercised.

  She wondered if that meant she might encounter Mr. Mayfield this morning. Would he behave differently toward her now? More like he had last night, or would last night be the exception to his usual treatment? He had not treated her poorly, but he did not seem comfortable in her presence. But then she was not comfortable with him either, always watchful of her actions for fear they might be misinterpreted.

  She turned the corner of the shed and nearly ran into Mr. Mayfield. She squeaked in surprise and quickly stepped back, a hand to her chest. “My apologies.”

  “No apology necessary.” He did not step around her but neither did he let her pass. They stood facing one another for a few seconds before he spoke again. “You have already gone out for your morning walk?”

  He knew she went for morning walks? She looked up from his work boots. “Yes, the rain has kept me from them the last few days.”

  He glanced at the sky, cloud covered but without the heavy grayness that indicated rain. “The weather has kept me from exercising the hounds as well.”

  She nodded, surprised that it seemed he wished to have a conversation with her. What else should they talk about? “Thank you for inviting my mother and me to dinner last night. It was lovely.” And strange.

  The hounds had noticed Mr. Mayfield, and the yipping and barking and jumping increased by half, at least.

  “It was a very nice evening,” Mr. Mayfield said loudly enough to be heard over the dogs. He tapped his riding crop on his thigh, and a breeze ruffled his hair. He made no attempt to fix it. “I have never been one for socializing, I’m afraid, so it was a relief to take off my cravat at the end of the night and not feel as though I’d wasted the evening.” He shrugged self-consciously.

  Julia smiled, wanting to remember the details of this exchange. “You were an exceptional host. I enjoyed myself very much, and it was wonderful to see my mother.” She wished she dared ask him the circulating questions about her mother and his uncle.

  “Your mother is a very gracious and kind woman. I am glad she was able to attend. Have you, uh, spoken to her today?” He looked nervous, but then again, he was hiding information from her. He should be nervous.

  “Not as yet.”

  “Well, I hope she enjoyed the evening.” It was a parting comment, but he did not move. Neither did she. He cut quite a figure in his riding breeches and boots. The riding coat he wore was not new—she could see a fraying on the cuff—but she liked the idea that he would dress for comfort more than appearance. He tapped his crop a bit faster. “I want to thank you for the generous assistance you have given me these last weeks. I realized last evening that I have been lax in showing appreciation. I do not know how I would have managed without your help, truth be told. To say nothing of your care for my daughters. You really do have a gift with both dogs and children.”

  Julia smiled at his reminder of their first interview in the broom closet. “Thank you, Mr. Mayfield.”

  “Are you happy here, Miss Julia?”

  The question surprised her. Did she appear to be unhappy? “Yes, sir. I am very happy here.”

  “Even with my asking you to help with such unconventional tasks as caring for my dogs?”

  She smiled at his worried expression. “I adore your pack—and your children, Mr. Mayfield.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “And the country?” He waved his hand to the side.

  “I do not think I have ever enjoyed a place as much as I have enjoyed being here.” And how much more would she enjoy it if she and Mr. Mayfield could converse like this all the time. They almost felt like friends. Was it because she hadn’t embarrassed him at the dinner party?

  He looked past her at the surrounding country and frowned. “I do not love London. I cannot imagine living anywhere other than here.”

  “I can certainly understand that.”

  Silence descended, but it was different from the other silences that had so often permeated their interactions.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I best exercise the dogs before the early tea.” He stepped around her, but she turned to match his movement.

  “You are attending the tea?”

  “Of course. Your mother is my guest. Unless you would prefer I not attend?”

  “I did not mean that.” Julia shook her head, unsure how to explain that she simply hadn’t expected his attendance. At tea. In the middle of the day. With her mother.

  “And, uh, what are your thoughts regarding the girls joining us for tea? Are they capable of doing so without serving as too much distraction?”

  “Oh, I think they would provide plenty of distraction,” she smiled. “But I think they would also behave well. We practice having tea every day.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You do?”

  “With lemonade and biscuits. Oh, and their dolls, of course, to make up the party. But they are learning. I think they would enjoy an actual tea with actual people.”

  He smiled, fine lines crinkling around his eyes, which seemed greener and brighter than usual. It made her chest warm to notice, or perhaps it was how he stood so close to her.

  “Of course. Well, then, please have them attend. If they are unable to manage, Colleen can watch them until we are finished.”

  She nodded, though she would do everything in her power to keep from asking Colleen for help. They smiled in parting, then moved in opposite directions—Mr. Mayfield toward the hounds, and Julia toward Bumbleberry’s pen.

  “Miss Julia?”

  She turned at the sound of his voice.

  He was tapping the crop against his thigh again. “I am glad to know that you are happy here.”

  Julia hesitated. “Thank you, sir.”

  He nodded once, and let himself into the hounds’ pen. She remained as she was for a moment, then turned toward Bumbleberry’s pen with a smile on her face.

  Amelia

  Amelia set her cup and saucer on the table, hoping she was keeping her nerves in check. She had not yet found the time to talk to Julia and was beginning to doubt the wisdom of talking to her at all. But she must. She had accepted the invitation to last night’s dinner mostly so she could tell Julia about the lady’s companion position with Mrs. Berkinshire. Mrs. Preston wanted Julia to come for tea with her mother as soon as possible, and if Julia would agree, all this drama and frustration regarding the Mayfields would end.

  “Another scone, Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

  She looked at Elliott’s face as he held out the platter and shook her head. “Thank you, no, Lord Howardsford.” It was odd seeing him in social settings, wondering what he thought of her, hoping they would have the chance to converse between themselves. She’d been so starry-eyed in her youth, so certain she had captured him with her grace and beauty. She stopped the direction of her thoughts, grateful for the maturity and the reason the past thirty years had taught her. She knew better than to fall victim to fantasy. Perhaps she mourned that maturity and reason a bit as well.

  Amelia forced her attention away from how he seemed to want more of her company than she would offer, away from his hopeful expression. Hope for what? Likely that she would change her opinion of his nephew.

  She turned to Mr. Mayfield and Julia, sitting across from one another and talking animatedly about the puppies. They had done the same thing last night, falling into conversation with just themselves. On the surface, it was rude
to leave others out of a conversation, but at a deeper level, she worried about the connection.

  Amelia could not hide from the fact that Julia was well suited for this household and that Mr. Mayfield was kind, gracious, and, from what she had seen, perfectly honorable. That her visit to his home had been so comfortable made her increasingly uncomfortable. Julia needed to get out from beneath Mr. Mayfield’s roof before the comfort she saw growing between them turned into something different.

  “And how about you, young ladies?” Elliott said to Mr. Mayfield’s daughters, who were sharing a piano bench and kicking their dangling feet.

  Amelia couldn’t help but be softened by the precious girls. They had been in the room for ten minutes and had behaved quite well for children of their age. Taking Julia from them was becoming the hardest part of her plan.

  “Yes, please,” Marjorie, the older one, said, as she plucked one scone from the platter without touching any of the others.

  “Me too, please, sir uncle,” the younger one said, then used both hands to grab two scones.

  “You cannot have that many!” Marjorie wrenched one handful of now-crumbled scone from her sister and dropped it back on the tray.

  Leah protested, Elliott laughed, the conversation between Mr. Mayfield and Julia stopped as Julia jumped from her seat.

  “She took too many!” Marjorie exclaimed.

  “He said I could have it!” Leah whined.

  Julia spoke in soft tones, brushing crumbs from the girl’s skirt, then wiping at the little one’s eyes when she began to cry.

  Amelia watched her in wonder. She was so natural, so comfortable and calm. She had seen her with Louisa and Simon’s children, of course, and Julia was lovely with them, but she took a much more maternal role with these girls. Was it because they did not have a mother, whereas Louisa and Simon’s children did?

  Amelia’s heart tightened, and her gaze shifted to Mr. Mayfield, who was also watching the interaction. The look on his face could be interpreted in many ways—amusement, like Elliott, gratitude, or . . . desire. Her heart increased its cadence as panic began to bloom. Was she already too late?