“They say you are a managing female.” Somehow, when the dowager said it, my greatest skill became a vice.
I looked her straight in the eye. “As I said, I try to be helpful.”
“Indeed.” She turned abruptly to Justine Raibourne, as if she no longer had time to waste on me. “Now that Helen is gone, Justine dear,” she said with all the sugary bite of a London tabbie, “just when do you plan to leave?”
Chapter Four
We dined together that evening. Hostility vied with gloom, with hostility gaining the upper hand. After a curt nod in my direction, Lord Hammersley glowered at his food, addressing a remark to the dowager on his right only when he seemed to recall duty demanded it. Across the table from me, Avery Birkett, to whom I had been introduced just prior to entering the dining room, managed desultory conversation with Justine Raibourne, in spite of the glares his mother sent in his direction. Needless to say, she and Miss Raibourne were not speaking. Miss Maud, the self-professed witch, picked at her food while casting numerous birdlike glances at the rest of us.
The food, sadly, was as uninspired as the conversation. I was accustomed to better. Far better. Sharply reminding myself this was a house of mourning, I tried to think kindly of the blob of pudding the footman had just set before me in a crystal dish. A currant or two peeked through the watery goo—or were those wizened raisins rejected by more discerning cooks? My household, clearly at sixes and sevens. Hammersley’s words came back to me. So . . . Helen’s illness had allowed household matter to go to the dogs, and the dowager had not attempted to seize the reins. So why did she spend so much time here?
I took one bite of the so-called pudding and set my spoon down. Keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the objectionable sweet, I fought my rising temper, my managing disposition. To no avail. If only Hammersley had given me more than a hint of what he was thinking . . . or if I were of a more conformable temperament . . .
But he had not, and I was not.
As the dowager rose to lead the ladies to the drawing room, I walked straight to the head of the table. “My lord, when you have done with your port, I should like to speak with you.”
The deep blue eyes he fixed on me were the eyes I remembered from London, not the pale imitations I saw last night. Sharp, penetrating. And suddenly veiled, like a window shuttered before a storm. “My study, half an hour.”
Breathless, I scurried after the ladies like a frightened mouse, all vestiges of my burst of courage frozen by the ice of his gaze.
I had little time to dread a continuation of the strained atmosphere in the dining room, for Mr. Birkett seemed to be lying in wait, guiding me to a chair in a group of furnishings directly in front of one of the room’s two great fireplaces. I took a moment to look around, for I had not seen the drawing room before. Somehow, in spite of the sumptuousness of the other rooms, I had not expected such a display of wealth in this far corner of the realm, yet this room was as gilded, coffered, and as ornately plastered as the great homes far to the south. Hand-painted silk wallpaper, paintings by great masters, furnishings of the finest quality, and yet there was something that didn’t fit with my image of a great country house. Perhaps the knowledge that much of this house was rougher, more rugged, a structure designed for long winters, raging storms, snow and ice.
But Mr. Birkett was hovering and it was rude to let my mind wander.
“Welcome to Falconfell, Miss Farnborough. We are much in need of a new face to lighten the length of our days.”
I could not help but smile. He was likely less than five and twenty, a mere boy, but he was attempting to be gracious. And his was the first genuinely welcoming face I had seen since descending from the coach. For I could not count Hammersley’s reception as a true welcome. It had been, in fact, so enigmatic I still was not sure why he had asked me to stay on. Avery Birkett, I noticed, had hair near the same shade of tawny blonde as mine, but his eyes were classic English gray.
“I am so sorry to intrude at such a difficult time,” I told Mr. Birkett. “I can only hope I will be able to help in some way.”
“Help?” He laughed. “My dear girl, if you had but heard the things Hammersley said about you when he knew you were coming, you would quake in your boots. Be careful, else he’ll work you to the bone.”
“Indeed.” I frowned. “He did mention something about the household being at sixes and sevens . . .” Shameless! Fishing for information from a boy.
Mr. Birkett eyed my petite frame with some skepticism. “You don’t look much like the new broom, but that’s what he expects, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I said with a shade too much snap. “I came to nurse Lady Hammersley and now have no purpose at all. I should probably return home immediately.”
I caught a flicker of amusement in those knowing eyes. “For that you’d need a coach and four and Thayne to give the orders. It’s not going to happen, you know, and it’s a ten-mile walk down the valley, another five to the nearest semblance of a village.”
“I’ll walk if I have to,” I flashed before reason took over and I realized the absurdity of our exchange. Avery Birkett might smile and smile, but he was baiting me. Quite deliberately. So . . . no friends in this place. Except possibly the lord of the manor.
And then there was Violet.
The dowager’s son was not the only person who could play games. “But of course I have no desire to run away so soon,” I told him. “I am meeting with Lord Hammersley in a few minutes, and I am sure he will explain how I may help during this time of mourning. I wonder,” I added, softening my voice to that of a spinster with little of interest in aught but the latest gossip, “if you might tell me how Helen died. She was so full of life, it is difficult for me to understand.”
I had to give the young man credit. His face sobered instantly, to the point of looking genuinely distressed.
“A dreadful accident,” he told me. “Something startled her horse and she fell. Unfortunately, onto rocks instead of moorgrass.” Mr. Birkett stared into the distance, clearly remembering the moment. “I was there and yet I cannot tell you the why of it. Helen was an accomplished rider. It should not have happened.” He sighed. “Her only obvious injury was a broken arm, but she was unconscious for nearly a day.” Avery frowned. “She should have mended, but somehow she did not. There would be a few good days and then she would relapse. The doctor finally decided she had contracted a wasting disease that had not manifested itself until after she was weakened by the accident. In truth, I believe he was guessing. The fact of the matter is, over the last six months Helen simply faded away. “Even if Laytham had been willing to give you up during his wife’s confinement, I doubt there was anything you could have done to save her.”
I doubt there was anything you could have done to save her. Thayne Hammersley must have known that. Which meant I had been summoned under false pretenses.
But was that not why I wished to speak to him. I already suspected as much.
“Thank you, Mr. Birkett,” I said. “If I am to spend time with Violet, it helps to know that she has been without her mother’s care for such a length of time.”
“Long before that,” he returned airily. “Never was much of a mother, our Helen.”
Oh. I excused myself, deciding to wait in the hall outside Hammersley’s study while I analyzed the strange bits of information Avery Birkett had imparted. But I was waylaid by what I can only describe as a furious termagant. Justine Raibourne jumped to her feet and grabbed my arm as I walked by. “You’ll never have him,” she hissed. “He’s mine.”
Thoroughly startled, I fought to understand. “Mr. Birkett?”
“Don’t be a fool! Thayne, of course.”
Spinster or no, I am not naive. Nor did I turn a deaf ear to talk of licentiousness among the London ton. Nor the sexual games played at country house parties. But that Justine Raibourne coveted her deceased cousin’s husband on the day of her funeral was a bit too much.
When I simply gaped a
t her, she added, “You don’t suppose he’s been celibate these past months, do you? He’s far too hot-blooded for that. A man, that’s Thayne Hammersley, with all a man’s desires.” She moved closer, until I could smell the wine on her breath. “And he won’t look twice at a little nothing like you.”
Which was true, but I longed to box her ears for saying so. And even more so for declaring she and Thayne were lovers. Surely not, I wouldn’t believe it. Adultery didn’t fit his character.
Idiot! Men do it all the time. Probably even Laytham.
I straightened to my full five feet three inches and said, “If he won’t look twice at me, why are you worried?” With that Parthian shot, I exited the drawing room, the impetus of my anger carrying me to Hammersley’s study several minutes before the appointed hour. I rapped on the door, louder than I should have, and entered.
The fire burned low, there was no other light. I took a candle from its holder, lit it from the fire, and soon had two candelabra illuminating the room. Evidently it functioned as a bookroom as well as the baron’s study. Three walls were lined with leather-bound books; the fourth wall boasted a fireplace, two diamond-paned windows in the Gothic style, and between them the desk where I had met with Thayne last night. Except last night I had seen only the Lord of Falconfell. Although spacious, this was a cozy room, a comfortable room. For the first time that I day I was able to relax, breathe in the scent of old books and hot wax, the tart odor of a coal fire, and know a few moments of peace. I didn’t even startle when the door opened and Hammersley crossed the room, seating himself behind the imposing mahogany desk.
Convention dictated that I should extend further condolences, but that seemed so banal, like an exchange between strangers, and somehow Thayne Hammersley and I were anything but. In the end I settled for being myself, practical and organized. “My lord, you mentioned that you wished me to help with Violet. I wondered just how far this help goes. For example, may I order her out of that dreadful dress she was wearing today? She has sorrow enough without being encompassed in black.”
He didn’t so much as pause to consider. “I will inform Nanny Roberts and anyone else who may ask that you have complete control of Violet.”
I sucked in a breath. “That is a great deal of trust, my lord, for someone you scarcely know.”
“I would have trusted you with a child of mine eleven years ago, if I’d had one. And since then the family Farnborough has trumpeted the qualities of your character by how hard they fight to take you into their homes.”
“And are just as glad to be shut of me.”
Incredibly, he smiled. “Would you say you are a managing female, Miss Farnborough?”
Chagrined, I nodded. “I fear so, my lord.”
“Then I predict you will love Falconfell.”
“My lord?”
“There are a great many things here which cry out for a managing female.”
“I noticed.” My fingers flew to my mouth, I ducked my head.
Ignoring my appalled reaction, Hammersley said, “Lest we have open rebellion on our hands or be subjected to endless fits of the vapors, we will begin our housecleaning in the nursery. After that . . .” He shrugged. “The possibilities are endless.”
I had to say it. Common sense required it, but it wasn’t easy. “What about Miss Raibourne?”
“I fear Miss Raibourne, like the Dowager Baroness, has lived here so long she considers Falconfell her home. It is not.”
His eyes were slitted, his voice cold. My stomach roiled, bile rose in my throat. Thank you for your services, Miss Raibourne, and now goodbye. Because she was useless? Because he had tired of her?
No! Justine lied. I knew she lied. She might want the moon, but she could not have it.
“Miss Farnborough?” I jerked my attention back to the master of the house. “Do we understand each other?”
“Truthfully, my lord, I am not sure. Am I to be considered Violet’s governess?”
He considered the question, his eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “We will begin with Violet, as her case is most urgent. After that, we will expand the scope of your duties. If all goes as I expect, I wish you to take over full management of the house.”
“My lord!”
He leaned forward, moving into the full light of six candles, his blue eyes looking almost as bright as they had so many years ago in London. “We are in dire need of a managing female, Miss Farnborough. Surely you would not turn down such a challenge.”
“I am to be a glorified housekeeper?”
“No. I expect you to be my wife.”
Chapter Five
I told Hammersley he was mad and stalked out. No need to point out he was eyeing a successor on the same day he buried his wife.
Yet how immensely sensible. Replace Wife One with a woman the entire family had declared capable of managing everyone from a difficult patient to impossible relatives to the youngest tweeny. Behold, a few words from the Book of Common Prayer and Lord Hammersley could live in comfort—a smooth-functioning household, good meals, the freedom to come and go as he would.
Take a mistress for his pleasure.
Keep the one he had.
No! Not Justine. I wouldn’t believe it.
I allowed Bess to help me out of clothes, but taking the brush from her hand, I sent her to bed while I brushed my own hair, my face grim. Every stroke of the brush transformed into a whip biting into Thayne Hammersley’s back. How could he? Yes, others in the family had been using me for years, but this . . .
Would they all breathe a sigh of relief when there was no Serena to descend on them like a whirlwind, tidying up their households along with the sickroom?
Very likely they had all conspired with Laytham to get rid of me.
I wasn’t that bad. Really. I made things better . . . just as I made people better.
Didn’t I?
The reports could not have been too horrid or Hammersley never would have mentioned marriage. Yes, that perked up my spirits. Nor was marriage necessary, I rationalized. Hammersley could grant me authority over the household on his word alone. As long as he did not pay me, I was not an employee.
Authority over Justine, who thought to wed him?
Over the dowager, who had reigned here for years?
Over the housekeeper, Mrs. Maxwell, who clearly did as she pleased?
By the time I pulled the covers up to my chin and attempted to sleep, I had come to the realization that Thayne Hammersley was not out of his mind. There was only one way I could rule at Falconfell. As his wife.
In the morning I breakfasted with only mad Maud for company. I should not call her that, of course, but it’s difficult not to when her conversations made no sense. The Lord of Falconfell had gone out early, Fraser informed me, something about a shepherd’s hut and a rockfall. Mr. Birkett had gone with him. The other ladies were breakfasting in their rooms.
“They don’t eat much,” Miss Maud confided in a whisper. “Toast, no jam. A coddled egg. Chocolate swimming with flies.”
My coffee went down the wrong way. I coughed until tears streamed down my face, while Maud watched me with seemingly fascinated interest. Hoping for the excitement of my dropping dead straight in front of her? When I finally managed to regain my equilibrium, I asked if I had heard her correctly.
“Spiders, spinning their webs,” she crooned, “must keep up their strength.” Sweeping her hands into the air, fingers wriggling like the legs of a spider, Maud sketched a vast web above the sparkling white tablecloth.
The worst part was, I suspected she knew exactly what she was saying. I had just been given a warning. Or was this elder daughter of Falconfell playing with me? How could anyone lead a life so isolated and not go a bit queer in the head?
Hastily, I finished my meal and set off to find the nursery. I could only hope Hammersley had not left the house before imparting the change of command to Nanny Roberts. With the aid of a footman and a maid, I eventually made my way to the top of th
e house, where, I was told, I would find the nursery suite. In traditional English fashion, it was placed as far from parents and guests as it was possible to be. Heaven forfend that the noises made by anyone under the age of fourteen should be heard in the civilized part of the house or an adult forced to deal with heedless behavior. Keep the little monsters tucked away until they learn their manners seemed to be the byword of England’s aristocracy.
I paused at the top of the staircase. A window on one side of the corridor offered a stunning view of the valley, the river, and the rugged hills on each side. I had thought the view from the morning room beautiful, but this was so much more, making me wish I had an artist’s talent so I might capture it on canvas. It was not, however, the lovely lake country landscape artists seemed to prefer. The prospect from the highest point at Falconfell was clearly wild, rough, and dangerous, demanding respect even as one exclaimed over its breathtaking beauty.
Since when did you turn fanciful? my common sense mocked. Abruptly, I brought my thoughts back to the nursery. Following the low murmur of a voice, I tapped on one of several doors off the corridor. I could tell from the lack of surprise on Nanny Roberts’s face that Hammersley had indeed spoken with her. For several moments after the door closed behind me, I could see nothing. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I found Violet in a small rocking chair set next to a larger one, which Mrs. Roberts must have occupied. The only light in the room came from a three-branch candelabra set on a small wooden table beside the empty chair. A book lay spread-eagled beside the candle stand. Nanny had been reading to Violet by candlelight at ten in the morning on a sunny day?
Afraid of what I might say if I spoke, I charged across the room and began swinging shutters aside. I took perverse pleasure in the clatter and bang as they thudded against the wall. It was a large corner room with three windows on each side, and I moved like a whirlwind, not pausing until the nursery was flooded with light. A few moments of silence as we all blinked while both eyes and minds adjusted to a new day.
Brides of Falconfell Page 3