On principle she went in the opposite direction and entered the music room.
Sarah was in there dusting, lovingly tracing every nook, cranny, and curve of the grand piano.
Daphne said nothing, even as the girl cleaned an already gleaming portion of the wooden casing. There had to be something Daphne could do, some way she could arrange for Sarah to play the instrument again. Music was in Sarah’s blood. Had she been in society, she’d have been praised for her accomplishments. Other girls would be envious of her abilities and her playing would be in such high demand that she . . . that she . . . Daphne frowned. Her playing would land her exactly where it had always landed Daphne. Behind the piano while others frolicked about.
While Daphne had always enjoyed the ability to have something to do while she hid away from the rest of the world, it wasn’t something she would exactly wish upon another person.
Still, with the right connections, it was possible Sarah could make a career for herself. There were a few women earning enough to live on from their playing. Not many. It would certainly be easier if she were a man, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
It would take the right people, though. The right connection.
And there was a marquis right here in the house.
Their next conversation was already destined to be awkward, so why not throw a bit more into it? She could broach the topic if it meant establishing a future for one of her beloved charges.
At least that was the speech she gave herself as she moved upstairs to clean.
Chapter twenty
William rather liked Mr. Blakemoor. If he hadn’t known about the daughter, his respect for the man would have been downright admiration. In addition to his business acumen and integrity, every casual interaction indicated he was a decent man. Something didn’t quite add up about the entire situation.
Then again, fourteen years could change a person. William considered what he had been like fourteen years ago and shuddered. He’d been blinded by grief after the death of his mother, wracked with anger at his father, and desperate for anything that would make it worth climbing out of bed in the morning.
He’d engaged in some rather foolish behaviors in the name of seeking solace, behaviors he wouldn’t even consider doing now if he found himself back in the depths of despair.
Perhaps Mr. Blakemoor was in a similar position. Perhaps he’d made choices all those years ago that he wouldn’t make today.
Or maybe he was like William’s father, pleasant around his peers and disdainful of his children.
Hiding the man’s daughter from him didn’t sit well with William, but there were too many unknowns for him to break his silence. He couldn’t simply throw Daphne on the mercies of someone who might not have any.
Mr. Blakemoor nibbled on the last of the biscuits that had been delivered earlier as he looked over the plans spread out across the desk. “Our setup in Manchester wouldn’t work for your Birmingham facility because you’ll be making more artisanal goods, but parts of the process could be done via steam engine. If you split the building you could keep the wooden components separate from the steam.”
“I have a friend working on that idea already. He says we’ll be near enough to water to make that happen. Then the finished goods will be sent down the channel.” William looked over the plans. Every possible bit of space was used, reminding him of Benedict’s creations.
His neck itched as he realized he knew more about Mr. Blakemoor’s grandson than Mr. Blakemoor did. But hiding Daphne meant hiding Benedict, and since the boy had been the reason she’d had to leave London in the first place . . .
This was why William liked business more than family. Family was tumultuous.
Reuben stepped into the room, holding a cap in his hands and looking only slightly less awkward than he had when William arrived. There was a bit more color to his skin, and he wasn’t looking at his toes. William had a suspicion this boy factored into Daphne’s past somehow as well.
As he’d said. Tumultuous.
“We found the fishing gear you requested,” he said softly before adding a belated “my lord.” He cleared his throat. “The poles are outside the stable.”
William nodded and dismissed the boy. He quashed the urge to plan on inquiring how the boy was doing at the stable. Mr. Pasley would let him know if it wasn’t working out. William had never concerned himself with the lower servants much before. There was no reason to start now. His curiosity would be better aimed at his new factory plans.
“Thank you kindly for arranging that, my lord,” Mr. Blakemoor said as he stood and gave William a small bow. “I confess living near our factories has made me miss the sounds of birds.”
Mr. Gherkins stood as well, also with a grin. “I completely agree.” He gestured to the papers strewn across the desk between them. “As much as I believe factories are the future of this land and that we’ve created a solid plan, you should know that wherever you put it will disrupt the idyll of the countryside.”
Meaning he’d want to put it far away from Dawnview Hall, which he’d already planned on doing. He needed it to be near enough to the town for people to be able to walk to work, but he might not want it to be as short a journey as he originally thought. “Thank you for bringing that to my consideration, gentlemen.”
After another round of head bows and handshakes, the gentlemen wandered outside to enjoy the newly provided amenities and William went in search of his housekeeper. He’d been intending to put off their conversation until the men left, but he simply couldn’t wait. He told himself it was so he would know how to handle interactions with Mr. Blakemoor, but even he had trouble believing that.
The house wasn’t overly large and the layout was rather open. Finding one woman shouldn’t have been an issue.
But it was.
It took him nearly twenty minutes to find Daphne, and when he did, he almost wished he hadn’t. She was up on a ladder that looked to be as old as he was, dusting frames in the portrait gallery.
“What are you doing up there?” he bit out. Any moment now that ladder was going to give way and Daphne would break her neck cleaning the tops of frames on paintings he didn’t care one groat about. He cared about her a sight more than he did any of the people in the portraits.
“Cleaning,” she said without pausing her brisk movements, feather duster in hand. “It’s what housekeepers do, isn’t it?”
“No, actually,” he grumbled. “It’s what maids do.”
She stopped dusting and leaned on the top of the ladder to glare down at him. “I’m hardly about to send Sarah or Eugenia up on this ladder. It wouldn’t be safe.”
“Which is precisely why I don’t want you on it,” he said. “Come down here.” He paused for a moment, remembering that despite everything, she was the daughter of a gentleman. He still didn’t know how he felt about that or what to do about it, but manners warred with habits until he finally added, “Please.”
She sighed, made one more swipe across the frame, and then carefully made her way down the ladder.
He held his breath until her feet were back on the floor.
Once back firmly on the ground, she lowered her head and gave him a small curtsy. “What can I do for you, my lord?”
It would be nice if she could go back into the box he’d initially thought she belonged in, but since that wasn’t going to happen, he said, “You can tell me what happened with your father.”
Her eyes widened and flew to the door behind him. “They’ve gone already, then?”
“No.” He pressed his lips together in a firm line. “I’ve decided we need to have this conversation while they are still here and I have options available to me.”
With a determined frown and mutinous eyes, she said, “With all possible respect, my lord, you have no options. We made an agreement, and as you are a gentleman, I expect you to honor it. The fact remains this isn’t your decision to make. It’s mine.”
Was it really? She could claim his honor
, but it was his decision whether or not his honor as a gentleman required him to keep a promise made to a servant. A female servant at that.
And that was the sort of logic his father would use when bending situations to his liking. The fact that William could even consider such a line of thinking made him a bit ill. Still, he felt the need to add, “Fourteen years is a long time.”
“You have no idea,” she murmured.
“Perhaps he’s changed.”
“I’m sure he has.” She ran a hand along the feathers of her duster, sending a puffy grey cloud into the air. “But he has also moved on. Made a life. What good is a spinster daughter to him? What could I do—keep his house?”
He winced. That was true. She wasn’t exactly prime marriage material, not if she told someone her true age. But with her smooth skin and gentle face she could certainly pass for someone much younger. Hadn’t he thought her twenty-four or twenty-five when he first met her?
“Besides,” she said, letting her gaze drop to the floor between them as her voice lowered to just above a whisper, “I wouldn’t want to leave Benedict.”
Of course she wouldn’t. She’d never claimed him openly, but she was still his mother. She might hope to see him leave one day, but she’d never be the one to leave first.
It had seemed so simple while sitting across from a man who seemed such a decent fellow, but now the situation looked like a quagmire in which there was no easy answer. He’d always made decisions based on what was practical, but ever since this woman entered his life, he’d been faced with the human aspect. He now had to consider people and their feelings.
It was dreadfully uncomfortable.
But it was the right thing to do.
“What happened, Daphne?” he asked quietly.
She’d thought she had time to determine a way to tell Lord Chemsford the pertinent parts of the story while leaving out the bits that potentially would get her, Jess, and even Kit and the children in a great deal of trouble. She’d even considered the idea of practicing with Jess that evening so that telling him wouldn’t be the first time she uttered the words aloud.
But there was no more time to prepare. If she told him the whole truth, if she told him what she’d actually done, how carried away she’d been, how little she’d thought her actions through, he would lose any and all sympathy for her. Hopefully he would still refrain from telling her father anything, but it would be for that man’s protection instead of hers.
No man deserved a daughter who would betray her best and only friend because she was swept away by emotions for a man she didn’t even really know.
No man wanted a housekeeper that foolish either.
So she would keep the story simple. Short facts so he would know it had been one lapse in judgment, one foolish night, one moment in history.
Everyone had those moments. Just not all of them ended in such life-changing consequences.
“I met him at a masquerade ball,” she said, having to force the words through a suddenly tight throat.
It was a true statement. That night at the ball was the first time she’d ever been face-to-face with Maxwell Oswald. She’d known who he was, of course, since Kit was forever talking about him and pointing him out when they arrived at parties. Until that night, he and Daphne had never spoken.
As far as he knew, they’d still never spoken.
Daphne had been dressed in Kit’s costume while the other woman lay in bed, too ill to move. Everyone knew what Kit had been planning to wear, so it was easy enough to pretend to be her when Kit had asked her to do so. At the time, Kit had been sure that if she didn’t attend the ball she’d lose her chance to marry Mr. Oswald.
So Daphne went and did everything she could to behave as her bolder friend would have.
But this wasn’t really information the marquis needed to know.
“You met Maxwell at a masquerade?” He gestured for her to continue. “What then?”
“We danced.” Also true. “Then we stepped over to one of the alcoves to talk.” Not quite true, at least not in hindsight.
Looking back, Daphne was well aware Mr. Oswald had chosen that particular alcove because the window overlooked a garden where many people strolled about, taking advantage of the warm night air. And he’d had no intention of merely talking to her.
At the time she’d been lost in the music of the string quartet, listening to the words she’d always wished a man would say to her. Words Mr. Oswald had never actually said.
“And then?” Lord Chemsford bit out, obviously growing impatient.
“He kissed me.” True. He’d kissed her in full view of society’s most easily offended matrons. And while he’d been calculating Kit’s demise, Daphne had been losing her wits. She’d always loved hugs, craved physical connection with those she cared about. Never before, though, had she felt connected to a person like this. It had been glorious. And the way his arms had wrapped around her and held her so tightly, the way they’d shared the same space, the same breath. She’d wanted to hold on to that feeling of belonging forever.
“And?” the marquis nearly growled. “What happened next?”
Daphne frowned at the man. “What do you think happened next? I’m assuming you are aware of how a woman becomes with child, are you not? We left the ballroom. People saw us leave. The rumors were flying while I was still caught up in the romance of it all. I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late and then . . .” She took a shaky breath to steady herself. “And then it was well and truly too late.”
His brows drew together. “One night?”
“Yes.”
“The night you met?” He sounded completely incredulous.
She winced. That part really did make the parties involved sound bad. And while Daphne had merely been naïve and foolish, Mr. Oswald had been bad. He’d been set on ruining Kit’s reputation that night, a sort of betrothal gift to Miss Rhinehold, who had, for some reason, always hated Kit’s popularity.
The marquis turned away and began to pace. As the room was rather open since all the furniture was pushed against the walls beneath the portraits, he had quite a bit of room to do so. His legs ate up the floor as he circled the room.
“Does your father know? Does he know who the man was?”
“No,” Daphne said quietly. She hadn’t told anyone. No one had known besides Kit, because if they had, the already brewing scandal could have become much, much worse. “It didn’t matter.”
“No, I don’t suppose it would,” he muttered, making Daphne shrink a bit more into herself.
She had known she was far below the ton’s notice and therefore wasn’t worth enforcing the normal societal laws. Still, it hurt to have another confirm it. If she’d been someone important, Maxwell could have been made to marry her. The scandal would have been enormous; she would have never been able to walk into a room without whispers and stares, but she’d have been married. She’d have been able to acknowledge her son. He would have grown up with a brighter future.
Instead, she was insignificant. So much so that she wasn’t sure anyone other than her father actually knew she’d left town.
Before he could start berating her father for turning on her, she rushed to say, “There was nothing Father could do. I was bearing the consequences while everyone thought—” She clamped her mouth shut. She’d almost admitted everyone thought the sin had been Kit’s. “He’d already married someone else. We didn’t have the money or power to have another man marry me. So I took the money that had been intended for my dowry and left London.”
Daphne’s dowry had been a pittance compared to Kit’s, which they’d also taken when they left London.
“And that got you to Marlborough, where you found work?”
Close enough. Daphne nodded.
Lord Chemsford stopped and ran a hand along his chin. “Very well. We’ll stay as we are for now. They’re only here another day.”
“Thank you,” Daphne said quietly.
The look he gave her stole her breath. It wasn’t so much the emotion in it—his face was as unreadable as ever—but it was the fact that he truly seemed to be looking at her. Seeing her. Considering her. As a person. Not as a housekeeper or an annoyance or some strange creature fluttering about his house causing mild havoc.
He took a step toward her, that direct gaze making her want to squirm and fidget.
“What do you think your life would have been like,” he asked quietly, “if you’d never met my cousin?”
“It’s difficult to say.” Daphne broke eye contact. His consideration was something she didn’t know what to do with. “I never socialized, not really. That night was the first time I’d actually made it on to the dance floor at a ball.”
“So many new experiences,” he murmured. “No wonder you lost your way.”
That was a nice way of wording it. She’d gotten trapped in her imagination, forgetting about Kit, forgetting even who she was dancing with. It could have been any man, because by the time they’d gone to the alcove, she wasn’t picturing anyone real. He was a fantasy she’d conjured. A man who saw her for who she was, enjoyed her imagination, and thought she was beautiful.
Lost her way would have to suffice, though, since trying to explain it further would make her look flighty at best, a bit touched at worst.
“I suppose,” she said, determined to push them past the discussion of that night, “I would have married someone from the country. Perhaps a clergyman. I’d have enjoyed helping care for people.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I like people. Well, I like helping them. They make me nervous unless I have a particular task to do.”
He was quiet for a long time. So long she began to wonder if he’d left the room while she wasn’t looking, but when she peeked up at him, he was still standing there, those cool blue eyes assessing her, digging through her words for what she left unsaid.
“Well, in whatever task you choose to care for the people in this home, please don’t use that ladder anymore. It isn’t safe for you either.”
A Return of Devotion Page 19