by Cindy Anstey
“Excuse me, does anyone know the room assignments?” Matt asked the room at large.
All looked toward the fireplace where the man with his back to the door stiffened. With an audible harrumph, he turned. In his middle years with a sharp chin and curled lip, the man arched his left brow and tendered Matt a sardonic appraisal before speaking. “Ah, you have returned, Mr. Heathrow. Welcome,” he said in a tone that held no warmth.
Matt nodded, not bothering with a correction of his name. “Thank you, Walker.” The Beeswanger butler did not intimidate Matt. He knew from what kind of cloth the man was cut. The only time Walker smiled or even chuckled was in the presence of the Beeswangers or their guests; to the staff he was a terror. “Same rooms as before?”
“Indeed.” Walker turned back to the fascinating unlit candle.
With a shrug toward the gawking maids, Matt reentered the corridor, bypassing the narrow spiral stairs that led to the front of the guest wing. He chose, instead, to make his way to the far end of the house and up the back stairs nearest the room he would be using during the Steeples’ stay.
Glancing into the hallway first, to verify that none of the family was in the vicinity, Matt sauntered down the carpeted corridor, admiring the paneled walls that had sent Mr. Ben into raptures when they had visited in the summer. Mr. Ben, as an architect’s apprentice, saw much value in such embellishments. There was no doubt that the house was both well designed and well appointed. Matt was quite certain that Sir Andrew and Lady Margaret would be impressed. It would be worth the effort of bestirring their weary selves away from the warmth and comfort of their own hearth—a sentiment Matt had overheard when Sir Andrew had complained of the need to travel.
Between the doors, partway down the main hall, Matt stopped. He had counted three doors and therefore … He reached into the paneling and pulled at a hidden handle. A section of the wall swung forward, revealing a small but cozy room sandwiched between the two guest rooms that had been assigned to Mr. Ernest and Mr. Ben.
Stepping through, Matt quickly closed the door lest a member of the family catch sight of him. As a gentleman’s gentleman, Matt was not under the same rules of invisibility as the lower staff, but being as unobtrusive as possible was always good practice.
The room had been nicely prepared. The narrow bed sported not one but two rough blankets, and a fresh rushlight had been placed on the diminutive table under the window. A wardrobe of adequate portions sat opposite a small fireplace—which waited at the ready. Indeed, it was to Matt’s relief that Mrs. Lundy, not Walker, was in charge of the manor’s guests and their servants.
Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Matt considered lighting the fire but decided to wait until later. There was enough coal to see him through the night if he did not start it too early. So instead, he set about unpacking. It was a rather odd happenstance to be sent ahead of the family. But Mr. Ben would arrive on the morrow, and Matt could go about his usual duties. Until then, he was at loose ends. Though organizing his brushes and polishes took a fair amount of time.
As the sun started to go down, Matt dug into his supplies and pulled out a candle, setting aside the rushlight in case he needed it in the middle of the night. Having just stacked his books on the table and pulled down his waistcoat in an all-done manner, there was a quiet knock on the hallway panel.
“Mr. Harlow? Are you there?”
Recognizing the voice, Matt rushed to the door, opening it to the smiling countenance of Miss Darby. “I am indeed. Is your mother well?” he asked, keeping his relief hidden. He doubted Kate would be smiling in such a lively manner had there been a problem at home, but it seemed politic to ask.
“Yes, indeed. A small fire that was already out by the time I got there. Tempest in a teapot,” she said, likely unaware that she was repeating Mrs. Lundy’s words.
Unfortunately, she instantly wiped the smile from her face, setting it to a serious expression. Matt much preferred to see her elven features full of merriment.
“Miss Imogene would like to speak with you.”
“With me? Really? Do you know what it is about?” Imogene Chively, a close friend of the Beeswanger family, was staying at Shackleford Park.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. Miss Imogene has been pacing about her room for a quarter hour with two letters in her hand. Going back and forth between the two. I hope nothing dire has occurred … but no, I know not. She simply stopped in the center of the floor, nodded, and then sent me to fetch you.”
Matt frowned. A young lady rarely, if ever, requested to speak with her future husband’s valet … though in truth, Matt was more Mr. Ernest’s man now. Still, two different worlds—never the twain should meet. “I’ll come right away,” he said, blowing out his candle and giving his room a quick glance to make sure everything was in place.
He followed Kate down the corridor, trying to ignore the enticing sway of her hips and focus on why Miss Imogene might need to speak with him … to no avail.
chapter 3
In which there is an embarrassing set-to regarding mistletoe
Matt entered a good-sized room with a generous window overlooking … well, it was too dark to see, but he believed it to be the side garden. A glowing fire provided ample warmth, and Miss Imogene Chively sat in a chair next to it, using the lighted candles on the mantel to read a letter in her hand. She was a pretty young lady, with blond hair and blue eyes and a reserved manner about her. A black dog lay curled up on the floor beside her.
Standing by the door, Matt glanced at Kate while they waited to be noticed. She bobbed her brows in his direction; he smiled, and they both started when Miss Chively cleared her throat to get their attention.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Harlow. I do so appreciate it.” She gestured him closer and picked up another letter that had been sitting on her lap. She waved them both in the air. “I have news,” she said, and then dropped her volume to a near whisper. “And a request.”
“Yes, indeed.” Matt waited and waited. “Yes, Miss Chively,” he prodded.
Imogene Chively produced such a heavy sigh that Matt was fairly certain that he knew the news before she announced it.
“There has been a delay, I’m afraid. Mr. Ben will not be arriving until Monday now. You will be footloose and fancy-free for two days, Mr. Harlow.”
Ah, he had been right. “That is a shame, miss.”
“You don’t want to be at loose ends for two days?”
Matt chuckled. “A shame that Mr. Ben has been delayed, miss.”
Miss Chively sighed again, her eyes glazing over with a faraway look.
“And the request?”
The young lady frowned as if confused momentarily and then gave her head a little shake. “Oh yes. It is a great favor I must ask of you, Mr. Harlow, as it will require you to go out of your way.”
“Indeed?” Matt could say no more as he really did not know where this was heading.
“Yes. Did you pack for Mr. Ben when he left for Canterbury?”
“Of course, miss.” Now Matt was thoroughly bewildered, but he did not say so. He wanted to look toward Kate, see if she could elucidate by way of an expression. Or she might mouth an explanation. Or perhaps he merely wanted to see that he was not the only confused person in the room. He stared at the edge of Miss Chively’s chair instead.
“Excellent. Did he take any books with him?”
“Yes, architectural books, of course.” Mr. Ben was not a great novel reader, as Mr. Ernest was, but he did appreciate the dusty tomes from the Musson House library about old buildings and foundations and the like. Not to Matt’s taste but—
“Oh, wonderful. Then you can advise me after all. Excellent, most excellent.” With a grin, Miss Chively bounced out of her chair, fairly dancing. “I was afraid that I would get it wrong.”
This time Matt did glance toward Kate. She lifted her shoulders in a very unhelpful shrug.
“Being my first gift, I so want to get it right,” Miss Chively continued
, as if she were making sense. Finally, she looked up to meet Matt’s eyes. “Oh, I should probably explain.”
“That would be appreciated, miss.”
“Yes, of course. Well, I have decided on the perfect gift for Mr. Ben. A book about architecture—well, some aspect of it, at least. I wrote to Mr. Gupta—he is the bookseller in Tishdale—and he has just informed me that he has over ten books on the subject. Which is a marvel and a dilemma at the same time. I do not want to present my beloved with a gift on Christmas day, only to discover he already has it. Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to look at those books? To ride into Tishdale tomorrow, see if you recognize any? Perhaps hone the number to three or four. I will, of course, make the final choice, but … well, is it too much to ask?”
Matt smiled, relieved that the request was of such a benign nature. No snipping a lock of hair or stealing a waistcoat to find a matching neckcloth. “Not at all. I can walk there in the morning.”
“Or hitch a ride. I believe Mrs. Beeswanger said something about the mistletoe coming in on the stagecoach.”
“Yes, one way or another I will visit the bookstore. But I should probably point out that I do not know all the books that Mr. Ben has read on architecture, and that he might have acquired one or two while in Canterbury.”
Miss Chively nodded. “There is that … Well, we can only try our best.” She pursed her lips and snorted. “Try my best,” she clarified, sitting back down. She lifted one of the letters closer, rereading it yet again with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. It had a small sketch on the bottom.
Matt felt a soft touch on his elbow and realized that the interview was over. He turned, exited, and discovered that Kate had followed him.
“I’m afraid you missed tea, and supper is not until eight thirty, after the family has their dinner. Are you hungry?” she asked, one hand on the partially closed door. She was standing across the threshold.
“Not at all. Johnny and I stopped at an inn along the way.” He was a bit peckish, but not enough to put anyone out. Always best to stay on a cook’s good side; requesting an unscheduled bite would not be appreciated.
“Excellent.” Kate leaned as if she were about to go inside the room and then shifted back. “Do you know your way to the servants’ hall from here?” she asked.
Matt smiled. Was Kate prolonging their conversation intentionally? He set a serious expression on his face. Frowning, he nodded. “I believe I shall retrace my steps.” He made a show of looking around and then pointed in the wrong direction.
Kate grinned, no doubt remembering that this wasn’t his first time at Shackleford Park, even if he had not had cause to be in the family wing before. “Right at the bottom of the corridor,” she said, pointing left.
Matt nodded, maintaining his frown.
“Kate?” Miss Chively’s call interrupted their nonsense, and they turned immediately, Kate into the warmth of Miss Chively’s room, and Matt to wend his way back from whence he came.
* * *
“THAT WAS VERY kind of him,” Miss Imogene said without looking up from her letter. “He need not have agreed. It’s not part of his duties.”
“I believe Mr. Harlow likes to be helpful … at least that has been my impression thus far.” Kate sauntered across to the wardrobe, trying to exude a calm she did not feel. Matt Harlow’s presence was proving to be a most excellent diversion, offering her ample opportunity to flirt. It was an art Kate greatly enjoyed and yet could seldom practice.
“And quite personable.”
Kate glanced over her shoulder and met Miss Imogene’s sparkling eyes. “Indeed,” she said, instilling the ambiguous word with a great deal of warmth.
“One might even say handsome.”
“Yes, one might say so … if one paid mind to such things.” Kate’s casual reply was … too casual.
“One? One such as a young lady’s maid?”
Kate reached into the wardrobe, putting her hand on a soft purple dinner gown. “Not sure Marie noticed, miss. The lilac for tonight?”
“No, I’ll save that one for Monday. Not the rose dress, either … Let’s go with the Pomona green.”
“Very good, miss.” Kate pulled the gown out of the wardrobe, careful not to catch the lace at the neck or the tucks around the sleeves. It was a lovely, though lightweight, gown that had been sent over from Gracebridge Manor. “You’ll need your new shawl, for certain, with this one.”
“Yes, I think you might be right.” Miss Imogene’s voice sounded distant, as if she was lost in thought again. “Yes, it was very kind of Mr. Harlow,” Miss Imogene repeated, but in a different tone. Almost questioning.
Kate frowned. She turned back to find the young lady fixing her with a worried stare. “Miss?”
“Be careful, Kate, please. Don’t give the Beeswangers cause to notice.”
Kate shook her head as if confused, when in fact she knew exactly to what Miss Imogene referred.
“Mrs. Beeswanger is a gem. Look how she has taken me in and treated me like a daughter—better than, in my case. A marvelous, generous person to be sure, but she will not be comfortable—well, she likes a smooth-running household and—well, a dalliance would be disruptive in so many different ways.”
“It would, miss. And I would never do anything to put my future in jeopardy. Saving up for a dress shop with me mam. You need not worry. I might flirt a bit, but I know where the future lies.”
Miss Imogene sighed, looking relieved. “Excellent,” she said in a lackluster tone.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 13, 1817
“NO! I SAID so before and I say so again and there’s an end to it.”
Walker stabbed at his breakfast plate without looking up. It afforded the others at the housekeeper’s table the opportunity to exchange glances without arousing his disapproval. Kate met Matt’s questioning frown and shook her head. She hoped it conveyed an I’ll explain later message. His answering shrug was equally ambiguous.
Kate dropped her eyes to her plate and grimaced. It would have been lovely, and unusual, to start the day without a set-to between Mrs. Lundy and Walker. Days such as those were few and far between, but given the benevolence of the season, Kate had been hopeful. And yet here they were, arguing about authority—authority over Johnny, the Musson House footman. He had been sent to assist with the Yuletide preparations, but did he fall under Walker’s direction—being that he was a footman—or Mrs. Lundy’s, since she had the lion’s share of the extra duties brought on by the season? Cook didn’t step into the fray whatsoever, despite the fact that Johnny had delivered foodstuffs and could be seen as an addition to the kitchen.
Really, it was most uncomfortable … and embarrassing.
Kate swallowed and turned her eyes toward the busy wallpaper festooned with cheerful spring flowers. It was just as well that the upper and lower servants ate their meals separately—except the midday dinner, of course. It would have been difficult for the female staff to offer the butler the dignity his position demanded if they witnessed this constant petulance every day. Rumors, of course, were rife. But Mrs. Lundy countered Walker’s demands regularly and protected her girls with the tenacity of a mastiff. Though the men knew Walker’s temperament rightly enough; they experienced it firsthand.
“It is a shame that you feel so strongly about the matter, Mr. Walker,” Mrs. Lundy said, not sounding in the least apologetic. “As Johnny has already agreed.”
“I am going to send Bernie this afternoon. That will be soon enough.”
“No, it will not. My girls need to sort through the mistletoe and start the kissing boughs in between their other duties. The stagecoach from the midlands is due within the hour; Johnny will be there to meet it.” Mrs. Lundy smiled as she spoke, clearly not indisposed by Walker’s mood. She lifted the pot beside her and turned to Marie. “More tea, my dear?”
Startled by the sudden attention, Marie dropped the tiny spoon that she had been about to use and the salt on it sprayed across t
he tablecloth. In no more than a blink, Mrs. Lundy and Cook reached across, grabbed a pinch from the table, and tossed it over their respective shoulders.
“Can’t be too careful at this time of year,” Mrs. Lundy said to the amusement of the younger staff. Cook nodded emphatically.
“Well,” Mrs. Lundy said, pouring out the last of the tea to Norbert, Mr. Beeswanger’s valet. “I’d best make haste.” She pushed away from the table. “Please excuse me, I have to speak with the mistress.” She nodded to all but Walker and left.
Silence flooded the room, filling her void. It lasted for ten minutes or so, becoming increasingly awkward until they all rose at once to vacate. Livy, the scullery maid, stepped through the door to begin clearing and Kate pulled Matt aside in the corridor … after watching Walker march toward the front of the house.
“Please, pay no attention to their bickering, Mr. Harlow. Walker and Mrs. Lundy have very different approaches in caring for the family and the house. I’m sure it was thus when you were here in the summer.”
“Yes, I believe so. Though there seems to be more tension than there was before. Has something occurred?”
“No, not really. Though Mr. Walker does seem to become testier during Christmastide. It might be the added chores, or he looks at the more relaxed atmosphere of the season as an abomination.” Kate laughed, trying to hide her discomfort. She remembered Musson House being in possession of a much more congenial atmosphere below stairs.
“Ah, there you are,” Mrs. Lundy said, coming back down the corridor toward them, her keys making a distinct jingle as she walked. “So glad I caught you.” She frowned marginally as she glanced from Matt to Kate and back again. “I beg your pardon, but I must ask a favor.”
“Of course,” Matt replied before even learning what was involved.