Amanda Scott (16 page)

“Nothing is there.” Maisie got to her feet, frowning. “That dratted cat’s disappeared into thin air, Miss Anne. She was here ten minutes ago, when I left to fetch two hats I’d trimmed for you, and when I came back, she was nowhere to be found.”

Returning to the dressing room, Anne saw that a window was ajar. “Did you open this?” she demanded, hurrying to push it wider. The distance to the ground was dismayingly far. “Surely, Juliette would not have attempted to jump from here.”

“I didn’t open it today,” Maisie said, frowning, “but it’s been opened before to air out the room, and Juliette’s shown no desire to climb out. Perhaps it weren’t shut properly, and she pushed it open. Could she have got onto the roof?”

“I don’t know,” Anne said, alarmed, “but perhaps we had better ask the servants to look for her.”

With that thought in mind, she hurried downstairs, intending to find Elbert or Bagshaw; however, when she reached the hall, she found Lord Michael instead, with another gentleman, who was clearly on the point of departure.

Until the other man turned, she did not recognize him, but when he did, she did not require Michael’s saying, “You remember Sir Jacob Thornton,” to know him. It was not his height or stature that she recalled, or his sandy hair and red complexion, but rather the knowing look in his pale blue eyes. As she approached, he watched her too closely for comfort, just as he had before, as if he could see through her clothing.

“Of course I remember Sir Jacob,” she said, nodding in a polite way but without extending a hand to him. “I trust your visit to Derby was a pleasant one, sir.”

“Stap me, that were parliamentary business and I ain’t just getting back, Lady Michael, if that’s what you think. Been back a week, but not being one to rush my fences, didn’t want to intrude straight off.” He smiled broadly. “Never thought I’d meet a wench as could bring Michael round her thumb—not after all the barques of frailty I’ve known him entertain. Oughtn’t to mention them to you, of course, ma’am, but I can see you’ll keep him up to his bit. Like I said before,” he told Michael with a smirk, “she’s a dashed fine little beauty. I’d sure like to know where you find them.”

Annoyance flitted across Michael’s face, but he deftly turned the subject, and Sir Jacob took his departure moments later. When he had gone, Michael said quietly, “Is something amiss? Where were you going in such a hurry?”

“Juliette is missing, and one of the windows was ajar. I thought she might have got up onto the roof or—”

“Nonsense,” he said, taking her gently by the arm and turning her back toward the stairs. “You don’t give that kitten enough credit for intelligence. Very sensible little cat, I thought. Where did you leave her?”

“In my dressing room. I haven’t wanted to let her roam free in such a big house until she grew more at home here.”

“She’s been here nearly three weeks, Anne,” he said with some amusement. “She ought to feel right at home by now.”

“But the dogs! They wander in and out of the house at will.”

“They won’t trouble her, and I doubt she wandered far. Come along. I’ll help you look.”

They went up to her dressing room to be greeted by Maisie, looking amused and holding a finger to her lips. In response to Anne’s raised eyebrows, she moved toward the wardrobe, whispering, “Didn’t look here before because the door was shut tight, Miss Anne, but thought I’d find your garden shoes while I waited for you. Look what I found instead.” Silently, she opened the well-oiled wardrobe door. On the floor amidst Anne’s slippers and shoes lay Sylvia, fast asleep, curled around the purring black kitten.

No one said anything until Maisie had shut the door again and they had moved away from the wardrobe. Then, frowning, Lord Michael said, “That child should be with her nurse. What on earth is she doing in there?”

Anne said, “Please, sir, don’t wake her. Moffat tells me Sylvia tosses and turns at night and rarely sleeps soundly. If she fell asleep there, it is because she needs rest and because she feels safe in my wardrobe.”

“I don’t believe in coddling children,” he said, but Anne saw doubt in his eyes when he glanced back at the wardrobe, so she was not too surprised to hear him add gruffly, “I suppose you will do as you think best.”

She was tempted to tell him that if she were allowed to do as she thought best, there would be a number of changes at the Priory. Despite her efforts, fires and wax candles still burned daily in all the public rooms, the servants still rarely looked to her for orders, even at the dining table, and whenever she suggested the smallest change, she was still told politely but firmly, “That is not how we do that at Upminster, madam.”

But she could not complain that the household did not run smoothly, or that she had accomplished nothing. Quigley had ordered the kitchen gardens prepared for planting, and sown with a multitude of vegetables. Even the depleted asparagus beds had been forked over and replanted, and he had set boys to killing snails and slugs, and to watch for the first weeds in the new beds.

As the month of May progressed, Anne realized also that she was slowly but surely making friends with both children. Sylvia still did not speak, but she followed Anne like a silent shadow; and Andrew was not only more civil to her but actually took her fishing twice. He also went up with Lord Ashby once in the balloon, which adventure resulted in a stern lecture from Lord Michael on the folly of wasting money on inflammable air, but the participants apparently enjoyed themselves very much.

Toward the end of the month, to Anne’s surprise, her father sent her own mare from Rendlesham at last; and when she rode or fished with Andrew, she caught glimpses of the boy he might have been had he been raised like other boys, but generally he remained aloof, and she frequently saw resentment flare in his eyes when Michael spoke sharply to him or demanded obedience to an order.

Privately, Anne thought her husband too strict and demanding where Andrew was concerned, believing it was unfair to expect the young duke suddenly to submit to authority after so many years of being allowed to do as he pleased. However, although she was slowly finding her path, she was by no means the partner she had hoped to be, or mistress of the house as she had expected to be. Nor, though she tried to be a good and submissive wife, did she see as much of her husband as she had thought she would. His many duties kept him away from the house most days, and though his connubial attentions were still dutiful rather than romantic, he did not neglect her, and was kind and even charming to her, which meant—as she confided to her journal—that she had no great cause for the odd sense of dissatisfaction that seemed to plague her.

O
NE MORNING, A WEEK
later, as Anne sat at the escritoire in her dressing room, making a list of things to discuss with Quigley, she realized the time had come to convince Michael to hire more help if they were ever to begin work on the flower gardens. The men they had could barely handle the thinning and transplanting of the vegetables. It had taken two days just to move the cucumbers from their frames and plant them out under hand glasses.

She did not count her chance of success very high, knowing he would likely say it was too expensive to hire more men, and suggest that she would be better employed in beginning to repay some of the many bride visits she had received. But although she knew it was her duty to do so, and indeed had even told Lady Hermione that she meant to begin paying calls soon, she was more concerned about the garden. She felt as if she had exerted the patience of Job, moving at a snail’s pace to get things done, but every time she looked at the neglected lawns and borders, she itched to set them to rights.

When Maisie entered, Anne glanced up briefly before adding one more item to her list. Realizing her woman had neither moved farther into the room nor spoken, she looked up again to see an uncharacteristic look of indecision on her face.

“What is it, Maisie?”

“Oh, Miss Anne, something dreadful’s happened.”

Fear for Michael or one of the children brought Anne instantly to her feet. “Tell me at once! Is someone injured?”

“No, no, but Mr. Bagshaw’s gone and turned off Jane Hinkle. He says she’s to leave at once, today, and without a character, Miss Anne. Please, you must do something.”

“What did Jane do?” Knowing Maisie had formed a friendship with the upper housemaid, Anne hoped it was nothing too dreadful.

“She come in late last evening, Miss Anne, from her half day. Half an hour late, Mr. Bagshaw says, though she don’t think it were as much as that. Said she went into the village and mistook her way coming back. Jane says Mr. Bagshaw don’t like her, Miss Anne, and nor does Mrs. Burdekin, on account of Jane weren’t raised here at Upminster, but she’s a good girl, Miss Anne, and it ain’t fair to turn her off without a character just for coming in a bit late.”

“If that is all she did, she ought to have a second chance, certainly,” Anne said, annoyed that Bagshaw meant to discharge an excellent servant for so small a fault.

“It’s that cheeky Elbert, if you ask me,” Maisie said. “He’s had it in for Jane ever since that day you sent him off with a flea in his ear when he tried to take liberties with her. Mr. Bagshaw thinks the sun rises and sets with that young jackanapes, all on account of Elbert’s another nephew or cousin or some such thing.”

Anne was not surprised to learn that Jane had confided in Maisie about the incident in the salon. Nor did she doubt Maisie’s assessment of the present situation, but she knew she would have to tread lightly if she meant to intervene between the butler and one of the servants. She could not simply make the same demands for Jane that she had for Maisie.

“Please, Miss Anne,” Maisie begged, evidently believing her unconvinced. “If Jane is turned off without a character, she won’t be able to get another situation in a decent house. You know as well as I do what becomes of such girls.”

“I do,” Anne said calmly. “I like Jane and would be very distressed if she were to end up serving tables in a tavern, or worse. I will do my best to see that she is not sent away.”

“Thank you,” Maisie said fervently.

Informed by Elbert that Bagshaw was not available just then, Anne ran the butler to earth herself in the lantern-lit wine cellar, where she found him with two of his minions. As she entered, he was pouring something through a wooden funnel from a bowl into a hogshead. “I want to speak with you,” she said.

Straightening and accepting a linen towel from one of the men to wipe his hands, he said, “Yes, madam. I shall come at once.”

“I have just learned that you intend to discharge Jane Hinkle without a character.”

“Yes, madam.” He turned back to his men, saying, “Stir it with the staff for five minutes. Then leave the bung out for a few hours so the froth can fall before you close it up. Now then, madam, I am at your service. Shall we go upstairs?”

“What sort of wine were you fining?” Anne asked curiously when he held the green baize door for her to pass through to the hall.

“An excellent claret ordered by Lord Ashby, madam. In eight or ten days it will be fit for bottling.”

She said nothing more until they reached the drawing room, but when the doors were shut, she said, “I’d like you to reconsider your decision about Jane. Not only is she an excellent housemaid, whom I would be sorry to lose, but if you dismiss her without a character reference, she will be unable to find work elsewhere.”

“I fear she has proven herself unsuited for work in a decent house,” Bagshaw said. “Perhaps she did not tell you the whole story.”

“I have not spoken with Jane,” Anne said. “I would not attempt to undermine your authority in that way, which is why I came directly to you. I thought you had dismissed her because she exceeded the maids’ curfew.”

“That would certainly be sufficient cause, madam. Maids who defy our house rules have no place at the Priory.”

“Nor should they,” Anne agreed, “but I do not agree that Jane meant to defy the rules. I believe she had good reason for her tardiness, and since the infraction is a small one, after all, she might surely be forgiven just this once.”

“I am afraid the fault was not so small as that, madam.”

“Have I been misinformed?” Anne asked, struggling to retain her calm. “Was she more than a half hour late?”

“No, madam. The extent of tardiness alone might not condemn her but for the fact of where she passed the time, and with whom.”

“Who was it?” Anne asked, wishing she had thought to ask Maisie where Jane had gone and hoping the pretty housemaid did not have a secret lover hidden away somewhere.

Bagshaw stiffened. “I am afraid I could not reconcile it with my conscience to discuss that topic with you, madam.”

“Indeed?” Anne raised her eyebrows, trying to imitate her grandmother’s haughtiest look when her will was crossed. At the same time, she pressed her clenched fist into a fold of her skirt so the butler would not see her increasing annoyance clearly displayed. “May I ask why you refuse to explain the matter to me?”

“The subject is not one that is suitable for a man to discuss with a lady of quality, madam,” Bagshaw said with a hint of rebuke in his voice. “His lordship would be most displeased were I to engage in such a distasteful conversation with your ladyship.”

“Then his lordship already knows about this,” Anne said, repressing her shock at the thought that Lord Michael would agree to dismiss a house servant without so much as telling her. Seeing a flicker of wariness in the butler’s eyes, she added swiftly, “He does know, does he not?”

“Since Lord Michael leaves all such matters to me or to Mrs. Burdekin, madam, I did not think it necessary to burden him with what is, after all, no more than a minor household difficulty.”

“It is not minor to Jane Hinkle,” Anne pointed out, “or to me. I have been willing to allow you considerable license with regard to managing the servants because Lord Michael has faith in your competence, Bagshaw, but I must insist that you reconsider this decision about Jane.”

“I regret that I can see no reason to do so, madam.”

She had caught a fleeting, enigmatic look when she had spoken of allowing him license, and she realized suddenly that he did not view her as much of an adversary. Taking courage in hand, she said quietly, “Do you dare to defy me, Bagshaw?”