by Louise Allen
With no guests and no lady of the house the maidservants, and Meg, had a relatively easy time of it after dinner. There was his lordship’s bed for one of the upstairs maids to turn down, curtains to be drawn, hot water to be taken up later, but that was all. Meg apologised to Mrs Harris and Heneage that she could not entertain them to tea in her parlour and went up to the library.
The heavy oak door was shut. Meg stood regarding the panels, one hand raised to knock. Think like a servant. That’s what you are now. An upper servant. His servant from the moment you took those keys. No more confidences, no more intimacies. He is your master now. She shivered, despite the warmth of the spring evening air, and knocked.
‘Come!’
‘Good evening, my lord.’ Meg bobbed a curtsy and came into the library, leaving the door wide open behind her. It was a dark, oppressive room with bookshelves that ran from floor to ceiling, lined with leatherbound volumes. A big globe stood in the window bay and deep leather chairs with small tables at their side were set about the space. The pictures all seemed to be etchings of classical sites and the thick carpet smothered the sound of her footsteps.
Despite the temperature of the air and the richness of the materials it felt emotionally cool. The whole house did, she realised. Or all the rooms she had seen so far above stairs. Cool, clean, orderly, sterile.
‘Good evening.’ Ross laid down the book in his hand and frowned at her. ‘Close the door and come and sit down, Meg.’ She shook her head at him as one of the footmen went past in the hall. ‘Mrs Halgate, then.’
‘I think it best if I leave the door, my lord.’ Meg sat down in the chair opposite his. ‘You asked me to read aloud, I believe.’
‘Yes.’ The frown deepened at her defiance, but he passed her a familiar book. ‘Gulliver’s Travels. I have reached chapter two,’ he added with a pointed look at the open door, ‘if you will continue from there.’
Meg took it, avoiding touching his hand as she did so. ‘Certainly. But before I do, there are some things I must ask.’ She tried to frame all the questions that were tumbling through her head in a way that was concise and would not irritate him with detail.
‘I need to know whether you want everything left exactly as it is or whether I may move things around, make changes. I need to know if there are any changes you wish to have made—any redecoration, for example. I am not certain what I can achieve in a few weeks, but I will do my best.’
‘A few weeks?’ He regarded her quizzically and she stared back, defiant. ‘No. Nothing.’ He looked around, apparently indifferent to his environment. ‘Do what you like, spend what you like.’
‘You told me to economise,’ she pointed out, her heart sinking at the apathy that had come back into his tone. He did not care. Or perhaps he cared too much and was erecting barriers against memory and familiarity in this house that had once been such an unhappy home.
‘I was being sarcastic. Check with me before you actually demolish and rebuild anything, otherwise I really have no interest.’
‘Very well.’ Somehow she must make him take an interest, make him care, or one day there would be nothing of the man left, just a cold, dead shell, quite safe from pain and pleasure alike. Meg opened the book and found her place. ‘Chapter two,’ she began.
Chapter Nine
It was eleven o’clock before Meg retired to bed. She had read two chapters to Ross, then removed herself, conscious of his heavy-lidded gaze on her as she went through the door. Neither of them had forgotten that kiss, it seemed, nor his promise to wait until she came to him as his mistress. Those memories seemed to be in the room with them like a third person. She could not delude herself he had not meant the words.
Mrs Harris was in the kitchen, pouring tea for Perrott and for Heneage who was comfortable at the table in a loose frock coat over his striped waistcoat and knee breeches. Meg accepted a cup gratefully. The warm, fragrant kitchen shared with the two middle-aged people at their ease and the amiable young valet felt like coming out of an emotional storm into tranquillity.
Damaris had changed the bed linen and brought her hot water and she had asked for her morning tea at six. But despite the luxury of a bedroom that did not rock under her feet and that had room to move about and the promise of a bed that was all hers to rest in, Meg found that she was not sleepy. Tired, most certainly, but her mind was running in circles like a dog in a spit-wheel.
She put the bunch of keys on the dresser, opened the window a little and sat by it with a notebook and a candle. Perhaps making lists would help her stop thinking about Ross as a man and not as her employer.
Clothes. Urgent! Falmouth shops, she wrote at the top. Or perhaps Penryn, which had seemed to have shops suitable for ladies rather than the needs of sailors. She must ask Ross for an advance on her salary if she was to wear something other than a sun-faded cotton gown. She would also ask him for the direction of his solicitor who would probably be the best person to ask about an enquiry agent. Solicitor, she added. Then she must hurry back to the house and explore from top to bottom and get to know the staff and the routine. House. Then there was the question of housekeeping. Mon—
Outside something moved across the courtyard entrance where it opened out into the gardens. She had the impression of a big man, moving in the moonlight without lantern or candle. Ross?
Meg sat for a moment after he vanished, wondering why she felt so uneasy. Why should he not walk around at night? They were his grounds, after all. She had not explored yet, but she realised they were virtually on the coast and that this side of the house must look out towards the sea.
She could not settle to her orderly list-making again. Meg got up, threw her shawl around her shoulders, took the key for the back door off her ring and went out into the darkened passage. At least being on the ground floor meant it did not take her long to get outside. She locked the door behind herself and ran across the courtyard, her skirts brushing the herbs in the central bed and sending a cloud of fragrance into the still air.
She found herself at the side of the house on a sweep of terrace that gave directly on to a sloping lawn. And, yes, now she was in the open, there was the sound of the sea and a breeze bringing the smell of it. In the distance the lights of a fishing village twinkled.
The tall figure in its fawn-coloured greatcoat was still in sight, limping. Yes, it was Ross. Was he all right? The pain and guilt in his voice when he had told her about his brother came back to her. Should he be alone? As she watched, he crouched down and vanished, all but his head, and she realised there was a ha-ha separating lawn and fields, an invisible wall to keep the cattle in their place.
Meg picked up her skirts and ran, her light shoes making no sound on the scythed grass, the moonlight showing her the dark line that marked the drop. It was easy enough to scramble down, provided she had no care for her old gown or the nettles at the bottom of the wall. Sucking her stinging hand, Meg walked on more cautiously now. The grass was rougher and the evidence that the cattle had been there was difficult to make out until one almost trod in it.
Ahead was the edge of a wood, a rarity on this windswept peninsula. In the moonlight the trees looked strange and gaunt, shaped by the wind and twisted by winter gales. Ross entered it and disappeared into the darkness. When Meg reached the place she found a narrow path descending quite steeply into a gully. Telling herself that English woodlands held none of the terrors of Spanish ones—wolves, bears and French snipers—Meg hurried on, wondering how far ahead Ross was. He made no noise at all, despite his size and his wounded leg, whereas she was all too aware of twigs snapping under her feet.
The path led her down to a stream, over a plank bridge, over a fence, up and into a wilder, denser patch of trees. The path became narrow and steeper—any moment now she would be out on to the low cliff top, surely?
Just when Meg decided she must have lost him, that her vague uneasiness was foolish and that any prudent woman would turn round and go back to her bed, she saw a light through
the trees and realised there must be a cottage ahead.
Taking great care where she trod, Meg crept forwards and found herself on the edge of a small clearing with a tumbledown dwelling in the centre that resembled nothing so much as some large woodland creature’s nest. Its owner was outside, and must have been sitting by the fire that blazed halfway between the cottage and the edge of the wood. But he was on his feet now, turned to face Ross who had stopped, perhaps four feet from him, as though uncertain of his welcome. Meg could see clearly in the firelight that he was a small man, whiplash thin with a brown, wrinkled face and grey hair that straggled from under a battered felt hat.
He must be Ross’s poacher, she guessed, as the two stood there, silent.
Then the old man spoke, his accent so broad that Meg had to strain to understand him. ‘You’ve been gone a powerful long time, boy.’
‘Aye, Billy. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s made a fine man of you.’ And the poacher stepped forwards and pulled Ross’s head down to kiss him on both cheeks.
The prodigal son, Meg thought, tears blurring her vision for a moment, then Ross straightened up and she saw his face and realised that he could smile, could be happy, and that there was still one person on this earth that he loved.
That’s all right, then. She swallowed hard, then turned to creep away as the baron hunkered down beside the poacher and began to talk. While that old man lived, Ross had someone to live for. But there had to be more to root him here and take the darkness out of his soul.
Ross buried his face in his hands, then raked his fingers through his hair, muttering obscenities in Spanish under his breath. Two solid hours of studying the estate books that had been deposited on his desk by Tremayne, his steward, had done nothing but make his head spin and the man’s stolid explanations were not much help.
Livestock prices, feed prices, manuring schedules, stone-walling repairs—it might as well be in Russian. One thing was sure—he was never going to get a grip on this by staring at books.
‘There is really no need for you to trouble yourself with it, my lord,’ the steward ventured. When Ross began to curse he had wormed his way back into the deep wing chair like a rabbit into its burrow. ‘Your man of business audits the books every quarter day and your late father did, if I may be so bold, give me his complete confidence.’
‘I am certain you are most capable, Tremayne.’ Ross shut the ledger and leaned back. He had ordered the desk moved so he was looking out over the rose garden and set the gardeners to bring it back into order. ‘And that my father’s confidence in you was well placed. But I have been an officer; I need to know what is going on under my command. Understand it. And I am not going to do that from ledgers. Tomorrow I’ll ride out with you and I’ll do so every day until I know this estate and its business at least as well as I knew my regiment and our strategy and tactics.’
There was a tap at the door, then a stranger was standing there. Ross stared and discovered it was Meg clad in a dark blue gown of plain cut but with a rich sheen. Her hands, crossed at her waist, were highlighted by crisp white cuffs, a white scarf was pinned precisely around her shoulders and on her head was an endearingly prim white cap. She had asked him for money first thing that morning and permission to take the carriage into Penryn—it seemed she was a rapid and effective shopper.
‘My lord. Excuse me for interrupting, but the tea tray has been set out in the Chinese Salon.’
Ross looked at the clock. Three o’clock—he had been in here precisely two hours. His self-appointed nurse obviously thought it time he exercised his leg. ‘We have not yet finished our business, Mrs Halgate.’
‘I have put out two cups, my lord,’ she countered, meeting his glare with an expression of bland incomprehension. She was attempting to manipulate him in some way, he was sure of it.
But Tremayne looked in need of tea, if not something stronger. Ross decided to humour them both, although why she had decided on the Chinese Salon, the most cluttered and uncomfortable room in the entire house, he had no idea. His great-grandfather had secured some lovely Chinese wallpaper and his wife had proceeded to ruin the effect by packing the room with every piece of Oriental ornament she could lay her hands on. He was going to be like a bull in a china shop in there.
Ross flung open the door and stopped dead. The jade-green curtains had been drawn back further than he had ever seen them and the salon was flooded with light. All the bronzes had gone and with them virtually all the tiny tables that had been covered in a jumble of porcelain. The exquisite wallpaper with its flowing patterns of birds and flowers and insects filled the room with colour and beauty and the only ornaments were a collection of white-and-green jade bowls. From the chimney breast the full-length portrait of his mother surveyed the scene in elegant approval.
‘My God,’ Ross murmured, walking in. ‘What have you done with it all?’ He found himself relaxing just standing there.
‘It is in the large dining room. I thought I had better see if you approved before I had it packed away. The portrait seemed to fit so well here.’ She hesitated, sending him a glance that seemed to assess his temper and the distance to the door. ‘But we can put it back on the stairs if you prefer.’
‘Leave it. Have all the rest sent up to the attics; there’s enough room up there to billet a regiment and I might want to hold a dinner party for fifty next week.’ There was that flickering glance again. Meg had not decided whether that was humour, sarcasm or if he truly was threatening to begin large-scale entertaining at the Court.
‘I suggest you postpone that until your leg is somewhat more healed, my lord. Standing around being pleasant to so many guests would be quite exhausting,’ she said, perfectly straight-faced, and Ross realised that she knew he had been teasing and was answering him in kind. He was not used to being teased by a woman. It was curiously pleasant to feel that other mind touching his, picking up the threads of his thoughts for a second and then passing them back again, twisted into another shape. Giles had done that, he recalled, and he had missed that.
But this was also arousing, he realised, watching Meg as she poured the tea and moved a dish of small cakes into the centre of the tea table with fussy precision. She is nervous because she wants to please me. It was somehow rather touching, and he found that he was interested in how her mind worked, why she was acting as she was. It was something he seemed to have lost a long time ago, this caring about someone else’s feelings, not just how they performed what he required of them.
‘Please ring if you require more hot water, my lord,’ she said, and was gone, leaving Ross frowning after her. For some reason he had thought she might stay for tea. But of course, Meg was his housekeeper now. Only his housekeeper.
‘Settling in all right, Mrs Halgate?’ Perrott looked up from brushing the breeches spread on the flat table and smiled at Meg.
‘After three and a half days?’ Meg paused in the doorway, shopping list in hand, and thought about it. She supposed that she was already developing a routine. ‘Yes, I am, and very comfortably.’
Certainly, from the practical point of view she could hardly hope for more pleasant employment. She breakfasted in her rooms, then walked around the house inspecting the maids’ work and issuing orders for the day. Then she would discuss housekeeping matters with Mrs Harris and Heneage and make lists. A housekeeper’s life appeared to revolve around lists: things to do, things to buy, things to mend, things to make.
‘And you, Mr Perrott?’
The valet grimaced. ‘If his lordship would be more predictable, life would be easier. And a smile wouldn’t come amiss, not that he isn’t pleasant enough. Please, thank you, makes his mind up and sticks to it. But as for persuading him in the direction of a tailor—I despair. And he’s hardly the size for ready-made. I’ve had to get out some of his late lordship’s clothes.’
‘I appear to have the easier task in making changes,’ Meg admitted. The chilly, overstuffed formality of the house did not s
uit Ross and could hardly help him come to terms with his new life. He had given her carte blanche to make changes, and after his positive response to the Chinese salon she was determined to carry on. After luncheon in her room she would direct the maids in attacking whichever room was next on her list: the Chinese Salon the first day, the Great Hall the second. She was wary of making anything too pretty, too feminine. Ross’s house needed to be a fit setting for a very masculine man, but she could see no need for it to be depressing.
By dint of borrowing two footmen she had removed the moth-eaten animal heads from the hall walls and had the displays of antique weapons polished until they shone. Some dark tapestries depicting the gloomier episodes in the Old Testament came down and a set of vivid, if rather bloodthirsty, hunting scenes were hung in their place. Bowls of ferns and red roses set the finishing touch and the old oak furniture seemed to glow in response. If Ross noticed, he said nothing, but she would not be downhearted. She was resolved to tackle his study next.
‘Will he be entertaining soon, do you know?’ Perrott shook out the breeches and folded them over his arm.
‘He has said nothing to me.’ There had been that remark about dinner parties for fifty, but presumably that was him teasing her.
Some visitors would make more work, but might lift Ross’s spirits, she supposed. For herself she was content with her quiet evenings. After dinner in the servants’ hall she read Gulliver’s Travels to Ross for an hour, then took tea in the kitchen before retiring to bed to read to distract herself from her worries about all the things that she did not know she should be doing and the things that she had probably done wrong.
She had found a battered copy of The New Town and Country Housekeepers’ Guide on the shelves and was working her way through a daunting agenda of matters that had never occurred to her to think about before, like taking ink stains out of mahogany.
There were moments when she felt something like a stab of fear at how easy it was to slip into the fiction that she really was a housekeeper, that she would be working here, not for weeks, but for years. When she was seeing Ross at a distance it was tempting to simply enjoy being near him, to probe the bittersweet ache of desire as one might a sore tooth. But when she had to act the housekeeper to his face, take his orders, behave as a servant, she could not deceive herself that this was anything but a painful charade. He did not want her as a housekeeper, she did not want him as an employer, in any capacity.
