“So you must,” Padji averred, nodding his head. “So it is fated.”
“It most certainly is not!” said Amanda. “Mr. Brentick has served his country near half his life. He seeks work. I do not see why we should not assist him.” Her gaze returned to Philip. “The trouble is, I don’t know any gentlemen hereabouts you might serve.”
“I don’t expect the same position, miss,” Philip said with appropriate humility. “I’d take anything, so long as it’s honest work.”
She moved the sheet of paper from the left side of the blotter to the right. Then she pushed the inkwell one half inch to the left. She picked up a pen and laid it down again. She bit her lip, and a tiny crease appeared between her brows. Philip waited patiently through the growing silence.
She was a terrible actress. Her guilt, for instance, was too clearly evident, even now. Everything was too evident. Her surprise and curiosity in response to his hints about the theft were too obviously feigned. Her pity for the illused valet, in contrast, was unnervingly genuine. Gad, for a moment, she’d even made him feel guilty about the lies he told. Only for a moment though. Matters were not precisely as he’d assumed, perhaps. Nonetheless, he had no doubt she had the statue, and that was all he need concern himself with.
Thus he waited, his brain ready to provide a suitably manipulative response to whatever her ineptly lying tongue uttered next.
“Would you be willing to accept the work of the people?” she said at last in a hesitant voice.
His brain screeched to a halt. “I beg your pardon, miss?’’
“I am short staffed,” she said more firmly. “We’re having a devil of a time finding employees... and keeping those we do find. My bailiff has given notice and I need a replacement I also need—oh, heck, everybody.”
The gears began grinding again. Philip assumed a mask of sympathy while Miss Cavencourt proceeded to pour out her domestic anxieties, with Padji interjecting his own opinions every few sentences.
When she was done, Philip neatly simplified the issues. “What you want first of all, are two reliable people: one to manage matters out of doors, and one for indoors. I am not properly equipped to handle the former, but I’d be grateful for a chance to take on the latter.”
“The mistress is confused,” said Padji. “Her slave is by, to see to all her wishes. She has no need—”
“I need a staff,” Miss Cavencourt said sharply. “I realise this house is not half the size of the rani’s palace. Even so, it wants servants, and you certainly don’t manage them. You overset everyone who comes. You have driven even Mr. Corker—the most forbearing man I’ve ever met—to give notice. Whatever possessed you to ask him where I bury the servants who displease me?”
Philip’s mouth twitched. He quickly frowned instead.
“Well, he did,” Miss Cavencourt told him aggrievedly. “And just this morning, Jane – that’s the poor scullery maid – dropped into hysterics because he found a cobweb in the pantry, and threatened to cut off her finger.”
“A mild rebuke,” Padji said, “for so grievous an offence to the mistress’s sight.”
Exhaling a sigh of exasperation, Miss Cavencourt sank into her chair. Sank quite literally, that is, for the enormous carved monstrosity swallowed her up. She appeared about ten years old. “Oh, Padji, I am at my wits’ end with you.”
Padji gazed sorrowfully at her. “My golden beloved is displeased,” he said. “I have offended. I shall cut off my own worthless finger to appease her.” His hand closed over the knife at his sash, and Philip tensed.
“You most certainly will not, you wicked creature,” she said crisply. “I will not have you bleeding all over the carpet. Put your knife away and behave yourself. You have distracted me from my discussion.”
“But, mistress, you cannot wish this false, stinking creature in your sublime abode.”
Squelching an insane urge to draw his own knife, Philip calmly intervened before the beloved mistress could respond.
“If Miss Cavencourt would be kind enough to outline her needs and direct me to my quarters, I should be happy to clean my offensive person to everyone’s satisfaction.”
She stared at him. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Brentick? That is, you must be aware what a Herculean task I propose – and we haven’t discussed it, really –”
“If you are willing to try me, miss, I am willing to do whatever you require. As I’ve indicated, I need work.”
She coloured, and got that irritatingly guilty look in her eyes again.
“Yes, of course. And I need help, obviously.”
“But, mistress – “
“Please hold your tongue, Padji.”
“But this man is a vile seducer!” Padji cried. “Not once, but –”
A wash of brilliant rose spread over the lady’s cheeks and neck. “That is quite enough,” she snapped. “Please leave this room, Padji, and close the door after you. I wish to have a private word with Mr. Brentick.”
Padji folded his arms over his chest and stood firm. “It is unseemly. This man is not to be trusted.”
Seducer? Was that all? Impossible, Philip decided. That was merely the Indian’s excuse for his hostility. But why need he make excuses ... unless the mistress didn’t know the whole truth. Was it possible she believed Brentick ignorant of the whole business? Could she possibly be so naïve?
Ten minutes later, Padji had finally retired in high dudgeon. With his exit came rising panic. Still, Amanda chided herself, the thing must be got out of the way now.
Accordingly, she stood up, raised her chin, and plunged headlong at the mortifying subject. “I know you are not a seducer,” she said, “and I will not accuse you of behaving improperly when I gave you so much reason to think that I – well, that I was not – that I was fast.”
Mr. Brentick’s blue eyes opened very wide, and he blinked. Twice.
Amanda went on doggedly, “I’ve had time to reflect upon my actions, and now see that for all my protests and so-called explanations, they would lead people to – to certain conclusions. The voyage was long and the company limited. It was a circumstance conducive to intimacy and – and... confusion. We were both confused, apparently.” She paused.
He said nothing.
“And so, we made a mistake,” she said.
“A mistake,” he repeated.
“But I am not fast, and you are not the villainous seducer Padji thinks you, and so we shall not repeat the error, naturally.’’
“Naturally.”
“Then you understand?’’ She tried to read his expression, but all she found were fathomless blue depths.
“Yes, miss. Quite. The entire episode is to be forgotten.”
“Yes.” Oh, certainly. That embrace – had it been only a few weeks ago? – was merely carved into her memory like an inscription upon a marble tombstone. It would wear away in a millennium or two. Sooner, if she could remember not to look at his mouth. Or his hands. Sooner still if he’d only stop gazing at her in that watchful, intent way.
Chapter Thirteen
The following day, Philip met with Jessup in a York public house.
“It’s going to be difficult,” Philip admitted. “She’s deposited the thing in a bank vault, drat her.”
“You sure?” Jessup asked in dismay. “How’d you find out so quick?”
Philip dropped him a disdainful look. “Have you forgotten who I am, soldier?”
“Not likely, guv. But I been wonderin’ now and again if you forgot” was the blunt reply. “Been wonderin’ if you picked up a touch of fever.”
Philip ignored this tactless slur on his abilities.
“I had a thorough tour of the house yesterday,” he said patiently. “The statue wasn’t displayed. Which means Miss Cavencourt believes someone may come after it.”
“Which he done.”
“Naturally, being the vexatious female she is, she must make my task as difficult as possible. Accordingly, the first place I visited today was the bank, w
here a talkative clerk confirmed my worst suspicions. I swear,” he said exasperatedly, “the Old Nick himself set that woman in my path.”
“Then it’s gone,” said Jessup. “And I say good riddance. Nothin’ but trouble since we started on this business.”
“For fifty thousand quid, one expects trouble.”
“You don’t need the money. You done good enough these last five years. Enough to set yourself up like a proper gentleman. And I done good enough with you. Let the lady keep her piece of wood. She worked hard enough for it. She deserves somethin’ – no one ever outsmarted the Falcon afore.”
Philip glared into his ale mug. “I’m not outdone yet.”
“Oh, give it over, guv,” Jessup urged. “Ain’t you had enough? I have. The jolliest armful I ever run across, and so sweet and kind she was, fussin’ over me like I was a baby. She done for me, that one. I ain’t goin’ near another female, long as I live,” he added sorrowfully. “I could’ve swore she liked me. Why, I’d watch her tidyin’ and dustin’, and listen to her scold, and I thought I could do that all the rest o’ my days. She got me thinkin’ ‘bout a little cottage, and flowers, and a square of vegetable garden... and fat babes, squallin’ and crawlin’ on the floor. And everythin’ would shine and smell so clean. And her with them snappin’ black eyes, layin’ out my supper—”
“You’re maudlin,” Philip interrupted. “Get a grip on yourself.”
“I do. I had enough. It were a damn fool job to take in the first place, on account of some damn fool lord with a maggot on his brain. It never were your kind of job. One thing to work for king and country, but this – it’s just common thievin’,” Jessup said, dropping his voice. “Besides, the lady stole it back, fair and square, and never done neither of us no harm. Which she could of, which you know good as I do. Leave her alone, guv.”
“I will not,” Philip gritted out, “leave her alone. I agreed to a job—whether it’s entirely in my style or not – and I have never failed anybody, at any time. You think I can retire with this humiliating fiasco as the last act of my career?”
Jessup sighed. “You stole it, didn’t you? She just stole it back is all. You didn’t fail, exactly.”
“One either fails or succeeds. There’s no part-way about it. I’ll get it back,” Philip said tightly, “however long it takes. Meanwhile, I’ve work for you.”
Like the long-suffering Jessup, Mrs. Gales, too, experienced qualms. Hers, however, were of a more delicate nature, and thus more cautiously expressed.
She and Amanda sat in the library.
“My dear, do you think this altogether wise?” the widow asked as she handed Amanda her tea. “You really don’t know the man. It is possible, is it not, that Mr. Wringle sent him to recover the statue?”
“I thought of that,” Amanda answered. She took her cup and carried it to the window seat, so she could gaze out at the withered garden. “Padji was so hostile, I supposed he was thinking the same thing. But he wasn’t. He’d got it into his head that Mr. Brentick had come for the sole purpose of ravishing me.” She smiled faintly. “Which is thoroughly absurd, even if the poor man hadn’t been too weak and hungry for such an exertion. You saw him, Leticia.”
“Yes.” The widow sighed.
“Besides, the statue is quite safe now. I’m the only one who can claim it. Poor Princess, locked away in a cold, dark vault,” Amanda said wistfully. “It hardly seems worth all the trouble and anxiety, when I can’t even look at her or touch her. I’d wanted to keep her here, nearby while I worked on my book, as... well, as inspiration, perhaps. Instead, all I can do is travel into York occasionally to visit her. Poor Princess.”
“Only for a while, dear,” Mrs. Gales consoled. “Just until we feel reasonably certain the marquess hasn’t traced it to you. Not that I think for a moment he could,” she added in hasty reassurance. “If I were Mr. Wringle, I certainly should not wish to inform his lordship that the statue mysteriously vanished – in Portsmouth, of all places. If Mr. Wringle has any common sense at all, he’ll make for the West Indies, or New South Wales, with all due celerity.”
Amanda turned to look at her. “Now that might explain it,” she said thoughtfully. “If Mr. Wringle wanted to disappear, he must get rid or his servant Mr. Brentick is far too striking not to be remarked.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Gales murmured. “Far too striking.” Amanda returned to the dreary landscape. “Still, he ought at least have paid him. But then I should not have a butler. He may not have all the necessary experience, but at least Padji doesn’t intimidate him. Perhaps Mr. Brentick will remain more than twenty-four hours.”
***
Mr. Brentick could boast nothing remotely approaching the necessary experience. His ideas of a butler’s duties were vague, to say the least. He’d quickly ascertained, however, that his new employer’s comprehension of the position was equally dim. A master storyteller Miss Cavencourt might be. A household manager she decidedly was not. She must make all the servants her friends, and setting friends to the weary business of domestic drudgery presented a contradiction her intellect could not untangle. Oddly enough, the only servant she commanded with anything like authority was that great Indian hippopotamus, and that was only when Padji had vexed her past all bearing.
This much Philip had discovered long before he’d swung into his saddle to ride to York. A subtly probing discussion with the employment agent clarified numerous other domestic issues.
Philip returned to the remote manor house armed with some basic information. For the rest, he’d rely upon his natural resourcefulness.
At eighteen, dismissed and disowned, he’d left Felkonwood with but five pounds in his pocket. Three months later, by a combination of work and wagers, he’d acquired the money to purchase his commission. He’d not, as his father confidently assumed, entered the military in the lowly position of an enlisted man, but as an officer. From that point on, Philip Astonley had proved to himself, repeatedly, that he was fully capable of achieving any object he set his sights upon.
When he’d proved to his satisfaction and his superiors’ astonishment his genius for command, Philip soon sought a new and more dangerous proving ground. In the last five years, he’d astonished all of India. He’d become a legend.
Now he need only prove himself as a servant, overlord of a handful of men and women. One who’d commanded regiments could certainly command one small household. As to his inept general – he’d merely to win her trust.
With smooth military efficiency, Philip set to work.
Immediately upon his return from York, he met with the bailiff and persuaded Mr. Corker to stay on.
The following day, a parade of maids appeared before Mrs. Swanslow. Padji stalked in to scrutinise them. Two of the maids shrieked, and one fainted. Mr. Brentick entered and revived the unconscious girl, then calmly introduced Padji as a brilliant though temperamental French cook.
Thus reduced from supernatural monster to mere Gallic lunatic, Padji was endured with a proper British stoicism. Nobody fainted again, no one even threw her apron over her head. A few giggled – then quickly stifled themselves as their eyes met the butler’s imperious blue gaze. With his subtle guidance, Mrs. Swanslow selected two housemaids.
By the end of the week, with the acquisition of some daily servants and one footman, James, the house was adequately staffed, though certainly not as fully as it had been in the last baron’s time. Still, Miss Cavencourt expressed no desire to entertain – rather the opposite – and her butler saw no benefit in accumulating a pack of idlers, merely for appearances’ sake. The lady had a book to write. She needed quiet and calm, not an army of minions stumbling about the place and quarrelling in the corridors.
Accordingly, Mr. Brentick ordered the library cleaned first thing each morning, hours before the mistress arrived to work. After that, no one but Mrs. Gales or Bella was permitted to intrude upon her. Mr. Brentick noiselessly carried in her tea, and noiselessly took away the remains. He slipped in
like an efficient, well-mannered ghost, and vanished in the same manner.
Within a month, his staff became ghosts as well: smiling, cheerful, but quiet and quick. In a month, he’d converted an assortment of sturdy Yorkshire workers into an army of amiable, discreetly attentive wraiths.
Thus a damp October passed, to be succeeded by a wet and cold November. Fortunately for its India-acclimated inhabitants, the manor house was of modest proportions. It would, in fact, have nestled quite comfortably in the east wing of Felkonwood Castle, with room to spare. Years before, Miss Cavencourt’s grandfather had enlarged and modernized the manor with an eye to comfort rather than grandeur. Here, no great hallways swept chilling draughts into vast, echoing, chambers. Once properly cleaned, the chimneys performed flawlessly. Even in late autumn, the rooms were snug enough.
The intimate dining room and cozy library faced west, looking out onto a sadly neglected garden. Twigs and dead leaves clogged the ornamental pond at its centre, for, despite Philip’s efforts, Padji and the gardener had collided once too often. The latter had departed in a huff several weeks ago. Still, the garden would be restored in the spring.
The house nestled in a shallow dale. Beyond the garden, dark, wooded slopes reached towards the brooding moorland beyond. Nonetheless, even now, at twilight, he did not find the world beyond the library windows altogether dreary. Dark it was, this place, cold and remote, yet with the darkness and remoteness of a secret, quiet in its moody mystery.
Philip stood, the drape pull forgotten in his hand as he drank in the lowering night.
“I suppose it must seem very gloomy to you,” came Miss Cavencourt’s low voice, startling him.
He quickly pulled the drapes closed.
“All the better, miss,” he answered. “In contrast to the chill and gloom out of doors, indoors seems the warmer and brighter.” He frowned at the small figure huddled over the writing table. “Your tea will grow cold. Tomorrow we must move your table. I do believe you are working in the draughtiest corner of the room.”
The Sandalwood Princess Page 14