Returning to Huntley changed it all. He could not let memories overwhelm him. He had a task ahead that would take all of his concentration.
What to do about the governess was one of those tasks, albeit one that could be most pleasant if he played his cards right. For some reason though, with Lydia Burke, he was more prone to annoying her than charming her. He glanced at the kitchen maid who placed a white dish in front of him heaped with chicken pieces in a brown gravy, potatoes, fresh bread and beans from the kitchen garden. Mrs. Farmer was new since he'd been away, but as he dug into the plain fare he knew one thing on the estate would not need to be replaced or changed. Provided she wasn't robbing the household accounts, she was well worth keeping.
"Did you brew this excellent ale, Mrs. Farmer?"
"No, milord, it comes from the village. They don't like it upstairs, but it's good enough for folks who don't have London ways." She sniffed. "Begging you pardon--I didn't mean you--"
"I am quite content with good home brew. It is one of the things I missed most on my travels, so please keep ordering it. My men enjoy it as well."
He finished by giving her a smile that had the red-faced cook dimpling and fluttering her plump hands at her helpers. He glanced at the governess, but she calmly sipped tea and ignored him.
"When you are finished, Braxton will show you the nursery. See if you can get it usable for Mattie to sleep tonight."
"What is a nursery, Papa?"
"It is a place where children have their rooms, Mattie. Miss Burke, whatever you need, tell Braxton."
She looked at him steadily, then looked around the kitchen. The servants were listening to this conversation with interest, as he intended. He wanted to establish Miss Burke's authority as second to his own, and she understood this. Her role at Huntley needed to leave no question she was there as governess, not pirate doxy. Housing Mattie in the nursery also clarified for the staff her place in his life.
"Don't you want to see the nursery, to assess its condition, Captain?"
He hesitated but Mattie spoke up.
"Please come with us, Papa. You said a good captain always makes sure the crew's quarters are shipshape."
"Aye, Mattie, I did say that. Well then."
He rose and the ladies followed, Mattie thanking the cook for feeding her and Jolly.
"I'll keep a bowl of fresh water here for the pup, Miss Mattie, don't you worry."
The carved staircase was as he remembered, though his perspective was off as he climbed. He'd been far smaller when he last trod these worn steps. Some of the portraits were missing from the walls, others were splattered with unknown substances. There was a damp patch over the front entranceway where a leak had gotten through to the plaster and he made note of all of the depredations Huntley had suffered.
Odd. Once he thought he'd never walk this hallway again, and was glad of it. Now, as he trod the worn runner, there were remembrances of bad times, but others too, like the time he balanced along the rail overlooking the hall below, nearly giving poor Braxton a heart seizure.
The nursery was not as bad as he'd feared. It needed a good airing, but most of it was covered with dust cloths and he and the governess removed them carefully, taking them out of the room to the hallway so they wouldn't make a mess.
Mattie exclaimed with glee over the toys. There was a rocking horse, missing one glass eye, a battalion of tin soldiers he remembered well, a battered desk and chair sized for a youngster, wooden balls and cricket gear.
He heard Braxton's faltering step in the hall and turned.
"It has not been used in a long, long time, m'lord. I will fetch bedding and coal for the fire."
"Braxton, where are the maidservants? They should be doing this."
The old man sighed. "We couldn't keep maids, m'lord. The late baron--none of the girls from the village would work here. It wasn't safe. The ones in the kitchen return home each night."
"What about footmen?"
"There's only William. The others left when their wages weren't paid."
The governess looked up at that, but Mattie distracted her with a request to help rescue a wooden puppet from Jolly, who'd thought it was for him to chew on.
"I'll get Paget up here to help get your quarters ready, Mattie. Miss Burke will put you to bed tonight."
"No story, Papa?"
He hesitated, but shook his head. "I will have to owe you two stories on the morrow, poppet. Right now I'm needed elsewhere."
The child looked troubled, but she nodded. "I understand. You're the captain. That has to come first."
He opened his mouth to explain to her that she would always come first, but it wasn't the time or place for that conversation. The child understood that a vessel--even if it was landlocked Huntley Manor--needed to be cared for even if the needs of its crew had to wait.
"Speaking of wages, Lord Huntley..."
"Not now. Come to the study, later, after Mattie's asleep."
The governess did not look happy about this, but didn't argue with him. He gave her a smile that only earned him a scowl in return, then he kissed and hugged Mattie good night. Robert wanted to retire to his room with a bottle of brandy, but knew he'd never sleep. Too many memories, too many unanswered question, and an interview with an irate employee awaited him.
That last problem kept his smile in place.
Chapter 20
Robert adjusted himself in the chair, a massive leather throne that had been his father's seat of power for so many years. It was disorienting to see the study from this angle. As a lad he'd stood on that spot on the Axminster carpet, a rosette he'd seen all too often, his eyes cast down as his faults were enumerated for him. The listing of those faults usually culminated in a whipping as he gripped the edge of the desk where he now sat as master.
He would burn the desk. It was time to replace it with something more to his taste. This chair also. It would make a lovely bonfire.
Until then he was going to savor the moment, and to celebrate, he pulled a cheroot out of its case, took the lamp and lit it, leaning back, putting his boots on his father's desk, and blowing smoke rings up at the Greek gods decorating the ceiling.
Right on cue, the door slammed open. He grinned to himself but didn't rise from his chair. It was a calculated move to enhance the fireworks about to erupt. He didn't analyze why annoying lovely Lydia entertained him so much. It was sufficient to enjoy the moment.
"You! You are...you... Aargh! Stand up when a lady is addressing you, you mannerless blackguard!"
He peered at her. Was that steam coming out of the governess's ears? No, only the smoke from his cheroot, which he reluctantly put out for later.
"I have a better idea. Why don't you sit down, and then we can both relax."
"Relax? Relax! I am not relaxed, Captain St. Armand or Lord Huntley or whoever you are today! You lied to me all along about your identity!"
He folded his hands on his stomach, knowing he looked nonchalant and at ease. Truly, it was a wonder she didn't go up in flames like a misfired rocket. Her hands were clenched and he would wager she was sorry now she hadn't taken him up on his offers of weapons practice.
"I never lied."
"What? How can you say that?"
"At the inn when you accused me of perpetrating a fraud, I only said telling people I was a peer earned me better accommodations. You jumped to conclusions. Will you please sit down so I do not have to resurrect my fading memories of being taught proper behavior?"
She sat ungracefully, almost collapsing into the chair in front of the desk, a poorly upholstered seat which he knew to be purposely uncomfortable. He'd burn that one on the bonfire as well.
"I came in here to tender my resignation," she said, gripping her hands together. "I want my wages and I want a letter of recommendation. I will stay to get Mattie settled, but then I want to leave."
Now he came around the desk and sat on the edge. She didn't move.
"You don't want to leave, Lydia," he said gent
ly. "You want to hear the whole story, unvarnished, and you want to stay and see what happens next."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. He knew he was correct.
"You should not address me in such a familiar manner, Capta--Lord Huntley," she finished lamely.
"Please, continue calling me Captain. The men address me so, and you are part of the crew, aren't you?"
"We are not aboard ship now, Captain. We are in the countryside."
He shrugged. "It's a different command, but I'll adjust, as will the crew. I need you, Miss Burke," he said seriously. "As you can see, this house is sorely neglected. I have no idea how badly the rest of the estate has been damaged and I can't take time to get the house in order. I need your help with that while I tend to the estate. I need your help with Mattie. It is important to me that she adjusts well to life here, and you are vital to her continued development. I will be occupied with sorting things out, reviewing the books--"
He stopped abruptly, looking down at his hands as a memory passed through his mind, then he took a deep breath.
"I never expected to inherit. I was not supposed to inherit."
"What happened?"
"People died. Come, I want to show you something."
He stood and offered her his hand, and didn't release it when she was on her feet in front of him. Her hand was soft, but strong, capable, and he longed to feel her hands on his body as she learned all the things that brought him pleasure. He suspected the real pleasure in his bed would come from him learning what pleased her. Her affection was hard won, but worth so much, so genuine and real, not the paid affection of whores pleased that they had a client who didn't beat them, but the pleasure of a strong woman who knew her mind, knew the best and the worst a man could offer her. He wanted to offer her his best. Whatever he'd learned in his travels and voyages, he wanted to share with her. All of that was only a prelude to making a life with Lydia by his side.
But it was too early to share those feelings with her. She was still skittish, unsure of her footing on a shifting deck. In addition, she had secrets and until her past was dealt with, one could not move forward. It would take time.
Of course, if he continued to find excuses not to give her her wages it would be that much more difficult for her to pack her bags and leave.
She removed her hand from his when they exited the study, not comfortable showing affection in a household where she was an upper servant. He would be certain to establish her place here without question, one way or another.
He led her up the stairs past the master's quarters, the rooms that had been his father's, and into the lady's suite. As he thought, it had remained unoccupied, uncleaned, but largely undisturbed. The cheery wallpaper covered in twining spring vines and golden flowers showed a water stain at the corner of the ceiling, but otherwise it was much as he remembered it. He lit the candles around the room, their wicks sputtering as the dust of years of neglect burned away.
Lydia stepped in front of the massive framed portrait over the empty fireplace, staring at it in silence as the dust motes stirred in the dry air.
"Mattie looks just like her--or will."
The painting showed a tall, muscular man wearing the clothing of thirty years past, a country squire in his element. He had washed-out blonde hair, hazel eyes and a ruddy complexion. In one hand was a riding crop, the other was placed on the shoulder of the adolescent standing beside him and cradling a fowling piece, a brace of ducks at his feet.
The artist had talent. The two men, clearly father and son by their build and resemblance, looked like self-satisfied slabs of Saxon beef, as English as ale and kippers.
There was another, younger youth flanking a seated woman. He was a faded version of his father and older brother, like a watercolor left in the rain. The lad was pale and slender, with long fingers cradling a flute. He looked away from the artist into the distance.
Robert inhaled and for a fleeting moment thought he'd caught a whiff of French perfume, a fragrance as delicate and ephemeral as the lady in the portrait.
The seated woman was a study in melancholy, but she was immediately recognizable. Her familiar sharp cheekbones, the ebon locks clustered around her face--it was an adult version of Mathilde St. Armand, but with haunted azure eyes rather than Mattie's laughing ones.
The bareheaded baby on her lap waved a rattle. One could imagine him waving a cutlass in a similar fashion years later.
"My mother insisted, I'm told, that I not be posed in a cap despite my father's orders. You can see how little I resembled him and he did not want anyone to speculate on a cuckoo in his nest. Maman was firm, one of the few times she stood up to him. My hatred of ugly caps goes back a long way," he finished with a humorless smile.
"I would like to hear your story," she said, still looking at the portrait.
"Will you like me better if I have a sad tale to tell? If I ran off to sea because of my tragic childhood, rather than because it's where the money was?"
"Tell me, and I will decide for myself."
"Very well, but I warn you, it's the stuff of bad melodrama."
He clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at the portrait. There they all were, a family far from happy.
"My father's roots go deep in this land and in fairness to him, he was a good steward of the legacy left him as Huntley. He avoided London, preferring manly activities, hunting and sport, tending to his crops. His sons were one of those crops, but in this he suffered disappointment.
"That is Ralph, the eldest next to him. Ralph was exactly what father wanted--a son who drank hard, wenched hard, was a bruising rider, and essentially was a copy of his sire. Except for one key difference... Ralph was like an oak that looks attractive and whole at a glance, but when you get closer, you see the rot at its core.
"Nicholas..." his voice softened as he looked at his second brother, the musician. "Nick was...a disappointment. Father had Nick's life planned for him. He would take a commission in the army and bring honor to the family in battle."
He saw her head turn toward him as she asked dryly, "Never tell me that as the third son you were destined for the Church."
He almost smiled at the idea of him standing in a pulpit and preaching on proper living.
"Things changed, so we'll never know."
The smile faded from his face.
"Nick hated bloodshed. Father took him hunting and Nick sobbed when he shot a rabbit. Ralph laughed at him, called him girlish and weak. Nick kept telling Father he did not want to go into the army, he wanted to compose music. Naturally, Father responded by beating Nick. It was his response to any rebellion by us--a fist or the strap or a caning. Ralph took to leaving dead animals in Nick's bed, in his room, in his wardrobe, laughing when Nick would cry."
"Animals?"
"Squirrels. A rabbit. My terrier, Samson."
"Dear heavens. Did you tell your father?"
"I tried, one last time. He caned me for being a talebearer. It all ended the day Ralph discovered Nick and a footman locked in an embrace in the stables. He told Father, who beat the footman with his fists until the man was half dead. Ralph held Nick, his arm twisted behind his back, forcing him to watch. I tried to help Nick, but Ralph laid me out with a blow that nearly shattered my jaw."
"How old were you?"
"I was ten. Ralph was twenty-five."
"Where was your mother?"
"My mother? She'd died the year previous, but had been ailing for years. Father never let her forget that his last son looked nothing like him, and too much like a dancing master who'd traveled through the area the year before I was born. You see, mother was my father's second wife. On one of his infrequent trips to London he met Juliette St. Armand, daughter of French émigrés. Juliette's face was her fortune, and my father wanted a second wife, one to bear him more strapping sons. After birthing me she began taking laudanum for her pains, for headaches, for escape. Eventually she took too much and her escape was permanent."
She made a noise, but he didn't look at her, instead swallowing the bile that rose at what he'd say next.
"I was angry with my father, angry with Ralph, angry with Nicholas weeping in his room. I took a pony cart and helped the beaten man get away to a house in the village where he could recover. When I returned to the stables to put up the pony I heard a strange noise in the rafters, a creaking sound. It was almost like the sound the rigging makes when the wind is just so, and you know a storm is brewing before midnight."
He was lost in his own memories now, in the nightmare. He'd walked the pony into the stable, exhausted from the day's events, his face aching and swollen. The noise hadn't registered with him until the pony nickered and danced nervously, shying from the shadows moving on the stall.
That was when Robert heard the creaking and looked up. Nicholas swayed there, at the end of a rope, his unseeing eyes following the shadow of his body in the lamplight.
"They told me afterward it was my screaming that brought people running to the stables. Of course father tried to hush it up, but too many people knew what happened and Nicholas was buried in unconsecrated ground."
Until her soft hand brushed at his cheek he hadn't known there were tears on his face. She made soothing noises, offering comfort, a comfort he had not received on that nightmare evening when his father yelled orders at the servants and Ralph just stood there, an expression almost of satisfaction on his face.
He pulled Lydia into his arms and held her, his face buried in her fragrant hair, her warmth bringing him back.
"I left after they buried Nick and I've never returned."
"But where did you go? You were only a child!"
"Not much older than Mattie. I hadn't realized it until now." He cleared his throat and since she did not seem inclined to push him away, he continued holding her, finding comfort in her embrace. Was this why she'd asked to be held--"just held"--that night? For the comfort of knowing you're not alone, that even in your darkest memories there might be someone, somewhere, who could bring you back to the light and warmth? It disturbed his notions of what he wanted from Miss Burke, why he wanted Lydia with him, why he was willing to tell her all of this.
The Pirate's Secret Baby Page 22
