The Handmaiden's Necklace (8 page)

C
aroline Loon sat at a long wooden table in the basement kitchen of the Wentz house, talking to the serving women and sipping a cup of tea. It was one of the advantages of being a lady’s maid. She could cross without a problem from the world above stairs into the one below.

“How ’bout a nice slice o’ pie, dear, to go with your tea?” The buxom cook, Emma Wyatt, waddled toward her, a warm smile on her face. “It’s just out of the oven. Picked the apples meself—right off the tree outside the back door.”

“It looks delicious, Emma, but I’m not really hungry.”

“Are ye sure? A girl needs to eat.”

“I’m fine.”

The sound of footsteps rang on the stone floor behind her. Caro turned to see the shadowy figure of a man appear in the open doorway.

“You had better do as Emma says. You look like you could use a little meat on your bones.” His gaze ran over her. “Though they are very lovely bones, indeed.”

Caro blinked at the sudden commotion in the kitchen—
one of the kitchen maids giggling, Mrs. Wyatt grinning like a schoolgirl.

“Leave her be, Robert.” Emma waved her spatula in his direction. “Ye’ll embarrass the poor lass.” The cook turned to Caro. “Pay him no mind, dear. Robert’s a terrible flirt. Why, the man could charm the sparrows right out of the trees.”

He just smiled. Setting the knee-high black leather boots he carried down beside the door, he walked over to the long wooden table and sat down on the bench across from her. The visitor, a man in his thirties with thick brown hair and a very nice smile, was handsome as sin, and a wicked glint appeared for a moment in his warm brown eyes. They assessed her from top to bottom, paused for a moment on her not particularly substantial breasts, then returned to her face.

“I’ll have a piece of that pie, Emma.” He winked at Caro. “If you’ve never tasted Emma’s pie, you don’t know what you’re missing. By the way, my name is Robert McKay. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”

“Loon. Caroline Loon. I work for Miss Duval. She’s one of Mr. Wentz’s houseguests.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“You’re from England. I haven’t heard those particular speech patterns for quite some time.”

He was referring to her polished manner of speaking. Regardless of her family’s lack of finances, Caro had received a solid education and spoke with the crisp, clipped tones of the British upper classes.

It occurred to her that Robert’s resonant speech held the same upper-class intonations. “But you’re English, as well.”

“I was. I’m American now, though not exactly by choice.”

Emma set a large piece of pie down in front of Robert McKay and the delicious aroma made Caro’s stomach growl.

“I knew it!” Robert grinned. “Emma—bring a slice of this marvelous pie for Miss Loon.”

Emma laughed and waddled over a few minutes later with a slightly smaller piece of pie, which she set down in front of Caro along with a fork for each of them.

Robert waited politely for her to begin, then attacked his food like a man who hadn’t eaten in a week, which, with his well-muscled frame, Caro highly doubted.

As he had promised, the pie was delicious, the apple-cinnamon aroma filling every square inch of the overly warm, low-ceilinged kitchen, yet with the handsome man seated across from her it was difficult to concentrate on her food.

“Do you work for Mr. Wentz?” she asked, interrupting his last bite of pie.

McKay shook his head and swallowed. “I’m here with Edmund Steigler. I’m his
manservant.
” He said the word with such repugnance Caro’s blond eyebrows went up. “At least I will be for the next four years.”

“You don’t like your work?”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m indentured to Steigler. He bought seven years of my life. I’ve only paid back three.”

“I see.” But she didn’t really see at all. Why would an educated man, as McKay appeared to be, sell himself into the service of another man?

“Why?” she asked, the word popping out before she could stop it.

McKay studied her with renewed interest. “You’re the first person who’s ever asked me that.”

She glanced down at her half-empty plate, wishing she had kept silent. “You don’t have to answer. It’s really none of my business.” She looked up at him. “I just…you seem an independent sort of man, not the kind to sell yourself into bondage.”

McKay studied her a moment more, then glanced around the kitchen. Emma was busy kneading bread, her helper determinedly scrubbing pots and pans.

“If you want to know the truth, the constables were after me. They were trying to arrest me for a crime I didn’t commit. I had to leave the country in a hurry. I hadn’t the money to book passage on a ship. I saw an ad in the London
Chronicle
advertising for indentured servants to travel to America. The advertisement was placed by a man named Edmund Steigler and his ship was set to sail the following morning. I went to see him. He didn’t ask questions. I signed the papers and Steigler brought me here.”

Caro knew her blue eyes must be round as saucers. “You’re not afraid to be telling me this?”

Robert shrugged. He was taller than average, but not overly so, with shoulders that filled out his full-sleeved homespun shirt. “What would you do? Tell Steigler? He would hardly be concerned. Besides, I’m wanted in England, not America.”

“But if you are innocent, you must go back. You must find a way to clear your name.”

McKay’s laugh was harsh. “You are certainly a dreamer, love. I still haven’t got the money. And I owe Steigler four more years.” At the troubled look on her face, he reached
out and touched her cheek. “I think you must be a very nice person, Caroline Loon. I believe I like you.”

Caro didn’t tell him that she liked him, too. Or that she believed his story. She was a very good judge of people and she knew instinctively that Robert McKay was telling the truth.

He shoved his empty pie plate away and came up from the bench. “It was nice meeting you, Miss Loon.”

“You as well, Mr. McKay.”

He started walking toward the door. Caro noticed the muscles in his legs and the trim fit of his breeches, and a hint of warmth rose in her cheeks.

At the door, McKay stopped and turned. “Do you like horses, Miss Loon?”

“I’m afraid I am a dismal rider, but I like horses very much.”

“In that case, there’s a new foal you might enjoy seeing. Perhaps you could meet me in the stable after supper.”

Caro smiled. It wasn’t the foal she was interested in; it was Robert McKay. “I would like that very much.”

His easy smile returned. “Good, then I’ll see you later this evening.”

She nodded, watched him walk away. She shouldn’t have agreed. He was a very handsome man and if she slipped away to meet him, he might think he could take liberties. Still, she was a grown woman and she could take care of herself.

“Robert’s a good man,” Emma said as if she read her thoughts. “And ye needn’t worry. Ye’ll be safe as a lamb with him.”

“Thank you, Emma, I’m sure I will be.” Beginning to tire
of the heat in the kitchen, Caro took her pie plate over to the dry sink, washed it in a bucket of sudsy water, rinsed and dried it, then headed for the door.

As she walked out into the sunshine, she smiled, intrigued by the notion of spending an evening with Robert McKay.

The men went hunting again the next morning, and to keep the ladies entertained, the Wentzes planned a party that night. Along with their houseguests, a number of local residents had also been invited.

For much of the day, the women helped with the preparations, bringing flowers in from the garden and arranging them in cut-crystal vases, covering the tables with pretty lace tablecloths, helping the servants push the furniture back to allow for dancing.

The members of a three-piece orchestra arrived and set up at the end of the parlor. The guests, mostly local farmers and their wives, began to arrive, and Richard and Jacob Wentz made introductions.

As the evening progressed, Danielle danced with Richard, then with the merchant, Edmund Steigler, a lean man with black hair and thin features—rather enigmatic, Dani thought. She conversed with Sara Bookman, the judge’s wife, who was interesting and funny and easy to like. Their hostess, Greta Wentz, was a sweet, kindly woman with a heavy German accent who wasn’t afraid of hard work.

Dani thought that in time, she could become good friends with some of the ladies she had met in America. She liked the women’s rugged spirit, the optimism with which they approached their lives.

Across the parlor, she caught a glimpse of Richard in conversation with Edmund Steigler and wondered if she would ever be able to form a true and lasting friendship with the man she was to wed. Several times during the evening she had gone in search of him, but he was always busy with one of his friends.

Or conversing with Rafael.

She saw Rafe just then and a little tremor went through her. Though she tried her best to ignore him, to pretend he wasn’t there, time and again her unruly gaze went in search of him. More than once, she found him watching her, a troubled look on his face.

She wished she knew what he was thinking, wanted to ask him when he planned to return to England, but the right moment never seemed to come. As the evening wore on, she looked up to see him approaching from across the room, his long strides bearing down on her with purpose.

“I need to speak to you,” he said simply. “I hoped to find a better time, but we’ll all be leaving in the morning. It’s important, Danielle.”

“I don’t know…. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to—”

“I’ll wait for you in the gazebo at the rear of the garden.” He left her there in the parlor, halfway through the protest she had been about to make.

Angry that he’d left her no choice and more curious than she wanted to admit, she returned her attention momentarily to the guests. She danced again with Richard, then slipped quietly away when he began a conversation with Jacob Wentz about the high price of southern cotton, making her way outside into the garden.

Though several torches burned along the gravel paths, they were not well lit. Winding her way between the shadows, passing clusters of yellow pansies and tall purple iris, she headed for the gazebo, whose ornate spire marked its location some distance away at the back of the garden, near a bubbling brook.

She knew it was dangerous, this meeting with Rafael. Her reputation had been compromised once before. How would she explain her presence out here in the darkness with the handsome Duke of Sheffield? What would Richard’s friends think if the two of them were found together?

A shiver of unease rippled through her. She would never forget the agony she had suffered that night five years ago, or the pain of the terrible weeks that followed. She’d been ostracized and humiliated. Worse yet, she had suffered the heartbreak of losing the man she loved.

She wasn’t in love with Richard, as she had once been with Rafael, but the thought of enduring that sort of rebuke made her stomach roll with nausea.

Her eyes searched the darkness as she hurried along the path. Rafael must have recognized the danger and yet he had insisted on the meeting. She knew if she didn’t appear, he would simply seek her out, perhaps under less private circumstances.

The gazebo loomed ahead, octagonal in design with ornate white-painted moldings, open sides and wooden seats that lined the raised interior. As she drew near, she could see the shadowy outline of Rafe’s tall figure leaning against the railing inside. Glancing around to be certain no one was near, she lifted the hem of her sapphire silk gown up out of the way and took the first of three steep stairs.

Rafe caught her hand, helping her ascend to the platform beside him. “I was afraid you might not come.”

She wouldn’t have, if he had really given her a choice. “You said it was important.”

“So I did.”

He led her over to the bench along the rail and she sat down, though Rafe remained standing. He paced a moment, as if he searched for what to say, then turned to face her. In the dim light of a distant torch, she could see the blue of his eyes, read the uncertainty there. It was so out of character for Rafe, her heart set up a nervous clatter.

“What is it, Rafael?”

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I’m not quite sure how to begin. I told you I had discovered the truth of what happened that night five years ago.”

“Yes…”

“I told you I wanted you to be happy, that I owed you that much.”

“You said that, but—”

“I don’t believe you will be happy with Richard Clemens.”

She shot up off the bench. “It doesn’t matter what you believe, Rafael. Richard and I will be married the end of next week.”

“I’ve asked you twice if you loved him. This time I want an answer.”

She squared her shoulders. “I’ll give you the answer I gave you before. It’s none of your business.”

“You’ve never been one to mince words, Dani. If you loved him, you would say so. Therefore, I must assume that you do not. Since that is the case, I’m asking you to call off the wedding.”

“Are you insane? I’ve crossed an entire ocean to marry Richard Clemens, and that is exactly what I intend to do.”

Rafe gently caught her shoulders. “I realize things have changed between us…that you no longer hold me in the same regard you did before.”

“I loved you once. Not anymore. Is that what you mean?”

“You may not love me, Danielle, but neither do you love Richard Clemens.” He searched her face. “And I believe there is a difference.”

“What difference is that?”

“When you look at me, there is something in your eyes, a spark of fire that isn’t there when you look at Richard.”

“You’re mad.”

“Am I? Why don’t we see?”

Dani’s breath caught as Rafe hauled her into his arms and his mouth came down over hers. For an instant, she fought him, pressing her hands against his chest, trying to push him away. But the heat was there, burning into her, the fire that should have died long ago. It was searing in its intensity, scorching through flesh and bone, turning her body soft and pliant.