THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1818 - ISABEL

by Suzanne Enoch

  Now all she needed was to find the orb and wait for it to agree with her thinking.

  Adam didn’t want to go outside and break up the brittle cement that had finally set around the warped, wildly askew railing. He wanted to follow Isabel about the house as she looked for a crystal ball. Of course he didn’t own this place, and he’d only invested a month in Nimway’s upkeep, but he enjoyed seeing the genuine joy with which she viewed Nimway Hall. He liked it here; from the moment he’d arrived to see the forest and the meadows, the farms and the streams, he’d felt as though he was home.

  That sense of…peace very nearly made him forget how poorly most of his endeavors had gone where the property was concerned. But as enthusiastic as Isabel had been, eventually she would notice his failures – which gave him a very limited amount of time to correct them. At least his last attempt at bee removal had gone well, as had the millstone’s repair; with her present, any disaster, any misstep, would have been a glaringly obvious black mark on his chances of continued employment.

  Retrieving his gloves from the small spare room where he’d moved most of his paperwork – he couldn’t very well continue to utilize the office now that the mistress of the house was in residence – he pulled them on and went to join the pair of workers he’d hired from Balesborough.

  He lifted a heavy pickax and went to work demolishing the railing support they’d attempted to pour nearly a month ago. Adam didn’t like failures, especially when he had, as far as he could figure, done precisely what he should have done. Failures, missteps, cost time and money that belonged to someone else – in this instance, Isabel de Rossi.

  He’d also discovered just this morning that Blackbridge Abbey wasn’t as far away as he’d hoped, and that his dislike for Bell-Spratt hadn’t lessened with time. It was obviously mutual, given the way the prissy, high-handed lord had immediately begun trying to sabotage his employment behind his back. Aside from their personal animosity, it rankled that Alton felt perfectly comfortable flirting and boasting while someone else saw to his responsibilities at his own estates. Geoffrey Bell-Spratt, Lord Alton, was a damned hypocritical ass.

  He swung the pickax alongside the workers until sweat began to trickle down his back, at which point he stripped off his shirt and continued swinging. He couldn’t make Alton go away, and his own gentleman’s code prevented him from disparaging another man without the ass being there to defend himself, but he could bloody well pretend the lumps of cement were the viscount’s smug face.

  But the viscount owned a title and property. Isabel – and he liked saying her name, even to himself – owned property. That made her and Alton compatible. In the seven years he’d worked as a steward he’d never resented anyone for the blessings of luck or birth that granted property.

  This was the first time it had ever struck him that he was an employee. This wasn’t just helping out his uncle and realizing how much he enjoyed the work. He had to prove himself and be successful at his tasks, or he would find himself unemployed.

  And he knew why it frustrated him now, why it abruptly mattered. Isabel de Rossi had had a safe, comfortable life in which she was no doubt adored by family and friends alike. And she’d chosen to come here, to a place she’d never been, with only a lady’s companion to support her. True, her knowledge of the place and how to manage it were limited, but that gave him a reason to be there.

  He could name two dozen property owners of his own acquaintance who had no idea what they were doing. He’d seen estates brought to ruin out of sheer arrogance and ignorance. Isabel seemed to want to learn, and while his opinion might be clouded by pretty gray eyes and an engaging smile, he would give her all the assistance he could. Even if it might eventually cost him his position.

  “Mr. Driscoll?”

  Blinking sweat from his eyes, Adam looked at his workmen, realizing at the same moment that the sun was a mere sliver on the horizon. How damned long had he been smashing cement in the dusk? “Let’s continue this tomorrow, shall we?” he suggested, uncurling his fingers with some difficulty from the handle of the pickax. He would have blisters to keep his bee stings company tomorrow.

  “Aye,” the older one, Stephens, replied. “I’ve no wish to chop my own toes off in the dark.”

  Adam nodded. “Thank you, lads. We’ve made a good start.”

  “I think that was mostly you, Mr. Driscoll, but you’re welcome. My boy and I’ll be back first thing.”

  They tossed their tools into a wheelbarrow and headed off on the mile-long trek back to Balesborough. Adam looked up at the well-lit house. They would be sitting down for dinner soon, and he badly needed a bath. Hot water at dinnertime, though, was a rare commodity. He looked down at the lake just beyond the garden. Hell, he’d already swum in there once this week. Twice wouldn’t hurt anything.

  After retrieving his shirt and making a wide circuit around the bee chest just in case the insects hadn’t yet settled in for the evening, he moved along the shore away from the house. Once he felt well hidden by the deepening shadows of the heavy undergrowth along the bank, he shucked out of his boots and trousers and dove in.

  The shock of cold water actually felt good against his hot skin, and he dove down to touch the muddy bottom before he surfaced. The moon had risen early, its reflection a wide, white path on the still water, one that led to the edge of the thick woods beyond the lake and vanished into inky darkness. A path to beckon the adventurous.

  “And now you’re becoming poetical,” he muttered at himself. “That’s not good.”

  Diving again, he stroked toward the shore. Once he surfaced he had to brush hair out of his eyes, a good reminder that he was beginning to appear a bit shaggy. That wouldn’t do. Not if he meant to look like a proper steward and not some wandering gypsy.

  Once the chill of the water began to settle beneath his skin he made for the small clump of rocks where he’d left his clothes. As he found his footing he looked up – to see a pair of large green eyes with slits for pupils gazing back at him. He stopped, not because he didn’t know a cat’s eyes when he saw them, but because they seemed to be floating several feet above the ground. That required an immediate and logical explanation.

  “You seem to enjoy the lake,” Isabel’s voice came. The cat’s eyes shifted a little, and then he could make out the woman’s silhouette standing just back from the shoreline, the feline in her arms.

  “I decided it would be simpler than a bath,” he returned.

  “I imagine so. We’re about to sit for dinner, if you’d care to join us.”

  Until that second it hadn’t occurred to him that he needed an invitation. Damnation. She wasn’t a cousin, and this estate didn’t belong to one of his relations. There were rules, and he needed to keep in mind which of them applied to him now. “’Us’ meaning you and Miss Jane, I assume?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. I would be pleased to join you.”

  She continued to gaze at him, her eyes, unlike the cat’s green reflecting orbs, shadowed in the deepening night. “Are you coming, then?” she finally asked.

  Adam cleared his throat. “If you wouldn’t mind turning your back. I’m a bit…naked.”

  “Oh! Oh.”

  He couldn’t see her blush in the dark, but he could imagine her doing so. Then again, she hadn’t thought twice about seeking out the half-naked figures carved into the dining room fireplace. Nevertheless, she and the cat shifted, one of the green discs disappearing. Well, he would have to assume that only the cat was looking. There wouldn’t be much to see in the dark, anyway.

  Adam scowled as he splashed out of the water. Of course there was much – a great deal – to see, but it was getting quite dark, and the water was cold. He took a breath. He was being an idiot. Thank God he was keeping his commentary to himself. Putting his bare backside on one of the rocks, he toweled himself off with his shirt, then pulled on his trousers and his boots. The rest would have to wait, and he needed something nicer for dinner, anyway.r />
  “Where did the cat come from?” he asked, standing to stomp into his second boot.

  “I don’t know. I went into my bedchamber to change for dinner and it was sitting on the bed. Simmons said he ‘wasn’t aware the house had a resident feline’.” She imitated the butler’s slightly nasal tone as she spoke.

  “You have a talent for mimicry,” he noted, grinning.

  “Do I?” She sighed audibly. “It’s not at all proper, I’m sure.”

  “As you just caught me out swimming naked, your secret is safe with me, Isabel.” He liked saying her name aloud even more than he’d liked repeating it in his mind. Moving up beside her, he offered his hand. “It can be slippery at the water’s edge.”

  She gripped his fingers with her free hand, and they made their way back toward the path. Her skin felt warm and soft against his rough palms, and he resisted the urge to tighten his hold. He was rendering assistance; that was all.

  “You seem to have forgotten half your clothes,” she noted, as they left the thickest growth of trees and shrubbery behind.

  He could practically feel her gaze. Warmth trailed pleasantly through him. “My shirt’s sweaty,” he said, hefting it. “My waistcoat and jacket are behind the house. I need to change for dinner, anyway.”

  “I’m not complaining,” she returned, leaving him to wonder whether she was being practical or flirtatious. He hoped it was the latter.

  As they reached the path, lit by widely spaced torches and consisting of well-compacted earth and scattered, rounded pebbles, Adam released her fingers before she could remember that it wasn’t proper for them to be hand in hand. If there was one thing he wanted, it was for her never to have to feel wary of him, or worried that he wouldn’t conduct himself like a gentleman. She was an unmarried young lady, and she needed his assistance. That had to come first. Even if other thoughts had been pushing at the back of his mind since he’d set eyes on her.

  “You should give your horse a name,” she said in the silence filled by frogs and cricket songs.

  That hadn’t been at all where his thoughts were headed, and he wrenched them back around. “I’ve no objection to that. Perhaps you should name him, though.”

  “Well, what would you call him?”

  Adam shrugged. “Boy? Red? Chestnut? Horse?”

  “Oh, dear. What about King? Or Major?”

  “Major will do,” he returned. “Major it is, th—”

  “Or Flame? Ember? Oh, Copper.”

  “Copper’s splendi—”

  “No, no. Let me think.”

  He walked beside her, more amused than he could remember being for quite a long time. Her mind was like a firefly, bright and flitting from one thought to the next, quick and warm. It wasn’t that she couldn’t decide, he realized. She was genuinely searching for the best fit. “You’re next, you know,” he mouthed at the cat. It blinked at him.

  “You said he’s steady and well-behaved, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Firefly, then, to give him some spirit.”

  Adam blinked. Yes, he’d been thinking about fireflies, but he hadn’t said anything aloud. It had to be a coincidence, of course. “I—”

  “No. You’re a man. One of you might be teased for a little name like Firefly. I wouldn’t want his feelings hurt.”

  He’d rather lost hold of the reins at this point. Best simply go along for the ride, then. “Of course not.”

  “Abel, then. No, he was the brother who got murdered in the Bible.” She glanced up, her footsteps slowing. “Oh, my. Orion?”

  He followed her gaze. The stars had begun blinking into sight, one after the other, until the sky looked nearly cloudy with them. He loved clear nights like this. They were few and far between. “I like Orion,” he said into the quiet.

  “Then you should call him Orion.”

  Adam nodded, smiling at her. “I will. Thank you, from me and from Orion.”

  Isabel grinned back at him. “You’re welcome. It’s a good name, I think.”

  “Did you find that orb you were after?” he pursued, abruptly wishing the path back to the house had a few more twists and turns.

  Her shoulders rose and fell. “No. I feel like I should know where it is, and I’ve given in and asked everyone now, but Simmons doesn’t think it’s been seen in nearly twenty years.”

  “Forgive me for stating the obvious, but might your mother have taken it with her when she left for Italy?”

  “No. That would have been impossible.”

  He didn’t see a family heirloom leaving with a family member as even close to impossible, but she did sound very certain. “The attic, perhaps?”

  “I took a quick look, but the attic is quite large. It could be there. I’m beginning to think it might not be meant for me, though.”

  “And why is that? You said it’s been in your family for ages. That does include you.”

  She sent him a sideways smile. “I would explain it, but I know for a fact that it all sounds a bit mad.” Isabel hefted the small gray tabby in her arms. “Before you replace those railings on the garden steps, would you help me sketch out a plan for an orangery overlooking the garden? We had oranges in Florence, and I always loved the scent of them, but I’ve heard it snows here in winter.”

  “It can.” Adam nodded, his mind already seizing on her suggestion and spinning it about with square footage and the current price of glass for the many windows that would be required. The addition would take up the area he was presently digging up for the replacement steps and railings, but it was doable.

  It would have been more convenient if she’d mentioned an orangery before he’d placed the order for new railings, but he doubted the smith had begun yet. And building an orangery could certainly provide more than enough work for the man to make up for the cancelled order. And it could provide Adam with another chance to do something well and correctly the first time – a feat that continued to elude him at Nimway Hall.

  “I know that seems abrupt and ill-considered, for me to arrive one day and the next suggest major construction,” she went on, apparently misreading his silence, “but I thought it better to look into it now rather than after you put the replacement railing in.”

  “I appreciate your timing, actually,” he countered. “And considering your new bee apiary, orange trees and orange blossom honey could well be the grandest idea of the year.”

  “Oh, we could sell Nimway honey at the market. I loved the fresh orange honey back in Florence.” She put her fingers to her chin. “We’ll need more chests of drawers to grow our hive.” Isabel grinned.

  He liked her smile. Very much. Laughing, he tried to focus his attention on something other than kissing her curved, soft-looking lips. “A fitting emblem, at the least.”

  “Yes, we could call it Top-Drawer Honey.” She chuckled. “We must do it, now.”

  They reached the foot of the half-dismantled steps, and Adam collected his remaining clothes before he again offered his hand to help steady her. At the door, he released her once more. “Please don’t wait dinner for me. I’ll be down in just a moment.”

  He carried thoughts of her with him as he retreated up the back stairs. Could an estate steward, an employee, pursue the mistress of a grand house? It seemed possible. Her own mother had married a sculptor, after all. And he was well-born, even if he’d chosen not to pursue a career in the army or the clergy.

  Adam paused outside his bedchamber door. The fact remained that he did work for her, and that by necessity they had to live beneath the same roof. If he acted and she rebuffed him, he could lose both Nimway and any chance at…more than a friendship with her. Though if someone of Alton’s ilk had been his employer, even a friendship between owner and employee would neither be looked for nor expected.

  In a single day Isabel de Rossi had turned a quiet, waiting household into an unexpected, interesting one. He liked it, actually, and more than he would have thought. In his experience an estate required order and disc
ipline, and around her he felt neither composed nor logical. And yet he couldn’t deny that over the last day he felt more…alive. If that was the trade-off, he welcomed it.

  Would simply being here be enough for him, though? Could he watch while other men courted her and one of them won her hand? And was he being a fool for even wondering where he might fit now in this very changeable place?

  7

  I’m not naming her Miss or Mrs. anything,” Isabel stated, rolling a ball of yarn across her bed. The small gray cat looked at it approaching, then set one paw atop the knotted green orb, stopping its advance. “I detest my grandmother’s cat, Miss Tatterbell. She glared at me disapprovingly for the entire fortnight we were in London.”

  “Perhaps she already has a name,” Jane suggested, standing beside the bed to pin up the last, escaping strands of Isabel’s dark hair. “She didn’t just appear out of a cloud of mist. She’s young, but she wasn’t born yesterday. And to be as tame as she is, she must belong to someone.”

  “I’ve asked. No one can recall ever seeing her before yesterday. They have an orange cat in the stable, but Billy hasn’t seen this one before, either.” As she watched, the striped gray cat sat up straight, the end of her tail flicking restlessly. “Mist. That’s a splendid suggestion, Jane.”

  “I thought for certain you’d go directly to Guinevere or some other legendary female.”

  Isabel wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps if I were eight years old.” Even so, the name did appeal to her. It just seemed very…on the nose. If the legends were true, she was a descendant of Merlin and Nimue, after all. It was easy to be convinced of a truth when one lived half a continent away from where it resided. She leaned down to rest her chin on her fists, eye-to-eye with the mysterious feline. “Do you like Mist?”

  The cat stood, padding forward to bump her nose against Isabel’s before she jumped down from the bed and made her way to the door.