Rags-to-Riches Wife

by Catherine Tinley

  Might Papa have lived?

  Despite her rage, she could not help but respond to the man in front of her. An angry old man, finally understanding the impact of his errors, his implacable obstinacy. Yet Papa had been just as inflexible. Two fools! Two hard-headed men, facing off like rutting stags. And they had suffered for it, as she and Mama had.

  It took him a long moment to regain control of his emotions. Jane, surrendering to hers, felt her throat tighten and her eyes moisten.

  Such waste!

  ‘Now, now, child.’ He patted her hand.

  She sniffed and reached for her handkerchief. ‘You and Papa were both fools!’ Her tone was fierce.

  His eyes widened. ‘You wound me!’ He sat back. ‘Yet I must acknowledge the truth of what you say.’

  ‘Mama is a good woman.’ Her tone was defiant. ‘She could make no one ashamed.’

  He shrugged. ‘I do not recall ever meeting her. All I could focus on was her status as a servant. I believed she could never be part of my social circle. I did not wish such a life for my son.’

  ‘It was his life. He had the right to make his own decisions.’

  He sighed, a hint of bitterness in his expression. ‘I wish I had had your wisdom then.’

  She grimaced. ‘What is done is past. It cannot be changed.’

  ‘Not all of it, no. But some things may be put right.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Now, tell me... Are you comfortable here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Confusion washed through her at this abrupt change in topic. But perhaps he could not bear to dwell for too long on what occurred.

  ‘The truth, now.’

  ‘My chamber is beyond comfortable—although I fear it is too much luxury for me.’

  ‘Too much luxury? For my own granddaughter? I think not!’

  Her heart skipped. ‘But, sir, you know I am a servant.’ She held up her hands for his inspection. ‘See? And after I leave here I shall return to serve my mistress.’

  She raised her head proudly. She refused to apologise for who she was. And she refused to play his games. She would not allow herself to be tempted into impossible dreams.

  He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. After a moment, he enquired about her journey.

  So he had chosen not to claim her fully as his granddaughter? Then she was right to be guarded.

  ‘It was very long, sir, but the carriage was comfortable and we suffered no accidents.’

  Trying to think of something to say that would help put behind them memories of Papa, she decided to tell him of Farmer Lingard and his unfortunate mishap. Her tale engaged his interest, and he guffawed aloud at the part where she had arranged for Mr Kendal to drive the cart.

  ‘I see you leading him a merry dance! Good that you can shake him out of his cautious ways now and then.’

  ‘Is Mr Kendal cautious?’ She reflected for a moment. ‘Yes, I can see that in him. But he is also determined, and can himself be terribly strong-willed on occasion. Why, he even—’ She stopped, conscious that she was being indiscreet.

  ‘He even what? Do continue, for you have piqued my interest.’

  She was helpless against the devilish glint in his eye, and so she responded with a twinkle. ‘He berated one of the landlords we encountered to the extent that the poor man thought his reputation would be quite ruined!’

  He chuckled. ‘Robert the Unruffled? Now, this is a tale I must hear in full!’

  She obliged, telling it in such a way as to emphasise the humorous aspects, and was rewarded by his laughing loudly and merrily. From there, they discussed matters such as the state of the roads and the variation in posting inns.

  When she had run out of travel tales he responded with stories of his boyish adventures, when he had slipped away from his tutors to fish in the dene or wander over the hills, and it was only when his valet arrived, to take him to his chamber for what was apparently his customary nap, that they realised almost three hours had passed.

  Was that an approving look in the valet’s eye? Certainly Mr Millthorpe seemed in fine fettle and brimful of vivacity—a decided contrast to the morose, flat air he had carried last night and earlier.

  I enjoyed his company today, she realised with a pang. Even though I am angry with him—with them both. And my pleasure is partly because I know he is Papa’s papa. His stories matter because through him Papa is alive to me again.

  She followed them out of the library. But then, abruptly realising Mr Millthorpe did not wish her to observe his slow progress up the stairs, made off along the main corridor with an air of confidence, despite having no clue where she was going.

  She walked all the way to the end, where a door gave way to what was clearly a servants’ staircase. With a pang of recognition, she moved to the first step, then paused.

  Oh, I so wish to descend, but really I should not do so.

  She retreated, closing the door, then proceeded back along the corridor with a great deal of uncertainty. What should she do? She had to give Mr Millthorpe a little more time to ascend before seeking sanctuary in her own chamber. She could not be with the servants until he gave her leave to mix with them, and she had no idea where to find the family.

  In the end she returned to the library, curling into the window seat and gazing out at the windswept February landscape. Her mind was whirling with new knowledge—although she could not, for now, make sense of it. She craved distraction, but could not find it. She would have loved to read a book, but did not dare touch Mr Millthorpe’s property.

  Her eye fell upon a lone robin, huddling miserably on a bare branch outside.

  Poor robin! I know just how you feel!

  Yet her isolation was not just physical. She simply had no idea where she belonged. Or even if she belonged anywhere.

  After a time, the view became soothingly familiar—the same trees bending with each gust of wind, the occasional bird circling or resting on a bare branch. Her eyes grew heavy, so she closed them...just for a moment.

  ‘So here you are!’

  A delicious voice penetrated her pleasant dreams. Instinctively her attention turned towards it, merging it with her dream.

  ‘I might have known not to worry,’ the voice continued.

  Worry? Why should anyone worry? Fighting through layers of sleep, she opened her eyes—to find Mr Kendal’s amused cool grey eyes smiling into hers.

  ‘Good day, Miss Bailey.’

  Through a fog of sleep-induced stupidity she could only smile. What a wonderful way to wake up.

  He seemed to groan, then stepped back towards the fireplace, where the two chairs she and Mr Millthorpe had used were still angled closely together.

  Somehow she had ended up curled on her side on the long window seat, her feet tucked up and her hand under her cheek. Oh, Lord! Had she been drooling? Did she have a hand mark on her face? Were her curls crushed?

  She swung her legs to the floor and sat up. Patting her head, she discovered her side curls had not been destroyed during her unplanned nap, and that her face was devoid of spittle.

  Now she was properly awake, she felt the full force of uncertainty about her position.

  Who am I? How must I behave with Mr Kendal? Does he know that my gr—? That Mr Millthorpe regrets the estrangement from Papa?

  ‘Sir, I apologise. I did not intend to fall asleep. I was simply—’

  ‘You were simply...?’

  ‘I had planned to go to my chamber, but my—Mr Millthorpe and his valet were going upstairs, so I decided to wait until they had gone.’ She stood, smoothing the folds of her simple day dress.

  ‘Ah. You have realised, then, that my uncle is frustrated by his own infirmity? He hates to be reminded of it, or for others to see how feeble he has become.’

  ‘His mind does not seem subject to the same decline.’

 
He considered this. ‘Yes and no. When he turns his attention to something—or someone—his mind is as sharp as ever. Recently, though, he has tended to spend long periods of time unfocused—or perhaps he is simply lost in his own thoughts.’

  He sat in his uncle’s chair, inviting Jane to join him with a gesture.

  She walked towards him, feeling decidedly uncertain. ‘He told me his memories of forty years ago seem closer to him than events which happened last week,’ she said.

  Mr Kendal nodded. ‘It is often so with older people.’ He looked closely at her. ‘Now you are awake—at least I believe you are awake—should you like to tour the house, as we discussed last night? My mother and I would enjoy showing it to you.’

  ‘Yes, of course!’ She could feel herself flushing. ‘I do not know what came over me! I never sleep during the daytime.’

  ‘It is not entirely unexpected, when you consider you have been travelling for five days and have now found yourself in an entirely novel situation.’

  ‘House servants have been dismissed for less.’

  ‘That may well be true, but you would do well to remember something.’ He leaned forward. ‘Today, you are not a servant.’

  ‘Not a servant...’ She echoed his words half-dreamily, conscious of little else save his nearness.

  If only that were properly true. If only she had been raised as part of Papa’s family. She could then maybe expect another kiss from Mr Kendal some day...

  Mr Millthorpe’s words came back to haunt her. Had she told the truth when she had said she did not yearn for that other life? A life in which she was Mr Millthorpe’s acknowledged granddaughter, in which she had grown up in this house, and in which would be entitled to kiss Mr Kendal on as many occasions as they both wished...

  She stopped her thoughts from pursuing that particular quarry. ‘But I shall always be a servant, so I must not allow this visit to give me notions.’

  ‘Notions?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Notions are often the most delightful things, and even a servant may enjoy unexpected luxury. Now...’ He rose, holding out a hand to her. ‘Let us go and find my mama, for she likes nothing better than showing the house to visitors.’

  And so it proved. Mrs Kendal led them both from the attics to the kitchens, even showing Jane all the bedrooms save Mr Millthorpe’s. When it came to showing Jane Mr Kendal’s room, his mother regaled them both with a history of how she had persuaded Eugenia to allocate such a grand chamber to her son once he had left the nursery.

  ‘I told her I thought it would be good for him to have a bright, south-facing room, rather than the small chamber at the other side of the house which was what she had initially suggested.’ She leaned forward to add conspiratorially, ‘I also told her that if his room was here, near the main family’s bedchambers, he could run errands for her more easily!’

  ‘I declare I never knew this, Mama! My poor aunt!’

  ‘Well, why should I not speak up for my son? This bedchamber is much more comfortable than any of those in the other wing!’

  ‘What I should like to know,’ Jane interjected, ‘is whether he did, in fact, make himself useful!’

  ‘Of course I did! Why, I was the most obedient child!’

  His mama sighed. ‘He was—that was unless he decided to be obstinate. In general he has the sweetest, kindest nature, but now and again he will stamp his foot about something and then there is no reasoning with him.’

  She patted her son’s arm, to take any sting from her words, but Jane could not resist sending him a saucy look.

  ‘Slander!’ was his only comment, but Jane saw both the humour in his eyes and the affection between mother and son.

  As she followed them out of the room she could not resist glancing at his bed. She had studiously avoided looking at it before, but just for one moment she allowed herself to envisage him lying there, and wondered what it might be like to feel his strong arms around her in the dark.

  It was the first time she had tested herself thus since the heady kiss they had shared.

  Heat raced through her, closely followed by shock at her own wanton thoughts. There was some anxiety underneath, but no overt fear.

  ‘I apologise—what did you say?’ They were both looking at her.

  ‘Just that my uncle is sleeping, so we shan’t disturb him.’ Mr Kendal indicated the door opposite.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’

  He frowned slightly, but the moment passed as they moved towards the staircase.

  My room is in the other wing, not this one. I wonder if that means something?

  She actually felt a little better about the unaccustomed grandeur of her own chamber now that she knew she had not been housed in the family wing.

  Visiting the servants’ quarters was equally disturbing—although for very different reasons.

  On a number of occasions in Ledbury House, Jane and the other servants had had unexpected visits from Miss Marianne, showing someone around. Such breaches of the unwritten border between the two worlds had always been uncomfortable for the servants, who had tended to stand impassively, briefly ceasing their work while the visitors passed through. This time Jane trailed behind Mrs Kendal and her son, desperately trying to look composed, as if she were used to being in such an exalted role.

  Umpelby, genial and unconcerned, introduced her to Mrs Thompson, the housekeeper, and to the cook, and then to Henby, Mrs Millthorpe’s personal maid. This lady, who was as tall, as thin and as self-important as her mistress, gave Jane the shallowest of curtseys, and Jane flushed in deep discomfort.

  Thankfully Mr Kendal and his mama seemed to have missed these hints of tension. Or perhaps they had never learned to see them. Mr Kendal was clever, and perceptive, but he had not been raised among servants. Again, this served as a reminder of the differences in their station.

  It is as if I am two people here.

  Part of her was being forced into the role of guest, uttering suitable words of admiration regarding the beautiful chambers, elegant furniture and impressive public spaces—including the grand ballroom at the back of the house. The other part of her noticed everything from a servant’s perspective.

  Resisting the urge to give voice to any of these thoughts, she focused instead on aping the behaviour of tonnish guests she had seen all her life. She knew how to exclaim, and compliment, and ask suitable questions about settees and fireplaces.

  Mrs Kendal seemed pleased with her, which was good.

  Mr Kendal just seemed amused.

  ‘So that is everything—well, everything in the interior. Robert, you shall show Miss Bailey the gardens and the lake tomorrow, if this rain ever stops! I declare Eugenia is right about the soirée at Staveley next week. All the roads shall be mud after this!’

  Mr Kendal reassured her that so long as it was dry next Tuesday and Wednesday the roads would be fine for their trip to Staveley House on Thursday next.

  ‘It is always fixed around the date of the February full moon, for we do not stay the night and so everyone travels there and back by moonlight.’

  Jane was only half listening. She would not be accompanying them on any outings to visit the local gentry. Impossible. Last night Mr Millthorpe had had the opportunity to include her in their plans, yet he had not done so.

  She was struck by the realisation that she would still be here then. Two full weeks at Beechmount Hall had not seemed so very much when she had agreed it with Mama and Miss Marianne. Now it seemed an eternity. How was she to work out how to behave? Was she a servant or not? Was she permitted to be Mr Millthorpe’s granddaughter within this house, or must that not be spoken aloud?

  She focused then on the other challenge. Given that her grandfather seemed to have decided not to claim her in public, and yet she was living here as if she were part of the family, how was she to keep reminding herself that there must be nothing bet
ween a lady’s maid and a gentleman? Especially when she was expected to spend time in Mr Kendal’s company every day of the week?

  She sighed inwardly. There were no easy answers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘How I have missed seeing you in that bonnet, Miss Bailey! Now, do not blush. It becomes you!’

  They had just stepped outside the front door and Robert was determined to ensure she had a favourable impression of Beechmount Hall. For some reason it mattered very much to him that Miss Bailey should like his home.

  She patted her plain straw bonnet, making a self-deprecating comment.

  Yes, he thought, it is plain. It has no fancy ribbons or feathers or fake fruit on top—just a simple blue ribbon which she ties under her ear to keep the bonnet from flying off in the wind. And yet...

  ‘You look beautiful.’ The words were out before he had time to consider them, or how inappropriate they were.

  She blushed, and almost tripped as they stepped down the shallow stone steps to the gravel filled drive.

  ‘Oops! How silly of me!’

  Her rosy cheeks were adorable. He, of course, had to reassure her that she was not at all silly. As he did so he was conscious of a strange feeling of elation, which he understood was caused just by being alone with her. He berated himself inwardly. This tendre, he reminded himself for the hundredth time, was transient in nature. He should just enjoy the sensation while it existed. When she left, inevitably all would be peaceful again.

  He led her towards the parterre, laid out by some Millthorpe ancestor a hundred or so years ago. The fashion then had been to control nature, to contort gardens into rigid geometric shapes and patterns. He mentioned his distaste for it, but she disagreed.

  ‘But it is so elegant! Just look at these little hedges, and how neat everything is!’

  ‘I much prefer the wilderness of the park beyond. There we have oaks and elms dotted about as if at random—I believe it is much more pleasing on the eye.’