by Esther Hatch
Jonathan sunk back into his chair. He still had no visit from Miss Duncan, then. He pursed his lips together. The squirrel had been a mistake. Never bring a young woman a squirrel. Young ladies liked flowers and sweetmeats, not wild game.
Howard was right, though. He had been so distracted by Miss Duncan that he had neglected some of his duties. They desperately needed a cook. Robert was no skilled craftsman in the kitchen, and the three of them had suffered enough from his cooking. Not only that, but this could also be an excuse to go to Greenwood Manor.
Jonathan spun on his heel. “Of course. But first, I will go to Greenwood Manor and ask Mrs. Hiddleson if she has any recommendations.”
“I would be happy to—”
“No.” Jonathan didn’t allow Howard to finish his sentence. “I will do it.”
Jonathan bounded out of the corridor and into the front hall. He threw open the door and leaped out of the dim cottage into the bright afternoon sun. He finally had an excuse to visit Greenwood Manor, and he wasn’t going to waste it.
It only took a few minutes to reach the pond. He smiled as he passed the spot where Miss Duncan had mistaken him for one of the servants. She knew how to make her mind known. He would always know where he stood with his wife; there would be no unspoken pain in a marriage with her. Perhaps his parents could have had an easier time of it with that sort of honesty. Jonathan and his mother had always missed his father when he was away from them, yet she had never spoken of it.
How much more she must have missed both of them when Jonathan was also away.
From the outskirts of the back garden he could just make out the different sections: the winter garden, where he spent most of his time, was mostly green without much color, but the rose garden was vibrant in a multitude of shades. He had never seen it quite so adorned, even though he had often dreamed of it as a boy. He had made it past most of the back garden when he heard Mrs. Hiddleson call his name.
He looked up from the path to see Mrs. Hiddleson coming down the back stairs of Greenwood Manor, waving a handkerchief in the air.
Well, that seemed as much an invitation to the grounds as anything. He stepped into the garden and met her at the bottom of the staircase.
“Not going for a swim today?”
Jonathan raised his chin. He was a grown man, and he would not be intimidated by his childhood housekeeper. He could simply tell her that he had been snooping around the grounds that day, and when she had startled him, he had fallen in. “Miss Duncan has asked me not to swim in the pond any longer, so unfortunately, I won’t be getting my exercise in such a manner for the time being.”
She tipped her head to one side.
Poppycock. The woman didn’t believe him.
“I will miss it,” he added lamely.
“I’m certain you will; how could you not? Nothing like getting wet on a fine summer’s day like today.”
There was quite a chill in the air for summer. There often was in Dorset. He never had been able to pull the wool over Mrs. Hiddleson’s eyes.
He nodded his head in agreement. “Nothing like it. You should try it some time, Mrs. Hiddleson. It is very restorative.”
“I shall not. And why would I need anything restorative? I am in just as good of health as I was when you lived here, Lord Farnsworth. Now, since you aren’t swimming, what can I help you with?”
“I was hoping to speak with Miss Duncan about finding a few servants for the hunting lodge.”
“What types of servants are you needing?”
“We are quite desperate for a scullery maid and a cook.”
“I know all the girls in town. Miss Duncan isn’t familiar with anyone yet.”
Blast. The woman had a point.
“Even still, perhaps she might like to know that I am looking. If she needs anyone, I would make certain she finds her servants first. After all, I won’t be hiring mine for a permanent position.”
“We have already done all the hiring, but for the butler. Wait here and I will get you a list of ladies. You’ve been at the lodge a week now, and no cook.” She clucked her tongue.
“We’ve managed.”
Mrs. Hiddleson gave him the exact kind of look she had when he was a boy and had been caught trying to light fires in the hearth—like he didn't even know what he didn’t know.
Mrs. Hiddleson was back up the stairs before he could stop her. He paced at the base of the stairs for several minutes waiting for her return.
Mrs. Hiddleson returned with a paper in her hand. She handed it to him and wished him luck. He turned to leave. Mrs. Hiddleson grabbed his elbow. The contact was not unpleasant. None of his servants at home touched him without permission. There was something about being around a woman who had known him as a boy that made Mrs. Hiddleson’s touch feel like family. And it had been much too long since he’d had a family—in some ways he’d never had one. She squeezed her fingers. “Have you seen Mr. Ashton yet? He was asking about you.”
Jonathan froze. He should have stopped and seen Mr. Ashton, just like he should have come to Greenwood Manor before it was sold. “No. Do you think he would want to see me?”
“Of course he will want to see you. We have all wanted to see you grown.”
Once again he was a small boy being reprimanded. Other than his friends from Eton, Mrs. Hiddleson and Mr. Ashton were some of the very few people who cared about him. As a child, Father never allowed him to visit or write to them after Mother had passed away. He couldn't understand why Jonathan would want to. His father had never allowed him to form relationships with the help at his estates.
And when he reached adulthood? Well, what if they had forgotten him? It was better to keep them in memory.
That was a poor excuse when he was less than a mile away, though. He would have to go visit Mr. Ashton...as soon as he figured out one more reason to visit Miss Duncan.
“I’ll make it a point to see him soon.” Jonathan waved to Mrs. Hiddleson. She shook her head as he strode away.
That had been a waste of his time.
He stomped back to the hunting lodge and flung the list of names down on the kitchen table.
There had to be a reasonable excuse to visit with Miss Duncan. The new servants had been a bad idea. Of course Miss Duncan would have no real way to help him with that problem. He needed something specific to her—something only she could help him with.
Jonathan pulled the door open to the library and hauled out the bill of sale. Spreading the papers out on the desk, he scanned them for anything that could be of use. There had to be something here that he might need to discuss with Miss Duncan. He just needed to find it.
After reading through most of the papers with only a few less-than-stellar ideas, he slid one paper to the side, only to find exactly what he was looking for. He pressed his finger on the paragraph.
Animals.
All the animals of the estate still belonged to him. That obviously was meant to pertain to sheep, but over the years there had been other animals housed at Greenwood Manor, namely his grandfather’s hunting dogs.
So any dogs at the manor should belong to him. After all, what good was a hunting lodge without dogs? He highly doubted there were still any dogs living on the estate, but it would be remiss of him if he didn’t at least check. He strode out of the room, purposely leaving the papers behind. If he had to follow Miss Duncan into her library to get her bill of sale, even better. The library was the heart of Greenwood Manor, and he would do a lot more than drum up an excuse about dogs to see it.
He would look ridiculous returning only a few minutes after his last visit, but he didn’t care. He was done waiting on Miss Duncan. How in the world were they supposed to get engaged if they never saw each other?
This time he skirted the pond and kept to the trees. He didn’t want Mrs. Hiddleson or another one of the servants to see him coming. Clanging sounds reached his ears not long after he passed the pond and back garden. He broke through the trees after passing beyond the
manor house and turned to see a group of men working on one of the stairways leading up to the house.
That was strange.
What could be wrong with the stairs?
He hadn’t noticed a problem with them when he’d delivered the squirrel. He had been distracted by finally getting a chance to enter Greenwood Manor. He may not have noticed some loose stonework or deep marks from overuse. Perhaps they were aging, after all.
But as he drew closer, he could see that the opposite stairway hadn’t been touched, and it not only looked in good condition, it was made from Purbeck Marble. That would have cost a fortune to put in. Why in the world was Miss Duncan removing it?
As if his thoughts could conjure her, Miss Duncan stepped through the door and onto the floor above him.
Some of the men stopped, but she waved them on, simply surveying their work.
He strode over to the men. Miss Duncan noticed him after only a few steps and she raised an eyebrow.
What? She was surprised her one and only neighbor would come to pay her a visit? Did she not know anything about country life?
“Miss Duncan,” Jonathan said over the noise of the pickaxes. “I trust you have been well since I last saw you?”
“Yes.”
“It seems you are already beginning your improvements.”
“Yes.”
There wasn’t much he could say in response to that. Nor did he want to continue yelling over the noise of the workers, so he crossed over to the opposite stairway that hadn’t been disturbed and climbed it. The grey and pink hues from the marble jumped out at him. What substance could she possibly feel was better suited than this? He reached the top and leaned against the balustrade. “You are starting your renovations with the Purbeck Marble stairs?”
“Yes.”
At least it wasn’t the menagerie, but still, their conversation was hardly going as he had expected. How was he supposed to get to know her better if she only answered every question with a “yes”? Perhaps he should simply ask her to marry him now and save himself the trouble of courting—if you could call living in a hunting lodge and sulking that he wasn’t invited over more often courting.
What the devil was she doing to the manor? He had quite talked himself out of taking her menagerie idea seriously, but if she was removing marble from the stairs, he might need to rethink his assumptions. Had she bought it only to take it apart piece by piece and sell each item?
That would be a terrible investment, and so much work. It was ridiculous. The woman whom many merchants had touted as a pleasure to work with, having the keenest eye for fashion and design, seemed to be very different from the woman he was meeting with now that they were in Dorset.
“And what exactly are you planning to do with these stairs?”
“I’m getting rid of them.” She said it like it was a perfectly normal thing to remove stairs from one’s home.
“You mean the marble? You are getting rid of the marble.”
“No, the stairs. They won’t work with the plans I have.”
Stairs wouldn't work? Stairs? “What exactly are your plans for the house? You aren’t perhaps planning to scavenge it and sell off any valuables.” He laughed to show that he was in jest, but even she must have noticed he wasn’t entirely certain she wouldn’t do such a thing.
“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Ridiculous? He wasn’t the one destroying a perfectly good set of stairs.
“Then what exactly is going on?”
“Need I remind you that I own this home now? Nothing I do should concern you.”
“But I find tearing up perfectly good marble does. What are you planning to replace it with?” The house couldn’t function without stairs; she must be planning to rebuild them with something grander. That was the only thing he could think of that would reconcile the woman standing before him and the one he had heard praised in London.
She tipped her head to one side as if considering whether or not he deserved an answer. The way she smiled before speaking didn’t make him feel as though he had passed any tests. “For now, Portland cement.”
The clanging hammers suddenly raised in pitch and caused a sharp pain in his head. “You are replacing marble with Portland cement? Why would stairs be improved upon by making them out of cement?”
“They wouldn't be, but I’m not making stairs. I’m taking them out, aren’t I?” She made no sense. He had decided to marry a crazy woman. That smile that at first had seemed so open and friendly now seemed a bit too open and friendly, as if she had no concerns in the world; as if the fact that she would own a home with no steps to gain entry to it was nothing to worry about. “And marble does seem a bit posh, doesn’t it, for what I have planned? Can you imagine a moose traipsing about on marble? It would be quite ridiculous.”
Jonathan shook his head to try and clear the ringing in it. But as it was coming from the men working, there was not much he could do. He could turn around now, never see the manor again, and never see Miss Duncan again. Selling the manor had been a mistake, but it was a mistake of loss, not gain. What if he married Miss Duncan and she wanted stairs removed from all of his houses?
She propped one hand on her shapely hip and waited for his reply. He closed his eyes for a moment. Nothing had to be decided today. Everything he had discovered about Miss Duncan, apart from the stairs and the menagerie, seemed to point to the fact that she was not only sane, but a hard worker with excellent taste.
Her raised eyebrows seemed to be a challenge. Would he accept the fact that she was the one who owned the manor or not?
If he didn’t, there was no way she would ever see him as anything other than a snobbish lord who thought nothing of her power and opinion—not a good way to start a courtship or a marriage. Her smile was friendly, not crazed. Her plans made some sort of sense, or at least they had to in her mind. And he would feel those delicate fingertips on his chest again. He simply needed to adhere to his plan.
He smiled at the workers below Miss Duncan and then turned and looked back at the stairs he had just climbed. Would they meet the same fate as the others? He didn’t dare ask. The marble truly was beautiful. It was such a shame. But when he returned his gaze to Miss Duncan, her flashing hazel eyes made the marble seem suddenly dull and lifeless.
It was nothing compared to the life and activity hidden behind those orbs.
“I have come to get the dogs.” He couldn't handle seeing or hearing the mess that was going on in front of his mother’s house. “Perhaps we could speak inside?”
The door was just behind Miss Duncan. She would simply need to turn around and motion him in, and this time he wasn’t leaving without either enjoying some tea with his future intended, or setting foot in the library.
Chapter 7
Lord Farnsworth was not setting another foot in her home. Mrs. Hiddleson had let him in once, and Sally saw no reason he would need to be allowed in a second time. And dogs? What dogs? No amount of talk about dogs or that strange way he pulled back his shoulders and puffed out his chest was going to change her mind.
“What dogs, Lord Farnsworth?”
“My hunting dogs. Their trot is on your property, but the dogs actually belong to me.” He stepped closer to her. He was wearing another fine waistcoat—not one that would have cost as much as the first one she had seen him in, but one that would still have been out of reach for almost anyone but nobility. Men like Lord Farnsworth were the reason she had been able to expand her grandfather’s business from a well-run company to an exclusive importer and creator of extremely fine fabrics. It didn’t mean she had to like them.
“I do remember seeing a dog trot. I haven’t been inside, but I haven’t heard anything about these dogs.”
“Would you like to look over the bill of sale? There is a section that mentions the inclusion of all animals. I can follow you inside—”
“No, I have no issue with you taking any dogs that may be here. I simply don’t believe there are
any. Follow me. We can inspect the dog trot, but I assure you, I haven’t seen any dogs.”
She went back down the stairs that Lord Farnsworth had just climbed. It was fortunate Greenwood Manor had a double staircase. Otherwise she would be reduced to having to use the back stairs until the ramp was put in.
After descending the stairs, she followed the path that led to her right. Lord Farnsworth must be behind her, but she didn’t turn to look. Her eyes would probably be drawn to that fine chest of his again. She needed to stop inspecting his waistcoats, or perhaps hire him to model some of the newest designs being made from Vermillion textiles.
She shook her head. Lord Farnsworth no longer owned this manor, and she no longer owned Vermillion. They both needed to accustom themselves to those facts.
Sally felt, rather than saw, Lord Farnsworth come to her side. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was indeed built like a pugilist and contained so much pent-up power in his upper body it made the air feel different around him—very different from Mr. Harrison. Mr. Harrison’s tall and slender frame had never made her nervous. She strode forward and slightly to her right to give Lord Farnsworth more space.
“And how are your hunting goals coming along? Are you still thinking two weeks will be enough to accomplish them?” Sally asked without trying to hide the hope in her voice.
Lord Farnsworth’s steps slowed and she matched his pace. “It depends.” His voice was drawn out as if he was thinking it over on the spot.
“It depends on what?” She snuck a glance at him, but only his face.
His eyebrows rose and one corner of his lips quirked up. “On my prey.”
“What exactly are you hunting? I hope it isn’t anything too elusive.” Was that too rude? She was practically telling him she hoped he would be leaving soon.
Lord Farnsworth didn’t look hurt. If anything, he looked intrigued. He stepped closer and into the space that most of society would consider too intimate for two neighbors on a stroll. “I hope so as well.”
