A Return of Devotion

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  Several doors opened off two walls and an opening on the third wall extended off into a corridor.

  It was the large archway on the fourth wall that grabbed his interest. He could see the main kitchen through it and, along with the rich smell of food, two hushed but determined female voices drifted on the air.

  “Why would I go up there? Reuben took him bath water. I’m hardly going to risk walking in on that.”

  “If you don’t go up there, we won’t know when to serve dinner. What do you expect him to do? Yell down the stairs?”

  There was quiet for a moment, and William shifted closer to the archway to be able to make out the women facing each other over a scarred wooden worktable. Their short statures meant neither of them could lean very far over the table, making their intense conversation look a bit humorous.

  Mrs. Brightmoor was blinking at the little blonde, who didn’t appear remotely as timid as she had in his rooms earlier.

  “I don’t suppose that would be very appropriate, would it?” the housekeeper finally asked.

  “No.” The woman he now assumed was the cook pushed away from the table with a nod. “But seeing as he made his way down the steps and is currently standing right over there, I’d say it’s a moot point.”

  She swung her blue gaze over to William, staring him down for a few heartbeats before turning her attention to a pot hanging over the open flame in the fireplace. Mrs. Brightmoor’s eyes shifted his way as well, though she looked a great deal more surprised than the cook had. Her gaze did not flit away immediately. Instead, it stayed locked on him, slowly widening as her face lost color, despite the warmth of the kitchen.

  “My lord,” she finally said, moving away from the table to perform a slight curtsy. She glanced at Cook before licking her lips nervously and turning back to him. “The meal isn’t quite ready yet. Er, perhaps a tour?” She took a step away from the table and gestured toward the stairs behind William.

  Was she trying to get rid of him?

  He braced his feet apart and lifted his eyebrows as he observed the room, resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest despite the ornery mood he found himself in. “We can start with the kitchen.”

  She turned around, face scrunching up in confusion as she looked at the various tables and utensils that crowded the simple room. Cook ignored them both, efficiently moving about and finishing her food preparations. “I, well, here it is. This is the kitchen.” Mrs. Brightmoor pointed to the doors that lined the wall behind him. “Larder, pantry, and washroom are through there. The scullery is over here.”

  “So I see,” William muttered and felt like an utter fool. What had he expected? A detailed showing of where they stored the pots and pans? He’d hardly be interested in it even if she’d offered.

  “Oh.” Her mouth pressed together and she turned toward the stairs. Once her back was to him, she mumbled, “You hardly need a tour of the kitchens, then.”

  “I suppose not.” William fell into step beside her, pulling in his cheeks to keep from grinning at his own stubbornness. He might be playing the fool, but it had befuddled the woman who’d so far managed to do nothing but confuse him, so perhaps it was worth it. “I’d be happy to tour the dining room, though, and make my way through a plate of food.”

  “I’ll have it brought up directly, my lord,” Cook said as she uncovered a basket piled with golden rolls.

  William desperately wanted to be a five-year-old boy and snag one of the crusty breads to carry with him on his short journey to the dining room, but he’d thrown his decorum aside enough for one evening.

  Leaving the plain stone stairwell to step into the opulence of the main rooms was a shock all over again, as he still wasn’t accustomed to being surrounded by such an abundance of . . . of . . . things. Each room Mrs. Brightmoor led him through was more of a gallery than a functioning space.

  He stumbled to a halt in the doorway to the dining room as his gaze landed on what had to be the most ostentatious and unusable piece of furniture ever created.

  It was a table of some sort, made of dark, heavy wood and held up by enormous intricately carved gargoyles on each corner. Their bodies and wings spread out in such a way that the very act of sitting at the table was going to be a bit of an adventure. The accompanying chairs looked equally deadly, more resembling gothic thrones than simple dining chairs.

  Mrs. Brightmoor curtsied again and left the room, leaving him to make an attempt at seating himself without the embarrassment of an audience. It took a few tries and a bit of maneuvering, but he managed to sit without hurting himself before the food appeared. To his surprise, it was being carried by the housekeeper herself.

  Then again, who else was going to carry it? He employed two women and a trio of children. She didn’t pour his wine but instead left the bottle on the table for him to handle himself. If the variety in front of him was any indication, he’d received all the courses at once.

  The stillness of the room—in fact, the stillness of the entire house—weighed down on him as he began to eat while trying not to impale himself on a gargoyle wing. It wasn’t that dining alone was all that new of an experience, as he’d been living on his own and socializing with only a handful of friends with any sort of regularity. Still, he found himself scraping his knife against the plate more frequently than necessary just to create a noise to break the suffocating quiet.

  Fabric rubbed against fabric as he moved his arm to reach for his wine, disturbing the silence once more. Never had he been more aware of every move he made while eating. It was fascinating and unnerving at the same time.

  The new sound of footsteps approaching the room had him setting down his glass and watching the door.

  His strange little housekeeper entered the room, placed a pudding on the table in front of him, and then slid out, leaving him once again free to watch the flickering flames of the candelabra and wonder if they were crackling like tiny fireplaces.

  Part of him wanted to call her back so he could hear something besides his own breathing.

  Being alone had advantages, though. There was no one to witness the way he scraped the bowl clean of every last taste of bread-and-butter pudding.

  He looked down at the empty plate and bowl with a bit of consternation. What was he supposed to do now? Normally the dishes would have been whisked away by servants who had been standing quietly to the side, waiting to perform the task.

  Should he just depart and leave the dishes on the table?

  He was still contemplating his options when Mrs. Brightmoor returned, her very existence charging the room with questions far more complex than how his dirty plate was going to find its way down to the dishwater in the scullery.

  Perhaps a pressing quiet wasn’t so bad after all.

  The last thing Daphne wanted to do was reenter the presence of Lord Chemsford. Interacting with strangers in general was a struggle for her, and this man held control over her future and that of those she loved.

  It was the children who gave her the courage to enter the room. All of them, but Benedict in particular, were relying on her, whether they knew it or not.

  “If you’ve finished,” she said, picking a vase over his left shoulder to address so she didn’t have to actually look at him or those blue eyes that seemed to be picking her apart, “our parlor maid can clear the table while I show you about the house.”

  The marquis moved to stand and banged his knee against the head of one of the gargoyles. Daphne winced in sympathy as air hissed sharply between the man’s teeth. As he finished standing upright with a grimace, he said, “No need for a tour. I’ll have plenty of time to wander through the house tomorrow.”

  That was precisely what she was worried about. “You’ll sleep better if it feels like home, my lord, and it won’t feel like home until you know where you live.”

  Daphne nearly rolled her own eyes at the insipidness of her comment. In her experience, no matter how welcoming a place seemed, it took actually living in it f
or a while for it to feel like home.

  To her surprise, though, he seemed to consider her statement. She’d been spewing desperate nonsense. Did he actually think it would matter?

  Apparently he did. “Show me the house, then.” He waved a hand at the door she’d entered through.

  Daphne swallowed and pasted a smile on her face. While she’d never admit it, Daphne feared Jess was right and keeping the marquis and Benedict apart in the house indefinitely was impossible. If she used Jess’s suggestions to buy a bit of time, though, she just might be able to come up with something.

  Or at least think of a way to explain to Benedict that he wasn’t directly related to a man who looked exactly like him, and no, she couldn’t tell him why she was so absolutely certain.

  Daphne walked from room to room, trying to remember how a professional housekeeper sounded and acted. She’d lived in this house for twelve years. It was home in the way nowhere else had managed to be. Even the caretaker’s cottage still felt a bit cold and uncomfortable, and she’d been living in it for two months now. These walls, though, where she’d learned to treat each day with its own value and ignore the past and the future, they still gave her a feeling of belonging.

  It didn’t seem to matter that all the paintings and treasures as well as the intricate, expensive furniture had been stored away while she, Kit, Jess, and the children lived here. She knew the walls, knew how the giggles echoed through the house when the children slid across the polished marble floor of the front hall in their stockinged feet, knew which steps to avoid when going up or down the stairs at night so as not to wake the children.

  As she moved from the drawing room to the front hall, she slid a hand along the doorframe, her finger finding a shallow gouge in the wood, a result of John deciding to chase Blake through the house with a fireplace poker.

  From the front hall, she led the marquis into the music room. She resisted the urge to run a hand lovingly over the keys of the large pianoforte sitting in the center of the room. The old harpsichord down in the caretaker’s cottage simply wasn’t the same, though she and Sarah took turns playing on it most evenings. It had three broken keys and a tendency to fall out of tune, whereas this instrument was as close to perfection as any Daphne had ever played. And she’d played on pianofortes in some of the nicest drawing rooms in London before leaving the city became a necessity.

  She managed to keep her fingers off the instrument, but her gaze was another story. Longing swelled in her as she moved around the gleaming wood casing, and a melody slipped into her head, making her fingers itch to give it life. She bit her tongue to keep from humming. The instrument, like the house, had been borrowed. Without permission. Their unknowing benefactor had no idea he’d provided a refuge for her and a home for many discarded children over the years.

  Probably best if he remained ignorant.

  “This is the portrait room through here,” Daphne said, leading him through a short corridor that jutted off from the music room. “Have you any ancestors on these walls?”

  There. That was the perfect impersonal but polite question. She wasn’t supposed to know the history of the house, was she?

  “No,” he said slowly, with his head cocked and eyebrows raised, as if he were perplexed by her question. “I’ve no relatives on these walls.”

  She waited for him to say more, to offer an explanation, but he fell silent as he strolled into the room, hands clasped lightly behind him. Her own frown touched her face. He wasn’t going to tell her that his family had never even set foot in the place? She could see not telling her he’d inherited it by way of a card game, but to offer nothing? Wasn’t that how proper conversations went?

  Of course it was. But this wasn’t a proper conversation. He had no idea that she wasn’t merely a servant but was, in fact, a gentlewoman—of a lower class than he was to be sure—and she was perfectly proper to converse with and high enough to expect a modicum of politeness from him.

  Probably something else it would be best he not learn.

  He walked the room, looking from portrait to portrait, sculpture to sculpture. It was a useless room, built onto the house for no purpose other than to display art and treasures. There was no indication that the man who’d built the place ever entertained, so the cavernous room, though perfect for a small assembly or country dance, had been for his enjoyment alone.

  A waste. But one God had used in those mysterious ways of His. Though the young children were now able to run and play with the other children in their new families, when they’d lived in this house this empty room had been the place where she and Kit had them expend their energy when the weather prevented them from going outside.

  But Kit wasn’t here anymore. She’d married a man who shared her passion of providing for unwanted children, and when they returned from their wedding trip, they would travel the country, seeking families to take in more children.

  And Daphne would remain here. Watching over the last few remaining charges and helping them forge their own future.

  It was good work, if a bit lonely. Especially since she didn’t know what her role was going to be moving forward. When there were no more children to care for, what would Daphne do?

  The marquis meandered his way around the room, oblivious of the philosophical wanderings of his housekeeper standing awkwardly in the doorway. He was across the room now, nearing one of her favorite pieces. It wasn’t a treasure that had been collected by the original owner, but one of the few items that remained in the house from when the women and children had lived here.

  It was a game table, designed and built by Benedict. He’d made two of them, the cruder of which was now in the caretaker’s cottage.

  Perhaps leaving it here in the gallery was Daphne’s way of leaving a mark, of remaining a part of the house’s history. There were a few of his other creations about the house as well as two of the paper filigree–covered boxes they’d made to sell at the town market. One of the tea boxes sat in the newly finished saloon and another in the dining room. Small reminders for Daphne that this place had once been a home, not just a house.

  Lord Chemsford ran a hand over the game table, jerking backward when he accidentally tripped the catch that swung the inlaid chessboard around to reveal an inlaid backgammon board. He knelt and poked around the table until he found the compartments that stored away the hand-carved chess pieces and backgammon discs.

  “Mrs. Brightmoor,” he called across the room, “where did this table come from?”

  The pride and security the piece had brought her moments earlier faded into trepidation. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, my lord.” Her voice was shaky as the fear of discovery wrapped around her throat. “The house was abandoned when I came to work here.”

  “Yes,” he murmured. “No one has lived here for more than twenty years as I understand it.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Daphne agreed.

  He pushed up from the table and faced her, clasping his hands loosely behind his back again. “It was empty when you came to care for it?”

  “It had been quite left to the elements when I, er, started.”

  He looked back at the table, eyebrows pulled together. “I see.”

  Daphne shifted her weight from foot to foot. Mr. Leighton claimed Benedict was extremely modern and innovative with his wood designs. Was it possible the table looked too modern for the house? “There’s quite a bit more art to see,” she blurted out. “The house is full of it.”

  “The house is a mausoleum of art.” He frowned at one of the paintings. “Some of it is rather questionable.”

  “The glass parlor is rather impressive,” she said, hoping to distract him from whatever path his thoughts were taking.

  It seemed to work as his attention drifted from the walls to her. “Glass parlor?”

  “This way.” She led him back through the music room and into a drawing room so ornate she held her breath every time she entered it to clean. There was glass everywhere. Beyond what on
e might expect such as vases, candelabras, and figurines, there were items that begged to question the sanity of the creators. Never could Daphne have imagined someone needing a fake writing quill made of glass, yet there it was. And the glass strands that made up the fringe on the small footstool? They were the definition of frivolous.

  There was nothing of the women and children in this room. It had, in fact, been the first room they’d carefully packed away, taking turns to keep Benedict’s inquisitive fingers from finding the delicate creations. This was the room that felt the most foreign now, where Daphne went when she needed to remember that she didn’t live here anymore.

  The saloon at the back of the house was a different story, and as Lord Chemsford took the lead and entered that room, it was all Daphne could do not to call him back, to try to convince him that wasn’t a part of the house he needed to see tonight. Or ever.

  Despite the fact that Mr. Leighton and Benedict had repaired and repainted everything in this room, restoring it to a glory it hadn’t seen in a long time, Daphne still thought of it as a large dining room. Instead of red sofas and curved-leg chairs, she saw a large wooden table taking up most of the room, providing a place to eat, work, and bond as a family.

  Lord Chemsford went straight to the glass-paned double doors and threw them open, taking in the view beyond. Daphne knew what he was seeing. She’d stood on that porch every evening and looked at the moon reflected on the lake. Everything had been discussed out on that back porch. The doors had been used so much that one of them had broken and they’d replaced it with a large wooden plank. That was why the saloon had been the first room to be refurbished. There’d been an awful lot of life to erase from in here.

  An awful lot of her life to erase from in here.

  Suddenly Daphne was incredibly tired. Weary to the point of wondering how she’d manage to walk down to the cottage and ready herself for bed.