Sold to a Laird

by Karen Ranney

  The man looked surprised. “I doubt I could have stopped her, sir. Lady Sarah is extraordinarily diligent when it comes to Chavensworth. She could not be more so if she were the Duke of Herridge herself.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Beecher,” Douglas said, standing.

  “Shall I apply to you in the future, sir? Have you taken on the care of Chavensworth since your marriage to Lady Sarah?”

  “Good God, no,” Douglas said. “I have no knowledge in the running of properties.”

  “But you shall observe the drainage?”

  “I’ll do whatever needs to be done until you can find someone at Chavensworth with the energy and desire to take on the tasks Lady Sarah has assumed.” He leveled a look at Beecher.

  Beecher swallowed heavily. “My replacement, sir?”

  “Let’s say your apprentice, Beecher. Someone you can train in the running of Chavensworth so you don’t rely on Lady Sarah to the same degree.”

  Beecher didn’t speak, only slowly closed the book.

  “I am to meet with the housekeeper,” Douglas said, moving to the door. “Is there a shorter way back to the kitchens?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” Beecher said, his mouth curving in a rusty-looking smile. “Continue down the mirrored corridor, take a left at the main part of Chavensworth, and ask any footman for Mrs. Williams.”

  Douglas nodded. “I’ll be at the upper fields tomorrow,” he said.

  Beecher put both hands on the table in front of him and pushed himself to a standing position.

  “If you would convey my best wishes to Lady Sarah, sir. It is difficult to lose a parent, especially in Lady Sarah’s case. She and her mother were devoted. There are arrangements pending?”

  “Yes,” Douglas said, but nothing further. He would let Mrs. Williams be his confidante.

  He left Beecher then and found his way through the labyrinth of Chavensworth’s back stairs. Twice, he asked directions, only to find that Mrs. Williams was nowhere in sight when reaching first her office, and secondly, the kitchen complex. He found her finally in the library, supervising the dusting of the volumes he’d admired only two days ago.

  She glanced at him, frowned, then approached him. Although she appeared pleasant enough, her soft blue eyes looked capable of spearing a footman or maid in place.

  She separated from the others and led him to an alcove evidently dedicated to a Herridge forbear. He wasn’t interested in the words written on the glass-encased scroll mounted beside the bust of an elderly man.

  “I need your assistance, Mrs. Williams,” he said, pulling out his notebook. “Lady Sarah is indisposed,” he said, wondering if that was the right description for what Sarah was enduring. “I need to make arrangements for a funeral.”

  The world was a gray, amorphous place, with no boundaries, no discernible markers. There were no doors, or windows, or stairs, or clouds, or stars. There was no heaven or hell. There was no sky or grass. The world, her world, was simply there, shrouded in a fog that Sarah was in no hurry to banish.

  Please, let the fog last forever.

  She roused to take care of her body’s needs, to wash her face and hands, but then fatigue claimed her, forcing her to stumble back to the bed and rest. If six hours passed, that was all well and good—it was six hours she did not have to endure awake. She knew it was nighttime only because she felt the mattress sag with the weight of her husband. She didn’t even care that they shared a bed, or that he sometimes pulled her close so that she could feel his warmth. More than once she awoke in the middle of the night with her cheek pressed against his bare chest, wondering at the thudding sound, only to realize it was his heart beating in sleep.

  Part of her was shocked that she was so close to an obviously naked man, but she silenced that concern by rolling over, clutching her pillow, and willing herself back to sleep.

  The days passed smoothly, one into the other. If she kept her eyes shut, she eventually fell asleep again. She roused to eat when her stomach hurt, diligently focused upon her plate long enough to still the hunger pangs before returning to bed again. People asked her questions, and she just waved them away, or if that gesture became too much, she simply ignored them.

  More than once her skin was dampened with a cold washrag, the soap itching when it was not removed quickly enough. She didn’t want to be bathed, but a sound of protest only resulted in a brush covered in tooth powder being forced between her teeth.

  Every night, Douglas came and removed her from the bed, placing her on his lap as he sat in one of the high-backed chairs by the window. He covered her with a blanket if she began to shiver. He held long conversations with himself, sometimes speaking of his diamonds and the formula he had discovered, in India, of all places.

  When she sat on his lap, she always rested her head against his shoulder, her lips so close to his throat that if she leaned forward slightly, she could have kissed his neck.

  One part of her, perhaps more lucid and logical, slowly began to rouse from her self-induced slumber, and began to notice her actions, shouting at her to pay attention, to cease being involved in her own grief. The inhabitants of Chavensworth depended on her. The yearly evaluations must be done. The fields had to be drained. The stables were to be painted. There were so many other chores that lay in abeyance, waiting for her to wake.

  How long had she been asleep? Or, if not asleep, then how long had she retreated to her bed, unable to face the world? Had it been weeks? Days?

  How very odd that she didn’t know. How very odd, too, that she was so very tired even now.

  “You must come back to the world, Sarah,” Douglas said, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. “As difficult as it will be, you cannot avoid it.” He shifted her in his arms, and her hand tightened on his neck.

  “I shall be here to help you. You won’t be alone.”

  The hand slackened.

  “Shall I tell you of my visit to Africa?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Or would you prefer to hear of China?”

  Her breathing was soft and regular, and he suspected she wasn’t asleep at all but listening to him intently.

  “I envy you,” he said, realizing it was true. “You remember your mother, and always will. I have only shadowy memories of my parents, adults who figured in my life and then were suddenly gone. I wish my mother could have been as kind as yours. I wish my own memories were as filled with love.”

  He decided not to continue in that vein.

  “When my parents died, there were no other family members, so perhaps the Almighty brought me Alano, to ensure someone was watching out after me.”

  He arranged himself more comfortably in the chair, shifting her weight. By the way she moved with him, he knew she wasn’t asleep. He reached up where her hand rested against his neck and encircled her wrist with his fingers. Slowly, he drew her hand down, linked his fingers with hers, and kept them pressed against his chest.

  He hesitated, allowing silence to drape them in a comfortable cocoon. “I think it’s difficult when any parent dies, no matter your age.”

  “She shouldn’t have died,” came a hoarse response.

  He glanced down at her. Sarah’s eyes were determinedly closed.

  She’d taken too much on herself—the running of Chavensworth, the well-being of its servants, her mother’s health. Everyone around her cheerfully allowed her to assume all the responsibility, to the extent that they could not manage their own affairs without her approval.

  He’d overseen the cleaning of the sluices, inspecting the painting of the stables, adjudicating a young girl’s tearful confession of theft and the resultant punishment, in addition to solving a dispute between an upper maid and a scullery girl, approving the overage of the orchard harvest to market, settling a dozen or so monthly bills to tradesmen, approving the quarterly rotation of the silver into storage, and overseeing the funeral of the Duchess of Herridge.

  That had just been the first day.

  When ha
d her mother relinquished the care of Chavensworth to Sarah? And when had Sarah begun to bear the responsibility for too much?

  Instead of thinking Sarah superhuman, let the housekeeper assume more of her own authority, the land steward make decisions of his own, and others in positions of authority be responsible for the tasks under their command. Only if they could not manage would he allow them to seek out Sarah.

  Those in positions of power would earn them, or they would no longer have them. He’d already made that point clear to the staff, and so far, there had been no hints of rebellion.

  He hadn’t continued to work on his diamonds. Nor had he uncrated the rest of his supplies. His only accomplishment in the last three days had been to send two of Chavensworth’s stableboys to begin to dig out the foundations for the furnace.

  “Nothing I said or did made any difference,” Sarah said.

  He felt like he was treading barefoot on broken glass.

  “Just because the people at Chavensworth believe you responsible for everything does not mean you’ve the power of God as well, Sarah.”

  She stiffened in his arms.

  “When it has been long enough, when enough time has passed, you’ll begin to realize that you did everything you could. You’ll think of your mother and, instead of pain, your memories will warm you. Until then, you can only walk through the days. But you must do that. You cannot escape the pain of your grief.”

  She put her hand flat on his shirt above his heart.

  “The funeral is being held tomorrow, Sarah. I’ve delayed it as long as I can.”

  “My father?” Her fingers fluttered against his chest.

  “I’ve sent word to him. I’ve not heard anything in response.”

  She sighed deeply.

  “You need to attend, Sarah.”

  She nodded, moving her head against his shoulder.

  “I will,” she said, her voice so soft it was little more than a breath. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Five days,” he said. Five very long and worrisome days.

  Chapter 14

  Dressing seemed to be a task alien to Sarah, as if she’d never before donned hoops, or placed her fingers on the tapes to hold them while Florie tied them around her waist. She dropped her hands when that task was done, obediently raising them again when Florie helped her on with her dress, one of her favorite garments dyed mourning black.

  The service would be held in Chavensworth’s chapel, a building on the other side of the estate. The first Duke of Herridge, the man who’d designed Chavensworth, had insisted on symmetry. If there was one building on the east side of the estate, then there must be a corresponding building on the west. The stables were balanced by the dairy, and the chapel by a rather patrician-looking barn. The only exception to his rule was the observatory, planted on a knoll in the middle of a field, no doubt considered an abomination had the designer of Chavensworth seen it. But he had been dead for hundreds of years before her grandfather had the structure erected.

  Florie toiled with her hair for some time as Sarah stared in the mirror at herself. Her eyes were still gray, and her hair as black. But her face had paled, and there was not a spot of color on her cheeks. She looked ill, almost lifeless herself.

  The angle of her jaw seemed too sharp, and she wondered if she’d lost weight. Her hair seemed dull and not as shiny as it normally was. She’d always taken great pride in her hair—it was something uniquely hers—as none of the other members of her family had black hair. Her mother’s hair was auburn, with touches of the sun in it. That was what Sarah had told her when she was a little girl, fascinated with the glints and highlights.

  “It’s you who are the sun, dearling,” her mother had said, and swung her up in a huge, warm hug.

  Florie held out two veils, one that would only cover her forehead, nose, and mouth. The other would shield her entire face and reach to the middle of her chest. The seamstress attached to Chavensworth had been diligent in her task. Sarah selected the longer veil, and Florie helped her affix it to her hair.

  “It’s a windy day, Lady Sarah,” she said, explanation for the extra pins she used. “It’s a sunny one, in fact. The world is a bright and beautiful place. Do you think that God gives us such days to counter our sadness?”

  She’d never known Florie to be so philosophical.

  “Perhaps He does,” she said, unwilling to venture the comment that she had no inkling as to the Almighty’s thought processes.

  Florie handed her the wrist-length gloves that would complete her mourning ensemble. Sarah walked to her bedside table and retrieved her Book of Common Prayer.

  “I will see you in the chapel,” she said, as if today were another Sunday.

  “Do you wish me to accompany you, Lady Sarah?”

  The offer was a kind one, and Sarah blessed the fact that the veil obscured her face. She needn’t try to smile in response. “That’s not necessary, Florie. Take your time with your own dressing.”

  According to the timetable she’d been given by Douglas, services were not due to begin for another hour. She intended to go to the chapel early, not to inspect arrangements, or to ensure that everything had been done in accordance with propriety. She simply wished time alone with her mother.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Lady Sarah?”

  Sarah hesitated before answering. She performed a quick inventory of herself. There was a pain behind her right eye, but that seemed linked to the tears she’d shed in the last week. Her lips felt dry and her voice scratchy. Inside her chest was a new, huge, hollowed-out cave. How did she handle that? But all she said to Florie was, “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

  She made her way to the chapel, walking with her head down, intent on the gravel path. Twice, someone passed her, their murmured words barely penetrating the heavy veil. She raised her hand in acknowledgment of their greeting but otherwise paid no attention.

  She should have assisted in preparing her mother’s body, rather than Hester supervising the task. She should have met with the minister herself to arrange for the funeral service. She should have overseen the refreshments to be served to the funeral guests. She should have met with the staff in order to give them a day off in honor of the Duchess of Herridge.

  From what she’d been told, Douglas had seen to all those duties. Not once had he mentioned anything to her. He’d simply done what needed to be done, seeming to expect no recognition for it.

  The chapel entrance faced a small ornamental garden. Instead of continuing down the path, she turned and faced the garden. Someone—Douglas?—had seen to it that the hedges and grass were trimmed.

  Only white roses had been planted in the beds here, her mother reasoning that red roses would convey the thought of blood. Today, lush, blowsy ivory blooms gently swayed in the morning breeze. She smelled their scent from here, as well as the earthy smell of new mown grass. For just a moment, Sarah was tempted to remove the veil and turn her face up to the sun, letting its heat warm her.

  She didn’t, of course, because it wouldn’t be proper.

  Slowly, she turned and continued down the path, nodding to a footman stationed there. He turned and pulled open one of the pair of doors.

  She hesitated in the foyer, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the change in light. Since she attended services here every Sunday, there was no hesitation in her step as she walked down the broad main aisle.

  Near the altar, at the end of the aisle, sat a catafalque. On it rested the Duchess of Herridge’s coffin, half-draped beneath a length of greenish blue tartan.

  At each of the four corners of the catafalque, a footman was stationed with his back to the coffin, each man so still and ramrod stiff he might have been one of the numerous life-size statues in the chapel. Beside each man was a candelabrum nearly as tall, filled with brightly burning candles.

  Sarah bent her head back to see the stained-glass window her great-great-grandfather had installed, the scene one of Lazarus walking. Ligh
t splashed into the chapel interior, transformed to jewel-like colors: ruby, indigo, gold, and emerald. Bright white sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the south side, freshened the gilt of the altar appointments, and brought summer and life into the chapel.

  She moved closer to one of the footmen. “I would like to have some time alone,” she said softly.

  The young man lowered his gaze, nodded, and without a word turned and motioned to the other three. In moments, they were gone, their footsteps muffled by care and the thick red carpet of the chapel.

  Sarah went to the pipe organ and moved the organist’s bench next to the catafalque.

  The carpenters had outdone themselves. The deep mirrorlike ebony glazing of the coffin was beautiful; the handles and appointments were brass, so highly polished that they reflected the light of the candles.

  She sat on the bench and removed her veil, placing it beside her. Florie would fuss that she’d dislodged so many pins and no doubt destroyed the arrangement of her hair.

  “It’s a beautiful day today, Mother,” she said, her voice sounding rough and unused. An effect of days of weeping?

  Sarah removed the glove from her right hand and placed her palm against the casket. The surface was cool. Why had she thought it would be warm?

  She’d always been able to talk to her mother. Why was it so difficult now? Because her mother wasn’t here. She was forever laughing beneath an old oak tree, or sitting in front of the fire with a tender smile as Sarah shared stories of her first painful season. She was walking through Chavensworth with Sarah trailing behind her, a journal clutched tightly to her chest. She was a memory, a blink of an eye, a wish.

  “I do not know what heaven is like, Mother. I hope that it is what you want it to be. I hope that you’re not in pain, that you’re able to feel happiness.” She hesitated, lowering her head. “I shall miss you for the rest of my life.”

  Slowly, she put her glove back on before moving from the catafalque to the altar, kneeling on the padded kneeling bench.