Kate sighed in resignation. “I am afraid Mrs. Presley would have my hide if I stole you from her.” She began walking again, and Alice fell in line beside her.
“That’s just the thing, Miss Kingston,” Alice said, a little guiltily. “I already asked her.”
“You did what?” Kate exclaimed, pivoting to face the cook. “Without speaking to me first? Oh, Alice! Was she terribly vexed?”
“She wasn’t!” Alice said hurriedly, placating Kate with a hand on her arm. “She was kindly and understanding, honest.”
“But Alice, what if I take you with me and the manor already has a cook? I can’t fairly boot her out of a job. That wouldn’t be right.”
“Then I won’t be the cook. I will do something else.” Alice was determined. “I’ve always wanted to learn to garden,” she added thoughtfully.
This pulled a giggle from Kate. Alice’s calling was in the kitchen, and she was masterful at what she did. To force her to dig in the dirt would be barbaric.
Kate linked her free arm through Alice’s and let out a sigh. “Very well. I shall take you with me.” She cut off Alice’s squeal of delight with a raised finger. “But I will not fire a cook already in place, and I must clear this with Mrs. Presley first.”
Alice nodded in agreement, but her buzzing excitement was telling. And now Kate needed to figure out how to approach the headmistress and request to steal away her cook.
5
Kate
Mrs. Presley handed Kate a basket full of sandwiches and fruit, with a canister of lemonade. “Mrs. James packed a basket for your journey.”
Kate took the offering guiltily and handed it to the coachman to set within the hired carriage before turning back to her mentor. She’d already said her farewells to students and teachers alike. The day before, she’d walked through the town and school grounds for the last time, committing everything to memory. While Mrs. Presley had not been thrilled to part with such a lovely cook, she’d replaced Alice within days and remained content.
Kate was able to meet her own replacement the day before her departure, an older woman with gray hair and hollow cheeks. She hoped this woman would be able to inspire love and appreciation of art into her pupils but knew that it was all in God’s hands now.
“Where is Alice now?” Kate asked.
“I believe she is saying goodbye to her sisters, but she should be out shortly.”
Kate nodded. She took one last look at the sturdy, gray school and wondered, not for the first time, what sort of ruin she would discover at Split Tree Manor. She’d warned Alice that their jobs may largely be repairing and cleaning for a time, but then Alice had reminded her that they must eat regardless. It warmed Kate’s heart to have another ally. With both Emily and Alice by her side, she was fairly certain she could accomplish anything. Even returning to such a wretched place as Split Tree.
“I’m not sure I will be able to say goodbye,” Kate said in a decidedly watery tone, bringing a handkerchief up to dab at her nose.
“Nor must you,” Mrs. Presley answered firmly, lifting Kate’s hand and squeezing it between her own. Lowering her voice, the matron spoke with heavy, weighted care. “For you shall write and tell us all of your grand new life in your ancestral home.”
Kate nodded, giving Mrs. Presley’s hand a squeeze and climbing into the carriage before she lost her wits and began to cry in earnest. She had found her first home at Lytle’s with Mrs. Presley and though she was now grown, it was very frightening going off on one’s own.
Alice climbed into the carriage behind her, the door was closed, and Kate held the headmistress’s gaze for a moment longer before the carriage rolled forward, carrying her away.
A few girls escaped to the front lawn and Kate waved to them through the glass window situated behind her head until they were out of view.
“I have the strangest feeling,” Kate said in a hollow tone, turning back to face Alice, “that I am going to find happiness in this situation, one way or another.”
Alice grinned and moved to Kate’s side of the carriage before pulling her into an embrace. “You will, Miss Kingston. Mark my words, but you will.”
When she caught sight of the symbolic split tree on the country lane just outside of Larkfield, it was not the tree itself which arrested Kate’s attention, but that of the blackberry bushes on the opposite side of the lane. Her mind brought forth a rush of memories from picking a tummy full of blackberries to running for her life from two nasty, savage boys.
The scrape she had gotten from falling on her face had left a faint scar that ran through her left eyebrow and past the outer corner of her eye before disappearing into her hairline. It was hardly noticeable now, but she had never forgotten the boy she had helped get away, and often wondered what had happened to him in the time since. She swallowed a lump and sent a prayer up to heaven for his well-being before shoving those thoughts away and focusing on the matter at hand. In precious few moments, she would be pulling up to the house.
A gasp from Alice signified their arrival, and Kate took a deep breath before looking to the window and absorbing the sight of Split Tree Manor in all its glory. She was faintly surprised to see the building still standing as a whole—though largely covered in vines. A small smile crept onto her lips. Perhaps Alice would get that chance at gardening, after all.
“Let us hope the inside is in the same condition as the exterior,” Kate mumbled.
Alice shot her a funny glance, but she couldn’t quit staring at the house as they rounded the drive, rolling to a stop at the front door. Kate waited for the massive oak door to swing open and was faintly surprised when the coachman helped her step onto the gravel road and the door to the manor yet remained closed. She stepped up and took a knocker to it, while Alice gathered her things and the coachman began unloading their trunks. After a minute of silence, Kate unlocked the door with the key Mr. Montgomery had given her. She swung it wide and stepped into the marbled entryway, the click of her heels reverberating off the walls. Beams of light strewn through the windows in the domed ceiling, highlighting the thick coating of dust that lay on every surface.
Kate drew in a deep breath and subsequently coughed. If there was anyone in the house, they were certainly made aware of Kate’s presence now. Clearing her throat, she stepped further into the house and called, “Is anyone there?”
Nothing but a faint echo answered her, for which she was both relieved and worried. Footsteps tapped behind her, and she turned to find Alice entering with the basket of food and her carpet bag. The coachman followed close behind with one trunk and let it down on the marble floor with a loud thunk before turning back to retrieve the others. She hoped he would be gentler with the trunk containing her art supplies.
“I suppose I don’t need to worry about booting a cook from her place then, do I?” Alice said with a bit of a forced grin.
Kate glanced at her quickly and the humor dancing in her eyes was a balm over Kate’s concerned, anxious heart. A giggle spilled from her lips at the absurdity of it all, and Alice soon joined in, her shoulders shaking in mirth. Laughter rang out high and clear in the marble entryway, and by the time the coachman finished delivering the trunks, he looked at them warily and tipped his hat before making a quick escape.
“I must say, I am quite glad you insisted on coming with me,” Kate said, smoothing her hands over her gray gown. “I cannot imagine what I would have done had I been dropped here alone.”
“You would have survived, Miss Kingston. You are capable of more than you know.”
The sentiment was her mental undoing. But rather than burst into tears like she would really like to do, Kate strolled to the front door and watched the hired carriage slip around the bend before closing the large door with an ominous thud. She clapped her hands together to remove the dust and gave Alice her brightest smile.
“Shall we see what we can make of your workspace?”
Kate was unsurprised by the lack of food in the pantry. What was
pleasing was the modern stove and cupboards of dishes and cooking implements. Whoever’d pilfered the food supplies must have feared criminal action, for they had left everything of value behind.
Kate watched Alice glance through the cupboards, muttering to herself before taking a peek in the still room. She disappeared into the cellar for a moment and came back up with a grin.
“Did you find some food?”
“No, miss, none,” Alice said. “But I did find a cat down there, and I’d imagine it was her that kept your home rodent free.”
“House,” Kate muttered to herself. “I’d like to take a peek in the bedrooms and then come up with a plan.”
They took the servants’ stairs to the first floor and found four bedrooms in working order—dirty, but intact. Nothing was moth-eaten or destroyed, and most of the furniture had been covered. It appeared the house had been properly closed up before the final servant left.
Walking through the rooms, memories assailed Kate from her last stay at Split Tree. The vision of her uncle and her own role fetching things and starting fires in the early hours of the morning had completely overwritten the few cherished memories of the time she’d spent with her parents in these same rooms. Never mind his army of servants—there was no understanding the mind of a brute. A bully.
Closing the door to the room that had once belonged to Uncle Bartholomew, Kate shuddered. She determined not to set foot on the nursery level of the house quite yet, if she could help it. She did not wish to muster through those memories.
“Alice, would you care to take one of these rooms while we get the house in order?”
The cook balked, shaking her head, her copper curls bouncing. “No, miss.”
“But all of these rooms must be put to rights—to say nothing of the main rooms on the ground floor. Until we obtain help, it might be too large of a task to see to the servants’ quarters, as well.”
“I can check my own room, miss. It isn’t bothersome to me.”
Kate nodded, turning away. Alice didn’t know the details of Kate’s background with the house and most likely assumed she was fatigued, but let the woman think what she would. “I’ll meet you down in the parlor, then. I should like to examine the music room as well.”
They parted, and the eerie quiet settled on Kate, causing prickles to run down her skin. She felt a shadow of her uncle following her as she walked from room to room, and she glanced over her shoulder more than once to ascertain that she was, indeed, alone.
To her relief, the house was whole. It would take a thorough cleaning, for it appeared as if a good majority of the rooms had been ignored far longer than just the last few months of Uncle’s illness—as she’d been led to believe.
Alice came upon Kate some time later as she sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase in the foyer. She had completed her investigation of the ground floor and had pulled a small sketchbook and a pencil from her trunk to form a list of what needed to be done.
“Perhaps our time will be better suited preparing one room this evening,” Kate said, bringing her gaze up to meet Alice’s. “We can rest tonight and begin cleaning in the morning.”
The cook nodded. “I’ll fetch what candles I can from the housekeeper’s stores.”
“Bring them to the parlor. We ought to remain together until we are certain we are alone.”
Alice located buckets for water and rags, and they set to cleaning the parlor with vigor. They mopped the floors, piled the rugs in the corridor to be beaten later, removed holland covers and dusted the furniture, and cleaned the mantel and windows. The parlor hadn’t suffered as much as other rooms, and the basic cleaning served them well.
A supper of sandwiches and plums quenched their hunger as the windows darkened and they prepared makeshift beds on the long sofas, lying down with the anticipation of a long day ahead.
Kate lay awake well into the night, her gaze trimming the edges of the molding on the ceiling faintly highlighted by the light of the moon. Alice’s deep, even breathing made the quiet easier to bear, and Kate thanked God for sending Alice with her. She was certain she would have cut her losses and removed to the inn in Larkfield had she arrived alone.
Questions assailed her. What had caused her uncle to allow the house to become so filthy? Why had the servants fled when surely they must have known Kate would return? And if she had inherited ten thousand pounds and an estate from her father, how could Uncle Bartholomew have been so brazen as to keep it from her for the entirety of her life?
She fell into a fitful sleep full of visions of pampering in a house that, oddly enough, did not resemble the one she was sleeping in at that moment whatsoever.
6
Peter
Peter lay awake, his bedclothes shoved to the side and the cool night nipping at his sweat-slickened skin. His chest heaved from the adrenaline of waking from a dream in which his men needed him, and he could not reach them.
The dream was always the same. Always. Marsh, Aniston, and Cohen in varying states of distress, calling for assistance as French bayonets bounded toward them. The vivid flashes of gunpowder igniting and the acrid scent of smoke and mud assaulted his senses, clouding his mind.
Rubbing at his eyes, Peter scrubbed the image from his vision. The dream never mimicked reality. No, in truth, each of Peter’s men had sustained their injuries at different times, in different battles, leaving him one at a time until only he remained behind in Spain. Soon, it was his turn to be speared beyond repair and sent back to Britain for a proper surgeon.
Did his men feel the acute failure of leaving before the war had ended as well? Yes, there had been a reprieve when Napoleon was exiled to Elba, but the lunatic’s escape had drawn able-bodied men back to fight. Everyone had gone, it seemed, except for Peter and his closest comrades.
He should write to them. It had been a month, at least, since he’d heard from Aniston, and longer still from Marsh. Cohen’s correspondence was consistent, his missives arriving in steady intervals, but the man himself was responsible for that. Peter had been an utter failure of late. But given the difficulties his men faced—lost hands and nasty scars, both mental and physical—he often felt inadequate to help them.
He told himself he would be able to help them once he’d gotten a handle on his own life—the injury he sustained to his shoulder and his mental state, to say nothing for the circumstances at home—but Martin seemed intent on making that impossible. Martin was a bitter shell of the person Peter had known as a boy, and sometimes when he caught the determined glint in Martin’s eyes, he wondered how well he truly knew his own brother.
Now that they were older, Peter had wondered if he and Martin could come to an accord. It seemed his hopes had been in vain—his younger brother would never forget their youthful warfare, regardless of how thoroughly Peter had apologized for the part he’d played.
Peter’s butler had informed him that Martin had taken on the running of the estate in Peter’s absence, after their older brother and father had both died. Reclaiming the reins had been difficult, for Martin was not only reluctant to relinquish his role, but he showed no signs of claiming an occupation that would take him away from Evanslea. While Peter would never force his brother to leave Evanslea, he was certain they would both be happier once Martin chose a path for himself that did not keep him at the family estate.
It was with relief that Peter noticed the smooth, steady intervals of his own breathing, and a sigh escaped his lips. His logical mind recognized the inaccuracy of his dreams, the nonsensical fear which gripped him. But there was little logic to be found in the hazy in-between of sleep and wakefulness.
Rising from the feather mattress, Peter crossed to the window and drew back the drapes. His view was wide and spanned a large part of his land, encompassing the woods that trailed his property and the unused pastureland belonging to the neighbor.
It was such a shame Split Tree was empty. Bartholomew Kingston was a fool for quitting the sheep trade, but Peter could
not complain about the old man’s desire to dip his toe in horse breeding. It had done Peter right in the end, at least.
Dropping the drapes over the window, he turned back for his bed, scrubbing a hand over his face. If only Martin would be willing to sit down and have a real conversation with him, they could discuss the future and how best to manage it. But he’d learned to walk on light toes around Martin, or else end up on the wrong side of a temper tantrum. And not the explosive kind Peter was used to battling among soldiers, but the quiet, averting, punishing type that annoyed Peter far more than a bout of fisticuffs any day.
Sliding back into bed, he pulled a blanket over his legs and sighed. They’d gone on this way for months with no alteration, and it was beginning to wear. Something needed to change soon, or Peter was liable to put his fist through a wall.
7
Kate
Kate woke sharply to the distant sound of pounding.
“Alice!” she whispered loudly. “Alice, wake up!”
The cook stirred behind her as Kate rushed to pull on her wrapper and locate her slippers. One had weaseled its way under the sofa, but the other was nowhere to be seen. She got down on her hands and knees and searched beneath the nearby furniture, but it was gone.
Knocking came from the foyer again, and she sat bolt upright, banging her forehead on the edge of a bulky, triangular decorative table. “Ouch!”
“Miss?” Alice asked sleepily. Kate was glad to see that Alice was at least sitting up now, pulling on her wrapper and mumbling something about her own lost slippers.
The knocking sound came again, this time louder, and Kate ran to the foyer, tying her sash as she went. It was not until she reached the door and began to open it, revealing a man, not many years her senior with stark black hair, that she recognized her own level of disarray, and her cheeks went hot.
A Forgiving Heart Page 4