Книга - The Nanny Arrangement

The Nanny Arrangement
Lily George


A family in the makingBecoming nursemaid to Paul Holmes's orphaned niece seems like the perfect solution to Becky Siddons's problems. After having her romantic hopes dashed, she's determined to focus solely on her charge and not the little girl's handsome uncle. Until Becky realizes she is losing her heart to a man determined to keep his own under lock and key….Paul had hoped hiring Becky would allow him to keep a distance from his niece, a reminder of his late sister–and his failings in raising her. Yet he soon finds himself enjoying spending time with outspoken, impulsive Becky and the child. Can he take a chance on this unexpected, joyful new family?







A family in the making

Becoming nursemaid to Paul Holmes’s orphaned niece seems like the perfect solution to Becky Siddons’s problems. After having her romantic hopes dashed, she’s determined to focus solely on her charge and not the little girl’s handsome uncle. Until Becky realizes she is losing her heart to a man determined to keep his own under lock and key….

Paul had hoped hiring Becky would allow him to keep a distance from his niece, a reminder of his late sister—and his failings in raising her. Yet he soon finds himself enjoying spending time with outspoken, impulsive Becky and the child. Can he take a chance on this unexpected, joyful new family?


Her gaze was making him distinctly uneasy. Somehow, it was as though she had the upper hand.

The only way to win back control was to return to his sarcastically amused self. “So. Now that’s been decided. Join me for tea in a few moments in the library.”

“No thank you, Mr. Holmes. I know my place. I shall retire to my room and ring for tea when I am ready for it.” She gave another brief curtsy that signaled—more clearly than speech—that he was being summarily dismissed.

Should he press on? Make her come down to tea? After all, he had wanted to speak with her about Juliet’s upbringing. He glanced at the set of her jaw and the fire in her eyes. No. Better to leave while he still had some modicum of authority.

He’d give her time to cool off, and then they would speak sensibly. Becky Siddons was supposed to solve his problems and make life easier for him. But already she was causing more trouble than he’d ever dreamed.


LILY GEORGE

Growing up in a small town in Texas, Lily George spent her summers devouring the books in her mother’s Christian bookstore. She still counts Grace Livingston Hill, Janette Oke and L. M. Montgomery among her favorite authors. Lily has a B.A. in history from Southwestern University and uses her training as a historian to research her historical inspirational romance novels. She has published one nonfiction book and produced one documentary, and is in production on a second film; all of these projects reflect her love for old movies and jazz and blues music. Lily lives in the Dallas area with her husband, daughter and menagerie of animals.


The Nanny Arrangement

Lily George




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


I am the vine, you are the branches.

He who abides in Me, and I in him,

bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing.

— John 15:5


For Olivia and Taylor,

whose two-year-old antics inspired Juliet.

For Maddie and every child battling cancer. #fightformaddie (https://twitter.com/hashtag/fightformaddie)


Contents

Cover (#u6db89585-0730-5d92-8501-b39bd42b2995)

Back Cover Text (#uba8dd445-c246-582c-90f9-58a4392c1c00)

Introduction (#u97f950da-7d6d-59d4-9e1c-38c2aeb9d552)

About the Author (#uc9221254-a328-5a07-8f31-52d5dad7a0d3)

Title Page (#u9ca7f46b-d192-5e7a-81af-d7fab1ae6826)

Bible Verse (#u99a9110d-221e-525b-a335-0a6ee2b78591)

Dedication (#u5a96107e-5d24-560c-b2f0-1791e8ae3c9d)

Chapter One (#u2a291f62-b7f7-55fc-b693-c99570c0c533)

Chapter Two (#ub83633d3-de57-52e6-825b-4b0f69d5d932)

Chapter Three (#u0787112e-8819-5a1b-9a83-bb8e494ac6c9)

Chapter Four (#u1eb72cc1-d37e-5244-9a65-9ecdeb33d181)

Chapter Five (#ua313e4cb-d111-5828-b0e7-18bdde6c99ea)

Chapter Six (#u43ac7363-645e-51ca-a340-da5b3eb7ce21)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_86d86500-b448-5ab4-8d5a-72e8820acac1)

Tansley Village, Derbyshire

Spring 1811

The letter from the penny post gave a nervous crackle as Rebecca Siddons, commonly known to family and villagers alike as Becky, withdrew it from the willow basket she used for her weekly marketing. Her heart thumped solidly against her rib cage as she glanced over the fine, meticulous handwriting on the envelope. Yes, it was from Lieutenant Walker. She hadn’t heard from him in ever so long. One would expect a letter sooner from a young man who was, hopefully, soon to be one’s fiancé.

She’d lain awake night after night since the lieutenant’s regiment left the village, praying for his safety. And when no word came—well, it was difficult indeed not to imagine the worst. But at long last, he’d sent a painfully thin missive. Perhaps his duties at his new post kept him too busy to compose any letter of great length.

Becky turned off the well-beaten path along the storefronts of the tiny village and struck out into the open. One couldn’t read a letter like this in the confines of the prim and proper millinery shop she kept with her younger sister, Nan. She certainly couldn’t bear to dawdle along, snatching glimpses of her letter while making polite conversation with passersby.

No. For this letter, she craved the wild freedom of the moor.

Becky dashed across the meadow, the long grass catching at her skirts as she ran, her bonnet wrenching free of its hold and dangling down her back like a useless sack. Her long mahogany curls tossed breezily in the wind. Yes. One could breathe up here. One could dream romantic, impossible dreams without being dragged down to earth by a practical little sister or a bossy older one.

She flung her basket aside and with shaky fingers broke the seal of the letter. Would he ask her to join him in Liverpool? Had he finally kept the unspoken promise between them? At last she would be wed to a dashing military hero, have a home of her own, to be a mistress of that house...everything her elder sister Susannah had, and which Becky secretly envied.

My dear Miss Siddons—

Rather formal, but perhaps he had fears of their secret romance becoming too quickly public?

I must tell you that I have met and married the sweetest girl here in Liverpool. I know you will rejoice in our happiness, as kind and generous as you are. Her name is Rachel—

A faint buzzing sounded in her ears. Becky gave a quick, decisive shake of her head. Either her eyes were playing tricks on her, or this was some sort of cruel joke. Surely Lieutenant Walker felt about her as she felt about him. With an achy heart, she grasped one of her curls and wound it about her finger, a gesture that brought comfort to her since childhood. The smiles they’d shared, the lingering glances, the brief touch on her arm as he bade her goodbye...

She opened her eyes wide and forced herself to read each word deliberately and slowly, until she reached the end of the letter. This Rachel was her lieutenant’s new bride. When she, Becky, had been so certain that she would, in a matter of months, bear that title.

The weight of dawning realization pushed down her shoulders, forcing her to her knees in the grass. The letter fluttered away and caught on a twig. Hot tears pooled in Becky’s eyes and she pursed her trembling lips. No wedding was hers, with redolent orange blossoms. No home of her own waited patiently for its mistress. She must continue to toil away in her millinery shop with Nan and her blunt, practical ways, her constant criticisms and complaints draining the very artistry from Becky’s days. She was both a spinster and a fool.

Becky dropped her head in her hands and allowed the tears to fall, deep, wrenching sobs that convulsed her as she knelt in the rough, scrubby stalks. Her heart thumped in her chest, the sound growing louder as she continued to weep.

She must inhale. Otherwise, she might faint. She took a hitching, jolting breath. Her heart was pounding heavily.

No. She raised her head, forcing her streaming eyes open.

No—not her heart. Hoof beats.

“Ho there!” the rider called in a deep bass voice, reining in sharply. His mount, a magnificent sorrel, made a jagged turn to the right, showering Becky with stinging little blades of grass as he skidded to a halt. Becky froze, her sobs quelled as she watched the precision and control with which the rider managed his horse. He dismounted in one easy, fluid movement and tossed the reins over the saddle.

“Really, miss,” he scolded. “What on earth are you playing at, hiding out here in the moor? I could have run you over.” He strolled over, tucking his riding crop under one arm, and removed his hat.

As he looked down, Becky gave an inward groan. How perfectly perfect, as her sister would say. Here she was sobbing out here on the moor over her lost dreams and hopes, and along came Paul Holmes, her brother-in-law’s teasing and jesting friend.

“Becky—what on earth? Are you quite all right?” He held out his hand and she took it, allowing him to pull her up from her hovel in the grass. “Whatever has happened?”

“I—uh.” She couldn’t brazen this one out. She must look a sight. Her nose must be swollen, her eyes must be the color of a tomato, and tear tracks must certainly have trailed down her cheeks. And yet, one couldn’t let Paul in on the most private, secret dashed hopes of her girlhood. Paul was so intimidating, really. He was handsome, with dark brown eyes and sandy, wavy hair that always looked rather tousled. And he was wealthy. But what made him most nerve-racking was his teasing manner, coupled with his high-handed attitude. If she spoke the truth, he’d laugh. Or lecture. And she didn’t particularly relish hearing either right now. “I received a letter with some distressing news.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket and withdrew a fine linen handkerchief. “Here, blow your nose. There’s a good gal.” He held the crisp linen square to her nose as if she were a mere five years old.

“I can handle it by myself, thank you,” she responded in her haughtiest tone, and took the handkerchief with as much dignity as she could muster. After being jilted by one man, she was having a difficult time being civil to another, especially one who treated her as a child.

She gave her nose a hearty blow—not a romantic sound, but then who could think of romance now? She flicked a glance over at Paul. His sandy hair blew untidily in the wind, and his brown eyes held a distinct gleam of mockery. He was tall and powerfully built, but for all the handsome figure he cut, one couldn’t get past the feeling that he was laughing at everything in general and her predicament in particular. She must compose herself before going back to the millinery shop, and how could she do it now, with Paul standing like a comical sentry before her?

“I really should be going back,” she managed, folding the handkerchief into a dainty square. “Thank you for the use of this. I shall launder it and return it to you.”

“No need, no need.” He brushed aside his handkerchief the way some men might brush aside a scrap of paper. And it was fine Irish linen, too, quite dear. The kind of material they sometimes received in their shop for the use of the gentry. “And I wouldn’t dream of you going back by yourself. Not in this condition. I could never look Susannah or Daniel in the eyes again if I left you weeping all alone on this dreadful moor.”

“My sister and brother-in-law don’t have to know about this.” The words tumbled out before she could check them. No, indeed. No one need ever find out if only Paul could leave well enough alone. “I was crying over a private matter, and now I feel better.”

“But you look miserable.” Paul strolled over to his horse and gathered the reins.

“Thank you.” She could not check the sarcastic tone. What was coming over her? Usually Susannah was the sharp one and Nan the biting one. She’d hardly ever uttered an acerbic comment in her life.

Her tone must have shocked Paul, for his grin faded and he cocked one eyebrow at her. “I didn’t mean that in an insulting way. I just mean that, whatever your news was, it must have been quite shocking. I’ve never seen you behave in such a manner.” He led his horse over to her, pausing to scoop up her basket and the letter still tangled against a twig. “Here. Jump up. I’ll lead you. I am sure you’ll feel better once you go home and see Nan, and start work on a new bonnet.”

“You sound like Susannah. Work is not my panacea. And Nan is so...difficult.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’d like to stay here a bit longer.” She couldn’t face the prosaic reality of her life once more. She had to stay out in the moor just a few moments more and lick her wounds in private. If only he would just go away and leave her in peace.

“Nan has always been trying, hasn’t she?” Paul leaned against his mount, fixing her with his mildly amused gaze. “What makes her company so unendurable today?”

“Because...” Becky paused. How much should she say? She couldn’t tell Paul that her marriage prospects were now completely obliterated and she’d be living under her little sister’s thumb for all eternity. “Susannah was the heart behind our business. And now she is married and committed to managing Goodwin Hall. Nan is the brains behind the business.” She couldn’t tell him the whole truth. ’Twould sound too selfish and childish to admit that she was stuck in the middle, not allowed to make any business decisions, her designs often hampered because they were too expensive or too fancy or too delicate for rural wear. She wasn’t consulted as an artist, and her opinion was often simply passed over.

“And as for you...you’ve no real place.” He nodded. How funny. ’Twas as though he understood her thoughts precisely and yet didn’t think her quite a ninny for feeling them. “Have you ever thought about something else? Do you have to work in the shop, Becky?”

“I thought my circumstances might soon change, but they won’t, so I might as well face facts.” She looked at him squarely, though it was terribly difficult to do so. It wasn’t that she was afraid of Paul—he wasn’t a scary sort of person. He just made her nervous with his joking ways.

His expression shifted, and the vague sympathetic moment they’d shared vanished like ice melting in the sun. “I think the reason you’re out here sobbing is in this letter I found.” He cast a crooked grin her way and tapped Lieutenant Walker’s letter against his chin with a mockingly thoughtful gesture. “Shall I read it and find out?”

* * *

That was a mistake. Paul had pushed the teasing too far, just as he had with his own younger sisters. Becky’s fine, dark brows drew together as she made an impetuous grasp for the letter.

“Give it back to me,” she pleaded, her violet-blue eyes sparkling with fresh, unshed tears. “You have no right to take my private property.” She extended her small, trembling hand out, palm up.

He swallowed, giving himself an inward kick. Here he was, making matters worse when she had finally begun to calm down. He pressed the epistle back into her hand, taking a quick glance down as his did so. Bold, decisive script—definitely the handwriting of a man. Likely she had been jilted in some form or fashion by some ridiculous blackguard. And that was the reason she was out here crying—she’d lost her chance that marriage would end her servitude at the shop.

“You’re right, I don’t.” He shrugged and handed her back the basket she’d dropped. “Forgive me. It’s the privilege of being the eldest brother, you see. I always teased my younger siblings in a merciless fashion.”

“I’d love to have a fraction of your license,” Becky admitted, the ghost of a smile hovering around her pretty lips.

She looked a little like his younger sister Juliana, though Becky’s features were softer, more feminine. Juliana, too, had had her heart broken by an undeserving male.

“I had no idea you had so many brothers and sisters to lord over.”

“Oh yes, Juliana is close to your age.” Or was. One short week was hardly enough time to adjust to the fact that his beautiful young sister was—but no. This wasn’t the time or place for such thoughts. He stifled a cough and continued with a happier memory. “But she always got her revenge. Once, Juliana put pepper in my snuffbox. You can only imagine how long it took me to recover.”

Becky laughed, a dimple touching her left cheek as she smiled. “Jolly good for her.” Then her laughter ceased, and the dark shadow fell over her face once more. The change was disappointing, for Becky was a pretty little thing. With her dimpled cheek and that dark waterfall of hair, she could certainly become a diamond of the first water, had her family been able to give her a season. Funny, he’d always thought of her as just the middle daughter of an extraordinary family...but she was coming into her own now. Not that it mattered to him, of course.

“I don’t suppose I’ve convinced you to return to the shop, then?” He gave the reins a tug, and Ciro stopped munching the moor-grass. He had business to attend to, and couldn’t spare any more time talking to a girl, appealing though she might be.

Becky shook her head, the wind ruffling her curls. “No, thank you.”

“Well, if you insist on staying out here, then I must ask you to at least stand upright.” He swung into the saddle and settled in comfortably. “I could have run over you, buried as you were in the grass.”

Becky’s delicate features hardened and she turned her head aside. “I promise I won’t do anything as silly as allow myself to be run over. You might be more careful yourself, you know.”

He suppressed a grin at her haughty tone. She certainly hated being told what to do. No small wonder, being squeezed in between two termagants like Susannah and Nan. Just to be perverse, he leaned down over his saddle and fixed her with his best “lord of the manor” gaze. “If you aren’t home by sundown, I shall tell Daniel and Susannah that you were wandering the moor like some lovesick heroine in a Romantic poem.”

She turned, lifting her chin and fixing him with a glare that could have withered the moor-grass. “When I come home is entirely my own affair, Mr. Holmes. Your friendship with my family does not extend to playing the role of my keeper.” Apparently he offended her so greatly that she chose to abandon her earlier plan of remaining on the moor. She tucked the willow basket and her letter under her arm and strolled off, her bonnet bobbing against the middle of her back as she wound her way back to the village.

He chuckled ruefully. Whatever had that lad who jilted Becky been thinking? The fellow couldn’t be in his right mind. Paul gave Ciro his head and the beast responded with astonishing speed, carrying him over the moor and back toward home with grace and agility. He never really had to think when he was riding Ciro. The horse had such an uncanny sense of timing and pace. It gave a fellow time to think.

But what was there to think about? Becky Siddons wasn’t the only one to receive a horrible letter lately. He, too, had received a terrible missive only a week ago, from Italy. Juliana was dead of a fever. She had died alone. The blighter who carried her away from her family and from England was dead, too, of the same fever. But a few years before they both died, Juliana had borne a child. A child who was now his responsibility.

Juliana was dead. He said the words in his mind but they made no sense. Juliana had a child. Her name was Juliet. And she was his ward. He crammed the rising grief and panic back down his throat and shut the door against his own anguish. ’Twould be one thing if a fellow believed in God or Heaven. There might be some comfort in thinking about Juliana then, if he could believe she was in a better place. But while he wasn’t precisely an atheist, he’d taken no comfort from religion since Ruth Barclay, his fiancée, had passed away. After she died, the cold trickle of doubt had entered his soul.

So there it was. It was never good to dwell on pain. In fact, a fellow shouldn’t even feel any kind of sorrow. He must remain in control, master of all situations. He was the head of his family now. This was his duty. He must attend to anything that required his attention, and later he might have his reward—perhaps a trip to London would be in order. Duty first, then pleasure.

He turned his mind back to the problem at hand. Juliana was dead, and her daughter would be at Kellridge Hall in a matter of days. He had no time or resources to care for a child. His niece was being attended to by a servant, but who knew what kind of servant Juliana had hired abroad? No, she must have a proper English nursemaid. No one at Kellridge could assume that role easily; each servant’s duties were clearly delineated and none of them had time for children.

He could try to hire someone from the village, but that might incite gossip about Juliana and the circumstances of her daughter’s birth and her own demise.

Ciro gathered speed and strength as he tore through the open gate; yes, he knew what he was about. Those gates meant the barn was nearby. Paul quirked the corner of his mouth. Ciro understood his motto, too. Duty first, then pleasure.

The situation warranted someone who had a proper upbringing, who would raise a girl in a suitable manner until she was of age to be sent to school. Someone who wouldn’t gossip, who could be trusted to handle this with poise and tact.

Poise and tact. Just like any genteel young woman should possess.

A young woman like Rebecca Siddons.

Why not? She was aching to get away from the millinery shop. She could be Juliet’s nursemaid and later her governess. Their families were so close; Becky could be trusted not to gossip. And even if she had no experience with children of her own, raising a baby just came naturally to women. It was instinct, pure and simple. She was a romantic, dreamy little thing, but surely she would take to raising a baby as a duck took to water.

That was the answer. He would call upon her tomorrow and ask her.


Chapter Two (#ulink_92269197-1d9e-50b3-aae1-2feb365e08d8)

“Oh, Becky, whatever have you done with the bonnet Mrs. Parker ordered?” Nan poked her head into the sitting room where Becky made use of the early morning sunlight streaming through the window. Such fine stitches needed a lot of good light, and this room was best lit at dawn. “I thought I told you—we cannot afford to use that fine muslin for the brim. We cannot turn a profit if you keep using such expensive materials. Why didn’t you use the cotton I ordered from town?”

Heated words bubbled to Becky’s lips and her fingers trembled as she laid another fine stitch in the fabric. She took a deep, calming breath. If she were to do this for the rest of her life, she must maintain control of her temper. “The cotton is too rough and slubby for a dress bonnet,” she argued. “I only used a small bit of the muslin, and with the ruching I added, I conserved quite a bit of fabric.” There, she showed that she had given cost some thought. That cotton was just so terribly ugly. Why Nan ever bought it was a mystery.

“But I specifically told you to use the cotton, Becky.” Nan strode into the sitting room and cast herself down on the settee. “Honestly, the profit we’ll see on that bonnet is quite slim. The more money we earn on each sale, the more secure our finances. Surely you see that.”

“I do understand,” Becky replied in an even tone. “But the more alluring our bonnets, the more clients we should attract. If we use inferior materials, then we will lose the kind of genteel clientele that will spend a fortune on our creations season after season.”

“Yes, but if our bonnets are affordable and well-made, we will garner loyalty from the villagers—the women who cannot afford something grand, perhaps, but may require a bonnet that is sturdy and hard-wearing. Those women are the bread and butter of our shop.” Nan leaned forward, her mild blue eyes wide and cajoling. “Come, now. Susannah left the shop to our care when she married Daniel. Isn’t it up to the pair of us to see to it that it becomes a successful venture?”

Well, when Nan put things that way...Becky was hard-pressed indeed to think of a retort. To buy some time, she concentrated on another stitch, pursing her lips tightly together as she did so. Of course she didn’t want to see the shop fail. But what was the harm in offering lovely bonnets as well as serviceable ones? “If we restrict ourselves to one kind of trade, surely we chance losing a portion of our customers,” she admonished in as gentle a tone as she could manage. “After all, it was the commissions of three gentlewomen who gave us our start, if you will recall.”

“I know.” Nan leaped from her position on the settee and began pacing, a nervous habit that wore on Becky’s nerves. “But honestly, a simpler style of bonnet is more easily made, and I can train our other helpers to make them quickly. The finer stuff must be left to the two of us, and already we’re stretched thin as it is. The profits we make are higher, and they sell more quickly. And the villagers pay more quickly than gentry. I really do feel most strongly that we should stop making fancy creations and concentrate on the plain and sensible.”

Becky heaved a deep sigh. Plain and sensible. There was little room for imagination and artistry in the plain and sensible, particularly if Nan kept buying such dreadful fabric. She would be chained, for the rest of her life, to stretching scratchy cotton across buckram frames. A vista of ugly, cheap bonnets unfolded before her, and her heart gave a lurch of revolt. True, she was stuck. A spinster forevermore with no hope of marriage to Lieutenant Walker. But did that mean she needed to relinquish any sense of beauty in her life?

“I’m going to see Susannah,” she declared, casting the bonnet to one side and rising from her chair. “She founded the shop. I’ll put my case to her.”

“I shall go too,” Nan rejoined. “After all, I have been seeing to it that the shop is a gainful venture since I took over.”

“Since you took over?” Anger surged into Becky’s being, leaving her trembling in its wake. “The shop was given to both of us when Susannah married. We are equal partners, Nan.”

“We would be, if you had a practical bone in your body! But honestly, how are we to make any money at all if you squander our resources? It’s been up to me to make sure that the shop stays profitable.”

“If you say that word once more, I shall scream.” Becky took her own bonnet from the peg near the front door and clamped it on her head, rebellion singing through her veins. “Since the store is so beholden to you, you can stay here to manage it while I talk to our sister.”

She flounced out of the shop and slammed the door shut behind her. Whatever had taken hold of her? Even if she wasn’t the practical one in the family, she had always gotten along well enough with her sisters. Why was she letting Nan needle her so? And why was she getting angry over each little thing?

“Because they’re not little things any longer.” She spoke the words aloud as she scuffed the grass with the toe of her boot. For once, the distance to Goodwin Hall was worthwhile. She needed time to compose her thoughts. If she couldn’t put her argument to Susannah sensibly, then her elder sister would simply say that her emotions were running too high. That would discredit her argument before she’d even begun.

“If I can’t have beauty and purpose in my life, Lord, everything seems hopeless.” The moor didn’t care if she prayed aloud. Saying the words was strangely calming. If she couldn’t be married and have a home of her own, she would have to find fulfillment in work. If the methods of her work were being proscribed, well, then it felt as though the walls were closing in on her.

She continued to mull over those thoughts, and breathed lungful after lungful of fresh air. Already the blond stone walls of Goodwin Hall loomed on the horizon. Goodwin meant Susannah, and Susannah meant wise counsel.

Yes, Susannah would surely see her side of the matter. Why had she taken this long to see her sister? She’d pinned all her hopes on a proposal from Lieutenant Walker, that’s why. No need to raise a fuss when she had been so certain that she would marry and leave the shop. Well, that wasn’t happening, and she needed to make the best of her situation. The blank horror of the lieutenant’s desertion still held her in its grasp.

In time she would grieve over her dead romance. Now she must think of her future. If she wasn’t to be anyone’s bride, she should at least be allowed a say in her own business.

She gathered her skirts and mounted the wide, gracious steps of the hall. No sooner had she set foot on the second step than the door opened, and Baxter stood, waiting with a patient and solemn air.

“Miss Rebecca. No one told me you were coming.” The butler, no doubt accustomed now to the clockwork precision Susannah had imposed on the manor house, frowned. “But you are welcome all the same. Mrs. Hale is in the library.”

“Don’t fret, Baxter,” she reassured him as she strolled into the vestibule. “This is an impromptu call.” She removed her bonnet, intending to hang it on a peg; but with consummate skill, Baxter slipped it out of her grasp and placed it on the nearby mahogany table.

“Yes, Miss Rebecca. Mr. Holmes is visiting as well. They are having tea. I’ll bring another setting for you.” With a wave of his hand, Baxter shooed her down the hallway toward the library.

Paul Holmes? Becky slowed to a halt before the library door. If Paul was here, had he told them about meeting her on the moor yesterday? How was she supposed to speak with Susannah about the shop if they had company? Oh, this was just like her, to meet him here again. She grasped a tendril of hair that slipped loose from her chignon and twirled it.

Where was the courage that stiffened her spine yesterday? She’d had no qualms about defending herself to Paul then. Circumstances were different, though. Confronting Paul, Susannah and Daniel all at once was, well, akin to bearding a lion in its den.

Becky took a deep, steadying breath and deftly unwound her finger from her hair. Then she pushed open the door.

Daniel and Paul rose as she entered the room, and Susannah turned in her chair. “Becky, my dear, we weren’t expecting you. Not that you aren’t welcome, of course.” Susannah kissed her cheek as Becky leaned down, and then Susannah glanced over her shoulder. “Where’s Nan?”

“At the shop.” Becky settled across from her sister, nodding her hellos to Daniel and Paul. Paul caught her glance and held it so long that heat began rising in her cheeks. She averted her gaze and turned a fraction to the right in her chair so he could only see her in profile. There. It was altogether uncomfortable to be stared at. He needn’t be so fresh.

Susannah glanced over at Becky, her gray-green eyes keen and perceptive. “Whatever is the matter?” Then she turned to Daniel. “Would you ring the bell? I’ll have Baxter bring more tea things so Becky may join us.”

“Baxter already said he would.” If only she could somehow, wordlessly communicate the need for privacy with Susannah. She lifted her eyebrows and widened her eyes, silently pleading for Susannah to understand.

“Something is wrong. Out with it,” Susannah commanded in that familiar, eldest sister tone of voice. The morning sunlight gilded her auburn hair, touching it with gold. “Have you two been quarreling again? Honestly,” she turned to her husband, “sometimes I think I should have kept the shop. But Becky and Nan got on so well when we were all together. Now that I am not there, they fight. If I weren’t so busy with Goodwin...”

How provoking to be talked about like she was just a child, squabbling with Nan over a toy. “She has no artistic spirit at all, Susannah,” Becky burst out. “All she cares about is how much money we can make. She runs roughshod over my designs, and insists I work with inferior materials.”

Susannah shook her head. “Becky, do calm yourself. Remember, you can always count ten.”

Becky rolled her eyes. Count ten indeed. That was Susannah’s remedy for her truly awe-inspiring temper.

“You two must learn to work together. What Nan proposes is sound. We cannot expect only genteel clientele. Now that we are thoroughly entrenched in Tansley Village, we must include the kinds of goods that everyone can afford.” Susannah spoke as though she were reasoning with a toddler.

Becky opened her mouth to protest, but Daniel cut her short, a reassuring smile hovering around his lips. “Shall we give you two some privacy?”

“Actually, I have a solution I think could benefit us all.” Paul’s voice, rumbling from his corner, jerked Becky to attention. “If it’s amenable to the lady, I’d like to hire Becky.”

* * *

Three pairs of eyes turned toward Paul—Susannah’s startled gray-green gaze, Daniel’s bemused green eyes, and a pair of violet-blue, decidedly defiant ones that belonged to Becky. Well, at least he had her attention, even if she did seem a little affronted by his presence.

“I haven’t told anyone this, but my youngest sister, Juliana, passed away.” As he spoke, Becky’s mouth opened slightly, and the rebellious light in her eyes dimmed. He glanced away. Susannah made a murmur of apology, but he cut her short with a wave of his hand. If anyone showed him sympathy now, he might break down and that would not be acceptable. Better to stick to the facts of the matter at hand. “She died of a fever in Italy, where she had been living for some time. She left behind a daughter who is now my ward.”

“I am sorry to hear that Juliana died, old fellow.” Daniel shook his head and sighed. “I know she was your favorite sister.”

“Yes, well. She’s gone.” His tone was brusque, even to his own ears, and he covered the moment by clearing his throat. “The point of the matter is that her daughter, Juliet, is coming to live with me. She’s only about two years old. I’ve no idea if Juliana employed anyone suitable for her care—” lovable, impractical Juliana; how ridiculous to think of her employing servants, much less caring for a child! “—and at any rate, I want a proper English girl to bring her up. At least until I can place her in school.” He clenched his jaw, wrestling back any traces of grief. “Becky, I would like it if you cared for Juliet until she is of age.”

“But Becky has no experience as a governess.” Susannah’s brows drew together. “She also has her duties at the shop to consider. Surely there is someone among your tenants or ours that could do? At least until a nursemaid can be hired from London?”

Paul raised his head and fixed Becky with a searching look. If she didn’t appear interested, then he would have no choice but to agree with Susannah. But Becky sat back in her chair, twirling a lock of her brown hair around one finger, an absorbed expression drifting across her features. “I’ve thought of that, too,” he admitted. “But the circumstances of Juliet’s birth, and of Juliana’s stay in Italy, might be cause for gossip among people who don’t know my family well. I can’t raise my niece under a cloud of disgrace. I feel I can trust your family with decorum. Moreover, Becky bears a passing resemblance to my sister. That could make the adjustment easier for Juliet.”

“The child’s comfort and welfare must be considered above all else,” Daniel agreed. “If you feel that Becky is the right person for the job, then it remains only to see how the shop can fare without her there, and whether or not she feels equal to the task.”

Paul shifted his regard back over to her, and Becky raised her eyes to his. There was no defiance, no rebellion, no anger or annoyance in her gaze any longer.

“I feel equal to the task.” Though the words were spoken quietly, there was strength to her tone that was intensely heartening. “In truth, I am glad of the opportunity.”

“But Becky, what of your duties at the shop? Of course, I am gratified for Paul’s trust in our family—” Susannah gave him a brisk nod “—but you cannot care for a child and continue to work as a milliner. The shop was our dream, don’t you remember? You can’t simply give up on it and allow your sister to carry the weight alone.”

“The shop was your dream, not mine.” While Becky didn’t mince words, her tone remained gentle and strong. “When we worked together, it was fun. I love designing bonnets, Susannah. And I love all the handiwork that goes with it. But since you left, it’s not enjoyable any longer. Nan and I argue all the time. I feel stifled now, as though I don’t have a say in anything that happens.”

Susannah sat back against her chair, flinging her hands in the air. “You two never argued before. I was envious of your closeness, in fact, before I wed Daniel. And now?” She shook her head as though exasperated by her sister.

“Before you left the shop, you hired Bets and Rose. They help Nan with much of the work. Most of my designs are discarded or greatly altered before Nan will allow them onto the shop floor. I don’t do much for the business any longer, Susannah. It’s ruining my friendship with Nan. You’re right—we used to get on much better than we do now. We fight. I want the chance to stay close to her, even if we don’t agree.” Becky turned to Paul. “When will Juliet arrive?”

Paul shrugged. “I was informed of Juliana’s death only recently. Daniel, you recall my younger brother, George, the sea captain? He made arrangements so that my niece could travel to England in one of our yachts. So I expect she should arrive within a week. I am sending a servant to meet the boat.” That would be the best way to handle it. No personal connection that way. Nothing to upset or disturb his routine. Perhaps he could even arrange to be away when she arrived. That way, he wouldn’t be reminded of Juliana or her lonely death.

“No, indeed. We shall travel there together. Poor child, she will be so frightened and confused—” Becky broke off as a discreet knock sounded on the door, and Baxter entered with another setting for tea. “Thank you, Baxter. I am famished.”

The butler gave a courtly nod and excused himself. Paul allowed Becky’s comment to fade. He was her employer and he would decide when and even if they were going to meet Juliet’s boat or not. But he still needed to win Becky fully to his side. The time for setting out the rules would be later.

Susannah turned to Daniel. “She’s already made up her mind, and I appear to have no say in this. Consider my throne well and truly abdicated.”

Daniel threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t know that it’s such a bad idea. What Becky says is true. The shop seems to be harming her relationship with Nan. Why not allow her to try something new? As long as the shop is well staffed and Nan isn’t too burdened. Paul needs someone whom he can trust to be discreet. This opportunity could work out for the best for everyone involved.”

Susannah sighed and shook her head, turning to Paul. “My only wish is that we do all this on a trial basis. Becky has no experience with raising children. If she doesn’t like the job or doesn’t perform well with it, I think we should ask you to find a replacement. Does that meet with everyone’s approval?”

“I am sure Becky will do fine. Like all females, I am sure she has a mother’s instinct,” Paul rejoined in a hearty tone of voice—one that, hopefully, masked his relief. He’d not given much thought to how difficult it would be to talk of Juliana’s death aloud. “But if she’s not happy within three months, I’ll make inquiries of an agency in London.” He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the most difficult part of their discussion. “There must be some living arrangements, too. Juliet is so young—she will need care at all times of the day and night. I can either make arrangements for Becky to live in the east wing of Kellridge or I will need to provide her with a horse and carriage so that she can be reached at any time.”

The color in Becky’s cheeks rose and she gave her sister an uncertain glance as she sipped her tea. “I hadn’t thought of that. Juliet will need to have someone about at all times.”

Susannah straightened her posture and fixed Paul with a pointed gaze. Susannah’s expression could be truly formidable at times. “Paul has said he trusts our family. Therefore, I must return that trust in equal measure. If Paul can make the east wing your living quarters, and control any gossip so that no one will think anything untoward about your presence there, then I will agree. Provided you are comfortable with the arrangement.”

Paul’s heart began to beat hard against his rib cage. If only Becky would agree to the plan. He wouldn’t have to see Juliet at all, then. He could trust she was being well cared for, and he could make plans to be away from home as much as possible. He’d have little contact with the child. Then he would not have to suffer any painful reminders that Juliana was gone.

“I have to agree with my wife,” Daniel rumbled from his chair. “As long as everything is quite honorably handled, I would consent to Becky becoming a live-in nursemaid. I know it will, for you’ve already said you don’t want to incite gossip.”

Paul nodded. According to plan, this new development in his life would be handled to a nicety. The east wing would become Juliet’s nursery, and Becky would be there to care for her at all times. There you go. Every emotion, every detail, neatly tucked into its own compartment. He would never have to feel pain or anguish. He could continue living his life as he enjoyed, knowing that he upheld his duty in caring for Juliet. “Everything will be taken care of. As long as Becky accepts the position and these arrangements. At least for three months, so that we may see how it fares.” He turned to Becky, fixing her with the same look of authority he wielded with his servants. “Well, Becky? Will you be Juliet’s nursemaid?”

Becky drew herself up with a prideful gesture and placed her teacup to one side. Then she gave a regal nod. “I will.”


Chapter Three (#ulink_1bca5e60-9f9e-521d-803a-9d2b074ce78b)

“I still don’t see why you have to move away.” Nan’s voice verged on the quarrelsome. “After all, Kellridge is only a quarter of an hour from here. Why can’t you just stay there during the day?”

Becky folded another gown and tucked it into her valise with a deft hand. Now that the process of moving to Kellridge had begun, it was all rather exhilarating. In fact, she was hard-pressed to remain steady and calm when the desire to give in to giddiness was so great. “But Juliet is still quite young. I need to be with her at all times, even when she awakens at night.”

“That’s quite enough of being pettish, Nan.” Susannah glanced up from the small pile of nightgowns she was folding. “We’ve already had this discussion. This arrangement is beneficial to all parties. I won’t have my sisters fighting. We shan’t become estranged from one another. We’ve been through too much. If this will salvage your relationship, then ’tis well worth it.” She frowned and smoothed the bodice of one nightgown before handing it to Becky. “I can’t believe you two have argued this much. ’Tis troubling indeed.”

“But—” Nan caught Becky’s gaze and her blue eyes filled with tears “—I’ll miss you.”

Becky’s heart lurched in her chest. With one impulsive gesture, she gathered her little sister into her arms. Nan might be practical and efficient to a fault, but she would always be so dear. She patted Nan’s back with a soothing gesture. “Don’t cry. This is a good thing, I promise. You’ll have room to grow the shop as you wish. I can try to find work that suits me better. I want to be there for Juliet. She has so little in this world. I won’t be far, and I shall visit you often. I promise.”

Nan circled her arms around Becky’s waist and they stood, embracing, for a moment. How long had it been since she felt this close to Nan? Months, at least. Well before Susannah’s marriage. They had been such chums back then. When Susannah left, the steadying influence had drifted out of their daily lives and they’d squabbled over so many things, both big and small. Distance really was the best way to mend the fences between them.

Lieutenant Walker’s marriage still stung her deeply. In fact, it rather left her breathless to think how quickly he’d forgotten about her. The only way to overcome the humiliation was to prove herself worthy and useful to someone, even if she wasn’t a bride.

“That’s enough, you two.” Susannah’s gentle yet commanding voice broke into Becky’s thoughts. “Nan, go downstairs and brew some tea. I want to talk to Becky alone for a moment.”

Nan wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron and, giving Becky a watery smile, quit the room. Funny, Nan would never take orders from Becky that way. Only Susannah could boss them both around in that manner. Becky turned to face her sister, steeling herself for the lecture on deportment and decorum that was sure to come. Susannah was so particular about manners.

“When I was packing your vanity table, I came across this.” Susannah held up Lieutenant Walker’s letter. Becky gulped. Now the depths of her humiliation would be known.

Susannah sat on the bed, the mattress giving a mournful squeak as she did so. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you receiving letters from a man?”

Becky cast about for something—anything—intelligent to say. She should have packed the contents of her vanity table herself. Not that she had anything to hide—but still—trying to explain this was going to be an utterly mortifying experience. She shook her head, sending a silent plea that Susannah would drop the matter entirely.

“How did you meet him?” Susannah placed the envelope in Becky’s lap.

Of course not.

“His regiment was quartered in Tansley. We met by chance at the bakery one day.” A beautiful, sunny day, when the world was full of promise...

“A soldier? How often did you meet him? Has he proposed? Does Nan know?” Susannah was losing her temper, and if she did, then nothing could be done. She must confess the awful truth of her humiliation.

“Not much happened.” Funny. Looking back on it now, their friendship seemed so thin and insubstantial. Yet, at the time, it had meant the world. “We met a few times out on the moor and went for walks. I am sure it was nothing more than a pleasant diversion for him, for he wrote to tell me he has been wed. I’m such a fool, Susannah. I was so certain he was going to propose to me. I thought we both felt such a spark.” Her lips trembled violently and she pursed them for a moment to gather her wits. When it was safe to proceed, she continued. “I stayed with Nan and with the shop—even with things as bad as they had grown—because I was so sure I would soon be married. Then, when I received that letter, I found I just couldn’t bear it anymore.”

“Oh, Becky.” Susannah took her hands in her own and squeezed them. “You were always such a romantic little thing.”

“Well, I’m not any longer.” She straightened her spine and willed herself to stop shuddering and simpering like a ninny. “When Paul offered me the chance to be Juliet’s nursemaid, he opened my prison door. I can strike out on my own. I won’t have to be under Nan’s thumb anymore. I can learn to lead my own life.”

“Don’t give up being who you are. Your dreaminess and passionate views about life make you the Becky we know and love.” Susannah gazed at her with eyes that had turned a stormy-gray. “When I needed to be released from caring about the shop and being mother to the two of you, you set me free. Do you remember that night?”

Becky nodded, smiling a little at the memory. “Yes. Nan slept through our whole conversation.”

Susannah laughed. “Yes, she did. A placid soul, our Nan. But you gave me the freedom to love and to create a life of my own. So I now return the favor. Becky, if this is what you want, then go ahead. Don’t worry about the shop or about Nan. All will be well.”

“Thank you.” She would give up on love and romance. They nipped too deeply into her soul. From now on, despite Susannah’s well-meant warning, she would give them up and try to be useful. “I want to learn a trade. Now that I know I shan’t marry, I will become a nursemaid and a governess. When Juliet no longer needs me, I can find a job in another house.”

Susannah shook her head, her mouth quirking gently. “Don’t let one man ruin your hopes and dreams. You may yet find love with someone else, you know. You’re so young.”

“No, indeed.” Becky gave a defiant toss of her head. “I shall be an independent woman from now on.” And she would, too. She must prove—if to no one but herself—that she was of some value in this world. She was done with passion, tenderness and romance. No more walks on the moor for her. No more windswept moments with her long curls streaming behind her. There must be a reason for all of this. Perhaps this was God’s way of telling her that she needed a firmer foundation.

If that were so, then from now on, she would be as practical as...as...as that willow basket in the corner. She seized the letter, unfolded it, and tore it across three times.

Susannah watched her destruction of the missive, disapproval written plain across her pretty face. “If that’s what you wish.”

Becky continued her massacre of the missive, tearing it into little bits, heaping the pieces into a pile on her lap. Each rip brought both pain and relief, like removing a bandage from a wound. “This is precisely what I want. I cannot wait to start my life anew.”

* * *

Paul walked to the library window and flicked the curtains aside for the fifteenth time, peering out onto the lawn as rain streamed down from the sky. He’d sent the carriage for Becky over a quarter of an hour ago. Even with this spring shower causing a slight delay, she should be here by now. If only she’d hurry and get here, he could get her settled.

Then he could indulge in his baser habit, that of drink. He drank alone now that Daniel had disavowed liquor. Drinking helped dull the pain of an engagement that never came to fruition, of a marriage that never was, and of a partnership that was abruptly broken off, never to continue. And now, a drink would dull the pain of his failures as a brother, his complete inability to save Juliana from her willful, harmful path. But even when imbibing alone, he had a strict ritual. First, he must attend to business. Then, when his duties as master had been attended to, he could give himself some leeway.

This interminable waiting strained his nerves. If only he could be done and shut the door on this particular responsibility.

His brother, George, had helped arrange Juliet’s safe passage home, and now that Juliet’s itinerary was well planned, he needed to get Becky set up as governess. Then and only then, he could take himself off to London for a few months of self-indulgence.

At last his carriage flashed into view, tracing an undulating path over the sodden gravel and drawing to a halt before the front steps. Paul bounded out of the library and down the hall. His butler was wrenching the front door open when Paul hastened into the vestibule.

In fact, Wadsworth had already retrieved an umbrella and was preparing to shelter Miss Siddons with it. Perfect, just like clockwork. If he continued rushing about breathlessly, he’d seem ridiculously out of place in such a well-run household. He grabbed hold of his dignity and assumed the mask of cynical good humor that had served him so well for the past decade or so.

“Miss Siddons.” He bowed as she scurried inside. “Where are your sisters? I had thought Susannah would be with you.”

“No.” She gave him a brisk smile and allowed Wadsworth to take her wrap. “I come on my own, as you see.”

Interesting. Was this his first glimpse of Becky’s independence? Yet, he couldn’t make too much of it, not with his butler standing right there. “Wadsworth, see to it that the library is set for tea. I shall show Miss Siddons her quarters and then we will meet in the library to discuss my niece’s schedule.”

“Very good, sir.” His butler gave a respectful bow and headed off for the kitchen.

“I thought your housekeeper would show me about,” Becky interjected as he led her toward the stairs. “This seems rather unusual.”

“Mrs. Clairbourne will of course meet you later, but I always show my new help over the house. I like things to be well under my control, and I find it is communicated more easily by myself, at least the first time.” He looked down at her as they climbed the last step. Her brow was furrowed as though his words confused her. Bother. He had to explain it better, so he didn’t sound such a tyrant. “You see, Kellridge has been under my care for at least six years. More, if you count the decisions I made when I was a lad. It runs with precision and timing. This is how I keep the pendulum swaying, if that makes sense.”

She nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

He motioned for her to follow him to the east wing. It really was a nice part of the house. Mrs. Clairbourne had done amazing things with it since Juliet’s arrival was announced. The walls were painted a pretty shade of pale yellow, and the dour family portraits had been removed. Now a few gilded mirrors reflected their profiles as he took Becky to her new quarters.

“This is your room.” He opened the door, freshly painted with a glossy coat of white. “You can see the connecting door there. That will lead you to Juliet’s room.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” Becky stepped into the room and looked about her, her hands clasped over her chest. What was different about her today? She seemed...tamer. Perhaps it was her hair. Instead of streaming down her back in bouncy curls, it was tucked up high on her head. Shame that pretty hair wasn’t being shown in its full glory, but she did have a graceful neck all the same.

He abruptly switched off his thoughts. He might be a connoisseur of female beauty, but it was hardly appropriate to think of Becky as anything but his help in his time of need. In fact, he would leave her alone now, for if he continued to show her about the house, he might continue to dwell upon her loveliness, and that simply would not do.

“Well, I shall leave you to explore for a few moments. The bellpull is here—” he waved at a cord by the door “—and in the mornings, you can ring for your breakfast to be brought to your room. You can poke about in Juliet’s room, too. If there’s anything you require, make a list. I shall try to see to it before I go to London.”

“When are you leaving for town?” Becky turned to him, her firmly compressed lips registering frank disapproval.

“In the next day or so.” Surely she wasn’t going to start that nonsense about meeting the boat again.

“Paul, I really do feel most strongly that you should stay. Juliet will be so confused and so frightened. You must let her know that she is welcome in your home and that you will take care of her.” Becky removed her bonnet and her gloves, casting them onto her dressing table. “How far is the ship docking from Kellridge?”

“The ship should be arriving in Cleethorpes, a mere half day from here. Not that it matters.” He was torn. Should he try to tease her out of this ridiculous notion? Or should he simply play his role as lord of the manor? “I need to be in London, and so I shall go. You’ll be on hand to welcome her. That should be enough.”

“But Paul—you must want to see her. She’s your niece, after all. As her uncle, surely you owe her something more. She is your responsibility.”

Her words broke a dam within his soul. He could not let those feelings out. Feeling anything—rage, grief, pain—was a terrifying experience. He felt that dam burst once six years ago when Ruth had died. She was going to be his helpmeet. She was someone on whom he could depend. When she died, a black hole of despair had swallowed him, and he had cried. No more. Never again.

“While you are in my house and while you are in my employ, I must make a few things quite clear to you, Miss Siddons. Though I am a friend of your family, I am still in control. My word here at Kellridge is final.” He cleared his throat. “I have great respect for my responsibilities, and I take care of them as a man should. I am doing what I can to make Juliet’s life comfortable and pleasant. I don’t need any reminders from you about what I should and should not do. Do I make myself quite clear?”

She took a step back, her delicate features hardening. “Perfectly clear, Mr. Holmes.” She bobbed a brief curtsy. “As your newly employed governess, I feel it my responsibility to do what is best for Juliet’s care. As such, with all the dreadful traveling the child has endured, only to arrive in a foreign land where she may not even know the language, I simply cannot allow her to arrive unwelcomed. Someone must be there to embrace her and assure her everything will be fine. Therefore,” Becky folded her hands before her and gave him a frank stare, “I will require a carriage to take me to Cleethorpes on the appointed day of Juliet’s arrival.” Becky folded her hands before her and gave him a frank stare.

His sardonic humor began to creep back, triggered by her calmly defiant manner. “Is that an order, Miss Siddons?”

“It is a reasonable request, Mr. Holmes.” Her voice had lost all its sweet charm, and her lovely eyes burned—with anger or with disappointment? No matter. He had his plan all laid out, no matter what she said.

“When word arrives, I shall make sure that Wadsworth knows you are to have a carriage at your disposal, and a servant to ride along.” Her gaze was making him distinctly uneasy. Somehow, it was as though she had the upper hand. The only way to win back control was to return to his sarcastically amused self. “So. Now that’s been decided. Join me for tea in a few moments in the library.”

“I must refuse your invitation, Mr. Holmes. I shall retire to my room and ring for tea when I am ready for it.” She gave another brief curtsy that signaled—more clearly than speech—that he was being summarily dismissed.

Should he press on? Make her come down to tea? After all, he had wanted to speak with her about Juliet’s upbringing. She was in his employ. He glanced at the set of her jaw and the fire in her eyes. No. Better to leave while he still had some modicum of authority.

He’d give her time to cool off, and then they would speak sensibly. Becky Siddons was supposed to solve his problems and make life easier for him. But already she was causing more trouble than he’d ever dreamed.


Chapter Four (#ulink_58a43bf1-20a0-5f7a-9a68-b08f6afdb52f)

The dress was hers, all right. Becky gave herself a brisk mental shake to clear her mind and held her arms up in the air as the servant—Kate, her name was Kate—draped the fabric over her shoulders and tied the tapes in place. But it was the only familiar thing in this room. Kellridge was not her home yet, not after just one night here.

How very odd that someone besides her sister was helping her dress. In the mornings, Nan would come to her aid and then she would help Nan turn about. She’d shiver from the early morning drafts blowing in from the opened window, and Nan would be scolding her for lollygagging. Then they’d rush downstairs to eat a hurried breakfast before opening the shop.

But in her new room at Kellridge, a fire crackled in the grate, warding off the morning chill. Kate, with deft fingers, worked quickly to help her dress without badgering her one bit. Soon she would be enjoying a delicious breakfast, brought up to her on a tray, no less.

She should be happy. What luxury this new position was bringing to her workaday life. What refinement.

And no nagging, scolding sisters.

Sudden tears stung her eyes and she bit back a sob. If only she could go home to Nan. Prosaic and practical as she was, at least she was familiar. There was quite a difference between dreaming up a new life for oneself and living it out. Paul had been so horrid, so high-handed and lord-of-the-manor-ish. Of course she’d only seen his carefree and joking side when he came to Goodwin. Now that she knew how stern he could be, she couldn’t escape it by simply ducking out of the room when he came to call. She was not only living in his home, she was his employee. If she was going to succeed in this new life, she had to become comfortable with the unfamiliar and learn to bear Paul’s domineering ways.

Kate fluffed out the skirt of her gown and took a step backward.

“You look very nice, miss. You wear white quite well. It’s such a good contrast to your dark hair and eyes.” Kate clasped her hands behind her back and beamed. “Did you do that embroidery yourself?”

“Yes.” Becky smiled. It was always so nice to have others appreciate her efforts with the needle. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Well, I did hear that you and your sisters have a millinery shop, so I figured you must design your own clothes.” Kate tilted her head to one side and surveyed the hem of Becky’s skirt with a critical eye. “My ma was a nimble hand at drawn thread work, and she taught me to appreciate it. Never could do it well myself, though.”

“Was your mother in service here at Kellridge?” Perhaps by reaching out to Kate, she could begin to navigate this new world she’d cast herself into.

“Yes, she worked for Mr. Holmes—not my master, but his father. And of course, Mrs. Holmes, who died three years after Miss Juliana was born. I grew up with Miss Juliana and worked as her maid, so my family has been part of Kellridge for many years. In fact, my sister works in his home in London.” Kate flicked a bit of dust off Becky’s sleeve and gave a brisk smile. “Shall I bring your breakfast up?”

“Certainly. Thank you for your help.” Becky watched as Kate quit the room, closing the door gently behind her. The frost had melted just a little when Kate spoke kindly and familiarly to her and all at once, this journey didn’t seem so insurmountable. In fact, she was charged with a renewed vigor to see this new adventure through to the end. A little kindness and compassion worked wonders in life.

Becky glanced at her reflection in the looking glass. She was a nursemaid now, and she had someone that she must care for. She tucked and coiled her hair up on top of her head and stabbed it into place with a dozen hairpins. If even a little touch of friendliness made this much of a difference in her outlook, how much of a change would it make in the life of a child? Why, it could mean the world to a scared little girl who’d just lost her mother.

That settled it. Whether he felt it necessary or no, she must convince Paul to come with her to meet Juliet at the docks. A personal plea, one from the heart. Surely if he heard how much it would mean to Juliet, he would relent. She must tell him, face-to-face, this morning. That meant tracking him down to tell him so, without delay.

How long would it take a servant to bring her breakfast? And where would the master of the house be at this hour of the morning?

She had no idea. But she was Juliet’s voice in this house, and hers was a voice that must be heard.

She gathered her skirts and quit the room. Kellridge was a puzzle to her still, even after Paul’s brief tour the day before. She couldn’t very well go knocking on every door looking for Paul, but she could at least rule out the east wing. He had made it quite clear that that part of the house was for the nursery only.

The best course of action would be to go downstairs and into the west wing of the house. She rushed down the stairs, brushing her hand against the satin-smooth walnut banister. Then she crossed through the vestibule, the thick Aubusson carpet muffling the sound of her slippers. Funny, for a home so thoroughly staffed, not one servant passed by as she made her way to the west wing. And the silence in the house was deafening. Not even the ticking of a clock marred the absolute quiet of the hallway.

The rooms—how perfect and still they were. Each one had its door flung open to the world, and admitted a view of balance and precision. The music room fairly glowed with instruments polished to a high gleam, yet those very instruments sat mute, crying out to be played. A billiard room, handsomely masculine yet vacant. A small sitting room, pretty and elegant but as blank as a canvas awaiting an artist’s touch.

She paused in the doorway of the library, a room redolent of aged leather and paper, and breathed deeply. Shelves lined the room from floor to ceiling, and on those shelves rested books. Books that marched up and down the shelves in perfectly ordered precision, grouped by binding color as well as by size. The overall effect, in contrast with the sweet and musty smell she breathed in, jarred her nerves. The contents of this room were surely well-loved, judging by the age of some of the volumes on the shelves. Order was an affront to its dignity. An old beloved library should be cozy, or at the very least, some disorder should mar its sterile perfection.

She stepped into the room and crossed over to a large, round mahogany table that commanded her attention. A massive arrangement of roses and chrysanthemums rested on its smooth, gleaming surface. She plucked a slightly wilted leaf from a rose stem and cast it onto the floor. She took a step backward and surveyed the result. Better, but not enough. She tugged another leaf from the arrangement and cast it onto the surface of the table.

There. A small act of defiance, but a necessary one. She wouldn’t openly rebel against Paul’s fastidious standards, but a few stabs at insubordination might do Kellridge a world of good.

She backed out of the room, her heart pounding in her chest at her temerity, and continued her progress down the hall. One door stood resolutely closed to the outside world, in direct contrast to the others that had been flung open.

Likely this was his study. Perhaps he was in there?

She couldn’t very well fling the door open. She wasn’t brazen enough for that. She knocked twice, rapping her knuckles against the glossy painted wood.

“Enter.”

Becky paused a moment. What should she say? She’d come here so certain of her purpose that she hadn’t given a moment’s thought as to how to communicate that purpose.

“Parker, is that you? I said enter.”

She gathered her skirts along with her courage and opened the door.

* * *

Paul didn’t bother to glance up as he perused his ledger book. “What took you so long, Parker? I must finish these accounts before I leave for London.”

“That is precisely what I wish to talk to you about. Your departure.” A soft feminine voice, utterly unlike his estate manager’s, spoke. Startled, he glanced up.

“I thought we had come to an agreement about this yesterday.” He tilted back in his chair and clasped his hands together, drawing them upward and cradling his head in them. If he affected an air of breezy unconcern, perhaps she would drop the matter entirely. Or at least, not become so overwrought about it. Her trembling, fluttering manner was forcing that uncomfortable sensation to the surface, like something crawling against his skin.

Too much emotion. With Becky, every sentiment bubbled right to her surface. How downright fatiguing it all was.

“Imagine how she must feel—a little girl journeying to a faraway land. How lonely she shall be! You should meet her at the docks and make her feel welcome.”

He forced himself to stare at the ceiling, avoiding any glance at Becky. Her voice was still soft, but she was commanding him. This was not a plea, but an edict. He must—for the sake of the child, of course—expose himself to the raw wounds of Juliana’s death, his own failings as her brother, his disgust at how poorly things had been managed, as well as all the chaos and upheaval of Juliana’s rushed marriage.

Becky Siddons definitely did not understand what she was asking. He brought his hands down upon the desk and looked her in the eyes.

“If you are accusing me of shirking my duty, Miss Siddons, let me remind you that I brought you on board here solely to act as Juliet’s caregiver.” He used the same clipped tone of voice he reserved for negotiating contracts and setting terms in his business dealings. “I’ve converted an entire wing of my home to serve as her nursery and your living quarters. Moreover, I am leaving a carriage at your full disposal so that you may personally meet her upon her arrival. Juliet is being very well cared for. I haven’t neglected my duty at all.”

“I am not saying that you are,” Becky argued. “But think of how nice it would be for her to see her uncle’s face.”

Did Juliet even comprehend she had family in England? No telling what his sister had said about her relatives. No doubt that blackguard she’d married had a thing or two to say about the Holmes family. Paul had never seen a portrait of Juliet. Did she look like her mother? Or perhaps she favored her father.

A sharp pain stabbed through his being at the thought of little Juliet’s face—probably so like her mother’s, with a dimple in her chin—and he winced, closing his eyes against the anguish. He breathed in deeply, allowing the icy frost of disinterest to creep over his soul. He must remove himself entirely from all passion and sensation.

He grew so cold that when he opened his eyes, ’twas strange indeed to see sunlight streaming in through the windowpane. Surely when one was chilled to the bone, there should be a storm raging outside.

“I have given you my answer about this matter.” He met Becky’s disapproving gaze. “Never ask me again, Miss Siddons.”

She recoiled as though he’d slapped her. “Very well. I shan’t.” Though she spoke little, her rigid pose and heightened color spoke volumes. Becky was quite offended, but she would soon get past it. As with everyone else at Kellridge, she would simply have to learn that in some matters, he was both right and unyielding.

He unclasped his hands and sat forward. At least she showed genuine concern for Juliet’s welfare. In that way, she was the perfect person to be his niece’s caregiver. She was willing to defy him and to press her point to make sure her charge’s needs were at the forefront of every discussion. ’Twas admirable, in a way. But she had overstepped a boundary, and she should never be allowed to cross that line again.

He cleared his throat. “So, now that we understand each other, I will let you know that I am leaving for London on the morrow and shan’t be back for some time.” Why had he said on the morrow? He had been planning it for two days’ time from now. That uncomfortable tension must be broken, and the only way to do so was to run away. He was just running sooner rather than later.

Becky nodded, her features frozen and impassive. “Very well, sir. When may we expect your return?”

“Not until after the season ends.” He had planned to come home sooner, but why not stay the length of summer? ’Twould give plenty of time for Juliet to become acclimated, and then he would be home—after that, he could leave to go hunting in Scotland during the autumn months.

She cast her glance down toward the floor. “I hope that you have a good stay.”

“I am sure I shall. And of course, if you should need anything, you may send a servant into town. I have runners that often traverse the distance between Kellridge and London. I like to be kept informed of matters here, and shall continue to attend to Juliet’s needs even when I am not in residence.” There. That showed that he was keeping his niece in his thoughts at all times. Not all men had such a system, but for his needs, having runners allowed him to keep the tight rein on his household that Kellridge required. It would work well for attending to his ward.

“You are most generous.” Her eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the floor, but that same spirited temper—the one that had flared when he’d met her out on the moor—was beginning to show. The quirk of her mouth alone spoke to her burgeoning sarcasm.

He wasn’t behaving in a monstrous fashion—not if she understood his side of the matter. He just couldn’t bear heightened emotions, or passion, or anything that reminded him of his own failings. What he felt before still held true—Becky must learn her place at Kellridge and in his life. Even so, for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t bear for Becky to think ill of him.

Whenever the road got bumpy at Kellridge, he could always smooth the path with gifts. Perhaps she would think kindly on him if he offered something, anything.

“Is your room to your liking? You can change it around, you know. If the green doesn’t suit you, I could have the room redone.”

“No, it’s lovely.” She rose, her bearing reminding him of what Lady Jane Grey must have looked like on the way to the scaffold—an affronted, yet subdued, sovereign. “You are very kind, Mr. Holmes. My room here is a palace compared to my usual accommodations. May I have your permission to withdraw?”

“Of course.” He rose. Better to make one last stab at peace. “Anything you need from London, for yourself or for the child, please do let me know. Send a runner, if you wish.”

Becky nodded, her head held high. “I am sure we will want for nothing, but you are good to think of us. I wish you a safe journey.” She bobbed a slight curtsy, and with a swish of creamy skirts, she was gone.

Paul sat back at his desk, rubbing his thumb meditatively over the smooth pages of his ledger book. He might have the running of things at Kellridge for now. However, this little milliner with her charming dimple was likely to sorely challenge his long-held and unopposed reign.


Chapter Five (#ulink_06fdd9b2-a008-579c-bcf5-6ac8c3eb5731)

Anger surged through Becky as she marched back down the hallway with as much dignity as she could muster. She couldn’t even think of strong enough terms to adequately express her outrage. Her hands shook and she grasped them together to still their trembling.

Paul Holmes and his autocratic, domineering ways.

His lack of concern for others.

The clockwork precision and cold, emotionless way he lived his life and ran Kellridge.

Thinking that a few trinkets would make everything better.

’Twas rather like applying a mustard plaster to a broken heart.

Becky paused in the doorway of the library. Her leaves—the leaves she had scattered not moments ago—were already gone. Picked up by some silent servant, no doubt.

For a brief moment, she simply stared. How could they already have vanished? The mechanical preciseness with which Kellridge was run was truly astonishing. She hadn’t seen the servants cleaning as she passed by before. No, someone must routinely make the rounds to ensure that every room was exactly as it should be, not a speck of dust marring a polished surface, not a single leaf disgracing a thick, plush carpet.

She might fling back her head and howl at the absurdity of it. Why was Paul so afraid—aye, that’s what it was, genuine fear—of disorder, of disarray, of basic human emotion? In the brief moments before he shut her out completely, she had glimpsed the stark terror in his dark eyes.

Well, it didn’t signify why Paul was afraid. Not really. He wouldn’t change in that, not while he was lord of the manor. He was too used to everyone obeying his every command and anticipating his needs. She must either accept it, or leave.

Becky leaned her head against the satin wood of the doorframe and closed her eyes, willing herself to calm down. God must have sent her here for a reason, and for His sake, she could not waver. She could not leave. Leaving meant failure. Leaving meant forsaking His purpose for her life. Or at the very least, what she thought His purpose might be. By giving up now, she would be admitting she wasn’t good at anything. She wasn’t a milliner, and she wasn’t a nursemaid. She certainly wasn’t any man’s bride. For the rest of her life, she would be a failure at everything, and that would be intolerable.

Besides, she must be here for Juliet. No child should grow up in a home devoid of all feeling and emotion. She must remain as long as she could for Juliet’s sake. She would make their corner of Kellridge a pleasant and cheerful place. What if God had called her here just for this reason? Did He promise it would be easy or effortless?

“I must learn to choose my battles with Paul,” she murmured under her breath. Somehow, saying the words aloud gave them strength. “I cannot change him, but I can always try to act in Juliet’s best interest.”

“Excuse me, my dear,” an unfamiliar voice piped up behind her.

Becky gasped and whirled around. An older woman smiled gently at her, the late-morning sun reflected in prisms of light in her spectacles. Her graying hair was bound in braids around her head and she was gowned in a simple dress of cinnamon moiré. There was something more than just practicality and elegance in her bearing. In the brown eyes behind the spectacles, Becky glimpsed warmth and good humor.

“I must admit I heard someone speaking, and I wondered if perhaps there was something amiss.” She gave a slight bow of her head. “Are you by any chance Miss Siddons, our new nursemaid?”

“I am.” Becky grasped after her manners and bobbed a slight curtsy.

“I am Mrs. Clairbourne, the housekeeper. I do apologize for not meeting you yesterday and showing you about the house myself. Mr. Holmes prefers to meet new employees and introduce them to Kellridge personally.” She gave a slight tilt of her head, and the corners of her mouth turned downward with something like mirth. “So, I let him do as he wishes, though I always want to do my own introductions afterward.”

Becky nodded. “I understand.” Perhaps Mrs. Clairbourne was choosing her battles, as well. “Kellridge certainly is well run. I imagine nothing slips by Mr. Holmes’s notice.”

“Well, he did come into the running of this house very young.” Mrs. Clairbourne motioned for Becky to follow her. “He was only eighteen when the elder Mr. Holmes passed away. Still at an age when most young men are trying to learn their places in the world, and so many siblings to care for! All of them determined to follow their own paths—’twas rather like trying to keep kittens in one basket. I imagine that discipline is how he managed to take control and run the estate so well.” Mrs. Clairbourne paused as they entered the vestibule leading to the other wings of the house. “Would you like to join me for a little tea? I usually have a few moments to myself in the morning before we begin worrying about dinner.”

“I’d like that very much.” How nice not to have to retire and sit by oneself in the east wing. She really had nothing to occupy herself with until Juliet’s arrival, and that was not for another three days’ time. She could visit her sisters, of course, but if she left now, she might struggle with coming back. Even though she was beginning to think she had been called here, it would be mighty hard indeed not to crumple and fold when she saw Nan’s practical little face, or embraced fiery Susannah.

“Follow me, then. I have a little sitting room all my own.” Mrs. Clairbourne led the way through the back of the house, the part Becky had only glimpsed in passing when Paul had escorted her to her room the previous day. What a vast, rambling building this was. Becky craned her neck backward and peered all around her like a goose—after all, she was trailing behind the housekeeper, and no one would notice if she gawked. She would never find her way back to the east wing of the house on her own. She certainly would never find Mrs. Clairbourne’s sitting room again, not without a map and a compass.

The housekeeper ushered her into a small, tucked-away room under one of the back staircases. How marvelous—it might have been a large closet at one time, but now it saw use as a lovely sitting room. Two deep wing-back chairs flanked an arched window with leaded panes. A vase of the very same chrysanthemums that had graced the library held cheerful court on a mahogany table. An orange tabby cat slept on one of the chairs, curled into a striped ball.

“I would never have guessed such a room even existed.” Becky smiled, clasping her hands before her. “How different it is from everything else at Kellridge. So—alive.”

“Do sit. Tabs, move out of the way.” Mrs. Clairbourne shooed the cat out of the chair and patted the cushions down. “I’ve a tea tray right here. Cream or sugar?”

Becky settled into her chair and stretched out her slippered foot to scratch Tabs’s back. The cat arched in appreciation and flopped onto the floor as if she were a rag doll. “Sugar, please.”

“Here.” The housekeeper handed over a delicate china cup. “Be careful, it’s rather hot.”

Becky blew on her tea and, as Mrs. Clairbourne busied herself with her cup, absorbed the atmosphere of this jovial little nook. “I rather think you’d need a place like this in Kellridge,” she admitted as Mrs. Clairbourne sank into her chair. “It’s so lively and warm. The rest of the house is so sterile.”

“Sterile?” The housekeeper drew her eyebrows together over her spectacles. “I don’t know about that. I do know that the master likes everything to be in place. He’s a good man, and the house keeps me hopping.”

“Oh, I don’t mean to offend.” Here she was, bungling her first chance at companionship at Kellridge. “The house is lovely. I’ve just never lived anywhere so precise. I rather wonder at bringing a two-year-old here.”

“Well, that’s why you are here.” Mrs. Clairbourne took a careful sip of her tea. “Mr. Holmes anticipated that young Miss Juliet would be a handful. He knew we have too much to do as it is. So, with his usual foresight, he brought you on board to see that things run smoothly.” She gave a little smile as she stirred her tea. “I must admit to a little mother’s pride where he is concerned. I’ve watched him since he was just a wee baby himself, and he did his family credit when he took over. You’ll never see an estate so well run as Kellridge, not in the whole of Derbyshire.”

Becky tasted her tea. Lovely—just the bracing kind of thing she needed after her disappointing morning. She’d have to tread carefully—Mrs. Clairbourne was clearly proud of Paul and, because of that pride, would hasten to defend him from any perceived criticism. If she were to preserve this connection, she must be more subtle. “I agree. The house is quite beautiful. You’ve done wonders with the east wing. I know Juliet will appreciate it. I certainly do.”

“Good, I am so glad.” The housekeeper fairly beamed under Becky’s praise. “Anything you want, you know you may have it. Mr. Holmes is never stingy or mean. Do you need anything? Anything I’ve forgotten?”

Becky set her teacup aside and considered the matter. If she were in charge of Juliet and all her wants and needs, then she must keep her occupied. The suite they shared was delightful in every way, but was rather kitted out like a guest room for lords and ladies, not as a home for a child. “Toys,” she admitted finally. “We don’t have any toys, and I am sure that Juliet will want to play.”

“Of course. Why on earth did I neglect such an important detail?” The housekeeper sat up straight in her chair. “I am sure Mr. Holmes can send things from London, but they won’t arrive before Juliet is here.” She shook her head and made a tsking sound. “Whatever am I going to do? The shops in the village only have a few things. Nothing too entertaining for a child, I fear. I suppose we shall have to make something.”

If Paul knew she had just commissioned a lot of toys from his already overburdened staff, he would be furious. She had nothing to do for the foreseeable future. This task could keep her busy, and keep her from brooding until she was able to go and meet the child. “Perhaps there is a box of old things I could go through? Since Mr. Holmes had so many siblings, it may well be I could find some of their toys—clean them up and make them do until we can get more from London.”

“Excellent idea.” The housekeeper put her teacup aside with a brisk gesture. “In the attics, I am certain of it. We put trunks of Miss Juliana’s things away after she left for Italy.” She rose. “In fact, I believe you’ll find several things up there you can use,” she continued, punctuating each word with a wag of her forefinger. “Let me get the keys for you.” She rummaged through the string of keys about her waist, procuring a skeleton key with a filigree handle. “Here it is. Now, I could spare a footman...”

“No, indeed.” She could hunt for treasure all afternoon. A house as vast and rambling as Kellridge, with what had to be a storied past, would have all sorts of interesting things tucked away beneath its eaves. ’Twas the perfect scenario. She could enjoy looking through all the articles of Kellridge’s past, imagining the stories behind each item. She would be out of everyone’s way, and most importantly, she would be doing something nice for her charge. “I couldn’t ask you to add to anyone’s duties, and I have nothing with which to occupy myself as it is.”

“Well...” The housekeeper trailed off, as though considering the matter. “I hate for you to do all that lifting alone, without help.”

“If I need assistance, I promise I shall come down and ask for it.” Sudden gladness rushed through Becky. Mrs. Clairbourne was such a dear. If she could but cultivate her friendship with the housekeeper, Kellridge could be livable. The prospect of having something to do for the next few days was heartening. “How do I find the attic?”

“You’ll want to take the back staircase all the way to the third floor.” The housekeeper opened the door and ushered Becky into the hallway. “When you reach the top of the stairs, the attic door will be to your left. Are you quite certain you will be all right? I do feel guilty about asking you to grub around among those dusty trunks.”

“You didn’t ask—I volunteered.” Becky gave the housekeeper a bright smile and accepted the key. “I am very glad to do my part to make Juliet welcome here.”

She began the long trek up the back staircase. Each step was as though she were marking her new path, starting out on her journey, and she prayed silently for strength and wisdom as she ascended. At the top of the stairs, she might find toys for Juliet. In some small way, she was also going to find a place for herself at Kellridge.

* * *

Paul cast his quill aside and stretched as Wadsworth bustled into his study with the afternoon tea. “I’m leaving tomorrow, Wadsworth, instead of in two days’ time.” Though he laced the words with masterful nonchalance, each syllable grated on his nerves. His plan had always been to leave two days hence. Changing that plan now went against the grain.

The butler stiffened as he laid out the tea tray. He, too, hated change and the disorder it brought. “Indeed, sir?”

“Yes. I’ve decided there’s no use lolling about. I’ll strike out on the morrow. Business is waiting. Everything’s been packed, hasn’t it?”

“Well, yes, all is ready for your journey.” Wadsworth tucked a serviette under one of the saucers with his usual efficiency, and handed it across the desk to Paul. “Except for your carriage. Jim is seeing to the wheels, making sure they are in prime condition for traversing all the roads. He was planning on being ready in two days’ time, not tomorrow.”

Paul clenched his jaw and shook his head slowly. This was what came of changing the established order of things. “Hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I could take the landau instead.”

“I had rather thought the landau was for Miss Siddons’s use, when she was called to fetch Miss Juliet.” The butler gave a courteous little cough. “Opening it up and allowing fresh air might be very nice indeed for traveling from the coast, especially since Miss Juliet will have been cooped up for so long.”

“Yes, yes. You are right.” Paul raked his hands through his hair. What an irritating problem. “I can’t use the other carriages—the gig and the curricle are far too light and unsuitable. You’ll just have to tell Jim to hurry up and have as much done on the town coach as can be done before tomorrow. I am certain it will be fine.”

“I’ll go at once.” The butler prepared to take his leave but paused on the threshold. “There is one other matter I think you should be aware of. Mrs. Clairbourne gave Miss Siddons the key to the attic. She is up there now, and has been for some hours.”

Paul pushed his chair away from the desk and rose. “Attic? Whatever for?” No one ever went up into the attics. There was never any need. The attic held nothing more than the relics of the past—there was no use for them now.

“I believe she wanted to find some toys and playthings for Miss Juliet. I told Mrs. Clairbourne that she should have asked permission of you first, sir, but she did insist that it was all perfectly harmless.” The slight edge to his tone spoke volumes of his feelings on the matter. Wadsworth and Mrs. Clairbourne had long ago declared an uneasy peace when it came to the running and management of Kellridge, yet every now and again, that competitive spirit showed through once more. Paul suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. It did no good to stoke the fire.

“I’ll go and have a look. Do hurry and tell Jim about the town coach. I want to leave at dawn.” Paul followed the butler out of his study and hastened—without breaking into a run, which might give more weight to the situation and thus more fuel for Wadsworth’s tiff with Mrs. Clairbourne. What sort of things did they have tucked away in the attic? There was no telling. He climbed the back staircase with a growing feeling of unease. The last time they had done any great shifting up there was after Juliana left for Italy.

The door to the left of the stairs stood open, so he ducked inside. Daylight streamed in from the dormer windows, and dust motes danced in the sparkling sunlight. Paul drew his forefinger along one of the trunks and noted the gray smear of dust. For an attic, it was rather clean. All the boxes and trunks lined the walls with military precision. He glanced across the room.

“Miss Siddons?” He spoke in a regular, measured tone of voice. No use in sounding belligerent or ruffled. That would only get Becky’s hackles up again. “Where are you?”

“I am over here.” A scuffling sound caught his ear, and he followed it over to the left rear corner of the attic. Becky was hunched over a trunk, her pretty white dress smudged with dust, and a long trail of dirt marking her cheek. Beside her rested a pile of ancient playthings—dolls, jumping jacks and blocks. His mouth quirked in ruthful recognition—even a puzzle he’d spent hours assembling when he was a boy.

She clicked the lid of the trunk shut and faced him squarely. “Please don’t be angry. Mrs. Clairbourne gave me her permission.”

She seemed almost afraid, and yet her eyebrows held that same defiant arch. His heart dropped a little as he took in her bedraggled dress and widened eyes. He didn’t want Becky to fear him or to think ill of him. If only they could recapture those brief, fleeting moments on the moor when they were comfortable with each other. For some reason, which he did not care to examine, he found himself drawn toward Becky. Of course, he must always maintain his mastery of his household—but couldn’t he do so while befriending Becky? Couldn’t they reach a truce, as Wadsworth and Mrs. Clairbourne had?

“I’m not upset.” He sank onto the floor beside her, heedless of the dirt. “Just...surprised.” He picked up the puzzle and began rearranging the pieces. “You’re in the right, you know. I had no thought in my mind of playthings. I made her room up as I would for an adult guest. ’Twas a sore mistake.”

“Well, no harm done, and I am happy to have plenty to do.” She cast a shy smile his way and reached for a doll. “I shall clean everything up and have it ready for her once she comes.”

“Good plan.” A sudden urge to tell her everything about Juliana struck him. What if he told her the whole sordid tale and unburdened himself to her about his own failings? It might be a relief to share the painful past with someone.

He tamped the urge back. That was weakness. That was folly. He was master of Kellridge and of his own feelings and emotions. His past transgressions were his own to bear, and he must do so alone.

The cold frost that served him so well settled back over him as he clicked another piece of the puzzle in place. “I leave tomorrow. As I said before, do let me know if there is more that I can do. I’ll send some proper toys from London. Not these worn, cast-off old things.” He chuckled dryly and rose, dusting off his trousers. “Be sure to lock everything back up when you leave.”

“I will.” She gazed at him with an inscrutable look in her eyes. “Godspeed, Mr. Holmes.”

He gave a brief nod and walked back out of the attic. He was doing the right thing. He was doing the only thing he could. His duty was done, and now he would fling himself back into London and the season and all its dubious delights as his reward.

Each step echoed through the quiet, still house as he descended.

There was emptiness in his life that only a strategic retreat to London could fill.

Funny how deep and vast that emptiness had grown in just the past few days.


Chapter Six (#ulink_efbcd7f4-d575-5b77-aef7-861dade5f00d)

The weather was nothing short of abominable. One of those late spring showers that soaked a man to the bone and made mud of the most navigable roads. Rain ran in rivulets down Paul’s hat as he waited for the carriage to be pulled round, and he drew his overcoat closer to drive out the damp. The sooner they were started, the better. Perhaps they could make it as far as Derby before changing horses. The carriage plodded into view, its slow pace causing his pulse to quicken.

“Don’t spare the whip,” he remarked curtly to his driver as he placed his foot on the board. “We want to get ahead of this weather if at all possible. The roads aren’t a sea of mud yet. Give the horses their heads.” He gave a brief nod to the grooms, who had taken advantage of the rain to move up front onto the box, as he climbed into carriage.

“Aye, sir,” the coachman replied. His tone sounded doubtful, though.

Well, that was simply too bad. Even if his driver had some misgivings about his orders, he was bound to obey them.

The coachman’s whip cracked through the air and the carriage leaped forward. Paul removed his overcoat and cast his hat aside. Then he settled against the squabs and watched Kellridge retreat into the distance. Who knew when he would see it again? ’Twould be months at least.

Guilt gnawed at his insides. He shouldn’t leave. He could turn the horses around now, and no one would say anything. Well, that wasn’t true. The gossip in the servants’ halls would natter on endlessly, for the master never changed his plans, and already he had dithered over the day of his departure. His uniform and practical way of living had been severely thrown since Becky’s arrival, and he simply had to gain mastery over his own life again.

Kellridge would get on just fine. That was why he ran things the way he did. Besides, he had business in London. Selling Father’s shipping shares would grant him a tidy profit and dispose of a responsibility that he had grown too mired within. Everything would be attended to in his absence. The greatest reward lay in knowing he could run with the most decadent crowd in London, and no matter how dissipated his company or his time spent, Kellridge would be waiting for him when it came time for all revelry to cease.

The carriage bounced and jerked along the roads. Was it the high rate of speed that caused such a well-sprung carriage to jostle about? He usually traveled at an alarming pace, so surely that wasn’t it. Perhaps the rain was already making a mess of the roads. Oh, well, nothing to do but endure it. Once they reached Derby, he’d enjoy a fine dinner and perhaps play cards with the innkeeper. He always was a good chap, up for a game at a moment’s notice.

Paul wedged himself into a corner, which eased some of the discomfort of his travel. He could prop his head against one of the cushions and get a good nap in. ’Twas better to do so now, when en route to London. Once he reached his townhome, he’d get precious little sleep.

The carriage gave a violent jounce and skidded down a length of the road. His horses whinnied, his coachman cursed, and through the mixed and jumbled noise of chaos, he discerned the sickening and undeniable sound of splintering wood. He braced himself against the side of the carriage but was thrown like a rag doll. His head bashed against the window, which was odd because now the window was where the floor should be, and hundreds of drops of water splashed his face. No—they cut his face. ’Twas not water, ’twas broken glass.

As the carriage’s mad flight ground to a halt, Paul put tentative fingers to his cheeks and discerned a warm, sticky trail of blood.

“Are you all right, sir?” the coachman cried out from above him—far above him, and not through the window, but through the carriage door, which was now where the ceiling had been. The coachman whistled softly. “You look as though you lost the fight.”

“Thank you for that.” Paul sat up gingerly, withdrawing his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and holding it to his face. “What on earth happened?”

“Has to be a broken axle.” The coachman heaved himself on top of the door and extended his hand down to Paul. “I know Jim was worried about that right front wheel. The grooms are taking a look at the damage now.”

Paul allowed himself to be pulled upright, and then heaved himself through the door and onto the curiously slanting side of the coach. He slid down and sank onto the muddy road, pressing the handkerchief to his face to stop the bleeding. “This is what comes of changing plans,” he muttered.

The rain picked up in earnest, and thunder boomed in the distance.

“Aye, it’s a broken axle,” one of the grooms shouted. “Can’t repair it here.”

Paul struggled to his feet, his cheek throbbing. “We need to get back to Kellridge. From there we can get enough hands out to set the carriage right, and bring it back for repairs.” He turned to his coachman. “How far are we from home?”

“Riding at our usual pace, I’d say we’re only half an hour away,” the coachman replied. “Walking, I’d say about an hour.”





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