The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah

by Catherine Gayle

  “No.” She turned away. “They’d traveled all day, you know. For several days, actually.”

  “And you are not one to ever ask someone to do anything for you.”

  Her eyes shot up to him, flashing green fire. “I’m not one to ever ask someone to do something that I’m perfectly capable of doing myself.”

  He had the sense that she would obstinately cling to the idea that there was a difference between the two for as long as her fingers could maintain a grip. Now was not the time to disabuse her of that notion.

  “Did anyone see you coming here? Does anyone but your servants know?”

  The flash in her eyes dimmed slightly and she visibly took a breath. “A groom in the stables assisted me with my carriage, and the Hassop House butler directed me out here.”

  “Milner told you to come here?” The butler had seemed to have a decent head on his shoulders. Why on earth would the man suggest something of the sort?

  “He told me this is where you could be found, sir.”

  An immensely minor distinction. She seemed to be rather fond of those.

  “And I believe a few of the maids saw me as well, though they aren’t aware that I’ve come to the dower house to speak with you.”

  He stood and inclined his head to Miss Shelton. “Allow me a few minutes to better prepare myself, and I’ll escort you back to your cottage.”

  “Oh, that’s not at all necessary. Just return my aunt’s brooch and I’ll be on my way.”

  Bloody stubborn woman. She was too independent for her own good.

  He didn’t counter her. Instead, he gave her a small smile. “I’ll be back in a trice.” And then he went into his chamber, shut and locked the door, and dressed himself properly.

  One way or another, he’d show her that she needed to accept some assistance, at least sometimes.

  When Roman returned to Hassop House that evening, after spending essentially the entire day at Round Hill with Miss Shelton and her household, he walked into a veritable hornet’s nest.

  “Thank goodness you’ve finally returned, my lord,” Milner declared. He waved a hand toward the main dining room, where a parade of footmen, grooms, and maids were seated, waiting, as though expecting a sentence to the gallows or something else equally unlikely. “What do you wish us to do with these miscreants?”

  Precisely what he needed to take his mind from the deucedly perplexing Miss Shelton and her big, green eyes. Not that he had even the slightest of inklings as to why the servants Milner had indicated might be miscreants.

  “Why don’t you begin by telling me their offenses?” Roman said to the butler as they entered the dining room. He took a seat at the head of the table, staring down its great length at the combination of guilt-filled and outraged expressions borne by the servants. Mrs. Pitt, the housekeeper, stood sentinel over them with a few other servants at her side.

  The ones who would admit to their wrongdoing and then act with contrition were far more likely to earn his favor, whatever the nature of their infraction. Those who feigned innocence…

  Well, perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. Likely a ramification of so many years in the military. When Milner did not immediately launch into an explanation, Roman leveled him with the very stare he’d always used with the men serving beneath him, the one liable to render lesser men to quaking in their Hessians or, it had been jokingly reported, wishing they’d stayed home on their mothers’ leading strings.

  “Well,” the butler said with a hitch, pausing to clear his throat—twice—before starting again. “It seems this lot has been planning to abandon Hassop House.”

  “To abandon it?” Roman deliberately kept his tone low and cool.

  Milner shuffled from foot to foot, averting his gaze. “Yes, my lord. They seem to think you’ve fallen in with the wrong sort.”

  “The wrong sort.” Roman said the words slowly, letting them slither over his tongue so he’d feel the full weight of them. He narrowed his eyes on the gathered servants. “Am I to understand you do not approve of my visits to Lady Rosaline Shelton’s cottage?”

  “The cottage itself is fine, sir,” called out the very groom who’d readied Roman’s mount this morning, as well as Miss Shelton’s. “And it’s a right shame how Lady Rosaline’s mind has fled.”

  “Indeed,” a young maid said with a sharp nod of her head. “No one has any reason to fault Lady Rosaline.”

  “I see. And so the problem is…?”

  Let these rotters say it. He’d take no part in it. A seething rage built within his chest, roiling and rumbling, threatening to rise to the surface and explode.

  They remained silent. Roman locked his eyes on them, one at a time. Most of them stared down at their laps during his perusal. A few daringly looked back at him, yet said nothing. One of them would break. Sooner, rather than later. He was as certain of that fact as he was certain his right hand belonged to him.

  After several long minutes, probably five or more, the same maid finally spoke again. “The problem is that lightskirt of a niece living with her.”

  Roman narrowed his eyes on her, ignoring the rumblings of the gathered servants at her pronouncement. “Lightskirt? And you know for a fact that you’re correct in that assertion?”

  The groom chortled. “Surely you’ve seen the boy by now?”

  With a nod, Roman said, “I have.”

  “Then how can you question us?” the maid haughtily demanded. She stood and planted her hands on her hips, glaring in his direction in defiance. “She’s a trollop. And you’re consorting with her. Having relations, I daresay. She’s made a mockery of the whole town by continuing to live here with that child, acting as though nothing is wrong with what she’s done. That’s bad enough, it is, but now you’re dragging the name of Hassop House down with her.”

  “Who’re you to talk?” one of the footmen standing on the outskirts beside Mrs. Pitt muttered beneath his breath.

  With great care, Roman pushed back from his seat and stood, glowering down at the outspoken maid. “And you’ve just finished your last day working at Hassop House.”

  The maid gasped and looked affronted. Moments later, however, she had a haughty air about her.

  “Mrs. Pitt?” Roman continued. “Kindly assist her out. I’ll have a carriage prepared to take her into town. A month’s pay will be waiting for you, miss.” Then he turned his gaze to the rest of the servants threatening to leave, ignoring the maid’s indignant huff. “Anyone else feel the need to blacken Miss Shelton’s name? Or, for that matter, to feel the dignity of Hassop House is at risk? Speak up now, and you may join this maid with the same severance.”

  A few more mumblings met his pronouncement, but no one else stood or spoke.

  “You have this one opportunity.” Roman crossed his arms over his chest, assuming the imposing posture he knew to intimidate. “Should any one of you dare to speak ill of her, whether in my presence or otherwise, you’ll be tossed out on your ear without further warning, and with no pay beyond what you’ve earned to that point. Am I understood?”

  A chorus of murmurs filled the hall. After a moment, a man moved to stand next to the outraged maid Roman had just sacked—the wood cutter, if memory served. “I’ll take my leave with Molly, then.”

  She looked over at him and nodded.

  Despite his burgeoning desire to throttle the man, Roman bit down on the inside of his cheek and nodded. “Anyone else?” He ignored Molly and the wood cutter as Milner and Mrs. Pitt bustled them out of the grand room.

  More muttered oaths. Several of the servants whispered heatedly with each other, shaking their heads and casting sidelong glances in Roman’s direction.

  After a moment, one groom pounded his fist on the table. “Enough of this. I’m stayin’. You’re all addlepated if you leave. Lord Roman is here to maintain the dignity of Hassop House, not besmirch it. It’s high time Molly left, anyway, and Doughty ain’t never seemed like he would amount to much, but that don’t mean none of th
e rest of us oughta go.” His voice echoed in the cavernous hall.

  Roman let the silence settle upon them. After they’d finally come to a stillness, he stood. “I take it there will be no more disruptions? Everyone will go about their duties and leave Miss Shelton to her own responsibilities?”

  “Aye, my lord,” and “That’s the last you’ll hear of it, sir,” carried over the hush to him, amongst a series of other similar replies.

  He nodded. “Very well, then. Let’s get to it.”

  With a spin on his heels, he turned and left the dining room, nodding to his butler and housekeeper as he left.

  “Bethie?” Jo padded into Bethanne’s chamber in a nightrail, wrapper, and slippers, carrying two mugs of chocolate. “Joyce sent me up with this. She said you could probably use it. Lord knows I can always use a good cup of chocolate.” She gave Bethanne a smile that set her eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

  Jo, Tabitha, and Noah had only been at the cottage for three days, but were planning to leave again already at first light tomorrow morning. With it being their last night before more travel, Tabitha and Noah had begged an early night, claiming they needed their rest. Bethanne had other ideas about what they might be doing, but that was none of her concern.

  Jo, too, had said she’d wanted to turn in early, so Bethanne had thought to use the unexpected time to squeeze in a bit of work on balancing her accounts before trying to sleep. Apparently that plan had been changed for her. Not that she minded overmuch. They rarely got to spend enough time together in recent years.

  Bethanne pushed a few of her papers aside, accepting one of the cups from her cousin. In almost the same motion, she shoved some stray hairs aside, tucking them behind her ear. “Somehow, she knew just what I needed. I don’t know how she always does that.”

  “Joyce sees thing,” Jo murmured. She took the seat next to Bethanne, placed her elbow on the escritoire, and propped her head on her hand. “They all do—the servants. They notice a lot you wouldn’t want them to notice, too. Like the fact that you’re so tired, you’re about to fall over from it.”

  The chocolate was nearly hot enough to scald the inside of Bethanne’s mouth. She pretended that it had, hoping her feigned burning might hide her reaction to Jo’s statement.

  It didn’t work.

  Jo scowled at her. “You haven’t fooled anyone.”

  “I wasn’t trying to fool anyone,” she muttered.

  “You were never a good liar.”

  Bethanne chuckled. “You have never had any subtlety.”

  “Not even a hint of an iota,” Jo agreed all too happily.

  Taking a sip of her chocolate, Bethanne let the flavor coat her tongue for a moment. It had been so long since she’d taken a moment just to breathe, just to talk and enjoy someone’s company, just to laugh for a moment.

  Too long.

  “I miss this.” And bother, if a wave of tears didn’t fill her eyes right then. She choked back a sob. “I miss you. And Tabitha.”

  “And Aunt Rosaline, I’d wager,” Jo said, perceptive as ever. She reached over and squeezed Bethanne’s hand. “You told us she had gotten worse, but I don’t think either of us—or Miranda, for that matter—realized just how severe the change was.”

  “It’s not really something I could put in a letter.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  Bethanne drew the back of her hand over her eyes to brush away the tears, frustrated with herself to no end. Why was she so weak? She pressed her eyes closed to staunch the flow, then opened them again and met Jo’s gaze—ever calm, ever soothing. “So what should I do now? I can’t very well let Uncle Drake know how Aunt Rosaline is.”

  “Bethie…” Jo drew her name out.

  “No! He can’t know. None of them can.” Panic started to rise in her chest again, pressing against her ribs like she would explode from the inside at any moment. Bethanne fought it down, suppressing the need to bawl like she hadn’t done since she was in leading strings. She stared determinedly at her hands in her lap. She couldn’t look at Jo, or else she would lose all control over her emotions. “They can’t know. None of them. What would happen to Finn if they were to come here?” She couldn’t let anything happen to Finn.

  Jo sniffled. “They still think he’s Joyce’s son.”

  The sniffle, more than anything, had Bethanne’s head shooting up.

  A stream of tears was falling from Jo’s eyes. Jo never cried. She was strong. She wasn’t over-emotional like Bethanne was so often. She kept a cool head and acted rationally, and always made smart, sound decisions based on fact.

  She didn’t cry.

  Yet now, she was.

  It was shocking enough to dry up every tear in Bethanne’s head. She gaped at her cousin. “I know they think that—but if Uncle Drake comes here to check on Aunt Rosaline, or Isaac, or any of them, they’ll find out the truth.” Or at least some of the truth. There could be no denying the familial resemblance anymore. “Finn calls me Mama, all the time now, in case you haven’t noticed. I can’t fathom how to convince him he can’t do that in front of certain people but not others. He’s two years old.”

  “I know. And I’ve heard.” Using the sleeve of her wrapper, Jo dried her eyes. “He’s too young to understand.”

  “They can’t come here. They can’t discover how dire things have become with Aunt Rosaline.” Bethanne gripped her cup with a ferocity she never knew she possessed, putting an equal degree of heft behind her words. “It isn’t just my secret here, you know,” she hissed. “I’m not trying to protect myself.” She would never have thought to protect herself with such a lie. No, her protective instinct had always come into the equation with those she loved—her siblings, her cousins, and now Finn.

  “No. You’re not. You never have,” Jo said with a frown.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bethanne all but snapped.

  Jo gave a tiny shake of her head. “Just that you need to start taking care of yourself a bit more, and everyone else a bit less.”

  “Why does everyone seem to think they know what is best for me, better than I know it for myself, all of a sudden?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Bethanne regretted them.

  “Everyone? Who else has been trying to get you to see reason, Bethie?”

  Bethanne shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Jo narrowed her eyes, but said nothing for a few minutes. Then, “What will you do if Lord Roman learns more than he should? He’s around rather a lot, with coming for tea every day, fixing the fence… He seems the sort of man who notices things which others might overlook.”

  The sort of man who noticed too dratted many things, if one were to ask Bethanne’s opinion on the matter. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I can’t worry about that right now, because he is good for Aunt Rosaline. You’ve seen that yourself. He calms her. No one else seems able to do that. At least not as deftly as he does.”

  That last point stung rather more than it should. She ought to be glad that anyone was able to help with Aunt Rosaline, in any way. Yet it poked at her pride that she was a failure in that area. She was Aunt Rosaline’s caregiver. Bother and blast, she was supposed to be the one who could calm her.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Jo said a few moments later. “You know, I could stay with you. Perhaps it would be enough to convince Father to stop hounding me about marriage.”

  Bethanne let out an entirely unladylike snort. “While I’m sure it would help with the latter, you can’t stay. If you do, they’ll all want to know why I need more help, and then they’ll come to investigate matters. They can’t suspect anything.”

  “No, you’re right,” Jo conceded. “Bugger it all.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No you’re not.” Her eyes flashed with an accusation.

  “Fine. But I am sorry you can’t stay.”

  “So am I, Bethie.” Jo took a final sip of her chocolate, then collected both cups.

  Bethanne assumed Jo w
ould leave then, so she pulled out her ledgers again, still with no answers to her never-ending series of problems. But instead of the door clicking as it opened, a pillow hit her over the ear, knocking the quill from her hands.

  She let out a shriek of surprise and looked up. Jo stood over her with another feather pillow at the ready and a devilish gleam in her eyes. Bethanne just stared at her, gawking.

  After a moment, Jo shrugged, and then whacked Bethanne in the head with her weapon of choice.

  “Oh, now that just isn’t right,” Bethanne muttered. She snatched up the first pillow and leapt to her feet, swinging it at her cousin with all her might.

  Jo fought back just as fiercely as expected. After several intense minutes of their girlhood insanity, they both collapsed upon the bed amidst a blizzard of feathers, giggling uncontrollably and gasping for breath.

  When Bethanne’s giggles finally came to a stop, she was crying. “Bother, Jo, why does everything have to be so difficult?”

  “It always has been for you, hasn’t it? Even something so simple as having fun.”

  Bethanne scowled at her cousin. “I just had fun.”

  “I know. And I had to force you into it.” Jo rose to her feet, smoothed her hands over her wrapper to remove what feathers she could, and brushed more tears aside. “Good thing for you I love you enough to do it.”

  This time, Roman woke in a panic over the damned glass vial. In his dreams, he’d lost it in the fields near Waterloo. He’d been digging through the brush consisting of blankets and the dead bodies made up of pillows, desperately searching for the key to keeping his men alive. The key to keeping his longest friend, Captain Lewis Nichols, alive.

  But Roman had found the damned vial, and Nichols and the rest of Roman’s men had died anyway.

  And that was all months ago. Not now. There was no bloody danger in his bed, save himself. With a muttered oath, Roman disentangled himself from his bedding and stalked to the mantle. He bent and lit a taper in the low flames, then took it with him to the armoire to look at the time on his watch fob. Half five. He’d hoped to still be awake at this hour, not already waking from his fitful sleep.