‘Miss Bailey!’ Mr Millthorpe’s voice creaked with age, but his authority was unmistakable.
‘Yes, sir?’ Fear pooled coldly in the pit of her stomach.
‘I shall retire shortly, but I wish to speak with you on the morrow. Be in my library at ten o’clock!’
‘Yes, Mr Millthorpe.’
Soon afterwards Mr Millthorpe’s valet came to attend his master. He cursed the man, who demonstrated remarkable patience as he assisted his master from the room. Jane watched in trepidation, for fear he would address her again, but he ignored everyone.
A little later his wife poured tea—refusing to place a cup into Jane’s hand but instead resting it on the table. The intended insult was noted, but Jane was now past the point where she was able to feel anything.
Once she had drunk her tea, Mrs Millthorpe too, retired. Pointedly, she bade Robert and his mother a loud goodnight. When the door closed behind her, Jane’s inward sigh of relief could not have been more heartfelt.
‘Now, then, Miss Bailey...’ Mrs Kendal was all smiles, ‘You shall sit with me and Robert and we can be easy for a while.’
Warily, Jane joined her on the settee, and Mrs Kendal proceeded to regale them both with tales of all the domestic dramas her son had missed during his time away. In the absence of the Millthorpes she positively sparkled with warmth and charm, and Jane’s spirits revived a little in her company.
Mr Kendal did his share too, with questions and explanations for Jane as to who the characters were. She felt her shoulders start to drop, and the tightness in her chest loosen a little. They both offered to take her on a tour of the house tomorrow, to which she agreed with gratitude—so long as Mr Millthorpe permitted it, of course.
‘He is not the man he was,’ said Mrs Kendal, with a hint of sadness. ‘Now he spends most of his days in silence—a far cry from the vital, robust man he used to be.’
Mr Kendal grimaced. ‘In truth, Mama, I see a change in him after just a couple of weeks away. When did he become so frail?’
Mr Kendal spoke softly, but Jane could sense the distress behind his words. Despite her fear of her grandfather, she could see that both Mrs Kendal and her son held him in some affection.
There must be more to him, then, than the tyrant I encountered this evening.
Her throat closed in sympathy. Not for her grandfather, but for Mr Kendal.
Mrs Kendal patted his hand. ‘It has come upon us all so gradually that none of us noticed—save the man himself, I suspect.’ She eyed Jane shrewdly. ‘It is why he so particularly wished to meet you. Oh, do not fear! I have no intention of questioning you as Eugenia did.’ She paused. ‘My aunt can be...difficult...but you should understand she has had much unhappiness in her life.’
Jane raised a sceptical eyebrow. Could that really excuse her harshness?
But Mrs Kendal was still speaking. ‘My dear, you have been through enough for one day.’
‘Indeed, I am rather fatigued.’ To say the least! ‘I should like to retire.’
‘You need no permission to do so!’ Mrs Kendal smiled.
They wished her goodnight, informing her of the usual arrangements for family breakfast.
‘Oh, but...shall I continue to eat with the family?’
Mrs Kendal nodded. ‘I should think so. At least until my uncle decides otherwise.’
‘None of us truly knows what his intentions or his wishes are regarding you, Miss Bailey,’ Mr Kendal offered.
‘Actually,’ his mother reflected, ‘I am not sure my uncle does either.’
As she climbed the stairs Jane reflected on this. Although she had enjoyed dressing like a lady earlier, her pretence had soon been spoiled by the reality of Mrs Millthorpe’s displeasure. Somehow, in the morning, she must convince her grandfather to allow her to live and eat with the servants for the remainder of her stay. For one night, though, she would enjoy the luxury of her grand chamber.
She went inside, surprised to discover Nancy waiting for her.
‘Oh, miss, I have built up the fire for you again, and placed a warming pan in your bed. It shall hopefully keep you warm through the night. Now, may I help you undo your buttons?’
‘Nancy! There was no need to wait up for me! I am perfectly able to look after myself.’
Nancy looked shocked. ‘Indeed not, miss. I would be remiss in my duties if I had not waited—as you well know!’
‘You are using my status as a servant against me?’ Jane asked, but could not help smiling.
As Nancy began unbuttoning her dress, a sudden thought struck Jane.
‘How have the other servants responded to my arrival?’
‘Oh, you know... Different ones have different things to say.’
‘Oh, yes?’
I can imagine!
‘Well, Eliza was first asked to attend you, but she whined so much about it that Mrs Thompson was quite put out. That’s when I offered.’
Jane swallowed. ‘Who is Eliza?’
‘She’s one of the other housemaids, but she thinks too much of herself. She has been wheedling Henby—Henby is the mistress’s personal maid. I think Eliza wants to be recommended to see to the young master’s wife when the time comes.’
‘Mr Kendal is to be married?’ Jane’s heart plummeted to the approximate level of her evening slippers.
‘Oh, no! Least, not that anyone knows—though a fine-looking young gentleman like him will have no difficulty finding a wife when he so chooses.’ She leaned forward to add conspiratorially, ‘Given he is in line to be the master’s heir, he can have his pick of any maiden for a wife.’
Jane could only nod. The thought of Mr Kendal’s wife had, it seemed, robbed her of speech.
‘So, Eliza was whining, saying she would not serve a servant, and I just piped up and said I’d do it.’ Nancy picked up Jane’s dress as she stepped out of it. ‘I shall take this away and look after it for you.’
Jane knew exactly what that meant. Nancy would wash it, dry it, iron it, and mend the slight tear in the side. She glanced at Nancy’s hands. They were red and chapped.
‘I am used to looking after my own mistress’s clothes,’ she offered. ‘I can certainly take care of my own.’
‘Ah, but can is not should—not when the master has decreed you are to have an upstairs bedchamber and eat with the family.’
‘He said that—that my bedchamber should be upstairs?’
‘He did. And so—Eliza or no Eliza—you shall be treated like a guest if I have owt to do with it!’
Jane could have hugged her. ‘Thank you, Nancy.’
Ten minutes later Jane was alone, snuggling into her warm bed, with the fire slowly dying and a bright beeswax candle burning on the table beside her. Even if this were just for one night, at least it was happening.
But Mrs Millthorpe did not want her here—that was clear—and nor did some of the servants.
The thought caused her stomach to tighten. Jane was unused to being disliked or unwanted—even noticed. It did not sit well with her.
But for one evening I dressed like a lady. I had curls and a silk dress and I ate with the family.
She smiled to herself, blowing out the candle.
And Mr Kendal shielded me.
The thought sent a comforting warmth through her. She turned over in the sumptuous bed, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Robert rolled the brandy around in his glass, enjoying the play of candlelight in the amber liquid. Alone in the salon—for his mama had retired soon after Miss Bailey—he was taking the time to allow his thoughts to swirl and settle.
Jane.
As a serving maid she had been beautiful. He still remembered his first encounter with her...his appreciation of her rosy cheeks, attractive figure and deep blue eyes. Then he had likened her in his head to t
he goddess Diana, and had saluted her beauty in an act of unaccustomed lyricism.
Tonight she had been Venus. That yellow-bronze silk dress had clung to her feminine form in all the right ways, and the low neckline had afforded him a glimpse of heaven. Her hair had been different as well, emphasising her delicate cheekbones and the colour of her eyes, and accentuating the beauty he had seen from the first.
His heart had been pounding as he’d walked forward to draw her into the room, and he had been conscious of a strong urge to protect her from his aunt and uncle’s characteristic plain speaking.
She had held her own, though, meeting his uncle’s gaze with confidence—exactly the right way to handle the old curmudgeon. Aunt Eugenia had been bursting with indignation, of course, and Jane must have felt it. When his aunt had addressed him in French at the table—deliberately aiming to exclude Miss Bailey, while also criticising her—he had been conscious of a sense of shock and embarrassment.
Miss Bailey, who was no fool, had not needed to understand French to sense the hostility emanating from her hostess.
He shook his head. He was now very familiar with Miss Bailey, and the quiet, timid creature by his side this evening, who had barely eaten or drunk, was not the girl he had come to know. And as she had left the dining room with the other ladies he had watched her go knowing she was feeling bereft.
Once the door had closed behind them he had turned his head to see his uncle watching him keenly.
‘A good-looking chit, is she not?’
‘She is fairly handsome,’ he had replied coldly. He had not wished to discuss Miss Bailey.
‘The Bow Street Runner who found her told me in his report. Pretty, he said, with a good figure. I had hoped it would be so.’
Robert had frowned. ‘Why should it matter to you how she looks?’
‘Oh, it ain’t me it matters to. But it suits me very well that she is a well-formed lass.’ His uncle had chuckled to himself. ‘Not got much to say for herself, has she?’
‘Miss Bailey is a level-headed young woman, with sensible notions on many matters.’
‘Ha! Don’t you get on your high horse with me, Robert! I ain’t criticising her.’
‘She knows she is not welcome.’
‘Not welcome? I sent you all the way to Bedfordshire to fetch her, did I not?’
Robert had nodded.
‘So how can she feel unwelcome?’
‘My aunt—’
‘Pfft! Never worry about Eugenia. I long since stopped doing so!’
His uncle had gone off into a guffaw, which had changed into an alarming cough. By the time Robert had patted his back and soothed him with brandy the conversation had been lost.
An hour or so later his uncle had suggested joining the ladies.
Miss Bailey’s desperation had been clear when he and his uncle had joined them in the salon. He had caught just a glimpse of it as their eyes had briefly locked. What had surprised him was the force of his reaction to it. In taking responsibility for her during the long journey north, he had, it seemed, formed something of an attachment to her.
But given how attracted he was to her, and the fact that her status was unclear, such an attachment was dangerous. Unless their stations were equal he could not consider marriage. If their stations remained unequal, making her his mistress was the only option—yet, knowing her, that could never be.
He groaned. The thought of her in his bed had been haunting his mind since their first meeting. Being thrown into her company had served only to make it more intense. Allowing this attachment to develop further could only lead to heartache.
I must be resolute. I must remind myself that she is simply someone I came to know in unusual circumstances. What I am feeling is a tendre, a temporary infatuation, nothing more. It will pass.
He emptied his glass and rose to seek his bed.
It must.
Chapter Fourteen
Jane entered the library on Mr Millthorpe’s command. The room was well-lit, via two long multi-paned windows, and what seemed like thousands of fascinating-looking books were huddled together on the dark wood shelves. A small fire burned in the marble fireplace.
Jane’s palms felt a little moist and her heart was fluttering.
What will he say to me?
‘Ah, there you are! Come here, child.’ His tone was curt and stern.
‘Good day, sir.’ She curtseyed, then approached him.
Seen in daylight, her grandfather looked positively ancient. His body was thin and bent, and his skin resembled aged pale parchment. He was impeccably dressed, in morning wear in the style of twenty years ago, and he wore a ruby ring on his right hand. His hair was fine, thin and white, and his face was a mass of lines. His eyes, a startling blue, pinned hers with keen intelligence.
‘Be seated.’ He indicated an ornate chair covered in yellow satin. ‘Pull it closer.’
She obeyed, moving the chair closer to his. At his side was a small table with a glass and a brandy carafe. He poured himself a large measure, glancing sideways at her as he did so.
‘Do you disapprove of my brandy habit so early in the day, eh?’
‘Not at all. It is none of my concern.’ She folded her hands in her lap, every inch the dutiful servant.
‘Hmph! Eugenia and that fool doctor try to tell me to drink less, and to eat only meat and gruel, but—’ he snapped his fingers ‘—I have never been complaisant, and I do not intend to change the habits of a lifetime. I have little time remaining on this earth, and no one shall deprive me of the few pleasures I have left.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Last night I believe I caught a glimpse of the girl behind the servant’s mask. Who are you, Jane Bailey?’
She frowned. ‘I am not sure of your meaning, sir. I am simply Jane Bailey.’
‘Bailey—that very name is meant to injure me. And nothing in this situation is simple. You know I am your grandfather?’
She inclined her head. ‘My mother told me.’
‘Your mother...’ He shook his head. ‘My Edward was always headstrong, but when he announced that he wished to marry a servant girl I could not countenance it.’
Thoughts of herself and Mr Kendal sharing a kiss suddenly assailed her. A gentleman should not, could not marry a servant.
‘I understand that.’
‘You do? There is, then, no rancour, no bitterness about the life you might have lived if you had been raised as my granddaughter?’
She considered this. ‘It is a subject that has never occurred to me. I am content with my life.’
Was that completely true? What of her wish for security, for a home? If she had been raised as a lady perhaps she might even have married a gentleman. A gentleman like—
‘You are most unusual, Jane Bailey.’
She remained impassive. ‘Am I? It does not seem so to me.’
Inside, she was all turmoil. His question had raised hopes and wishes she should never consider. What if Mama had reached out to him after Papa’s death? What if he and Papa had reconciled years ago? What if—?
He grunted. ‘Edward and I discussed the matter of his planned marriage in the most direct terms.’ His eyes became unfocused, as if he gazed at something unseen, something remembered. ‘I told him that if he married this woman then he was no longer my son.’
His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed with strong emotion. He looked at her.
‘I never expected him to actually do it.’
Jane’s stomach lurched. He was a fool! They had both been fools!
‘I am sorry, sir.’
He waved this away. ‘Once I came to my senses I tried to find him. I did not realise he had changed his name. Your grandmother was Eleanor Bailey when I met her. By taking her name and rejecting mine he was repudiating me as I h
ad repudiated him.’
She stared at him in shock. ‘Then—you wished to reconcile with him?’
‘I did.’ His blunt statement hung in the air between them.
‘I wish he had known. I wish Mama and I had known.’
It felt as though the ground was shifting under Jane’s feet. The boundaries of her life, the beliefs upon which she and Mama had lived, were false. So much wasted time!
She shook her head sadly. ‘If only you had found each other again. Papa was a good man.’
‘He was also wilful and headstrong.’
Jane raised an eyebrow.
‘Ha! Yes, I know he got that from me.’ He tapped a long white finger on the arm of his chair. ‘After he left I married again—my Eleanor had died years before. In my head I believed I should sire another son—that the best thing would be to forget about Ned and Eleanor and everything that had gone before. I forbade everyone even to speak of him. I believed myself to be master of my fate.’ He nodded pensively. ‘I was, I believe, entirely bacon-brained.’
‘I do not believe any of us can claim to control fate.’
‘It took a very long time for me to understand that lesson.’ He had turned reflective again. ‘I know my days are numbered. These old bones cannot last much longer. I cannot remake the past, but perhaps I can make an ending to some of it, at least...’
Shaking himself, he took a sip of brandy.
‘This past year my mind has turned away from the present and towards memories from years ago. Not six months ago it suddenly occurred to me that Ned might have used his mother’s name, so I commissioned a Bow Street Runner to find him.’ His hand gripped the arm of his chair like a claw. ‘He returned with the news that Ned was long dead, but that he had sired a daughter. You.’
‘We have the same eyes.’ Her voice was thick with emotion. ‘You, me and Papa. I see him in you.’
And as she spoke she realised her words indicated an acceptance of their familial bond.
‘As I do in you, child.’
He reached a hand towards her and she took it, marvelling at the strength—and the frailty—of his grip. Jane’s chest tightened. How could this be happening? A lifetime of anger, of regret—all based on a misunderstanding fuelled by stubbornness. Part of her was furious at the loss of a life she could have had—should have had.
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