by Jo Beverley
Chloe rubbed some between her fingers. Packed earth, such as would cling to stored potatoes. Not damp now or when it was deposited, so not from someone’s dirty outdoor shoes. Could it have been here for days? No. These stairs were regularly used and, knowing Mrs. Pickering, regularly swept.
Someone had come down from upstairs and meddled in the storage rooms, then returned this way. The only people to sleep upstairs were the ladies and gentlemen of the house, and the maids. Mrs. Pickering had a comfortable room off the kitchen, and Matthew had a smaller one in the same area. The kitchen boy slept over the stables with the grooms.
Chloe kept a careful eye open as she climbed the stairs. When she opened the baize-covered door into the bedroom corridor, she saw a trace of dirt upon the carpet. This time it was very little, but she felt sure it was the same earth. The indication was that the intruder had been someone from this floor—Belinda, Randal, Justin, the Duchess, or herself. Then she added the Dowager and Miss Forbes.
Chloe walked the corridor, looking particularly at the spot before the opening of each door, but she found no further traces to guide her.
As she peered at his threshold, Justin’s door opened and he almost walked into her.
“Chloe!” His abstracted gaze turned to pleased surprise. “Is it possible you were coming to visit me?”
“Of course not,” she said, ready to sink with embarrassment. “I . . . er . . . I thought I saw some wear in the carpet here.”
He looked down at the rich pile of Axminster, then up at her with a raised brow.
“It must have been the effect of the light,” said Chloe.
“And I always thought this corridor rather gloomy,” he murmured.
“Easier, surely, to make a mistake,” she retorted.
“Quite so,” he said. “I have thought this corridor needs light. There should be windows. What little light there is near the staircase is quite lost at the ends of the corridor, beyond the bends.”
Chloe knew what he meant. Justin’s room, the master suite, sat opposite the head of the wide, curving staircase, and received light from the lower hall. The corridor, however, bent around the stairwell in both directions and the ends were gloomy.
“It was when the wings were built, forty years ago,” she explained. “According to the records, there used to be windows at either end. I don’t see what can be done about it now.”
“Unless we rip it down and build again,” he said casually. “It seems to be the fashion.”
Chloe didn’t reply. That “we” echoed in her mind.
He caught her hand. “It is Frank’s funeral this morning,” he said, “and I suppose I should go. I’ll drag Randal along for support. This afternoon, though, I would like you to show me around the grounds and the home farm. Put me in the way of things. If we have time, we could also ride around the tenants and down to the village.”
Chloe looked at him. He had planned a day in her company, cunning man. There was no reason, however, to refuse, and she really didn’t think she wished to.
“Perhaps Randal would like to accompany us in our explorations,” she suggested mischievously.
“I doubt it,” he replied.
Just to tease, she put forward another objection. “The ground will still be muddy, and there is a chance of more rain.”
“You will doubtless wish to put on your boots. If it rains, we will seek shelter. Anyone in Lancashire who stays home for fear of rain will lead a very dull life.”
“I may have made other plans for the day,” she persisted. “After all, we have a dinner party this evening.”
Once more, the “we” seemed to hang in the air between them. She saw a smile twitch on his lips.
“It is you who insists on rushing off on Tuesday, Chloe.”
This was only true and fair, so Chloe agreed. Justin grinned and went off to entrap Randal into attending a funeral. Once his back was turned, Chloe allowed a little smile of her own to show. This could prove to be an interesting day.
In addition to the obvious attractions of the project, these trips would be as good a time as any to discover the secrets she should know. She had not been above using her attractions to twist men around her finger in the past. There were problems, however. On the one hand, she was not sure Justin was amenable to such wiles. On the other, she didn’t know if she could handle his reaction if she had any degree of success.
She continued thoughtfully down the corridor, and met Belinda emerging from her room, basket in hand, obviously off on another foraging trip through the fast-fading garden. Chloe wondered how Belinda felt on this, the day of her lover’s funeral. Chloe decided Belinda might like company and gave up her notion of riding.
“You are going into the garden, Belinda,” she said. “Would you mind if I were to accompany you? You could teach me a great deal.”
No particular expression crossed the younger woman’s face, but an overlong hesitation made Chloe think she was unwelcome. All at once, her previous suspicions of Belinda and her strange attempt to go out in the rain the day before came back to Chloe.
“I’m not in the mood for teaching,” said Belinda curtly.
“I will watch you then,” said Chloe with cheery persistence. “Perhaps we could pick some roses for a centerpiece. I’ll just fetch a shawl.”
As she expected, when she returned in a moment, with bonnet and shawl, Belinda had gone. By hurtling downstairs like a hoyden and nipping through the kitchen corridor, Chloe managed to catch up with the youngest Lady Stanforth as she entered the rose garden.
A flash of anger in the girl’s eyes strengthened all Chloe’s suspicions. Belinda made no comment, however, and simply went along, gathering the few good blooms left. She occasionally asked Chloe’s advice on a choice, but otherwise ignored her presence.
Then they moved on to the herb garden. Belinda snipped a leaf here, gathered a seedhead there. Chloe trailed like a shadow, watching her every move. There could surely be no connection between Frank’s death and rosemary, basil, chamomile, and comfrey. But then there had been that business of the honeysuckle.
“Is the comfrey for your potpourri?” she asked, for something to say.
“Hardly,” said Belinda shortly. “I also gather herbs for medicinal purposes. I will make the Duchess one of my restorative infusions. If my mother has a supply of prickly ash, I will be able to make up an excellent rheumatic ointment.”
Chloe remembered that, today being Thursday, Belinda would be away all afternoon at her parents’ farm. That relieved her mind, for there would have been no purpose to following the young woman about all morning, only to leave her unobserved during Chloe’s time with Justin.
Should she allow Belinda, however, to dose her grandmother? She knew Belinda had provided linctus mixtures and ointments to various members of the household to good effect, but . . . Chloe must persuade Justin to tell her what was going on in Delamere before somebody else was hurt.
They came upon Budsworth clearing the last of the runner beans. Tom, his assistant, had been a friend of Frank’s, he said, and given permission to attend the funeral.
To Chloe’s surprise, the otherwise taciturn Belinda started a long conversation with the man. They discussed the placing of all kinds of plants, winter protection, and vegetable storage. Chloe could not decide which part of the discussion was of importance to Belinda, but knew something must be. She was not garrulous by nature and generally avoided interaction with servants because of her awkward situation.
Merely in order to enter the conversation, Chloe asked, “How many more vegetables are there to be dug before winter, Budsworth?”
“Well, there’s those that need frost, like the sprouts and the leeks. Otherwise, ma’am, only the late potatoes, carrots, and turnips. Then we’ll set to bedding down the flowers.”
“Let us pray, then, for good weather. Rain such as we had yesterday must make the earth heavy.”
“That it does, ma’am, but I fear there’s more to come,” he said,
looking up at the sky, which the local people seemed to read like a book.
Before any comment could be made, the distant tolling of a bell floated to them. They all became still. Budsworth took off his battered cap.
“That’ll be Frank, God rest him.”
“Amen,” said Chloe. She glanced at the silent Belinda, surprising a look of bleak desolation on her face, a look that was immediately replaced by stony indifference. Chloe ached for the young woman, who could not properly grieve for her lover, perhaps the father of her child.
“Belinda, why do we not go inside for a cup of tea,” she said quickly.
She thought Belinda would refuse, but then she seemed to sigh as she agreed.
Once settled in the Sea Room, Chloe poured the tea and added plenty of sugar, then passed it to the younger Lady Stanforth.
“Do not be ashamed to be sad, Belinda,” she said softly. “I sorrow for a life cut short, and Frank was no more than a servant to me. He was your friend.”
“Ay,” said Belinda, lapsing into the local dialect. “Happen.”
“He was a fine-looking man and a good worker.”
“Ay.” Then Belinda seemed to recollect herself, and her speech regained its usual educated tone. “He would have made something of himself, I’m sure. He was very ambitious.”
“His aunt said he wanted to open a livery in Lancaster.”
“Yes, he spoke of it. He needed money, though.” She looked at Chloe. “Many people are ambitious, but few can find the way out of their places.”
Which you have done, thought Chloe, and put yourself out of Frank’s reach. She longed to ask, was it worth it? Her purpose at the moment, however, was not to pry, but to ease the other woman’s pain.
“I’m sure Frank would have done. Hard work brings its own reward.”
Belinda’s lip curled. “It’s a strange thing then, that it’s the rich who are so idle,” she said sharply, “and the poorest of the poor who drudge from morn ’til night.” Then she put her cup down and abruptly stood. “I’m sorry. You’re right in what you’re thinking. My heart aches for Frank, for what might have been were the world a very different place. But I don’t regret a single thing I’ve done. Not one. My daughter will live the life of a lady.”
With that she walked out, and Chloe did not follow. She knew Belinda would almost certainly spend the time before luncheon with Dorinda, but even if that wasn’t the case, she had lost the taste for spying on her. If Belinda had pushed Frank off the cliff to protect the place she had won for herself among the aristocracy, who was Chloe to hound her? She who, despite her overstrict parents, had been given every advantage of wealth and station all her life, could look as high as she wished for a husband. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and Belinda would carry pain all her life for the loss of Frank, no matter how it had come about.
Nevertheless, Chloe was pleased to see Belinda, the baby, and Rosie drive off after lunch in the carriage. Chloe need feel no anxiety at all about her activities during the afternoon and could enjoy her time with Justin with an easy mind.
They walked out into the rain-washed, sun-gilded landscape, and Chloe felt the tangy sea breeze playing in her curls. In silent accord they detoured down toward the sea to watch the white-tipped waves, the white horses, dancing to the beach. Not so far away—ten miles or so but seeming closer—the hills and hamlets of the farther shore were picked out clearly by the sun.
“It all feels so clean,” said Justin softly. “In Portugal, even the sun seemed heavy and hot, except on the coast, and there the wind could scour the skin.”
Chloe turned, moved by the feeling in him, and laid a hand on his arm. “You are home now. I’m glad you seem to like Delamere. It needs a loving master.”
He smiled down at her. “And a loving mistress?”
Chloe looked away. “That too, I suppose.” She hurried on. “Stephen thought it too far from London. He lived in Clarges Street virtually all year round, only leaving to visit friends or popular watering places in the hottest months. And for hunting and shooting, of course. . . .”
“And you?” he asked.
Chloe felt there was an implication she had neglected her husband. “I spent the Seasons with him there,” she defended. “And I sometimes visited friends with him. Someone had to spend time here too.”
“I’m not accusing you of neglect, my dear. It’s rather the other way around. Did he feel no need to accommodate your wishes?”
Chloe did not want to discuss her marriage. She turned to walk away, but he caught her by the arms. “I need to know how it was with you, Chloe.”
“I do not intend to discuss my marriage with you, Justin.”
A calling gull swooped past the cliff to land on a rock near the water’s edge. Justin spoke at last. “Stephen stands between us, doesn’t he?”
“Do you deny him that right?” Chloe demanded, her anger stemming from her own guilt, not his. “Will you just walk in and take everything that was his?”
He turned her and looked down with a puzzled look into her troubled eyes. “He’s dead, Chloe. I am his heir.”
“To me too?” she asked sharply.
“Of course not, but if you imagine Stephen would mind us marrying, you did not know him very well.”
Chloe looked down. “He was always generous.”
“I don’t want to rush you, Chloe, but I have no intention of losing you through default. If you don’t go away in a few days, it will doubtless all work out.”
But he was rushing her. Chloe couldn’t sort out her warring guilt and desire. She moved out of his grasp. “But I am going in a few days, so let us make our tour of the estate as planned.”
To avoid further personal discussion, Chloe set a brisk pace through the gardens, both ornamental and kitchen, trying to keep her eyes open for anything out of the ordinary that might have been Belinda’s object, but in fact achingly aware of Justin by her side.
Chloe had hoped a businesslike tone would break the feeling of intimacy between them, but it did not. They spoke only of practical matters, yet every moment seemed to draw them closer together. They constantly found shared interests and tastes. Chloe was delighted to find him willing to discuss the business of the estate with her as an equal, and relieved to have someone with whom she could share her concerns.
She pointed out the herb garden. “Even in the one year, Belinda has done wonders here. It is her particular area of interest.”
“Perhaps she’s a witch,” Justin said lightly. “I wonder if she has any love potions.”
Chloe looked swiftly up at him. “You had better hope not,” she said coolly, “or she’ll doubtless slip one in your brandy.”
She then marched on to the vegetable plots. They spoke briefly with Budsworth and his assistant, who were turning over the carrot bed, and then took the long path down to the home farm.
Justin freely admitted he had little practical experience of farming. He had grown up mainly in London, as his father had been a hardworking member of Parliament. The small country place kept by Mr. John Delamere had been a villa, not an estate, and kept no stock larger than chickens. As Justin listened with care to the wisdom of Ramsdale, the tenant farmer, Chloe felt some of the intensity lessen and she relaxed. She was content to walk behind the two men, only entering the conversation to point out some comparison of which Ramsdale might be unaware.
Unfortunately for the state of mind she desired, it also gave her opportunity to study Justin at her leisure. What made a man so perfect in a woman’s eyes? He was not as elegant as Randal and yet his proportions seemed exact to her. His slightly wider shoulders and more heavily muscled legs were exactly what they should be. She could imagine them . . .
She stopped herself before she went too far, and turned her attention immediately to the pigs in the sty, unknowingly awaiting the slaughtering day. She felt some sympathy with them. She too seemed increasingly helpless before her fate.
Justin turned and found her studying them. “A
re you a devotee of swine?” he asked. “I confess I find them appealing only in the roast form.”
“Oh do hush,” Chloe said, biting her lip. “It’s horrible to speak of their death in front of them.”
Justin laughed. “Oh Chloe, you are a delight. A wonderful mixture of common sense and whimsy, strength and delicacy.”
He held out his hand and she could not help but put hers in it. It seemed he would speak, but he just tugged her along to an examination of the Clydesdales, coming in from a work session.
Chloe and Justin returned to the house slowly, arm in arm, and though hardly anything had been said of their relationship, Chloe knew a point of significance had been passed. This simple sharing of practical things was the reality of life, and in it they had been together.
It was true what Justin had said. Stephen would never have minded her turning to his cousin once he had gone. Perhaps in time she could sort out her feelings, and accept what Justin had to offer without guilt and without reservations.
As they walked toward the stables, however, she remembered her need to pry information from her companion.
“Justin,” she said. “Something is going on at Delamere, something more even than Frank’s death, though there may be a connection. I need to know what it is.”
“Why do you think there are things you don’t know?”
“Grandmother as good as said so, for one thing.”
He looked slightly rueful. “She doubtless did.”
“And she mentioned the Duke of York. Justin, it makes no sense.”
He smiled slightly as he plucked a wild rose from the hedgerow and lightly brushed her cheek with it. Chloe knew her color would be rising to challenge the blush on the bloom and sought to remember her purpose.
“Tonight,” he said softly, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Tonight?” repeated Chloe, perilously close to a squeak.
She saw his eyes darken and, for a wickedly delightful moment, she thought he would crush her to him in a passionate kiss. Then his eyelids lowered and he tucked the rose through the buttonhole of her jacket, his touch causing her to tremble.