The house was deathly still this morning, not a creak in the old floors or rattle of a door latch. Perhaps the major, like the pack of poisoned vermin she kept finding in the most inconvenient places, was actually dead in his bed. She had never seen anyone consume so much alcohol so steadily during the course of a day and wondered how he could put one foot in front of the other to get upstairs to his room each evening.
But perhaps he wasn’t upstairs after all. Perhaps his body lay on the floor of his messy study—a place he’d forbidden her to clean—and was even now putrefying. Anne had an unclear idea as to exactly what dead people did, but did not really want to find out today. She would not search in his study for trouble—usually trouble found her anyway.
Wrapping her cloak against the stiff wet wind, she stepped outside to pump water into a jug, filled the kettle, and set it on top of the stove. Anne sat down on the kitchen bench to wait, surveying her new considerably cleaner domain. This pretending to be a housekeeper, while physically challenging, was not really so very awful.
As long as Major Ripton-Jones remained too drunk to interfere with her unconventional methods. He didn’t need to know she stuck the dirty dishes in a pan and set them out in the pouring rain, did he?
Anne’s stomach rumbled. She was perfectly capable of cutting thick slices from the loaf of bread she’d bought in the village yesterday. She supposed at some point she needed to open The Compleat Housewife so she could learn to make some of her own. Anne had placed the tattered volume Evangeline had given her on the Welsh dresser among chipped mud-brown Staffordshire.
Trust Major Ripton-Jones to fancy depressing dinnerware. Brown was so . . . brown.
Since he was not stirring, she ate her breakfast first and alone. Yesterday he’d come to the kitchen, tossed some money down on the warped pine table and told her to get whatever she deemed necessary for the running of the household. Anne did not expect he meant French-milled soap, but the little shop had two bars of that luxury item and Anne bought them both at hideous expense. They smelled of lilac, her very favorite flower, and she would need an occasional whiff from her wrist so she could keep shoveling dead rodents out the door without casting up her accounts. The major had poured himself a cup of bitter coffee—this morning’s was a little better, she thought—and slumped in a chair, eschewing her offer to fix him breakfast. He’d looked wretched and smelled worse. A bit of lilac soap for him would not go amiss.
Two years of this. By the terms of her mother’s will, Anne would receive her inheritance at the age of twenty-one. Then she could tell both the major and her father to go hang. Become the true “Toast of the Continent,” as she had once been styled by The London List. She could do this job. She had to.
But she wouldn’t do it alone. There must be someone from the village the major could afford to hire to help her. Keeping a house this size running all by herself would be difficult even if she knew what she was doing, and she most assuredly did not. Anne resolved to speak to the major first thing when he finally dragged himself out of his sour-smelling bed.
She did not have long to wait. Her heart kicked a little when she heard footfalls upstairs. Perhaps she should bring up hot water so he could wash off the stink of gin. Offer to shave him, although she was likely to cut his throat. It must be hard to button one’s trousers with one hand. Anne felt a blush rise that had nothing to do with the now-warm kitchen. She hung her suddenly heavy cloak on a hook and went back to her breakfast.
There was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing upstairs. Parts of the house were very old, and each tread above resulted in a shower of dust from the ancient kitchen beams onto Anne’s bread. She snatched the last of it from her plate, swallowed quickly and rose when she heard him clatter down the back stairs.
Lowering her eyes—almost afraid of what she’d see—she bobbed like all the proper, obedient servants she’d grown up with. “Good morning, sir.”
“Is it? You’ve seen the rain, aye?”
His voice was low and steady. Anne looked up. He’d made some attempt to shave himself, and his left cheek was streaked with blood. His face was thin, his cheekbones sharp, his eyes the brightest blue. They were the exact color of a sapphire ring she was sorry she’d left behind in her jewel box. His over-long dark hair had been brushed back from his forehead, and a few strands of silver gleamed in the dull morning light.
“It has rained each day since I arrived, Major, but every morning is a good morning. May I fix you breakfast?”
He shook his head. “Just coffee.” He pulled back a chair and sat, his single elbow resting on the table. Today the sleeve of his shirt was pinned up. He had not bothered with a cravat or waistcoat or jacket. Anne thought a proper housekeeper would be shocked to see the column of throat beneath his unbuttoned collar, but she was not a proper housekeeper now, was she?
“Do you take sugar and milk?” He had not added anything yesterday and must still be regretting that.
“Only if your brew is as bad as it was the last time.” He did not smile, but there was a teasing light in his eyes.
Anne couldn’t take offense. She had tasted the vile coffee herself. “I am happy to say I believe it’s much improved this morning. I’m still settling in, sir. Getting to know my way around your kitchen. Give me a few days and all will be ship-shape.” Such optimism, but she was an optimistic young woman despite the odds. A nimble liar, too. She poured the coffee into a cup and set it, without a saucer, in front of him. One less thing to wash, and she didn’t think he’d mind.
He looked around the room slowly before testing her word. “I see you’ve been busy.”
Here was her chance—how simple he’d made it for her to ask for extra servants. “I have, Major Ripton-Jones. I’m not afraid of hard work. But I’m just one woman and your house needs more. Work, that is. Not a woman. Women. No, that’s just what it does need,” she babbled. This was not quite as easy as she thought. “I don’t suppose you could hire a maid or two to help me?”
The cup stopped inches from his lips. “A maid? Or two? Are you quite mad, Mrs. Mont?”
Anne swallowed. “Not at all, sir.” Although some people certainly thought so. She’d been quite flighty over the years, deliberately so.
He set the cup of coffee down without tasting it. “I haven’t the money, Mrs. Mont. I can barely afford to pay you.”
“Perhaps if you indulged less in spirits, you might find the wherewithal.” She clapped a hand over her mouth and runaway tongue. Lord, she would find herself out in the driving rain in the middle of nowhere and it would be her own damn fault.
The major’s barking laugh was not a thing of beauty, but at least he wasn’t rising up to strike her. She’d seen her father punish his servants with impunity. When he was done, wiping an actual tear from one of his blue eyes, he leaned forward. “I do apologize for your reception, Mrs. Mont. You must think me a drunkard, but I assure you, I am not. Not usually.” He paused. “Nay, that’s wrong. It has been a bit of a habit lately, but not a lifelong one. I’ve had some trouble to deal with.”
“Whatever happened must have been spectacularly bad,” Anne said. Drink had been useless to her to ward off the pain of her father’s attentions—in fact, she’d needed her wits about her to evade him, earning every resultant spanking.
“Aye, it was that. But I’m better today, as you can see.” He took a suspicious sip of the coffee, then drank the whole of it down in one gulp. His throat must be made of iron.
Anne was disappointed he was not more forthcoming. Any news that resulted in the three-day bender she’d witnessed must have been interestingly catastrophic, and from the state of his house, she was sure he’d devoted himself to drinking even before she arrived. But it was not her place to ask—she’d already overstepped her bounds. She was a housekeeper, no more, no less. The earl’s daughter was up to her eyelashes in drudgery, and apparently doomed to soldier on alone, one day, one room at a time.
Major Ripton-Jones stood, almost grazing his head on a
blackened beam. “I won’t keep you from your duties. I’m going into Hay today to meet someone who might be able to get me out of my current difficulties. Do you need anything? Or perhaps you’d like to put down your dust rag and join me?”
Anne thought back several days to the huge sense of relief she’d felt as the mail coach crossed over the Welsh border and deposited her in the charming market town. Every mile from London had meant she was further away from her father’s reach. But she had spent too much time there securing the donkey cart to Llanwyr, and worried that somehow her journey would be traced to the major’s doorstep. She had vowed to never stray very far from Ripton Hall again. Strangers in the country always attracted attention, and she wanted none of that. Not anymore.
Anne gave him a wobbly smile. “Besides someone to help me? No, I think not. Thank you for asking. Should you go out in all this rain?”
“If I wait for the rain to stop, it will be May. At least it’s not snow. Yet, although these old bones say that’s not too far off. I am sorry we got off on the wrong foot. I’m sure you never had to deal with the likes of me at Lady Pennington’s.”
So he remembered the name on her letter of reference. Evidently he was not the sort of drunk who was forgetful. Very different from her father, who would claim not to remember what he tried to do to her when he was in his cups. She shivered at the remembrance.
He noticed. “Here, you’re cold. Let me feed the fire before I go.”
“That’s my job, sir. And anyway, I’m warm enough. I may even have to remove a dress.”
Idiot. The man couldn’t know she was wearing two. He probably just thought she was fat and volunteering to show him every inch. “I—I put on two dresses this morning, Major, and my cloak. I’m afraid I forgot to bank the fire last night and the kitchen was ch-chilly when I got up.” Her face felt as hot as the stove.
His lips quirked, and the mischievous light was back in his eyes. Oh, dear. She really should not look at him at all. Anne became fascinated with the slate tiles at her feet as he headed toward the door.
“Very well. I should be back before dark. Don’t bother with supper for me. I’ll get a meal on the way home.”
“Very good, sir.” Better than good. She would be satisfied with a crust of bread slathered in plum jam, but he might not be.
She couldn’t resist raising her eyes. The major took an oilskin coat from a hook and clapped a battered hat on his head. What sort of business did he have if he didn’t even put on a jacket over his linen shirt? For warmth alone he should be as layered as she had been, but he disappeared into the rain-slicked dooryard and headed off to the stables. Well, his business was none of her business. Anne had enough to worry about without adding gentlemen’s clothing to her list.
She was not entirely sure Major Ripton-Jones was a gentleman anyhow.
CHAPTER 3
The rain had turned to sleet a few miles back and the road was black and icy as death. It was only because he knew the way from boyhood that Gareth was able to urge Penny on. The horse had been with him for almost two decades when they’d both seen things no living creature should survive, but here they were, in possession of most of their faculties if not their limbs. Gareth could have taken Job, his misnamed, livelier mount, for the ride to Hay-on-Wye, but there was comfort to be found on Penny’s old back. The horse seemed to sense that the reins were held in but one hand, and was accordingly polite.
The trip to town had been a failure, like all the trips before it. Worse, really, because Bronwen’s brother Rob had once again adamantly denied he was in possession of the Ripton family jewels, and they’d almost come to blows this time. It seemed there would be no getting the jewelry back, no hope to fob off his creditors for a few months. Rob was not a rich man, and keeping the girls while they waited for their father’s heir to return from the Caribbean and take them back to the abbey must be a drain on his pocketbook. Gareth supposed Rob had every right to dispose of Bronwen’s things, even if he said he’d never had the jewels to sell to begin with. Her daughters had to eat, didn’t they? Gareth was not such a monster as to deprive two little girls of their dinner. They had already been deprived of their mother and father.
And so Gareth had stopped by an inn along the road home to drown his disappointment, and then another when he got to Llanwyr village. Mrs. Chapman had not tossed him out of the Silver Pony when she should have, and even offered him a free room for the night. But he couldn’t stay—his new little housekeeper would worry, and he’d already gotten off to a bad start with her.
Gareth didn’t know why he should care about her feelings. In fact, there was little he did care about anymore. It was not always this way, but anyone who knew him would say he had good reasons to drink and distance himself from the shambles of his life. However, no matter how much cheap gin he gulped, he never quite cut the thread of consciousness. It was plenty frayed tonight though, and he’d be glad to find himself poured into bed.
He was not intoxicated. Not yet. But there was a bottle of inferior brandy in his bedside cupboard, out of sight of snoopy housekeepers. Brandy would make a nice change from the inferior gin. He’d spent the whole day mostly sober and was the poorer for it.
Penny nickered as the light over the stable shone weakly through the driving sleet. Pray that old Martin was still up to help him, for Gareth was weary to the bone and cold. Penny deserved a bucket of hot mash after the day they’d had, and he wasn’t sure he could stand on his feet much longer to give it to him.
“Almost there, lad, almost there.” His old mount stepped a bit livelier, tossing his head up to the stable block. To Gareth’s relief, Martin came down from his rooms almost immediately with a curse and a lantern and shooed him away.
Gareth tripped on the kitchen step and let himself in. A stubby tallow candle burned on the center of the table. He’d have to speak to Mrs. Mont—he had no coin for wasting candles to welcome him home. He could see in the dark, knew every inch of his father’s house, every squeaky floorboard above, every uneven piece of slate below. It was still a solid dwelling, even if he’d let things go to hell this past year.
Ripton Hall had begun its life a couple of centuries ago as a humble farmhouse. He’d slept over the kitchen wing since boyhood. The sloping ceilings were a nuisance to a man of his height, but at least he was warm enough through a Welsh winter. The rest of the bedrooms in the newer, more ambitious addition were shut up. Gareth never had visitors, although once the house had been a happy one.
No more.
He blew the candle out rather than carry it upstairs. He didn’t need light to strip out of his clothes and find his bottle. And more to the point, he needed his hand to steady himself up the rope railing.
One hand proved insufficient. His worn wet boots slipped on a stair tread. Before he had a chance to catch himself, he was bumping down the stairs in the dark, arse over teakettle. So much for being sure-footed and quiet in the dark. And blast it, he was not drunk, not really. The ridiculousness of his situation sank in, and he sat in a tangled heap, laughing at the absurdity of his life.
Mrs. Mont was up in an instant, her white night rail a ghostly blur in the back hallway. She had not paused to light a lamp or put on a dressing gown, but Gareth could see her anyway.
And hear her. She was shrieking over his laughter, but he couldn’t seem to stop.
“Are you all right? You must be, if you can cackle like a madman. You’re not hurt then?”
Gareth drew in a breath. Every inch of him throbbed, but he couldn’t call it pain. He knew what pain was, and this was its very distant cousin.
“Can you stand? Come into the kitchen, and I’ll fix you some coffee to clear your head.”
“I am not foxed, madam.” He heard her sniff. He imagined her little freckled nose twitching like a rabbit’s. “I’ll admit to a few pints of ale, but no more.” He wouldn’t mention the gin.
“You are not sober,” she said tartly.
“Sober enough to know your coffe
e might kill me.”
“It was much better this morning!”
He’d hurt her feelings. Good. Her coffee was ghastly.
“If you say so.” Gareth untwisted his long legs and steadied himself against the floor before he tried to rise. He wouldn’t admit his head was swimming just a little—no doubt he had knocked it on the wall as he came down so unexpectedly.
“Here. Take my hand and I’ll help you up. It’s a wonder you didn’t set yourself on fire with the candle I left you.”
“I didn’t bring it up with me, Mrs. Mont. And don’t leave a light burning for me again. It’s a wicked waste. I can see where I’m going.”
“Oh, yes, I can see that you do,” she said with sarcasm. She reached down and touched his shoulder. “Give me your hand,” she repeated.
“Which one?” He was rotten to be so churlish with her, but she simply bristled with disapproval. Old Cecily would never have pursed her lips as he thought Mrs. Mont must be doing—it was really too black in the hallway to tell.
He felt her stiffen over him. She smelled good, like spring. Spring was a long way off. By spring, he wouldn’t have a housekeeper—there’d be no house to keep.
“Major Ripton-Jones.” She now sounded a lot older than she looked. “It is a great pity you have lost your arm, but it is gone. The war has been over for five years. It is time you made peace with your infirmity.”
By God, she sounded like his old governess. He’d had one. The house had been full of servants when he was a child, the land productive, the future a bright and glowing place.
He didn’t bother telling Mrs. Mont where she’d gone wrong in her assumptions. “You think I feel too sorry for myself, do you?”
Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) Page 2