Right now it was clear she was worrying over their imminent arrival at Beechmount Hall. During their five days alone both had avoided the topic, as if speaking of it would somehow break the spell. His curiosity about her link to his uncle remained. He fully expected to discover she was in some way related to the old man—or perhaps to someone important to him—but was determined not to try to wheedle the truth from Miss Bailey if she did not wish to share it.
At this point he was content to wait to learn what his uncle’s reasons were for summoning her; he was simply grateful to have enjoyed one of the best weeks of his life.
‘I am well,’ she replied now.
He knew she was wearing a brave mask over her worries, yet her manner indicated that she was not open to direct questions about them. Instead, he would attempt to reassure her indirectly.
‘We enjoy the society of many good neighbours near Arkendale. We see them at assemblies, musical evenings and dinners—and, of course, at church.’
They had attended the Sunday service in Doncaster that morning, before leaving the town, and Robert had felt an unexpected pride in accompanying her to church. Almost as if they were—
‘Oh, but I shall not be involved in those,’ she declared. She thought for a second. ‘No, I do not expect to be involved in social engagements with the family.’
He opened his mouth to issue a strong denial, then realised he could not. He simply had no idea why she was being brought to his home or what his uncle’s expectations were. And once again he had forgotten she was a servant.
‘I have no notion why you are invited by my uncle nor what his intentions are,’ he said carefully.
She looked at him for a long moment before nodding decisively. ‘I believe I shall speak of it.’ She took a breath. ‘My mama has told me we are related. But if it is true that he sent a Bow Street Runner to find me he must know I am a servant.’
His eyes widened. ‘You are related! That, then, confirms my musings—and explains why my uncle is so determined to meet you. In what way are you related, if you do not mind the question?’
She shrugged. ‘At this point I believe you know almost everything there is to know about me, so I do not mind at all. He is, apparently, my grandfather.’
Her grandfather! Well, the sly old devil, fathering children on servants! I wonder if Jane’s mother or father was his child...
‘I see.’
At least I believe I do.
‘My mama would have nothing to do with him all those years. Indeed, she feels most strongly about it.’ She grimaced. ‘She is angry with him. Justifiably so, in my opinion.’
He frowned. Such situations were notoriously complicated. ‘Then—my uncle has not supported either of you?’
‘He has not.’
A grandchild and not a penny of support!
He shook his head.
‘So what does it mean, do you think, his sending for me?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I cannot say for certain. He is elderly, so perhaps meeting you is something he wants to do before he...’ His voice tailed away.
‘Before he dies?’ she offered gently.
Strangely, her words sent a pang through him. The old man might be a difficult, cantankerous old Caesar, but somewhere inside Robert felt a spark of warm affection for him. Although that spark was, of course, being severely tested by the knowledge Jane and her mother had had no support from him.
‘That was my thought, and it is why I agreed to travel to visit him,’ she continued. ‘But now we are almost there I confess I am quaking in my boots!’
What to say to this? He would not offer her false assurances. Even if his uncle had sent for her out of sentimentality, which he could not assume, it did not mean he would treat her with kindness.
‘My uncle,’ he offered carefully, ‘can be strong-willed and opinionated. He is not a man much given to softness or tenderness.’
She nodded. ‘That is the impression I have already sensed from my mama and from your earlier reference to him.’ She swallowed. ‘Still, I have chosen to meet him—and it will only be for a fortnight or so.’
‘Indeed...’
His throat closed as he was immediately transported to the moment when her visit would end and he would have to bid her farewell for ever.
Stop! Today is not that day. And besides, it should not matter.
She gave a shy smile. ‘Having avoided speaking of this for five days, I now find endless questions tripping off my tongue.’
He could not help but remember that tongue, playing with his own just yesterday.
‘Er...yes,’ he managed. ‘Ask away and I shall endeavour to answer.’
‘As well as you and your mother and your uncle, who else lives in Beechmount Hall?’
‘My aunt.’ He spoke shortly. ‘My uncle’s wife.’
Her eyes widened. ‘I vaguely remember you mentioning her that night you had dinner in Ledbury House.’ She flushed. ‘I apologise for that deception—for not letting you know who I was until it had been decided that I would travel with you to Yorkshire.’
He waved this away. ‘The situation was a difficult one. You did not know me from Adam. It was sensible of you and the other ladies to be cautious.’ He grinned. ‘I have never before been served dinner by a housekeeper and a lady’s maid!’
She gave him a grateful smile. ‘Can you tell me about your aunt?’
He hesitated, aware of the need for discretion. ‘Aunt Eugenia is, strictly speaking, my great-aunt—my mother’s aunt.’
‘So you are related to Mr Millthorpe through his marriage?’
He confirmed it. ‘She is his second wife, and much younger than her husband. She has had...disappointments in life.’
‘I see.’
Does she see? he wondered.
‘They had no children.’
And his aunt would not appreciate this walking reminder of her own inability to give her husband a child.
‘Ah.’
She lapsed into silence and he watched her attempt to put it all together in her head. This was a riddle as obscure as some of those they had exchanged in sport a few days ago, but one which had important consequences for her.
Robert could not help but wonder if his uncle’s indiscretion had taken place during his marriage to Aunt Eugenia. If so, matters would be challenging indeed. He attempted to calculate Jane’s mother’s age, and then tried to remember what he had been told of his aunt and uncle’s marriage. Without more information he was obliged to admit defeat—for now. However, he believed it unlikely. Mrs Bailey’s mother seemed only a little younger than Aunt Eugenia. Therefore it was probable that his uncle had fathered a child before his second marriage...
His train of thought was interrupted by the realisation that Miss Bailey was agitated. She was staring out of the window, her face partly hidden by the poke of the straw bonnet he had come to know so well. In her lap, her hands twisted a fold of her dress—a clear sign of her inner turmoil.
‘You are not alone, Miss Bailey.’ His voice was thick with emotion, even to his own ears. ‘I shall stand your friend.’
And in doing so I will not be alone either.
* * *
‘I shall stand your friend.’
Mr Kendal’s words echoed in Jane’s ears and she held the sentiment close, knowing she would need every ounce of courage in the days ahead.
Suddenly her decision to travel to Yorkshire seemed more foolhardy than brave. Mr Kendal had tried to reassure her, but his innate honesty had meant he had felt compelled to hint at some unhappiness in Beechmount Hall.
Her grandfather sounded a little tyrannical, to say the least. Almost, she had been tempted to tell Mr Kendal of the estrangement between him and his son, but it had felt disloyal to her own papa to do so.
And Mr Millthorpe’s second wife was
clearly a troubled person. Still, perhaps she need not have to be in their company overmuch. She hoped to be quartered with the servants, and to make herself useful below-stairs even if her grandfather did not insist upon it. He might wish to have some conversation with Jane during her stay, but with luck she might avoid spending too much time in his company.
Mr Kendal’s words were kind, and sincerely meant, but Jane knew the idyll she had shared with him was about to end.
Once they arrived at Beechmount Hall, she would live downstairs and he upstairs, and they both understood that this journey together had always been destined to finish.
The thought sent pain needling through her. I must make the most of the last hour.
She managed to reply with the appearance of equanimity. ‘Thank you. Are we in country that is familiar to you yet? What can you tell me about the towns and villages we must pass through before we reach our destination?’
He obliged, and she watched his face as he spoke, as if committing to memory every feature, every word, every moment of their time alone together.
As the miles and the minutes ticked by she felt a strong sense of ending, of conclusion. Of farewell.
Dusk was falling as the post-chaise rattled up the drive towards Beechmount Hall. Leaden clouds hung heavily overhead, suffusing Jane’s first glimpse of the house with a grey dullness that lowered her senses and heightened her sense of foreboding.
The house was massive—a solid, stubborn pile of blackened Yorkshire sandstone. It glowered over them, casting deep shadows over the greyed-out grounds, while a pall of smoke seeped sullenly from several chimneys.
Jane shivered, then felt the warmth of Mr Kendal’s hand briefly squeezing hers.
‘Courage!’ he murmured.
The door opened, emitting a sliver of yellow light. Servants emerged as Mr Kendal alighted. Turning immediately, he assisted Jane from the carriage and they both thanked today’s postilion. The man would be quartered with the grooms tonight, before returning to his inn on the morrow.
Two footmen were already unstrapping the trunks and bandboxes from the rear of the carriage. Neither looked at Jane or Mr Kendal.
Clutching her reticule, and reminding herself inwardly that it was a gift from Miss Marianne, and that it contained Mama’s note, Jane shuffled forward and up two shallow stone steps into the hall.
She blinked at the sudden light. The hall was large and spacious, with a curving staircase, Ionic columns, and stucco friezes featuring Neptune and various sea nymphs. It was designed to impress—or, if you were a frightened serving maid, to intimidate.
‘Mr Kendal! It is good to have you home again, sir.’ A middle-aged butler with a kindly air was at once engaged in accepting Mr Kendal’s cloak and cane.
‘Thank you, Umpelby. It is good to be home—although I still half expect you to address me as Master Robert and accuse me of raiding the orchard, or some such!’
Umpelby laughed. ‘In truth, you were so angelic as a child that I was secretly rather pleased on those rare occasions when you did get up to some mischief.’
Jane, her anxiety temporarily subdued by this interesting piece of intelligence, was quite taken unawares when the butler turned towards her with a raised eyebrow.
‘Er...’ Mr Kendal looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Miss Bailey...er... Umpelby...’
He clearly did not know how best to introduce her: she was related to the family, yet still a servant.
She took matters into her own hands. ‘I am Jane Bailey, sir.’ She dipped a curtsey to the butler, offering him seniority.
He frowned fleetingly. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Bailey.’ His tone and demeanour were warm and welcoming. ‘We have prepared a room for you. It lacks an hour until dinnertime, so please take this opportunity to rest after your travels.’ He beckoned to a young serving maid who had been hovering in the background. ‘Nancy will take you to your chamber.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She turned to Mr Kendal and put out her hand. ‘And thank you, Mr Kendal, for accompanying me all the way from Bedfordshire.’
He looked at her hand, then took it slowly. His touch was warm—and, oh, she wanted to remember it.
‘It was my pleasure, Miss Bailey.’
His deep voice reverberated through her, and for a moment she allowed herself to be lost in his silver-grey gaze.
Feeling herself flush, she broke away from that gaze even as she removed her hand. Umpelby seemed for an instant to be watching carefully, but when she focused on him properly his visage was a perfect mask of disinterested impassivity.
Following Nancy up the grand staircase, she was conscious that she was walking away from Mr Kendal. Their adventure together had truly ended, and now she was on her own.
* * *
Robert watched her go, her slight figure dwarfed by the majestic sweep of his uncle’s elaborate staircase. He could still recall how large and cold and alarming Beechmount Hall had seemed to his eight-year-old self when he had first come to live here.
How brave she is!
He knew better than anyone how lost she must be feeling. And she had not even met the family yet.
Somehow, though, he believed Miss Bailey was equal to it.
She has more strength than she perhaps realises.
‘Is my mother in her sitting room?’
Umpelby confirmed it, and Robert strode briskly to the small parlour at the back of the house that his mama had made her own. As a child, this had been the place he had felt most safe.
Opening the door, he was pleased to see her there, on her favourite couch, having a rest before dinner. She always preferred to lie down here during the day, rather than trail up to her bedchamber on the second floor.
‘Well! And here I thought my own mama would be awake and anxiously waiting to greet her only child upon his return!’
She heaved herself upright. ‘Oh! Robert! Robert, my dear!’
He embraced her, smiling at her confused sleepiness. ‘Good day, Mama. I hope you are well.’
‘I am—though everything is always better when you are here.’
He eyed her closely, seeking signs of strain. ‘What have I missed? Have my uncle and aunt been tiring you out?’
‘Oh, well...’ She waved a hand airily. ‘Nothing I could not manage.’
He frowned. ‘Tell me.’
She swung her legs to the floor, her soft woollen blanket slipping to the carpet. He retrieved it and sat beside her.
‘It seems my uncle omitted to tell Eugenia about—about this Miss Bailey.’
Robert’s mind went back to the days before his departure, when he had been preparing for the trip. Surely the purpose of his journey had been discussed openly? But then he recalled that his conversations with his uncle had been mostly in his library. And Mama and he had talked of it here, not at dinner...
‘Do you mean he did not tell her he had invited Miss Bailey?’
She shook her head. ‘It is much, much worse. Eugenia did not even know of the girl’s existence. She believed her husband to have no blood relatives at all, and is most put out.’
‘I can imagine! Lord, what a muddle!’
‘Tell me of her, Robert. Is she coarse and vulgar? Eugenia is sure of it. She says Miss Bailey is a young servant.’
‘She is a servant, it is true—a lady’s maid. But she is not at all coarse, and there is nothing vulgar about her. Nancy has taken her to her chamber, but you shall meet her before long.’
‘I pity the girl, Robert. No one deserves Eugenia’s anger—least of all a servant whose only sin is to be a reminder of Eugenia’s childless state.’ She patted Robert’s hand. ‘I always wondered if that explained Eugenia’s antipathy towards us at times.’
‘You are too kind, Mama. I always believed she was one of Macbeth’s witches, and that she made evil potions with Henby
in her chamber!’
They both laughed, but inside Robert there remained memories of that small boy who had felt his aunt’s hostility without ever understanding it. She had lost her power over him, of course, now he was an adult, and yet on occasion both his uncle and his aunt reminded him of their coldness towards that eight-year-old boy.
Now his aunt’s ire would be directed at Jane. And there was little he could do about it.
Chapter Twelve
‘There must be some mistake. This cannot possibly be my chamber.’
Nancy the housemaid looked at Jane anxiously. ‘I am sorry, miss. Is it too cold? I lit the fire an hour ago, as I did not know exactly when you and the young master would arrive. Perhaps the room is too small for your liking? I can ask the housekeeper for something larger. She just thought that this one would be easier to heat, it being February and all.’
Jane was bewildered. The chamber was enormous. ‘Too small? No, not at all! And it is perfectly warm.’
‘Then is it the bed? Not everyone can sleep well on a proper mattress if they are used to a feather bed. The only thing is, the master got rid of all the old beds with Harrateen hangings about three years ago, and replaced them with these modern ones.’ She stroked the beautiful damask bed curtains, in a rich gold shade, then pressed on the mattress. ‘See, miss? It is perfectly soft and comfortable!’
Jane’s mind was in a whirl. She had cleaned many chambers that looked like this, but had never, ever slept in one. It was the height of luxury, with a sumptuous bed, a solid armoire, a washstand and a bow-front dressing table in mahogany, complete with an expensive oval mirror. There was even a painting on the wall above the fireplace—a still-life featuring vegetables and a pheasant ready for plucking. There were also three—yes, three—branches of candles in the room. Expensive wax candles, too—surely they could not be all for her?
Nancy moved to the window and closed the shutters, talking all the while. ‘You only have an hour until dinner, and you will want to shake the dust from yourself before going downstairs. If you truly wish to change to a different chamber I can ask the housekeeper...’
Rags-to-Riches Wife Page 10