“But Miss Cleome,” argued Della, turning considerably paler. “I cannot! I’ve never waked a gentleman for his bath afore. He might be na—” she couldn’t speak the word. “He might not have any clothes on!” she finished miserably.
So Cleome ordered Mickey, the stable boy, to set the heavy wooden tub in place and then help Della carry buckets of hot water upstairs. When all was ready, he would wake Mr. Stoneham. Mickey was a cheerful, strapping lad and he was happy to trade the stables for the kitchen, where Mrs. Tibbits would be sure to slip him a taste of something delicious. Fanny sulked all during tea and afterwards, while clearing away. Cleome was determined to ignore her and had a smile for Young Sam when she entered the kitchen with a tray full of dishes and found him there.
“Uh, Miss Cleome, if you please,” he said awkwardly. “I be needing Mickey in the stables now, with the weddin’ party all prancin’ to be off, and all.”
“Of course,” she replied sweetly. “And he has my thanks for sparing our Della an everlasting mortification.” Young Sam nodded at Della, who blushed and looked away quickly after returning his greeting. Cleome wondered if the scullery maid was in love with the groom. Well, she thought, he’d never find better. Della was a solid, dependable girl and would make Young Sam a good wife. Although Cleome knew that she herself would never marry, she refused to begrudge happiness to those who could.
Mickey rose from the servant’s tea table, his battered cap in his hands, and informed her that Mr. Stoneham’s bath was finished and the tub cleared away. The gentleman required just one more pail of hot water to finish his shaving, he said, which Della was preparing at that moment. Fanny entered the kitchen then, also laden with a full dish tray, and volunteered to take it up.
As unschooled as she was in the art of seduction, Cleome didn’t know what Fanny might do; but she was sure the maid was up to some kind of mischief. Fanny was a good, hard worker, Granda had told her after Grandmamma died and he relied upon Cleome more and more to help run the inn, but she needed firm guidance or she was sure to get into trouble. “Thank you, Fanny,” Cleome replied. “But I can manage one pail of water.”
**
“Come in!” he roared when she knocked on his door. She opened it to find Drake Stoneham bare from the waist up. His back was to her and muscles rippled across it as he stretched one arm out to grope for a towel. With the other hand, he rubbed his eyes, which were tightly closed. “Dammit, boy! Get in here and fetch me a towel ere I go blind! I’ve got soap in my eyes!”
Quickly, Cleome entered, set the bucket down, and dipped a towel in the hot water. She thrust it into his hands and he quickly flushed out his eyes.
“Shall I call for help, Mr. Stoneham?” she inquired, alarmed. Surprised, he turned to her, opened his eyes and stared at her.
“Oh. It’s you.” As he took the towel away from his face, it was her turn to be surprised. He had shaved off his thick black beard, revealing a firm, square jaw and strong chin. His massive chest tapered down to a slim waist and his fine, white teeth gleamed as he smiled at her. She knew she had never seen a more handsome man.
“Shall I call for help, sir?” she repeated.
“No. I’m all right now.” He moved closer to her. “I’m in your debt, Miss Cleome.” His voice slid like dark silk over her name, attracting her like a magnet. She struggled to remain aloof and impersonal.
“Not at all. Mickey has had to return to the stables. It was no trouble, I assure you,” she said, backing out of the room. “If there’s more you require, you have but to ring the bell and I shall send someone straightaway.” As she closed his door, cutting off his view of her, she had again that inexplicable, yet somehow pleasant, sensation of breathlessness.
Chapter Four
By evening, the monstrous clouds building up in the east and threatening to pour out the heavens had dispelled the brief warmth of spring, just as William Desmond had predicted; and a nagging chill had settled over the inn. It was Cleome’s habit to take the record books into the downstairs sitting room after dinner and tally up the expenditures and profits of the day. It was a chore she enjoyed and more than once, she had told her granda that balancing the books was like putting a great puzzle together. He always said it made him proud that she had inherited his quickness with sums.
She had been responsible for shrewd changes in the Eagle’s Head since her grandmother’s death, changes that had saved them a lot of money. Her active brain appreciated any exercise and since Mr. Stoneham had ordered coffee and brandy for his guests, Cleome thought she would have time to attend to her bookkeeping. She was bending over the huge ledger, a rose-colored shawl draped about her shoulders, the feather of the quill pen resting against her cheek, when the door opened and Garnett led the gentlemen into the sitting room. With him were Lord Easton, Sir Rudgely Foxworth and Sir Rudgely’s brother-in-law from Manchester, who owned several coal mines.
“Oh, I say!” Garnett exclaimed on seeing her there. “I believe we’re intruding. I do beg your pardon, Cleome.” He did not sound the least bit contrite.
“Not at all,” she replied with measured courtesy. “Grandfather told me Mr. Stoneham was to have access to the sitting room after dinner. I am finished here.”
“Do not leave on my account,” Drake urged, his voice as smooth as fresh cream. “There’s room for both our endeavors.”
“Although how I’ll be able to concentrate on anything with such a lovely presence in the same room, I cannot fathom,” Garnett interjected, taking the seat nearest Cleome. “What are you studying so intently? Surely not lessons from school.”
Cleome didn’t like his familiar manner, especially in front of Mr. Stoneham and the others, for it made it appear that she and Garnett had a more intimate relationship than that of neighbors. But all eyes were turned on them, as if every man there would relish any return on her part that might instigate a bit of gossip. Lord Easton glared at Garnett and looked at Cleome with obvious disapproval, and she resolved that Garnett must be put off for once and all.
“I am working, sir,” she replied, rising gracefully from her chair. She closed the ledger and replaced the quill in its stand. “Seeing to the books is only one of the duties required of me.” She paused, waiting for the full inference of her words to sink in. But as her pride would not permit her to totally accede to the class differences that would forever divide them, she continued, “I do not recall our last meeting, before yesterday, with any fondness. I trust the years have taught you manners that befit a gentleman of your standing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my day’s work is not yet done.”
Her head high, she left the room; but not before she noted the relief that swept across Lord Easton’s features. His precious heir was safe from her wicked clutches. Cleome knew that’s what he was thinking and she took pleasure in imagining how surprised his lordship would be if he knew what she really thought of his pampered offspring. She had no way of knowing it, but the look in Drake Stoneham’ eyes conveyed a far different message—one of approval for her discriminating tastes.
**
A rumble of thunder shook the house, lightning flashed, and pounding rain battered the cobblestones outside as Cleome put her books away. Taking a candle, she went upstairs to look in on her mother. Ramona was fretful and restless, as she always was when the weather was bad. It had been storming wildly when the ruffians Adelaide had hired had torn Jimmy Parker from her arms by. That night—their wedding night— he had been beaten senseless and left to die. Ramona had not seen him since. Cleome knew this much of the story from Mary, the woman who was friend and nursemaid to her mother; and she had overheard gossip in the kitchen. So she knew the sounds of a summer storm had the power to plunge her mother deep into nightmares of the past. During such times, Ramona avoided sleep, for sleep was no escape.
“It’s all right, Mary,” Cleome told the woman bending anxiously over her mother. “I’ll stay with her. Get some rest. I expect the gentlemen will be late at their cards. You can clean the p
arlor in the morning.”
“Aye, Miss,” Mary said, with tears in her eyes. “She’s bad tonight.” Mary and Ramona had played together as children, and she loved her mistress like a sister. “I wish there was a way to ease her sufferin’,” she continued. “But there. What’s done is done.”
“You’re a daily comfort to her, Mary. Go on, now; I’ll call if you’re needed.” Cleome read to Ramona for a while and then sang to her over the wind and rain, but it was two in the morning before the invalid finally settled down and dozed off. Cleome pulled back the drapes and watched the downpour for a few minutes; and then she took the candle, intent on retiring to her room, but she met Jacqueline on the landing.
“Are they still at it?” she inquired. “Has Granda joined the game?”
“Oui,” Jacqueline replied, distraught. “Oh, mademoiselle! He is over his head with that one. He will not win from him.”
“Well, then, ’tis what he deserves. Perhaps it will teach him a lesson.”
“He has already lose too much. All of his pockets money. Now he makes open the strongbox.”
“So, he is up to his tricks, then? I shouldn’t worry. You know how cunning he is,” Cleome tried to reassure her.
“But like this, I never see him. It is as if he hates this tall man. He cannot stop himself. Mademoiselle, I have see men lose everything, and I know. Your grandfather is not himself when he plays against this stranger.”
Suddenly, Cleome’s chest felt as if it were filled with chunks of ice. Jacqueline’s anxiety is contagious, she thought, but her grandfather knew what he was about. “I’m sure there’s nothing to fear,” she said at last. “I’ll look in on them. Go to bed, now.”
Cleome pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders and, shielding her candle from drafts, she hurried to the kitchen. As her excuse to investigate the events taking place in the parlor, she would serve some refreshments to the gentlemen. While the coffee was brewing, she sliced bread into generous pieces and placed them on a large platter. She was about to follow suit with the cheese when she heard a noise behind her and turned, startled to see Garnett Easton standing in the doorway, his elongated shadow falling across the kitchen floor.
“I saw you pass the door of that infernal room of disaster,” he said. “I thought you might need assistance, as it is unusual for young ladies to go gadding about in the middle of the night.”
“I can manage, thank you,” she said. She started to ask him to return to his friends, then thought better of it. “Room of disaster?” she ventured. “What do you mean?”
Cleome could see that her conversational tone surprised Garnett, but he quickly recovered. Putting his hands behind his back, he ambled into the kitchen to stand next to her. “My pockets were emptied straightaway,” he told her. “That Stoneham fellow is quite good. A professional, I’d wager. I say, is that feast for us?”
“I thought my grandfather would like something to eat,” she said with careful detachment, moving away from him to tend to the coffeepot.
“’Pon my word, Cleome! Surely you do not intend to hold one little mud cake against me for the rest of my life. Here now, look. I’ll get down on my knees to beg your pardon, if only you’ll forgive me,” he declared. “Will that do? You look so lovely standing there in the firelight. I would love to paint your portrait!”
The sight of Garnett on his knees with the countenance of a love-stricken calf was too much for Cleome. She burst into laughter. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Garnett,” she admonished. “Please. Get up. What would your father think?”
“I find I do not care what he thinks, when it comes to you,” Garnett said, sounding as sincere as he was surprised. “Of course, my mind and his rarely run along common ground these days. At any rate, I’ll not get up ’till you say all is forgiven.”
“Very well. All is forgiven,” she said magnanimously, offering him her hand. “Now do get up. You look positively silly.”
“That’s how you make me feel,” he answered, scrambling to his feet and reluctantly releasing her hand. “I say—where did you learn to ride a horse like that? You were absolutely smashing yesterday, riding off with your hair flying behind you like an exotic gypsy princess. You fair took my breath away!”
Recalling those events was embarrassing for Cleome; and if Garnett’s present loose tongue was any indication which way the conversation would go, she wanted to change the subject before he was off about her riding with no saddle.
“If you really want to be helpful, Garnett, you might take this tray out to the sitting room.” As she spoke, she efficiently placed mugs, spoons, cream, sugar, honey and jam on the tray with the bread and cheese. “I’ll follow with the coffee.”
“For you, Cleome, anything!” he declared. “I must start immediately to make up for my past sins. As of this moment, I am your slave. Truly.”
She laughed again and it was a lovely feeling. When Garnett preceded her into the sitting room and stood back to hold the door open for her, her cheeks had the ruddy glow of youthful good spirits, and a becoming smile lit her features. But instantly, the atmosphere of doom that cloaked the players sent a chill racing through her body and her soul.
Drake’s eyes, as he sat at the mahogany gaming table opposite her grandfather, flickered over her briefly and then returned to the cards he held in one hand. Beads of perspiration dotted William Desmond’s upper lip. The cards he held were bending with the force of his grip and his breathing was shallow. Lord Easton and his two friends sat quietly in their chairs as if participating in a wake.
“Grandfather?” Cleome asked softly. “I thought you might be hungry, so I—”
“Thank you lass,” William broke in vaguely. “Put it over there. There’s a good lass.” The stranger did not move a muscle and William stared transfixed at his cards.
“I believe you were about to reveal your hand to me,” Drake said without an ounce of emotion, ending the agonizing silence that engulfed the room.
Cleome’s eyes left her grandfather’s pale, impassive face and traveled to the other men, as if seeking reassurance. Then she noticed her grandfather’s pegboard, which was used for keeping the cribbage score, in the center of the table. His biggest board, it had six hundred holes—and each player had only one left to fill, evidence that this was the game that had occupied most of the evening. The last time Cleome had seen it used was when her grandfather had played with Squire Greenley for a pound a peg. Her granda had won, but that marathon match, too, had taken all night.
Also on the table were the record books Cleome had been working on earlier. Resting on top of them was the deed to the Eagle’s Head Inn and surrounding properties. She recognized it because it was written on fine parchment, folded in thirds and had once been sealed with red wax. It was the only such document in the house, to her knowledge.
“I congratulate you, sir,” William Desmond said quietly, his voice hollow.
“You’d have done better to let me win the colt,” Drake said evenly. He threw the cards down on the table and rose with a quick, agitated movement.
“Not Epitome, Granda!” Cleome cried. “Surely not!”
“No, my dear. I have not lost your horse. He, at least, is safe.”
Laurence Easton turned to Drake with a smile and thanked him for an entertaining evening. While Lord Foxworth and his brother-in-law bid Drake a good night, Garnett took Cleome aside.
“I shall look in on you tomorrow, my dear,” he whispered. “Until then, try not to worry. I’ll see you safely through this difficulty.”
When Garnett and the others had gone, William said humbly, “And now, Mr. Stoneham, I’m sure you would like to see your property.”
“Dammit all, Desmond,” Drake replied. “I have no wish to ruin a working man. Perhaps a round of whist will recover everything for you.”
“Ah, but I have nothing more to wager,” the old man responded. “And I’ll not risk the colt. The game is ended, sir. It is done. Cleome, if you’ll do the honors.”
The tall stranger drew in a deep, heavy breath and said, “Very well then. Show me every room not presently occupied by a guest or a servant.”
Cleome turned to her grandfather with a sinking realization of what he had done. They had lost everything. He had gambled away their livelihood. She was shocked at how shrunken and old he suddenly looked. She wanted to put her arms around him and say, “Do not worry. We’ll think of something.” But the shame in his eyes prevented her.
“Go on, lass,” William whispered. “Do as Mr. Stoneham bids. I’ll see to the locking up. We can talk the morrow.”
Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and as she blinked them back, her throat tightened with pity for the man who had been both father and grandfather to her. She could only nod. Her head held high, she turned to Drake Stoneham.
“If you please, sir,” she said in a voice so low she could scarcely hear it herself. “Come with me.” She picked up the lamp and her footsteps sounding hollow in the silent, sleeping house, she led him through the first floor. Besides the sitting room, there were the small parlor; the dining room for guests of the inn; the large parlor; the breakfast room, which was set aside for the family but hadn’t been used since Grandmamma Adelaide’s last meal there; the immense kitchen with its well-stocked pantry; and the reception area, which contained the registry desk, a small writing table for travelers, and a boxed-in space Young Sam had built where trunks and valises could be stored.
The Lodestone Page 5
