The Lodestone

by Charlene Keel

  Old Sam watched Cleome follow her granda toward the kitchen door, her hips moving rhythmically under her faded blue gown. Slender as a reed she was, but with a roundness in the right places. She couldn’t expect any respectable man to wed her, and he’d seen the way Young Sam looked at her of late. But the lad would have to set his sights in another direction. T’was a pity, that’s what it was.

  **

  Not wishing to add to the magnitude of her grandfather’s impending headache, Cleome quietly closed the kitchen door, depositing her flower basket on a side table. As evidenced by the trail of water from the kitchen through the door to the dining room, Della, the scullery maid, was already washing down tables, and Fanny was tying on her apron. Jacqueline, as could be expected from her privileged station, was not about as yet.

  The resentful set of Fanny’s thin lips heralded a day of bickering between the two serving maids. In Fanny’s opinion, it was bad enough the master had employed one of the enemy, with work so scarce; but to take her to his bed (and grant her the accompanying considerations) was completely unforgivable.

  The sound and smell of pork sizzling on the spit and the fragrant aroma of simmering coffee awakened Cleome’s appetite, which began a youthful demand for satisfaction. With one hand, she took an earthenware mug from the cupboard and with the other, she grasped the huge coffeepot, using one of the mitts knitted a quarter of a century before by Old Sam’s wife. She wanted to have her breakfast before guests started coming down, but she must see to her grandfather first.

  “Good morning, Granda,” she said, easing the mug to the table in front of him. He was hunched over, his hands gripping his head. His morning-after miseries could go either way—disappear completely or hit him like the tortures of Hell. She could tell he was not yet sure of this one.

  “Oh, lass. Lass. Me head’s in a vise, it is.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Oh, my. ‘I shouldn’t wonder’ indeed! You sound like your Grandma, God rest her soul.” He raised his eyes heavenward, “I expect Adelaide’s givin’ ’Im an earful along about now. I wonder He managed to do anything right afore she arrived to give Him direction.”

  Knowing she should be firm with him Cleome tried to stifle a laugh, and she almost spilled his coffee. Mrs. Tibbits placed a steaming plate of pork, biscuits and drippings in front of him.

  “The Almighty’s got ears, ‘E has,” the cook muttered. She could take liberties with the master; he didn’t mind. She wouldn’t have dared such an exchange with the old mistress—and she revered the memory of her ladyship all the more because of it.

  “Aye, but you know,” William Desmond returned with renewed vigor, “Adelaide’s most likely talked ’em off by now!”

  He chuckled softly, an indication that he would not have to suffer the consequences of a night of revelry. Cleome could no longer suppress her mirth. Her grandfather’s laughter was the contagious sort, and it was a shame it had lain fallow for so long. Breaking into giggles, she threw her arms around him but he waved her away.

  An indignant snort as Fanny swept out of the kitchen into the dining room told Cleome that Jacqueline was down. She came into the room rubbing her eyes and yawning, and as Cleome accepted the heaping plate Mrs. Tibbits had prepared for her, the French woman bid her a sleepy good morning. Cleome smiled in return and Jacqueline bent down to kiss William’s brow; then she turned to fill her own mug with coffee. Out of the corner of her eye, Cleome saw her grandfather’s hand reaching out to pinch Jacqueline’s ample bottom. Grandmamma must be turning in her grave, Cleome thought as she took her place at the table next to her grandfather. Good, she added silently, to herself, good.

  **

  Assaulting the dust on the reception desk, Cleome rubbed the soft linen cloth across it so hard that her efforts threatened to strip its glossy finish. Try as she might, she could not stay the recurring recollection of her meeting at Easton Place with the daunting stranger; and she wondered who he was. His eyes had seemed to look into the deepest recesses of her mind, as if to uncover any secret she might have. He had been more frightening than Garnett and his father put together. Thinking of Garnett made her attack the desk with renewed vigor. How dare he speak to her in such a familiar manner!

  The last time she had seen him, he’d been an annoying schoolboy and she but a child. She’d gone out with Fanny to pick plums for her grandmamma’s tea and he’d come out of the bushes and demanded some of them. When she refused, he’d thrown mud at her and ruined her dress. Grandmamma had chastised her severely for her unladylike behavior and the state of her frock. And yesterday, he’d addressed her like an old friend. His easy manner toward her made her wary. Her grandmother had warned her she would have to be careful, for the question of her birth meant that men, rich and poor alike, would think they could have their way with her. Well, she swore to herself, none of the lads from the village had been permitted to play with her when they were all children and she had no intention of bowing to their will now.

  She was so deep in thought as she cleaned the lower shelf that she didn’t hear the door open and steps pacing evenly across the tiled floor, and she didn’t realize someone else was in the room until the tinkling of the little bell kept on the counter alerted her. Coming up too quickly, she sent the ink blotter flying; and it landed in front of the tall stranger. Without a trace of a smile, he picked it up and held it out to her.

  “I believe this is yours, mademoiselle,” he said to her for the second time in as many days. “This is a most disarming habit you have, throwing things at my feet. It causes me to wonder what will lie there next. I trust it will not be anything too precious.”

  “Thank you,” Cleome managed as she took the blotter from him. Then, in the polite, detached voice her grandfather had taught her to use with forward gentlemen, she added, “Are you stopping here, sir? Will you be needing a room or a meal?”

  “Yes to both—and a bath,” Drake ordered. “I’ll need rooms for two or three days, at least. I would also like a parlor or sitting room at my disposal. Can you accommodate me, mademoiselle?” he asked, his voice low.

  “I shall inquire, sir,” Cleome replied, opening the registry book and placing it before him. She dipped the quill into the inkwell and held it out to him; and as he took it from her, his big hand closed over her small one. Much against her will, she looked up at him. His lips parted in a lazy smile, revealing straight, perfect teeth; and his hazel eyes surveyed her with appreciation. Quickly, she withdrew her hand, as if it had come in contact with a hot coal. He signed the registry; and as she looked down to see his name, Drake Stoneham, written in a strong, flowing hand, she had an unsettling premonition that nothing in her life would ever be the same.

  At that moment, her grandfather came into the room holding a mug of steaming coffee. On seeing Drake, he grinned and put it down on the desk, eager to see to the comforts of a guest who looked so prosperous.

  “Sir! I trust my granddaughter has arranged for your needs. You’ll not come across finer food or a more restful bed, not in any inn ‘twixt here and London.”

  “I happen to be going the other way,” Drake responded. “But I am certain your claim applies. Well, I’ll make my own judgment about the bed, as sleep is what I need more than anything else. Wake me at teatime with a hot bath. I’m expecting company this evening for dinner and cards. I hope there’s a parlor attached to my room.”

  “I’m afraid not,” William apologized. “Our lodgings are comfortable but not so grand. You and your guests are welcome to use my own parlor.”

  Cleome recognized the glow in her grandfather’s eyes, though his demeanor was humility itself. He would play the unassuming innkeeper, even when Mr. Stoneham, out of appreciation for the use of the sitting room, invited him to join the game. At first, Granda would refuse, declaring that he had duties to attend; then, when he had observed their individual gaming styles, he would let them persuade him. How he loved the cards! Gambling had been the only pastime he’d eve
r had, to her knowledge, that Grandmamma Adelaide sanctioned, for it was a gentleman’s game. She had even allowed him to teach Cleome, and the girl was as skilled at cribbage as her grandfather.

  “I fear our fair weather will not hold much past suppertime,” Granda was saying over his shoulder as he led Drake Stoneham up the stairs to his room.

  **

  Ramona’s room, in accordance with her wish, was kept as shadowy as her mind had become. She always wanted the curtains drawn, for there was protection in the darkness. It puzzled her that none of them, except Mary, who tended the innkeeper’s family, understood her need of the dark.

  There was a soft rapping on the door and Ramona closed her eyes, pretending sleep, for it gave her such comfort to be kissed awake by her sweet bairn. Oh, she must remember not to use that common word if her mother peeked in the day, for that would give the wretched woman an excuse to fly into a rage. Adelaide the adder will burst if she gets madder. Adelaide the adder will burst if she gets madder.

  Ramona loved the rhyme Old Sam had made up about her mother so long ago. She’d been a child when she had first heard it. There was a vague memory of Old Sam flapping her braids about as he had chanted it in his attempts to cheer her. She had worn braids as a child; and she wore braids now. She had to remind herself often that she was a grown woman with a child of her own—a child so lovely it sometimes hurt to look at her. She wondered where the years had flown. Somehow, she’d lost track.

  The only time Ramona had worn her hair loose and free was when Jimmy Parker had called on her, when he had walked with her, when he had been the first and only and last man to press his lips against hers, and oh! Where was he and when was he coming back? She had waited so long. He had promised to return in spite of her mother, and return he would. And then, she could get out of bed and put on her traveling outfit—the brown velvet gown with satin trim, tiny pearl buttons and matching cape—for she and Jimmy would be leaving on their wedding trip. At last, they could begin their lives together. Of course, they would have to take Cleome. Ramona frowned, confused again. There was dear Cleome, so they must have already taken their wedding trip. It made her head ache so, trying to remember.

  **

  The door opened with hardly a sound and there was a light swish of skirt across the carpet as Cleome stepped into her mother’s room. Balancing a tray in one hand, she closed the door with the other as she looked down at the motionless form, preparing herself for another day of trying to coax Ramona out of the darkness. She put the tray down on the bedside table and bent to kiss her mother’s cool cheek.

  “Mother? Wake up, dear. It’s morning and you must eat a little.”

  Obediently, Ramona’s eyes opened and the hint of a smile played at her pale mouth. A wave of compassion swept over Cleome and she lifted the woman, as lightly as if she had been a babe, into a sitting position. Then she fluffed the pillows and propped them behind her mother.

  “’Tis a lovely day,” the girl spoke cheerfully as she poured out the tea. “I think it will be warm.” She buttered one of Mrs. Tibbits’s light, fluffy biscuits and held it out but Ramona made no move to take it. “Granda fell into the watering trough,” Cleome announced, finding it impossible to stay the laughter that naturally followed this piece of news.

  “Mamma must be furious,” Ramona said fearfully, taking the biscuit at last and setting it back down on the tray. Cleome held the cup of tea to her lips, waiting patiently for her to sip. Ramona seemed to cling more passionately than ever to the past these days, even if it meant forgetting that Adelaide Houghton Desmond was dead and buried.

  “No,” Cleome answered. “She doesn’t know. Granda’s all nice and dry and comfy now, so there’s no worry.”

  “Cleome, you must keep her away from me,” Ramona begged. “I cannot face up to her again so soon. I really cannot.”

  “There, now,” Cleome soothed. “She’ll not bother you. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Ramona’s thin chest swelled, then collapsed, and a slight puff of air separated her lips as relief swept through her wasted body. “What a sweet bairn you are, Cleome,” she said. “What would I do without you?”

  “Do not fret about that,” Cleome assured her. “I’ll always look after you.”

  “Oh, lass. You do make me so proud. And your Grandma fair to bustin’. Her learnin’ took with you. Me, I’m a disappointment to her. Always was.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. You are delightful, nothing else.”

  Cleome hated the bitter bile of resentment that rose in her soul when she thought of the mistreatment her mother had endured at her grandmother’s hands. Clearly, Grandmamma should have married into her own class, a class that was as much a mystery to Cleome as it was to Ramona. In her youth, Grandmamma had been a great beauty, much sought after by eligible young gentlemen whose fortunes matched her own. Her father, the formidable Henry, Lord Houghton, had selected a bridegroom for her and provided her a handsome dowry. But, as Grandmamma had reminded any who would listen, she had sacrificed her inheritance and her place in society for a man whose social standing was far beneath her own.

  Grandmamma thought she could eventually regain Sir Henry’s favor—but to his death, he ignored her entreaties and she was stuck with the bargain she’d made. When she married, he’d allowed her to take from home only her trousseau and a brass and porcelain bathtub. And he insisted her new husband accept her dowry which, according to gossip around the inn, Granda had given over completely to Grandmamma. But Lord Houghton never spoke to her again, and he never forgave her for marrying a man he considered little better than a servant.

  Nine years and one child after what she called her Great Mistake, Adelaide’s dowry was gone and she could no longer afford to visit London to pursue reconciliation with her family. By that time, Ramona (whom Adelaide had always left at the Eagle’s Head with her husband) was more comfortable with William Desmond’s class than she would ever be with Adelaide’s. At that shocking realization, Adelaide took to her bed in a fury of weeping, declaring that the damage was done and she could never undo it. When Ramona grew up, she fell in love with Jimmy Parker, the tinsmith’s son; but Grandmamma Adelaide had sent him away before Cleome was born, and Ramona had begun her slow flirtation with death. Cleome often thought that if her father had been allowed to stay, her mother would have recovered from the experience of childbirth.

  Cleome left the biscuit on the bedside table, knowing full well that it would be there still when Mary came round later to tidy up. When Ramona had drained the last of her tea, Cleome kissed her again and promised to look in on her later. Morning was half gone and she had much to do. As she made her way downstairs, Fanny’s shrill voice grated on her ears.

  “How many times must you be told, Jacqueline?” the maid asked sarcastically. “If you don’t mash the tea properly, you get no flavor!”

  Cleome reached the bottom of the stairs to see Fanny with her arms akimbo, a fist digging into each of her bony hips. Her stringy, unkempt hair was so blond it was almost devoid of color, and her tight, thin lips and razor-sharp nose made her look even more mean-spirited than she was. The French woman was easily intimidated by the strident English serving maid, whose daily pleasure it was to make her feel inadequate.

  “If you please,” Cleome said quietly as she entered the dining room where the two women faced each other. Startled, they turned to her and she went on with firm, no-nonsense authority, “Get the tables cleared, then Jacqueline will help Mary with the rooms. You, Fanny, go and see if Tibbits needs you in the kitchen.”

  **

  Fanny opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it. Though little more than a girl, Miss Cleome was the mistress, after all, with Lady Adelaide gone. It was difficult to think of her that way, after so many years of watching her grow. But Miss Ramona was in no fit condition to take charge—and never would be. Cleome was learning and she was the light of the master’s life. Jacqueline had already begun to see to her tables; and with a bend of her kne
e to Cleome, Fanny followed suit. She knew which side her bread was buttered on. With the wages William Desmond paid her and considerations from happy customers an’ all, some folks would say it was buttered on both sides. She wouldn’t risk her livelihood for the likes of the master’s French whore.

  **

  Cleome wondered if she would ever feel comfortable ordering them all about. When she was a little girl, Fanny had washed her, fed her and even played with her a bit, until she had been caught by Adelaide in the act of “spoiling the child.”

  The truth was, Adelaide hadn’t wanted her granddaughter to go the way her daughter had. She’d lost her chance to make Ramona a lady, and she declared she would not make the same mistake with Cleome, who must be ready to take her place in society when her Grandfather Houghton came to his senses. Adelaide dressed Cleome in clothes ordered up from London, taught her to speak like the gentry, and tutored her in refinements that would be of no use to the wife of a farmer or a tradesman. It had placed Cleome irrevocably between two worlds—the aristocracy, of which she knew little and desired to know less, and the simple country folk, with whom her grandmother had never allowed her to associate.

  The remainder of the day was uneventful except for a skirmish between Fanny and Della as to who would take Mr. Stoneham his bathtub and awaken him from his nap. Della insisted she could not do it, for the prospect of rousing an adult male with the news that she had prepared so intimate an ablution terrified the innocent kitchen maid. Fanny, in contrast, was eager to serve Mr. Stoneham but she was needed downstairs. A party of six bridesmaids, the bride, a red-faced papa, a nervous mamma and an assortment of companions, chaperones and maids to the young ladies had stopped in that afternoon. As they were in danger of being late for the ceremony, they were demanding a hearty repast to fortify them for a night of traveling over rough country roads. Cleome knew that her assistance would be needed also, as badly as her grandfather hated to see her waiting tables; and it was out of the question for Fanny to be excused from her duties.