by Robb, J. D.
“This is Martha Stepp, Sergeant. She has been here for almost a year and has learned quickly. She is one of our best.”
Flattered by the compliment, Martha tried not to preen like the countess’s maid did, but instead stayed solemn, curtsying slightly to the sergeant, an honor befitting his position, somewhat more than servant but not a guest.
He nodded to her, not a bow, as befitted her position as servant.
“This way, if you please, Sergeant.”
At least his rank spared her the need to figure out what to call him. Again, that nebulous position between stairs, that is neither above nor below, made it difficult to work out the etiquette.
Martha could feel everyone’s eyes on them and the spontaneous burst of conversation as they passed from sight.
She turned abruptly and almost ran into his chest, he was following that close. Espying a quirk of a smile on his lips, she dreaded the thought that he was one of those who would try to take advantage of her.
Thank goodness Mrs. Belweather had no tolerance for such behavior. Mrs. B., the butler, and the majordomo were ardent in their protection of the staff. It was an order direct from the countess with a story behind it that every servant knew. Who would tell the sergeant?
And how would she handle it until then?
“These steps lead up to the entrance hall.” She led the way and they walked to the main level as another thought occurred to her. What if he knew she was the bedchamber interloper and used it to blackmail her into wicked behavior?
She almost ran up the last few steps and into the entry hall, quiet now but occupied, thank heaven, by two of her favorite footmen.
Martha introduced the sergeant to them, as they had not been at the early breakfast but would break their fast as soon as the others were about.
As the footman opened the door, Martha resumed her comments. “This is the receiving salon where guests wait to find out if the countess, or in your case, the major is receiving. Depending on how welcome they are, the major may prefer to deal with them here, or even have you deal with them. Or he can have them brought to the study or the blue or square salon, which is on the first floor, right up these stairs.”
All the time she talked he watched her, not so much listening as studying her.
“Tell me, Miss Stepp, are these chairs comfortable?”
“Erp” was all she could manage.
“The general used to have the most uncomfortable chairs in front of his field desk to discourage anyone from spending more time there than absolutely necessary. I was wondering if that was something all gentlemen did.”
“Oh, well, these are comfortable enough.” Martha was grateful for his long explanation. It gave her a chance to recover her composure. “These chairs are certainly more comfortable than anything in the servants’ day room.”
She moved toward the door, trying for a sedate pace, when what she really wanted to do was run full speed away from this man. Did he know or not? Was he baiting her or was she just too sensitive to him?
Her sensibilities were askew, she had no doubt of that. Not from guilt. She had nothing to feel guilty about, though hiding under the bed did imply some sense of wrong.
Mrs. Belweather had never told her not to sleep in the bedchambers or try out chairs for comfort or sneak a taste of the best brandy. Hmm, the list was growing in length and the God-fearing part of her, small as it was, did have some trouble with that.
“Miss Stepp?” the sergeant asked with a hint of concern in his voice.
“Oh! I’m sorry.” Martha began to move toward the stair. “I was trying to decide which way to take you.”
Now she could add lying to her misdeeds.
“I found my way through countryside where most landmarks were in ruins, I think I will be able to find my way around the castle soon enough.”
The war, she thought. He had been through war and her greatest adventure was stealing a few hours of sleep in a comfortable bed.
“All the major’s letters made it sound like an adventure.”
“You read his letters?”
He sounded personally affronted by the idea.
“Oh, you see the countess would invite all those who wished to hear them into the entry hall. She would read them aloud to us.”
The sergeant nodded.
“I think it was a way for her to relive them herself, that is, to feel the major closer to her. He was very good about writing, though sometimes there were long weeks between, which made all of us worry.” She wondered if the sergeant had anyone to write to and why he had not figured in the major’s letters.
“It turns out our worry was not misplaced when we received word the major was injured that first time and his friend Debarth killed.” She remembered the moment vividly. The water in the countess’s eyes, the way even the footmen had sniffed away tears. “We were heartsick. Debarth had figured in so many of the major’s letters about their gaming and how they would wager the buttons on their jackets when nothing else was at hand.”
As they paused at the top of the steps, she looked up at Sergeant Tresbere. His face was wooden as if he was doing his best not to cry. Which was absurd. It was hard to imagine a man of his size in tears.
“That was just after Vitoria at the end of June in 1813,” the sergeant said, as if to prove he remembered it as well.
She reached out and touched his arm, then withdrew it as quickly. Even though she knew nothing of it, she understood that war was awful, not an adventure at all, but a kind of hell on earth. As much as she knew it, Martha could not bring herself to say it aloud.
“This way, if you please, Sergeant. This is the library.”
And so it went. They worked their way through the three floors that housed the rooms that the major would frequent. Sergeant Tresbere listened intently but rarely made comments.
The last stop was outside the dressing room that was part of the major’s suite of rooms.
“Very efficient, Miss Stepp. The major would be pleased with your competence.”
But you are not? she wondered. It seemed that in the hours they had been together he had grown more distant.
“Good day to you.” He bowed slightly,
“Sergeant?” she began, his name a question.
“Yes, miss?” His face was tense.
“Please let me know if you want anything else from me.” It was not what she meant to say at all. She wanted to know if he knew she was the one under the bed. If that was why he was so cold to her.
“If I want anything else from you, Miss Stepp?” he repeated her question, a note of incredulity in his voice.
“Yes.” The single word was doubtful.
“If you must ask then you cannot begin to imagine what I want.” The anger that tinged the words made her move back and with a curt nod, he closed the door in her face.
“Martha, for a bright girl you can be very stupid.”
Martha whirled around to find Joseph, the second footman, coming down the passage with a bucket of hot water. He tapped on the major’s door and made his delivery with dispatch. Martha waited. Joseph was a particular friend of hers. If he had been at all ambitious she might have taken more of an interest in him, but he was content here at Craig’s Castle with no thought of a future beyond senior footman. He was too complacent.
“Why did you say that?” she asked. She fell into step beside him as they made their way back toward the kitchen.
“Because I think you offered him more than you intended. Or is it just me to whom you are cool?”
“Joseph Smith! You insult me.”
“Martha Stepp, do you recall what you said to him?”
“Yes, of course I do. I told him that he could ask if he needed anything else.”
“Not exactly, Martha. You know I have an excellent memory.”
She nodded.
“You said, ‘Please let me know if you want anything else from me.’ That is exactly how you phrased it.”
“Oh dear goodness.”
Martha put her hand over her mouth. They continued on down the stairs, Joseph rattling on about how many ways that statement could be interpreted.
“Joseph, I don’t need any help. My mind is quite capable of thinking of any number of embarrassing ways he could have answered that.”
Joseph laughed, the big oaf, and waved good-bye as he headed back to the kitchen while she went on to Mrs. Belweather’s office.
What she did need help with was understanding why she had used such a suggestive phrase.
CHAPTER FOUR
“So how does the castle strike you, Sergeant?” The major rubbed his thigh and then stretched it out in front of him.
Jack could tell it pained him and wished he could convince the major to take some exercise. It would help ease the stiffness or at least distract him from it.
“Do you see it as a great moldering pile or—?” The major left the comparison incomplete, as he often did.
“If I compared it to our unit, Major, I would say it is better run than most, with a competent command structure and the usual run of men, and women, in the ranks. Odd to see a woman in such a role of authority as is Mrs. Belweather.”
“Who is Mrs. Belweather?”
“The housekeeper.” At first Jack was surprised that the major did not know her name but then he realized that the man had been from home for nigh onto ten years.
“Not to put too fine a point on it, Jack, but my lady mother is also part of the command structure. At least she is when my father, the earl, is in London.”
“Yes, I liken the earl to our Wellington. I imagine everyone is on their toes when he is in residence and aims for a notch above their usual excellence.”
The major nodded as he made to stand up. The dogs jumped to their feet, ready to accompany him. Jack did not offer him help, but let the man reach for his stick and lever himself out of the chair. “Speaking of the countess. I am off to her wing to present myself to her. I will spare you that, Sergeant, for there will be the usual tears and such.”
On both sides, Jack thought. Despite his tone, the major and his mother shared a special bond. Martha Stepp was not the only one who had heard letters.
As the major brushed dog hair from his trousers and reached for a comb one more time, Jack heard shouting and moved toward the window to see what caused it.
The sunlight hinted at a perfect summer day. Ideal for fishing if there was stream nearby and he would be allowed. Aha, he thought, stopping halfway across the room, struck by an idea that would give him that information and solve another problem.
“Major, I know the house well enough now but would it be possible, after noon perhaps, for us to make a reconnaissance of the grounds?” He waited for the major to say no, but when he looked interested, Jack went on. “I could go to the stables now and see if your horse can be readied and find another that might need exercise.”
“A fine idea, Sergeant. It will be a pleasure to ride without fear of attack, will it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That will take care of today.” The major waited while Jack opened the door. “Now we only have to decide what to do with the rest of our lives.”
Jack watched the major move down the hall, his dogs trailing behind though he was fairly certain the dogs would not be included in the welcome-home meeting with the countess.
Now that he had some time to himself, Jack closed himself in his dressing room and took stock. It was small, but fitted out with various built-in elements so that there was room for a bed in an alcove, which could double as a window seat.
His belongings fit in the chest that slid under the bed. All but his pistol, which he wrapped in stout cotton and tucked under his pillow. Old habits die hard, he thought and wondered what could threaten him in this house, in this shire, in this world as far from the fields of Quatre Bras as it was possible to be.
He stood with his knees nudging the end of the bed, and watched the day unfold beyond his window. The gardener’s boys made noise attacking every weed in sight while their father pruned and trimmed the plants nearby. Apparently the boys needed supervision.
Even as he had the thought, two of them began a tussle that involved rolling in the grass and punching each other. Jack watched the gardener break up the fight and box the boys’ ears before setting them back to work as far from each other as possible.
Keeping this house running and presentable was as demanding as keeping a battalion housed and fed. Perhaps somewhat easier as the house did not rise up and move on a sometimes daily basis.
He knew the moment Martha Stepp came into the major’s room. He could sense her presence as if the air around him shifted to accommodate her and brushed up against him with the scent of soap and oranges.
Jack heard her talking with someone else as they freshened the bed and reset fuel in the fireplace. Martha sent the other maid for fresh water and Jack stepped away from his window to speak with her.
He came into the major’s bedchamber just as she was replacing the toweling on the washstand.
“Miss Stepp?” he began and she all but shrieked as she turned to face him. Apparently she was not as sensitive to his presence as he was to hers.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I live here now.”
“Yes, I do beg your pardon. You startled me. I thought you would be with the major.”
“I am acting as his valet, miss. I am not his shadow. He went to see his mother.”
“I’m here to make up his bed,” she told him quite unnecessarily as she was tucking in the sheets as she spoke.
He watched her work, both of them in silence, for a minute at least. A minute in which she grew more and more graceless. Ah, he thought, I make her nervous.
Finally she stopped her fussing. “Why are you watching me? Do you not have something better to do?”
“I cannot imagine what could be better than watching a pretty woman.”
She looked insulted rather than flattered by the comment. Turning her back, she lifted the dirty bedsheets and a length of towel and went to the door.
He moved ahead of her but did not open it.
“Was that rude of me?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“You have the strangest hold on me. I know when you come into the room, when you leave, when you look at me, and when you look away. And I have known you less than twelve hours.”
She nodded, which was better than a shrug, and he went on. “I do not know many women. No man who makes the army his life does. I can count on my fingers the number of social conversations I have had with a woman, and now I find I am surrounded by them and fascinated by one in particular.”
She said nothing but swallowed hard, her eyes growing large. Her eyes invited him closer, at least he thought they did. Not wanting to insult her, or, to be honest, ruin his chances, he did not move but waited for her to do so.
“Martha, open the door for me, if you please,” said a voice that came from the other side of the door. “Stupid of me, but I need both hands to hold this can.”
Each watching the other, Martha Stepp moved back and Jack opened the door. When the other servant came into the room the spell between them was broken. Jack took the can of water from the girl and Martha Stepp hurried from the room. He could feel the air shifting back, less compressed, less fragrant.
The other maid was inclined to chat, flirt, Jack decided, but he felt he’d used up his quota of words for now and he excused himself and went into his room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Jack wandered to the window again and for the fifth time wondered why he had not confronted Martha Stepp last night. He had no doubt that she had been the one hiding beneath the bed. Indeed, she had been sleeping on it before they arrived.
He had walked close, almost into her, when she had been assigned to show him the house, and her bright gold hair had smelled of soap and oranges, as had the woman’s hair from the night before.
Beyond his failure to expose
her, the question was, what had kept her from her own bed? An argument with the girl with whom she shared a room? Was she hiding from a discarded suitor? Or lover?
And what did it matter? Would any woman be willing to tolerate, much less accept, his gift of healing? More like they would see him as a servant of the devil and avoid him at all costs.
He looked up at the sky, not seeing the bright blue or the sharp white of the clouds but imagining a world where he had no gift to complicate his life and the love of a good woman to complete it. By the time he abandoned that fantasy, the boys were gone from the garden.
He saw a woman come out of the house carrying a full armload of something. It was Martha Stepp with the bedding she had taken away, and he watched her, kneeling on the cot so he was a few inches closer to her.
She stopped at the door to the outbuilding, a laundry perhaps, juggled her load to one arm, took something from her pocket, and set it on the lintel of the door before entering.
Her disappearance inside left the garden empty and Jack stared at the blue door to the laundry waiting for her to come out again. She did, not a minute later, hurrying toward the garden and then stopping abruptly.
With what he judged to be a huff of anger she pulled something from her pocket and dropped it on the ground. She stomped on it and then picked it up and threw it toward the pond a few feet away. The object rippled as it broke the surface. Martha watched for a minute and then, with a firm nod, continued back to her work.
MARTHA SAT ON THE EDGE OF HER BED, FINGERING THE coin that had found its way back into her pocket yet again. Was this to be her lot in life? To have this coin to offer people their fondest wish, but never to be granted one herself? With a sigh she buffed it and considered whether the sergeant would be interested in making a wish.
“Stop dawdling, Martha,” Wanda called. “We will be late for the major’s homecoming party.”
Martha pocketed the coin and hurried out. Wanda was long gone, but Ellen was headed toward the stairs. “Do you think the major would like to make a wish?”
“Or think you crazy?”
“That is always a concern,” Martha admitted. “However, I would think that someone who has come as close to death as he has would know there is more in the world than we can see or even imagine.”