Moved by his uncle’s words, Beranger reached out and placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Uncle. If only you’d been my father, my life would have been vastly different.”
“Our life circumstances make us who we are. I wouldn’t want you any different.”
They pushed open the door and stepped inside, then set about the business of saving Ashbury Castle from ruin.
CHAPTER TEN
Alone in the kitchen that night, Charlotte finished up the Blackwell tarts and two Eccles cakes for tomorrow’s tea. Cook had asked for several delicacies, and Charlotte had offered to make them, giving Alcott a rare night off since he’d never before had such an accomplished assistant.
Flattered at his compliment, Charlotte had taken a short nap after her nightly shift, then risen at midnight and made her way to the kitchen through the silent castle. She’d found the journey alone down four stories a bit unnerving and wondered if Amelia had ever done so herself.
The clock chimed two o’clock. As soon as she cleaned up her dirty mixing bowls, baking pans, utensils, and her cup of tea, she’d head to bed so she’d be able to rise on time at five thirty.
She liked the kitchen best like this. The quiet and calm were more like the bakeshop and not the raucous castle kitchen, where something was happening all the time. This tranquility fed her frame of mind, and soon she was imagining the things she’d never actually have: pretty dresses, fine surroundings, dancing in the arms of a handsome man.
She stretched and glanced around, satisfied with her night’s work. No one to shout orders, no icy stares from Margaret or suggestive expressions from the footman. No Aunt Ethel to criticize her every move. This was the longest she’d ever been away from Brightshire and the bakeshop. She hoped sales were good and that Thomas was staying out of trouble.
A sudden cool breeze skittered up her neck. Feeling like she was being watched, she turned.
Mr. Winters stood on the last step of the stairs. Surprise, then pleasure, flitted across his face. “Good evening, Miss Aldridge,” he said, coming closer. “I hope I didn’t startle you. I expected to find the kitchen empty. A late-night snack is not all that uncommon for me.”
“You didn’t startle me, sir,” she said smoothly, hoping God would forgive her for a small white lie. In truth, his sudden appearance had her breathless. Still, she didn’t want to appear an ignorant peasant in the presence of gentry. The difference in their education alone was daunting. She could hardly believe he took the time to speak to her at all. Last night had been a shock, and now . . . ? She didn’t understand.
“Does my cousin work you all night, Charlotte?”
She blushed. He must have heard her tell the duchess her name. Was it improper for him to use it now? “No, sir. Alcott usually does the baking, but, well . . .”
“You’re helping him? How nice.” He came closer and looked at her pastries.
“I’m finishing up a few special requests from the cook for tomorrow’s tea. Where the new duchess will meet some—” She snapped her mouth closed. He knew well what tomorrow was. Much better than she did, she was sure.
Mr. Winters watched as she nervously gathered up the dirty utensils and bowls. He wore a fine waist-length jacket over what looked to be a nightshirt. Thank goodness he’d donned his slacks and hadn’t come down in just a nightshirt, expecting to be alone.
“As you were saying, the tea tomorrow is growing exponentially,” he said, tipping his head. His gaze roamed the room.
He can’t be nervous, can he? She’d not heard the word exponentially before, but she guessed more cakes and biscuits would be needed for tomorrow than had been expected. Good thing she’d prepared a few extra.
“It seems you’ve already heard that the dowager duchess received a cable tonight,” he went on. “Lord Charles Northcott of Sevenoaks, the duke’s oldest uncle, may arrive, his entourage in tow. The castle is filling up.” He gave a broad smile, exposing his straight white teeth, something that was rare among the countryfolk. “Just like old times. Dinner parties, hunting excursions, cigars and whiskey, pretty ladies everywhere you turn. It’s been some time since Ashbury has seen those days. Almost everyone is relieved the duke has been found.”
Does that mean someone isn’t happy His Grace has taken his proper place? The story about him not being illegitimate—and being the true heir—was quite astounding. I wonder who would be unhappy at his return. Perhaps that was just a slip of the tongue.
“Is there something I can get for you, sir?” she asked, coming to her senses. She should have asked him straightaway, before he’d launched into conversation. The housekeeper and butler slept only down the hall. Not upstairs with the other servants. What would happen if they heard the conversation and came out to investigate? Her insides squeezed at the unsuitable situation. “If you’d like, these cakes and biscuits are still warm.” She waved her arm across the counter of sweet treats, hoping he didn’t say yes. “Or are you hungry for something else? Bread and cheese, perhaps? Or some leftover lamb?”
Would she get in trouble for rummaging around the leftovers for Mr. Winters? She had no idea. Back home at the bakeshop, Aunt Ethel kept all leftovers under lock and key. Food was difficult to come by, and not to be wasted or taken for granted. Practically nothing went into the slop jar. “Perhaps I can find you a stray chicken leg. Or some beef?”
Boldly, he came forward and picked up her hand. “It’s true, I did come in search of food, pretty Charlotte, but now I’ve lost my appetite. You look so charming in this apron. Do you mind me telling you that?”
My word! What is he doing?
She stood there like a deer facing down a lion, too frightened to move. Surely he didn’t expect an answer to his question? Was she reading something into his words, letting her imagination run wild? Maybe he was just a very nice, very friendly man. A spicy aroma wafted past her nose, and she realized he must have applied some sort of perfume. Did men wear perfume? Not in her world.
His eyes grew wide, and he gently let her hand fall as he stepped back, giving her room to breathe. “I’ve frightened you. I’m sorry. I’d never want to do that.”
Nervous under his observation, Charlotte reached for the empty butter dish and gingerbread-covered spatula, appalled at her shaky hands, and placed both into a used mixing bowl.
“I’d best get on with my work,” she said, piling on several more dishes and hurrying toward the scullery. She set the dishes next to the sink and ran her hands over her apron to settle her runaway nerves. The kitchen was silent behind her. What was Mr. Winters doing? Just standing there and waiting for her return? She couldn’t bring herself to turn from the sink and look.
In the next room over, where fresh game was hung until it was butchered, she thought she heard the door clatter open. Now what? Alcott hadn’t mentioned she’d have all kinds of visitors passing in and out through the night. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have offered to stay here alone. Gathering her courage, she slipped quietly into the adjoining room and found the door ajar and a tall, wide-shouldered silhouette looming.
Tristen Llewellyn.
“Hello?” she said cautiously, but at the same time relieved. “Mr. Llewellyn, is that you?”
He came forward a few tentative steps in the darkness. “Miss Aldridge? I had no idea you’d be working this late.”
“I’m preparing for a tea tomorrow—baking, that is.”
“Just give me a moment to hang these jumpin’ hares and I’ll be gone.” He cradled his shotgun in one arm and in the other gripped three large rabbits by their hind legs, their long, wobbly bodies stretching toward the hard stone floor. “They’re gutted and cleaned. Cook’ll want ’em as soon as she rises.”
Charlotte made a pleased sound in her throat. “Wouldn’t we love those at the bakeshop? Nothing better than fresh rabbit pie, chock-full of carrots and potatoes.”
Mr. Llewellyn was quite attractive with his height and wide shoulders. She couldn’t see the color of his eye
s now, backlit as he was by the moonlight outside the door, but she remembered from earlier today in the sunshine by the greenhouse they’d been sky blue and sharp—
A sound in the scullery made Tristen snap toward the doorway. Too late Charlotte felt more than heard Mr. Winters’s presence.
Mr. Llewellyn frowned.
Did he think he’d stumbled onto a tryst? A woman’s reputation was a fragile strand of webbing, easily plucked away and unrepairable. In the blink of an eye, her character, the only real thing she possessed, could be destroyed.
Without a word, Mr. Llewellyn set his kill on the wooden counter along the wall, as well as his long gun. He rearranged a brace of grouse to make room for the jumping hares and then hung them. Finished, he strode past her and Mr. Winters in silence through the scullery, and stopped in the kitchen, his gaze finally alighting on her baked goods.
“As I explained, I’m preparing for tomorrow,” she said rather defensively as she hurried to his side.
A head taller than Mr. Winters, Mr. Llewellyn’s jaw was covered by dark stubble, and his hair was windblown. Tonight, his long coat would help against the brisk weather outside. He shifted his weight.
“Mr. Winters came looking for a midnight snack,” she hurried on. “Imagine that. I was just trying to think of what I could offer—” She snapped her mouth closed, embarrassed.
“At two o’clock in the morning?” he asked in a tone that could chip marble.
Mr. Winters stepped forward. “My intentions are decent, Mr. Llewellyn.”
Before he could respond, Mrs. Darling, wearing her housecoat, slippers, white cap, and an extremely annoyed expression, appeared at the end of the corridor. She looked between them. “What is going on?”
“I’m baking, ma’am,” Charlotte answered quickly. “As I was requested.” If Mrs. Darling got the wrong impression and sent her packing, Aunt Ethel would be furious. She needed to be careful.
Mrs. Darling’s gaze took in Mr. Winters and then went to the gamekeeper. “Mr. Llewellyn, you’re here late—or should I say early?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mr. Llewellyn said. “Couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a walk. I brought in three large hares.”
“A walk with your rifle?” Mr. Winters asked skeptically.
Charlotte thought she saw some resistance in the gamekeeper’s expression when he bobbed his head in respect.
“Why not, sir? Rabbits are out at night.”
“I just hope you know what you’re shooting at in the darkness. Take my poor cousin, His Grace, the departed Gavin Northcott. Hunting accidents do occur.”
Was that a threat implied—or an accusation? Now in the full light of the kitchen, Charlotte saw Mr. Llewellyn’s nostrils flare.
“I arrived at Ashbury long after that, Mr. Winters.”
“The hour is late, Mr. Llewellyn,” Mrs. Darling said.
He respectfully inclined his head. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be on my way. Good evening.”
Mrs. Darling anchored her censuring gaze on Charlotte. Did the housekeeper believe she was up to no good as well? And so soon after her elevation from the scullery. Her cheeks warmed under the unfair scrutiny. I was just doing my work!
“I’ll be turning in as well,” Mr. Winters had the good sense to say. The housekeeper wouldn’t dare blame one of the family for any transgression. The fault would be placed at the loose kitchen maid’s feet.
Mrs. Darling waited until the men had gone and then went to the stove and shook the teakettle. Charlotte had forgotten she’d put on water to heat before Mr. Winters had arrived.
The older woman turned. “Would you like a cup?”
“Y-yes,” Charlotte sputtered. She’d been expecting a scolding. Who knew, maybe one was still on the way. “That sounds nice. Thank you.”
They brewed two cups, and Mrs. Darling actually carried both into the servants’ hall, where Charlotte, being kitchen help, didn’t usually sit. She switched on the gas lamps. “We’ll sit here for now, since everyone else is asleep,” the housekeeper said. “No one will mind.” She set the cups opposite and motioned for Charlotte to take a seat.
Charlotte settled herself, relieved to get off her feet, and took a sip of the soothing liquid.
“How do you like working at Ashbury, Charlotte? Are you settling in?”
Charlotte glanced up from her cup. “Yes, ma’am. I like it here. I hope I’m settling in quite nicely. There’s so much going on.”
“That there is,” Mrs. Darling responded, a small smile appearing. “And probably more than you know. Your baked goods look delicious. I think the duchess will be pleased. I wouldn’t be surprised if she asks you to stay on. Would you be inclined to say yes, if she does?”
Charlotte tipped her head in disbelief. “I have the bakeshop, ma’am. I’m needed there.” Although here is ever so much more fun. “And you mean in addition to my cousin, correct? I’d not like to take Amelia’s place permanently. She counts on her service here.”
“And we on her. No, not one or the other, but both. The day before you came to Ashbury, the dowager duchess fired a kitchen maid for, shall we say, an insignificant infraction.” Her mouth flattened into an angry line. “I’d like to keep you, Miss Aldridge, if that’s possible.”
What will Aunt Ethel think? Do? Charlotte’s excitement pushed away her fear. “I’d like that very much.”
“I thought as much. But I must warn you, young women in service are a tempting target for unscrupulous men of both classes. You must guard your honor. When a young woman chooses to go into service, she is expected to give up what she may have had in another kind of life, if you understand my meaning. Service becomes your family. Any undesirable involvement will get you dismissed without a letter of recommendation. Period. Do I make myself clear?”
Charlotte nodded, then sipped her drink. The faces of both men flashed in her mind. Mr. Winters had seemed to imply something untoward about the duke’s hunting accident. She’d been worried over Thomas, and his possible involvement, but she’d seen Mr. Henderley too in the vicinity that day. If she lived here, closer to the people—Mr. Llewellyn—perhaps there’d be a way to find out what the gamekeeper was like, and what he’d been doing limping through the forest.
Then again, she thought, maybe some secrets were never meant to see the light of day.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The evening hours had flown by in the blink of an eye. Before Emma realized the time, Hyacinth was helping her undress and prepare for bed. The young chambermaid unfastened the many tiny buttons that ran down the back of her deep scarlet gown. Finished, she clumsily lifted the fabric over Emma’s head, completely destroying the coiffure that had taken a full hour for the dowager’s lady’s maid to create. Emma didn’t care. The night was over and she was going to bed, but Hyacinth had been simply frantic, moaning and primping and trying to repin her locks.
Alone now, the quiet bedchamber surrounded her. She snuggled deep into her covers, the heavy counterpane bolstering her ragged nerves. Oh, Beranger, I miss you. I should have heeded your words and gone along. I’m not ready to handle this new life without you by my side.
The day had progressed well, with a visit from the dressmaker and a handful of seamstresses who’d measured her to their hearts’ content, showed her page after page of dresses, gowns, and riding outfits. Styles for teas, social events, walks in the garden, and grand balls. She would need a whole chamber alone to house the clothing, but, by the way they’d spoken, that’s exactly what she’d have. They’d measured her feet as well, and her head for hats. Her sister Lavinia would be so envious of the bonnets, sunhats, headbands, and elegant evening headdresses they’d described in detail.
Then this evening, there’d been another long seven-course dinner in the grand dining room for only the four of them. Everything was ornate, down to the sparkling white tablecloth trimmed in gold thread. The dowager and Lady Audrey had seemed totally unimpressed.
Emma had been thankful for the lively dialogue and funny s
tories of Beranger’s distant cousin Justin. He’d kept the conversation moving nicely and drew her out by asking more than a few questions about Colorado. Wanted a detailed description of her sisters and what they did, their businesses, and how they spent their time. The English were fascinated with the American West and thought cowboys, outlaws, and gunslingers were one and the same. They had no concept of the vastness of the land and how large the states and territories were.
Emma scrunched her pillow and rolled over, trying to get comfortable. I wonder what my love is doing right now? She huffed and felt her eyes sting. He’s sleeping, of course, like I should be. He’ll be home soon enough tomorrow, and all will be well.
The bed felt massive. She thought of their previous night together and blushed in the darkness. Marriage was wonderful. The hidden secrets had been well kept, and although she’d had some ideas, they paled in comparison to reality. She’d been a fool. Especially after she’d put up such a fuss to her sister Belle about never wanting to fall in love.
Unable to get comfortable, Emma turned to her other side and tucked her folded hands beneath her cheek, staring at the candle. The tiny yellow flame flickered in the darkness. The bedchamber was chilly, as she’d found most of the castle to be, even though it boasted fifteen fireplaces that burned all day long. Keeping a grand place like Ashbury running smoothly took a vast amount of work.
A sound outside her window stopped her thoughts. Their bedroom was located on the fourth floor—No, third, she corrected herself. High enough that nothing could harm her. Still, she felt edgy.
Angry at her wakefulness, Emma climbed from the bed and padded silently to the carved bureau, where the letter from her father was propped against an empty vase. She stared at the envelope for several moments, a deep longing tightening her throat. Why hadn’t she opened it yet? The handwriting appeared shaky, a stray line here and there in her name where one should not be.
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