One would have thought the death of William Desmond might initiate a truce between the scrawny English serving maid and the French woman, or at least minimize the bickering; but it was not to be so. Although Jacqueline assured Mr. Stoneham that she didn’t consider her lover’s death his fault, he always seemed to come upon her when she was weeping or drying her eyes. That the new master was kindly disposed towards Jacqueline was a thorn in Fanny’s side. Twice, Cleome had found it necessary to speak to her about the way she baited Jacqueline. And this morning, when Cleome asked Fanny to come to the study so they might have a word, Fanny’s sullen attitude had prompted a warning.
“I assign the duties here, not you or Jacqueline,” Cleome told her. “If they are not to your liking, Fanny, you must look for another post.”
“Another post, is it?” Fanny’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “We’ll see what the master has to say about that. Did ye stop to think there’s a reason I don’t want that French whore in me way here?” Her words as well as her impudence stunned Cleome.
“Fanny, I will not allow this,” she said at last.
“You will not allow!” Fanny crowed with laughter. “You be no better off than me now—than any of us—are you, me girl?” She rose to her full height and placed a fist on each bony hip. “Go on about me to the master and we’ll see who takes another post, for he likes me, you see. Ye’d be surprised how much he likes me.” Without waiting to be dismissed, she headed for the door.
“Fanny,” Cleome said sternly. “Come back here at once.” Fanny turned around, a sneer on her thin face, and waited for her to go on. “Whatever your relationship with our employer, he has hired me to supervise the running of this establishment. And whatever your problems with Jacqueline, keep them to yourself and attend to your duties. In the new master’s behalf, I will tolerate no less. Is that understood?”
With a smirk, Fanny replied, “As you say, miss.”
“Then you may go.” Cleome was shaken but she waited until Fanny was out of the room before she took a deep, steadying breath. She couldn’t imagine what Fanny’s lewd insinuation meant. But if Mr. Stoneham chose to dally with one of the serving maids, it was none of her affair. Why, then, did the thought of it make her ill?
The remainder of the morning, Cleome spent in an impotent anger that led to a raging headache. By afternoon, she was grateful for the pile of mending awaiting her next to the sewing basket in the small sitting room. This room had always been kept separate from the inn for the family’s use, and it was her refuge, for Mr. Stoneham hardly ever went there, preferring to check on repairs about the place in the morning and ride out into the countryside on his chestnut stallion in the afternoons.
It was difficult to conjure up a vision of the homely serving wench locked in Mr. Stoneham’s embrace, but if Fanny had indeed found favor in his eyes, there was nothing to be done. Cleome knew she had to keep a tight rein on Fanny or the maid would become completely useless, but it now appeared she would have to be careful how she did it, for she couldn’t take the chance of offending her employer.
She had toyed with the idea of seeking out Grandmamma Adelaide’s relatives and writing to them about her situation. Perhaps, if she could find them, they would have enough charity in their hearts to help, and Cleome would ask nothing for herself. If she could find a safe, quiet place for Ramona, she could get work nearby and visit her mother often. But after Adelaide’s death, Granda had thrown away all the letters from her friends and family. Cleome wouldn’t know how to begin looking for them in a big city like London.
As she mended a tear in Drake Stoneham’s breeches, she told herself she should be grateful if Fanny had managed to seduce him. Then he would not require Cleome’s services for . . . anything. A slight irritation surfaced, leaving her to wonder why she should mind so much, for with Fanny happily meeting the new master’s baser needs, it stood to reason that he would leave Cleome in peace. Holding his trousers up to see if her stitches allowed the garment to fall properly, she was again amazed at his length of limb. That was when she caught sight of Garnett Easton standing in the doorway, his hat in his hand.
“My dear,” he ventured, smiling at her shyly. “May I speak with you?”
Calmly, she folded the breeches and stood up to greet him, her face a careful mask of deference. “May I be of some assistance, milord?” she asked.
“No,” he replied, stepping further into the room. “But perhaps I can. ’Pon my word, Cleome, I do wish you’d sit down. You must not stand or hang your head when you speak to me. You certainly didn’t the day I threw mud at you and there’s no reason to start now.” She smiled at him before she could stop herself. “That’s much better,” he said, holding the chair for her.
In spite of her better judgment, she found she could relax in Garnett’s presence. He had not leaned close to her and whispered about . . . anything . . . as Mr. Stoneham had; and she had to admit she was glad to see him. He did nothing to intimidate her and always tried to put her at ease. She was desperately lonely and she missed her grandfather. Laughter was a balm she hadn’t sampled for weeks. Still, while Garnett was not nearly as terrifying as Drake Stoneham, she knew she must be careful with him, for she didn’t wish to give him any encouragement. Her grandmother’s long-ago warning about what happened to girls of her sort must be remembered at all costs. But, she told herself reasonably, she could at least have a friend.
“How are you, Cleome?” Garnett asked.
“Quite well, milord. I trust you do not mind if I continue with my sewing?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve something important to tell you.” He settled himself beside her. “Now look here, Cleome. I’ve had your predicament on my mind constantly since . . . since that unfortunate evening.”
“I thank you for your concern, milord, but you must not trouble yourself.”
“Of course I must. I want to. Our grandmothers were friends. Based on their high regard for each other—and mine for you—I’ve decided to do something about this reprehensible situation.”
Worried that he would expect something in return, she put up a hand in protest. “There’s no need, milord. Eventually, I will find a way out of this difficulty.”
“I may have done exactly that. Well, perhaps I am a bit premature but hang it all! I cannot abide the idea that you’re locked away here, working like some galley slave.”
“Mr. Stoneham has been very kind.”
“But he’s a stranger to you, Cleome,” he replied. “Now look, I’ve taken the liberty of posting a letter to a barrister in London, a man who looked after your great-grandfather Houghton’s legal affairs.”
“Oh, Lord Henry wants nothing to do with any of us.”
“Things have a way of changing over the years,” he said cheerfully. “There must be some charitable relative who would be willing to forgive your grandmother the dreadful sin of marrying out of her class.”
“What about my mother,” she ventured doubtfully. “And her sin?”
“We’ll worry about that later.” He reached out and patted her hand. “Perhaps we shan’t have to mention it at all. First, let us see what the solicitor has to say.”
“I must not get my hopes up only to be disappointed, milord.”
“My dear Cleome, couldn’t you possibly call me Garnett?” he asked tenderly. “You haven’t, you know, since that night we laughed together in the kitchen. I do not wish to be addressed by you as your lord. I wish to be—”
“Very well, Garnett,” she broke in solemnly, deciding to put the matter straight before he got any foolish notions into his head. “But you must remember my place, for I might forget if allowed such liberty.”
“Nonsense.”
“Please listen,” she continued. “I truly believe you’ve taken an interest in helping me because of your kind nature and I’m so grateful to know that I have at least one friend in the world. For that is what we must be—friends. Nothing more. And I would wish for nothing less.”
“I want to help you because I’ve found I care very much what happens to you,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “You are quite the loveliest, sweetest girl I have ever been privileged to know.”
“This is exactly what I wish to avoid,” she said firmly. “This turn of conversation must not be allowed, Garnett. My future—and likely my only future—is caring for my mother the best way I can. I do not intend to become some lady of leisure for a member of the landed gentry.”
“Cleome! I am shocked you’d think that I would consider such a thing! I have nothing but admiration for you. Please believe that I hold you in the greatest esteem!”
She went to the table where her grandfather had traded her security for the thrill of chance and searched through a stack of correspondence until she came upon a small envelope of crisp, expensive parchment. It was open and Mr. Stoneham had carelessly thrust the invitation, turned sideways, back into it. She held it up and he recognized his mother’s delicate script.
“This came from Easton Place this morning,” she told him. “You will notice the invitation is extended to the new master of the Eagle’s Head Inn, not to his housekeeper. My grandfather—though many’s the time he sat at cards with your father—was never invited to a ball in your home, nor do I expect to be. And all the admiration you hold for me cannot change that one particle. If we are to be friends, Garnett, we must be honest with each other, and we must view the situation realistically.”
“All right, then. I’ll abide by your wishes, Cleome, and keep my distance . . . for the present.” He handed the invitation back to her. She replaced it among the stack of papers on the table before she returned to her chair and again took up her mending. “But,” he added hopefully, “if you want to come to the ball, I’ll try to arrange it.”
“No,” she said. “I do not.” Actually, she loved to dance and would be thrilled at the chance to try out the steps Jacqueline had taught her, but certainly not with Lord Easton, his wife and all their society friends whispering about her—although it would serve them right, for all their years of snubbing her.
“Mamma doesn’t waste a moment,” Garnett mused. “She’s determined to introduce Drake into our circle. I wager she has a bride picked out for him already.”
A movement in the doorway drew their attention. “I believe there’s an old saying,” Drake Stoneham commented dryly, amused, as he watched them. “Something to the effect of ‘he who hesitates is lost,’ eh, Easton? I suppose ’tis true of the ladies as well.”
“Hullo, Drake!” Garnett replied, getting hastily to his feet. “I heard you’d returned from Newcastle. Thought I’d stop in and welcome you back.”
“Very kind of you,” Drake said, still leaning against the doorsill. “Will you stay to tea?” He spoke to Garnett, but his eyes were on Cleome. Although she tried to force her gaze to meet his own piercing one, it shifted away uneasily; and the helpless fury she felt whenever he was near was renewed. How dare he make her feel guilty for entertaining a childhood friend in her own parlor. But it was not her parlor, she reminded herself; it was his, and she was his servant. Servants did not entertain in the master’s sitting room.
When Drake spoke again, he turned his eyes at last upon Garnett. “If my housekeeper will convey my wishes to the kitchen, we’ll have our tea in here.”
Cleome saw Garnett’s jaw tighten in anger at Drake’s words, but there was nothing he could say to alter the situation. As she bent her knee to the new master and hurried out, she tried to find comfort in the friendship Garnett was offering. She had little hope that he would find even a distant relation who would give her and her mother a home, but it was nice that someone cared what happened to them. She sensed Garnett could be easily controlled, if his interest should become more than platonic. And she liked him—it was as simple as that.
Jacqueline and Fanny were busy in the public dining room, so Cleome had to serve Mr. Stoneham and his guest. She set the tray down before Drake who, with a graceful flourish of one large hand, indicated that she should pour it out. He was discussing horse racing with Garnett, and not once did he pause in his conversation. Garnett’s eyes met Cleome’s briefly when she handed him his cup. Her task finished, she went quietly to the door, hoping to make her escape without further notice.
“Miss Parker.” Drake’s voice stopped her and she turned to face him.
“Yes sir?” She waited expectantly while Garnett fidgeted in his chair.
“I’ve noticed in my perusal of the record books that you have quite a legible hand. I’d like you to join me in the study when you’ve had your tea and copy some correspondence for me. I have several letters that must be posted to London no later than tomorrow.”
“As you wish,” she replied. “Will there be anything else?”
“That’s all for now. Go and enjoy your tea, and pray do not rush on my account. I expect I’ll be with my guest for an hour or so.”
Again, she bent her knee to Drake; and as she turned to go, she saw that Garnett was staring morosely into his cup.
**
Earlier, when Garnett Easton had come thundering up to the door, Young Sam had been leading fresh horses around for the afternoon coach. The groom had quickly given the reins of the work nags to his grandfather so he could attend the gentleman. Thus, he had heard Easton ask for Cleome when Fanny opened the door to him. Now he watched with satisfaction as Easton took his leave. The new master had come in from his ride shortly after Easton’s arrival, and Samuel knew the dandified popinjay would have so little time alone with Cleome that it made his visit scarcely worth the effort.
Young Sam was not in the habit of speaking to his betters except when spoken to and he did not see any reason to break with this ironbound rule for survival. He could not fight tradition, so he obeyed it blindly. One of the bloody gentry could be on fire and he wouldn’t hear about it from Samuel, unless he asked was he on fire. His face a careful mask, he brought Garnett’s horse and placidly held the reins, waiting upon the heir to Easton Place with his own brand of contempt, carefully disguised as respect. Easton was annoyed, he was; and Samuel could guess the reason why. The master had interrupted whatever it was he had on his mind concerning Cleome, and serve ’im right, too.
The groom’s blood boiled at the thought of Garnett Easton with his fancy duds, alone in the same room with the girl. He didn’t mind Mr. Stoneham so much, for the new master was not one of the swells. Well, he thought, if I can’t have ’er, I’d rather see ’er go to Stoneham—a man’s man if there e’er was one—than being took advantage of by a simpering fop like Easton.
Even so, Samuel could not drive out of his memory the slight pressure of Cleome’s body against his the night he had carried her out of the stable. Repeatedly, since that night, a mounting need had plagued him, sending him repeatedly to the public house in Oakham where he could find satisfaction, until he had spent most of the money he had saved up for his future. He no longer liked turning to Fanny, who had taught him the baser pleasures when he was an eager boy coming into his manhood; but then, she was always willing and required naught but a few pretty words.
But it was none of those trollops he wanted, not the paid ones in Oakham nor the free ‘un, as eager as she was. He wanted Cleome, and now this flamin’ son of a lord was sniffing around the place, trying to put fancy notions into her head—notions that would get her nothin’ but trouble.
“If you will kindly let go of my horse,” Garnett snapped as he jerked the reins away from Young Sam and dug his heels into his horse’s sides.
The groom watched until Garnett disappeared from view, then he spat on the ground where the man had stood moments before. Turning back to the stables, he hoped for a glimpse of Cleome. She sometimes brought tea out to Samuel and his granda when the number of travelers stopping at the inn made it impossible for them to go to the kitchen. But ’tis not to be so the day, he thought regretfully. She was busier now than she had ever been when Desmond was alive and owned the inn. In her stead, Del
la came out the back door, bearing the tea tray. And Della always had a ready smile for him.
**
Drake Stoneham made such an imposing figure sitting behind Cleome’s desk, dwarfing it with his size, that it was all she could do to keep from closing the door as quietly as she had opened it and fleeing to the safety of the kitchen. It was too bad, she thought, that he was not as pleasant to be with or to look upon as Garnett. When she didn’t speak, he glanced up from his papers and waved her into the room.
“Sit down,” he said, indicating a chair that had been placed opposite him on the other side of the desk. “There is paper and pen, and here is the first letter. Please copy it exactly. If there’s anything that’s not clear to you, do not hesitate to ask questions, as my handwriting is not always distinct. You’ll find a space where sums have been omitted. I am presently completing those figures. Stop when you reach that point, and I’ll supply the missing information. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Without another word, he went back to his ledgers. His close proximity was enough to unnerve Cleome, and her hands trembled a little as she began copying his firm scrawl. She had no trouble deciphering his hand, but every time he made an unexpected move, either to dip his pen into the inkwell or crumple a ruined paper and dispatch it to the fireplace, Cleome started. Finally, Drake put down his quill and sat staring at her, his fingers quietly drumming the desk top.
“Mademoiselle,” he said at last. “I do not intend to bite you, boil you in oil, or even to tread upon your pretty little toes. Kindly stop fidgeting so we can finish this loathsome task. I assure you I find it quite as unpleasant as you do.”
Helpless tears of rage filled her eyes, but she stubbornly blinked them away, inwardly cursing the day he’d learned she could read and write. If only he would leave her in peace to keep his house, or at the very least strike some kind of balance in his attitude towards her, she would be able to abide him. His gallantry mixed with his stinging sarcasm was almost more than she could bear.
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