No one said anything more than murmured good-nights as they settled down. Reuben retreated to his cot in the drawing room, while Eugenia and Sarah snuggled together under the quilt on the double bed they shared. Then Daphne took her lantern across the landing to the room she shared with Jess.
The other woman was already in her night rail and brushing out her hair. She was wearing the sly, impish grin that always preceded a hefty dose of teasing. “Did the marquis enjoy his tour?”
“Of course,” Daphne muttered. “It’s every aristocrat’s dream to have their housekeeper trick them into walking for miles the day after having a tremendous pain in the head. It’s the best way to meet a slew of people so common they normally wouldn’t be close enough to him to describe his shoe buckles.”
Jess’s grin widened. She always seemed so proud of Daphne when she managed to strike back a bit.
Truth be told, it made Daphne a bit proud herself.
“Did you have any problems?”
“No,” Daphne said quickly as she slipped beneath the covers. She was more than ready to escape reality for a while.
The reality was Nash had thrown irritated frowns at Daphne when Lord Chemsford wasn’t looking. She couldn’t really blame him. He’d done so much for her over the years and she’d never told him the identity of Benedict’s father. Even when he’d worked with them to manage the finances of the manor, arranged for trusted workmen to donate a portion of their time to maintaining the house, and helped them stay hidden from those who would rather have the children disappear than grow up quietly in the country, still she’d kept that information from him.
And now he was faced with working for a man who was obviously somehow connected to Benedict and he didn’t even know what secret he was trying to keep. It wasn’t fair to Nash, since he’d invested as much of his life into saving the mothers and children as she had, but Daphne hadn’t had any way of telling him more today.
“You won’t be able to keep it up much longer, you know,” Jess said as she climbed into her own bed. “Have you determined a new plan?”
Daphne punched and squished her pillow until it was the shape she wanted. “All I have to do is keep them apart for another week. Then he won’t notice any of us. People like him don’t notice the staff.”
“That’s a bit delusional,” Jess murmured before changing the subject. “Do you think he’s up there, talking to that horrid man he calls a valet about ‘people like you’?”
Daphne popped up on her elbows. “What do you mean, ‘people like me’?”
“What did you mean by ‘people like him’?”
“Aristocrats. The wealthy people who are accustomed to a house crawling with servants.”
When Jess only gave another mildly agreeing murmur, Daphne pressed. “Jess, who are people like me?”
A white slash in the darkness revealed Jess’s grin as she answered, “Touched in the head.”
“I’m not touched!” Daphne flopped back on her pillow.
“Daphne,” the other woman said through a chuckle, “you all but abducted our employer on his second day in the house. That’s not a great marker for sanity.”
“Oh, go to sleep,” Daphne grumbled.
Jess laughed but rolled over and lapsed into silence, leaving Daphne to go into her own pre-sleep routine. The one where she drifted away to a life other than the one she had. It was the only time she allowed herself to admit she wouldn’t mind an escape from the regret and the consequences. Had Moses ever done something similar? Had he laid awake at night wondering what would have happened if he’d just remembered the difference between talking to a rock and striking it? Had he imagined what he might have done?
Probably not. But Daphne did.
She closed her eyes and let her mind wander where it would. Sometimes she imagined what would have happened if she’d never botched up, if she’d stayed in London and done what she should have. Of course, those imaginings always included the impossible existence of Benedict. She couldn’t imagine her life without Benedict.
Other times she thought about what she would do with the children if there were endless amounts of money and time.
Most of the time, though, she imagined herself as someone else entirely—though, of course, still with Benedict in tow. Sometimes she was bold like Jess or personable like Kit. Sometimes she pictured herself walking into a crowd of people and not instantly gravitating to the back corner to brace herself against the wall as her knees trembled.
Tonight was one of the rare times she imagined herself back in London, though. She was young and dressed in her finest gown, which was still considerably simpler than most of the dresses surrounding her. Daphne knew the dress. Remembered humming as she’d pulled it apart and turned it into church dresses for Sarah and Eugenia years ago.
But as sleep crowded in, that memory faded and all Daphne saw was herself, standing in a corner with a cup of punch. It was almost a real memory, a slice of happiness as she watched Kit smile up at her dance partner.
A dance partner who looked remarkably like Lord Chemsford.
Had he been at any of those parties all those years ago? He’d have been Lord Kettlewell then, preparing to step out into adulthood.
He’d been nice today—well, nicer than he’d had to be. Had he been as nice then? Would he have been as kind, patient, and polite to the young girl holding up the wall as he’d been to the frenetic and eccentric housekeeper?
She imagined he would. She imagined that he brought her a fresh cup of punch and stood in the corner all evening, talking to her about Benedict’s woodworking skills or puppies or something equally as pleasant. How much more fun an evening like that would have been for her.
With a happy sigh she burrowed deeper into her pillow and let the dream carry her away.
William absolutely refused to be apprehended by his highwayman of a housekeeper today. He’d fallen asleep the night before with nothing but a slight nagging pulse in the back of his head that he’d easily managed to ignore. Then he’d risen at his normal time and gone for a ride, investigating some of the woods he’d seen yesterday from the comfort of horseback and solitude.
Upon his return, he’d slunk into the house and deliberately sought out the young parlourmaid he’d seen only in passing the previous two days. She always seemed a bit frightened when she saw him, but perhaps that was simply the way her face looked. It was a bit of an odd shape, with a pointed chin and large eyes.
“Sarah, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said quietly, clutching the rag in her hand to her chest.
“Have the kitchen prepare my breakfast on a tray. I’ll, uh, have Morris come down and retrieve it when I’m ready for it.”
Her curtsy was shallow but graceful, and her gaze remained intent on his face. “Right away, my lord.”
William nodded and turned away from her, retreating to his rooms before Mrs. Brightmoor could waylay him. With some maneuvering and a bit of luck, he could dress for the day, eat his breakfast, and slip back out of the house to inspect the grounds and outbuildings on foot without his housekeeper suggesting he take a detailed look at the local tree bark or visit every farm within a five-mile radius.
She was unlike any servant he had ever met. He should, by rights, feel like the only person in the house, but he found himself peeking around corners before he left the house after breakfast just in case she was lying in wait.
Successfully escaping the house put a bit of a spring in his step and a smile on his face. His horse had been brought round to the front door this morning and the young boy had been waiting to collect the horse upon his return, so he had yet to get a good look at the stable and other buildings.
There were definitely signs the stable had once been a smaller, older barn before the recent renovations. Mr. Pasley had never been shy about requesting what the horses needed, so the adjustments must have been adequate, at least for the time being.
The sound and smell of animals greeted him as he ap
proached. Ah, yes, Mrs. Brightmoor had been maintaining a collection of goats and chickens for her personal food.
A large pen jutted out from the side of the barn. The fence was a bit low for a horse corral, though. He peered over the edge and saw the pen wasn’t for horses, but for chickens. Lots and lots of chickens. The mass of scratching fowl numbered at least two dozen, perhaps more. Another larger pen beyond this one contained an equally stunning number of goats.
How many chickens and goats were required to provide food for a small handful of people? This was enough to feed a large farming family. Several large farming families. Perhaps a small militia.
A low rectangular house ran along one side of the chicken pen. It didn’t look particularly new and neither did the fence. Perhaps the original owner had run some sort of egg business and they’d assumed he would want to as well? It was rather presumptuous, but he couldn’t explain a village worth of chickens any other way. Who was supposed to buy them, though? Anyone in a close vicinity would have their own chickens.
A lever on one side caught his eye and he poked it, jumping when the house itself shifted, the back board angling out in such a way that one could easily retrieve the eggs without ever stepping foot in the chicken enclosure.
Ingenious. And something William had never seen before. Not that he had much to do with farming or egg collecting, but if his other estates had such a device, he’d have heard about it, wouldn’t he?
The question of the number of chickens was surpassed by curiosity over how the chicken house worked. He bent to look underneath and became absorbed in yet another mystery. Beside the lever was scratched out the same bold B with an S looping through it that he’d seen on the desk in the cottage. The year 1813 was carved beneath it.
A year when the estate had, supposedly, been all but abandoned. Had it been built here or moved here?
Was there anything else from the clever furniture maker hiding on the estate? He glanced around the property, noticing several roofs popping out of the trees around the lake. Mrs. Brightmoor had briefly pointed out the scattering of small buildings yesterday but had mentioned that all of them were empty and unfurnished. While there were several less-than-pleasant words William could use to describe his housekeeper, he didn’t get the impression that liar was one of them.
She was hiding something, yes, but if she were willing to lie in order to keep it protected, she’d have done so already, and their encounters should have been considerably less awkward.
There was furniture in the cottage, though. At least one piece of it with the same maker’s mark. He strolled back to the point where the path from the house split, with one side going toward the stable and a well-tended garden that looked far too large, and the other down to the cottage. It seemed like an invasion to go down there. If she’d had a room in the house like a normal housekeeper, he’d have been loath to search it without a good reason. It seemed the cottage deserved the same treatment. At least for now.
Which left the main house. Did he dare? Would he be able to stroll through the rooms at his leisure or would she pop out from behind the curtains and insist he inspect the new moulding?
The bang of a closing door had him scrambling back down the path to the stable and ducking in the open doorway before peering back up at the main house. The action stirred a bit of anger at himself. This was his house, his property, his life. If he wanted to go into his own home and wander around, he was going to do it.
Particularly since he could see a little figure in a small-patterned muslin dress and brown spencer moving in the direction of the laundry-drying lines.
Chapter twelve
As William circled around the side of the house to the front door, he passed a large wall of glass. White curtains blocked the view through a set of large glazed panels and the windowed double doors that sat between them. An intricate half circle of stained glass arched over the expanse. He hadn’t seen such a wall on his tour of the house.
The latch lifted easily, and the door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges, granting him access to a glorious library.
While he could do without the profusion of art that seemed to be plastered on the walls, the abundance in this room was more than welcome.
Like the portrait gallery, this room had obviously been added later, attached to the main block of the house by a short corridor. Bookshelves were built into the two long walls, creating panels of leather bindings from the floor to the ceiling. A large plain desk sat on one end of the room near the windows, while clusters of sofas and chairs took up the other half. He ran his hand over a large globe in a carved three-legged stand and it spun on its axis in a colorful swirl of geography.
The room was almost marvelous enough to distract him from his goal. Treasures surrounded him, but there was nothing in here that looked like the unique creations he’d seen at the cottage and the chicken pen.
With one last look over his shoulder, he moved into the drawing room. While he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, he was confident he’d know it when he saw it. Or perhaps he’d already seen it and hadn’t noticed. Like the game table in the portrait gallery.
He moved through the front hall and the music room, pausing to look at the chair by the piano that seemed to be fitted with a shelf for holding sheet music. An interesting idea, but wouldn’t the music fall off every time the chair was moved?
Once in the portrait room, he made a point of not looking at the myriad of unrelated faces staring down on him as he crossed to the table to kneel beside the game table. He had to hunt for a while, as much of the table was taken up by the turning tabletop and the clever storage compartments, but near one of the legs, he finally saw it. B S 1815. A more recent creation, then.
Next, he spent a great deal of time carefully searching what was supposed to be another drawing room but couldn’t really be seen as anything other than a gallery. There was glass and art everywhere, with plenty of shelves and tables to display it all. Nothing looked creatively practical.
In the saloon, he peered intently at every shelf and table until he began to feel a bit absurd. Fortunately, there was no one of consequence in the house to witness his search.
The saloon bore a marked difference from the rest of the house, thanks to the as-yet-unmet Mr. Leighton. The fresh paint and modern trim were beautiful and understated, proving the solicitor had indeed chosen a good workman for the job. The furniture in here also had been restored and appeared to be some of the best in the house. The clean lines worked, despite their age. The air of comfort instead of ostentatious display meant this room likely had been one of the few the previous owner had actually used.
William moved about the room, trying to appreciate each item for its own value but becoming rather disappointed when the tea table was nothing but a surface with four legs. Finally, on a table near the far wall, he found another piece: a box, covered in intricate paper filigree that made it a distinctly different piece of art than the items filling the rest of the house.
It was beautiful but not classic or refined. He picked it up and opened it, revealing multiple bins with a removable tray that created several sections for storing different types of tea.
He closed the box and flipped it over. There was the same B and S along with the year 1811.
A search of the remainder of the house yielded even more instances of the same logo, each bearing years when the house had, supposedly, been empty: a small bookshelf built at a slant to hold a collection of brown hymnals in the chapel, a crude lantern hook near the bed in one of the smaller bedchambers. A dressing table in the austere chambers across from his own had a hook for holding the pitcher so it could be easily tipped with one hand.
Some of the pieces were less sophisticated than others, with more recent dates on the more intricate ones, but all of them showed a unique and appealing eye for practical design. Some of them, like the writing desk in the cottage and the game table in the portrait room, showed a refinement and skill that would be prized b
y most furniture makers.
Were there even more practical contraptions down in the working areas of the house? Perhaps a washtub that did the scrubbing or a bread bowl that made kneading easier? He wasn’t sure what either of those tasks actually required, but they both seemed rather laborious.
He returned to the library and dropped into the chair behind the desk.
A desk that, while not nearly as ridiculous as the dining table, didn’t really inspire productivity. It was as dull as the dining table was intricate. He had a feeling the entire time his estate books were open on it he’d feel the urge to leave them behind and sit on the far sofa with a book instead.
It was possible that was what the previous owner had done. Why else would he not have created a working study separate from the distracting grandeur of the library?
The solution was obvious. Whoever had made the game table and the writing desk needed to be commissioned to build him a new desk, perhaps even a full study worth of furniture, with the same elements of creativity and usefulness.
There couldn’t be too many cabinetmakers in the area. Mr. Leighton would surely know who the B S was. Or possibly S B. The letters were intertwined, so he wasn’t entirely sure.
One thing he knew, though, was he would never be satisfied with a normal desk until he could see what the man could design.
Daphne couldn’t do it.
For the last two days, while Benedict and Mr. Leighton had worked at the shop in Marlborough, Daphne had tried to be the perfect housekeeper. Mostly, she just tried to stay as out of the way as possible, be silent while delivering his meals, and avoid eye contact at all cost.
It had been exhausting.
Through it all, though, she’d thought and planned and schemed and now, with the pounding of hammers resuming in the parlor, she was forced to admit she was not going to be able to keep Lord Chemsford away from Benedict. Not by herself.
There was nothing else to do but let Mr. Leighton know what was going on and maybe, hopefully, the man could manage the work in such a way that Benedict and the master of the house never crossed paths.
A Return of Devotion Page 11