How was she to act today? As if nothing had happened? As if last night were just an ordinary night in the life of Harlow Kane? She’d have to take her cue from the others. If she didn’t want to do that, the other alternative was to leave. Her head pounded as she dressed. What was it she was supposed to do? Something about the girls and the garden house. The cold water she splashed on her face did little to clear her muddled head. It didn’t make her feel better, either. Her eyes were ringed with dark smudges, her skin was too pale, and her hands trembled as she dusted powder and rouge on her cheeks—for all the good it did.
The garden house, yes, that’s what she had to do. It was going to be a busy day, and she decided to wake Emma and Martha early. If the little house was to be made ready before evening, they’d need an early start. There was no way she was going to spend another night in this house.
Emma and Martha both grunted their displeasure at the prospect of working all day at the summer house, but Chelsea’s stubborn determination won in the end. When she walked downstairs, the middle-aged woman Harlow had employed was already in the kitchen, a sour expression on her weather-lined face as she clattered pots and pans and issued stern orders to a very young pink-faced girl of about fifteen.
“Jenny, look in the larder and see if there’s enough flour to make bread today. If we ever get the ovens clean, we might have a decent meal tonight! I’ve never seen such a filthy kitchen, and as for the rest of the place …” She threw up her hands in disgust. Then, having just noticed Chelsea enter the kitchen, she dropped her arms in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to be overheard.”
“Mrs. Harris,” Chelsea corrected her. “Mr. Kane’s two daughters will be down shortly. And don’t apologize, I quite agree with you.”
“I’m Mrs. Russell. Mr. Kane hired me as cook and housekeeper, and this here is Jenny, scullery maid, and she’s a good hand in the dairy. Do you know there’s not a drop of butter in the house? Nor fresh milk, either. Jenny says the poor cows are near to dying for want of milking. If it wasn’t for one of them having had a calf, they would have, but he keeps them comfortable enough, I suppose. There’s Bette, and she’s out in the dining room, trying to make order of the place so a body can take a proper meal.”
“We won’t worry about the dining room, Mrs. Russell; the kitchen is our first priority.” Quickly Chelsea appraised the situation. “You seem to be a fastidious woman, and Martha, Miss Emma, and myself will do what we can to help put this place in order.”
“Yes, Mrs. Harris.” Mrs. Russell approved of this young woman who, unlike so many of her class, wasn’t afraid to dirty her hands. “Mr. Kane went out about an hour ago, before sunup. I can brew a fresh cup of tea for your breakfast, and there’s an egg or two in the pantry.”
“Just tea, Mrs. Russell, and the same for Miss Martha and Miss Emma. Have you and your helpers eaten?”
“Aye, what there was, and it wasn’t much, I’ll tell you that. Jenny, run out to the dairy, and skim off some cream for Mrs. Harris’s tea.” Then turning back to Chelsea, “The way I see it, we should tackle this stove first off, and then the pantry. Seems like every dish and crock in the cupboards needs a good scrubbin’, and if I could find the lye, I’d bleach this old wooden floor to the color it should be. How in the world did a grand house like this come to this condition?”
“Mr. Kane lost his wife some time ago, and Martha and Emma don’t seem to be interested in housework. Mr. Kane didn’t think that he should hire help with two daughters having so little to do. He was wrong, it appears.”
A thin young woman with straight blond hair entered the kitchen. “This here is Bette, and once we get this house in shape she’ll be your laundress. She’s also handy with a needle. Bette, meet Mrs. Harris; it’s her you’ll take your orders from.”
Bette gave a curt bob and smiled. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’ve made some headway in the dining room, but it’ll take the rest of the day before it’s done.”
“I just told Mrs. Russell we’ll concentrate on the kitchen for now and then the garden house. I’ve decided to stay out there until my marriage to Mr. Kane.”
If either Mrs. Russell or Bette thought her sleeping arrangement strange, they said nothing but quietly went about boiling water for tea and pulling crockery and dinnerware down from the cupboards for a bath of hot water and suds.
“What is all this clatter down here?” Martha called; entering the kitchen with Emma not far behind.
“Martha, Emma, this is Mrs. Russell and Bette. Jenny is out in the dairy. Have some tea with me, and then we can get started on our chores.”
“Chores?” Emma squeaked, and looked at Martha accusingly. “You said now that we have servants we wouldn’t have any more chores.”
“For the time being, Emma, we all have to pitch in and get this house in order,” Chelsea said in a no-nonsense voice. Not for anything were these two going to escape remedying the havoc their laziness had created. “We’ll start in the kitchen first. There’ll be time enough later to enjoy the benefit of servants. For now, we’ll all work together.”
Chelsea was as good as her word. She worked relentlessly, trying to wash and scrub the night’s events from her mind. Nothing escaped her notice, there was no corner dark enough to hide in and no place far enough away to avoid her scrupulous inspection. Her single-minded concentration on getting the house in order was the only thing that kept her from going mad. She hadn’t come so far from England to live in conditions worse than she had known, she told herself. Later, she would think about what she was to do in regard to Harlow. For now, all she had to do was keep a clear head and stay as far away from him as possible until she’d made a decision.
In the end, both girls succumbed to Chelsea’s driving determination for cleanliness and worked as hard as she did. Along about noon they stopped to munch on some hard-boiled eggs and cool tea that Mrs. Russell had prepared, along with a tin of biscuits found in the recesses of the pantry. The kitchen had been miraculously transformed; and only the floor remained to be done. Mrs. Russell assured Chelsea she would see to it with the help of Bette. Young Jenny, who was Mrs. Russell’s granddaughter, would work in the dairy, scrubbing milk pails and butter vats.
“We’ll put things aright yet,” Mrs. Russell announced with confidence. “Give us a week, two at the most, and it’ll be a house we can all be proud of. Tonight I’ll see to having one of the men come over to fix that back step. I nearly broke my neck on it.”
Chelsea nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. “I … I’ll speak to Mr. Kane about assigning us a handyman.” Us. Did that mean she was going to stay? Why was she acting as if what she was doing were the most important thing in the world? As if she were going to stay. What did she care about the back step or the six or seven other jobs in need of a good hammer? One step at a time, one day at a time, she thought tiredly.
“Father will never allow one of his field hands to work near the house,” Martha announced with authority. “He says they’re much too valuable in the vineyard, and after all, isn’t that the purpose of Bellefleur, to produce wine?”
“Your father never wanted to hire servants, either,” Chelsea reminded her, forcing herself to remain pleasant. Martha had been a bone of contention all morning, and she was becoming sick of her haughty attitude. “I intend to ask him, anyway. Now, if you’re finished eating, I want you to take me out to the garden house so we can get started. Emma, you bring along the buckets and scrub brushes; Martha, you carry the brooms and mops if Mrs. Russell won’t be needing them.”
“Take them,” the housekeeper said without hesitation. “I’ll send one of the girls out to help just as soon as they’re done here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Russell. And perhaps you can find something simple to prepare for dinner tonight. We’re all going to be exhausted before this day is over, and I don’t want you to go to any more trouble than necessary.”
“No, ma’am. I found a rasher of bacon in the cold pantry and a
bag of beans in the larder along with a crock of molasses. Would baked beans and brown bread suit your fancy?”
“Sounds delicious. Come along, girls, get your pails and your brooms, we’ve still got work to do.”
Emma made a disagreeable face and pouted. “Can’t I stay here with Mrs. Russell? I’m tired!”
“We’re all tired, Emma. March!”
Chelsea followed Martha down the path leading away from the back of the house. Through a copse of gum trees in a tiny clearing stood the garden house. On first sight Chelsea thought it charming. It had once been painted a mellow sand color the same as the main house, and its trim was a delicate shade of federal blue. A trellis that held wild roses climbed one wall, and the roof was tiled in umber brown. It appeared larger than she had expected, although in reality it constituted just one large room with several windows and a rough-hewn door. A small black kettle stove stood in one corner, and there was already a bed in another.
“Franklin used to live out here sometimes when he brought friends home from school,” Emma offered, “and long before that Father’s Aunt Paula used it to paint pictures. I don’t know why you want to be out here; we’ve plenty of room at the house.”
Because your father raped me last night, that’s why! Chelsea wanted to scream. “Until I … until I decide if I’m going to marry your father, it wouldn’t be proper. There’s no older woman here aside from Mrs. Russell, and a housekeeper doesn’t suffice as a chaperone.” She couldn’t believe she was saying these stupid words or that the girls were listening to her. She couldn’t tell them about last night or the fear that there might be other nights just like it. Here she would be comfortable and have a semblance of freedom to come and go without questions. She would be able to think here. Until the hour when she said “I do,” she would still be free.
If that time ever arrived.
“How old are you?” Martha asked bluntly.
“Twenty-two. And yourself?”
Color stained Martha’s sallow cheeks, and Chelsea knew it was because the young woman was already two years older than herself and without prospect of marriage. Picking up the hem of her skirts and tucking them into her waistband, Chelsea went about opening the windows. With the broom she chased cobwebs from the corners and issued instructions for the mattress to be beaten. “I’ll be needing more furniture than this,” she told Emma. “A table near my bed and a lamp and a rug on this floor wouldn’t hurt.”
“Franklin could carry it, if he’s in the mood, that is. We never know what Franklin is going to do until he does it. He makes Father very angry at times.”
“Most times,” Martha interjected.
“Most times,” Emma repeated. “That’s because Franklin doesn’t like living here on Bellefleur. He likes the city, and he says someday he’s going to go all the way to England and never ever come back.”
Chelsea stopped work to look at Emma, who was idling near the rose trellis sniffing the faded blooms. She wished she knew whether or not Emma was addle-witted. At times she behaved like a very young child, but there were moments when her insight was almost startling.
“Doesn’t Franklin want to become a vintner like your father? It seems Bellefleur would have much to offer a young man. His future could be secured.”
“Franklin doesn’t care about his future,” Emma said. “Father says he’s good for nothing and will never develop the tongue or nose you need to make really fine wine. If Franklin doesn’t want to carry your furniture down here, perhaps Father will do it himself. He’s very strong, did you notice that?”
“I noticed,” Chelsea said coolly.
“I don’t like to scrub and clean and do chores. I like to cook sometimes, but never when it’s my turn. Isn’t that right, Martha?”
“What do you like to do?” Chelsea asked, ignoring Martha’s mutters of annoyance.
“I like to read, and sometimes I paint a little. Father used to let me take out the buggy, but since I became lost one day down by the lake he doesn’t let me take it anymore. I wandered and wandered, and I was so frightened. It was already dark when they found me near Mr. Tanner’s house. He was very nice to me, and since then we’ve been friends….” She clapped her hand over her mouth and widened her eyes in alarm.
“You’ve become what?” Martha demanded. “You know Father would be angry if he knew you even spoke to the man, and I quite agree with him.”
“You only say that,” Emma argued. “You told me once that you think he’s very handsome, and I think you’re smitten with him, aren’t you, Martha?”
“I say he’s a devil!” Martha cried, a frown drawing her thin face into a scowl. “Don’t let Father hear you mention his name, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Father doesn’t like him,” Emma chattered on, apparently oblivious to Martha’s admonitions. “Martha swoons over him. Franklin likes him very much. I think he’s very handsome. No one knows why he hasn’t taken a wife. Some people say he has a wife back in England. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I don’t care, either, but Martha cares. Every chance she gets she talks about him, and once I met her out walking and she was coming from the direction of Mr. Tanner’s house. She had a funny look on her face. I think she kissed him.”
Chelsea kicked the bucket and was instantly sorry when her toe started to throb. “Does he ever come here?”
“Only if we have a party or something like that. He hasn’t been here since Mama died. We haven’t had any parties since Mama died. That’s the reason. I think that’s the reason. Ask Father, he can tell you more about it.”
“Which is the direction to Mr. Tanner’s house?”
Emma walked over to the long, narrow window and pointed to the right. “Over that hill and then you’ll come to a dirt road. Follow it all the way and you’ll see his house. He had lots and lots of flowers all over the place. Father says he wastes water on flowers.”
“If you two think I’m going to do all this scrubbing while you jaw at each other, you have another thought coming,” Martha snapped as she splashed soapy water on one of the walls.
“Stop being so hateful, Martha. Chelsea is our guest and should be treated as one until she becomes our new mother.”
Martha turned to Chelsea in a flash, her blue eyes dark and narrowed. “You’ll never take my mother’s place. You’re too young for my father—I’m older than you are. Don’t ever call yourself my mother. I know why you’re here. Your own family didn’t want you, and you think you can come here and take what is rightly Franklin’s and Emma’s and mine.”
“And what would that be?” Chelsea demanded.
“His money,” Emma volunteered. “Father has a lot of money. He’ll have even more after vintage if the weather holds. Don’t pay attention to Martha; she’s angry because Father sent her one and only suitor packing because he said all William wanted was her inheritance. Now William lives in England, and I know that he’s written her several letters.”
“Shut up, Emma, that’s family business, and she’s an outsider. Besides, it isn’t true, so stop telling lies and start scrubbing.”
“It is so true!” Emma whispered to Chelsea as she dipped her rag into the sudsy water.
After that they worked in silence, scrubbing, sweeping, and polishing until the interior of the garden house sparkled. When it was all done, Chelsea wiped her brow and thanked them both for their help. Martha ignored her little speech and started back for the house.
“Don’t pay attention to her,” Emma said comfortingly. “She said you were marrying my father for his money and that we wouldn’t get any. She told Franklin you were too young and you’d have a baby and that would be even less for all of us. Martha wants to go back to England. Our mother was from England, and we still have family there. She used to tell us what it was like. Martha hates Father sometimes, especially since he sent William packing. Since then, no other man has come to call on her.”
Emma certainly was a wealth of information. Fey? Witless? Whatever suit
ed her purposes, Chelsea decided.
“Let’s get back to the house,” she said, taking one last look around at her new home. “There’s nothing I’d like better than a bath. I think I’m going to be stiff for weeks to come.”
* * *
Harlow Kane directed the individual watering of his vines. A fine lay in of claret wine was promised this year; conditions had been perfect throughout the spring when the blossoms set. But it was difficult to concentrate on the coming harvest when his thoughts were so chaotic. He liked being in control, and it was unlike him to be so indecisive; nevertheless Honoria Chelsea Harris had proven to be a great distraction since he had met her at the ship two days before.
He searched for an apt description of his bride-to-be, and his mind kept coming back to the word “ripe.” She was a lady in her prime. There was something very sensuous about her and, although he disliked the implications, also something very practiced. She was a far cry from the description Jason had given in his letters. He’d been led to expect a small brown wren, and what he’d received was a glossy dark swan. It wasn’t that he was displeased to have a beautiful wife; in fact, he was delighted. But her very beauty, her lusciousness, was undeniably disconcerting. There was a certain comfort to be had in a plain wife who practiced the virtues of housekeeping instead of vanity, and in his opinion every lovely woman was vain.
Servants. She’d demanded servants when every available penny should go into improving the vineyards. Only in Sydney, where appearances counted, were servants necessary. Yet he had secured them for her, and he knew from that point on that she would continue to demand a life of luxury and opulence. Until last night he had been undecided whether or not she was worth this kind of disruption in his life. But seeing her naked, cowering against the wall, had almost driven him insane. He’d taken her like an animal, and she’d allowed it. Now he knew he must have her at any price.
To Taste The Wine Page 18
