A light tap on the door roused her from her reverie. Tilly appeared. ‘I've come for your tray, ma'am. Do you require anything else this evening?’
‘Thank you, no, tell Cook it was delicious. Once the kitchen is cleared, if Mr Foster has no requirements, then you are all free for the rest of the evening. Tomorrow the men must clear the servants' hall so that you will have somewhere of your own to sit in your free time.’
Slowly the great house settled into silence. The small brass clock that was her pride and joy chimed midnight. Emma was too excited to sleep, she would go to the kitchen and make herself a hot drink. A soothing cup of milk with cinnamon and sugar would do the trick.
It was a balmy night, a full moon streamed in through the windows making a candle unnecessary. However, it was likely to be dark in the corridor so she had best take a candlestick with her. She had removed her cap and apron long ago, her feet bare beneath her skirts. She did not possess indoor slippers, her boots had to do for both inside and out and it was far cooler without them.
The nightingales were filling in the air with their song, there must be a dozen birds at least to make such a wondrous chorus. She was smiling as she glided into the kitchen and came face-to-face with Mr Bucknall.
‘I did not expect to see you up, sir, you should have rung. You should not be wondering about so soon after your accident.’
His teeth flashed white in the gloom. ‘What would be the point of ringing when there is no one here to answer apart from yourself and old Foster?’
Was this the time to tell him she had appointed a manservant to take care of him? Perhaps not, she would much prefer this news to be relayed to him in the daytime when there were others in the vicinity. ‘If you would care to be seated, Mr Bucknall, I will get you whatever it is you have come looking for.’
He swung out a chair with one hand and dropped into it. ‘I could smell bread baking from my chamber. I should like some of that and anything else there is to go with it. I can't remember how long it is since I had bread baked in my own kitchen.’
She collected a platter on which she placed several slices of the chicken, chutney, three thick slices of bread and a generous pat of freshly churned butter. She could not understand how there could be any of the chicken left when there was so many to feed. There was also a generous wedge of strawberry tart to go with his impromptu supper.
As she carried the tray through she realised that these items had been given only to herself and her children, no one else had eaten them. Her eyes pricked, it was a long time since anyone had treated her with such kindness.
In her short absence he had been busy lighting candles and the kitchen was now bathed in a warm glow. She could not help but be aware that he had a fresh white shirt on, but no cravat and the strong column of his neck was clearly visible. She scarcely noticed the puckered skin on the right-hand side, this was part of him, nothing to be bothered by. She had seen far worse injuries in the time she had spent on the continent; most wives and loved ones were just grateful their men survived in whatever shape or form.
‘Here you are, sir. I was going to make myself some hot milk, would you care for some?’
His snort of disgust made her laugh. ‘Cider or coffee – either will do.’
She had noticed a fresh flagon on the cool slate shelf in the larder. All desire for hot milk had now left her, she would give him his cider and then retreat to her own room is until he was done. Her bare toes curled at the thought of his reaction if he should realise how inappropriately she was a attired for someone who purported to be a respectable housekeeper.
The brimming tankard was placed beside his elbow, he nodded, his mouth too full to speak. He swallowed hastily. ‘I thank you, madam, do not let me detain you. I shall douse the candles myself before I retire.’
She remembered the changes she had made to his domain. How could she prevent him from returning there tonight? The thought of the house in uproar, her children woken from their slumber, was not a prospect she relished. ‘It was so kind of Mr Foster to vacate his chamber for you, Mr Bucknall. He has been obliged to remove to the attic in order to find somewhere to sleep.’ Hopefully reminding him that he was not the only one in the house, that others had needs and sensitivities to be considered, might keep him where he was for tonight at least.
His eyes narrowed, becoming almost black as he digested her remark. When he spoke her confidence shrivelled. ‘I am the master here, Mrs Reed, it is your place, and his, to accommodate my every wish if you care to remain in my employ. You would do well to remember it if you wish to remain here above a se'night.’
With flaming cheeks she curtsied. ‘I understand exactly, sir. You have made it perfectly clear. If you require nothing else of me, I will bid you good night.’
She backed out, forgetting to take her candlestick in her hurry to depart. Twice on her return to her apartment she stubbed her bare toe in the darkness. Her humiliation had turned to anger long before she scrambled into bed. The only positive aspect of the unpleasant encounter had been that he had talked of her staying for two weeks, that was a great improvement on demanding that she left in the morning.
*
Rupert cursed his bad temper as the lovely young woman fled from him. He had been taken aback by seeing her toes peeping from beneath her hem, a glimpse of her slender ankles had almost unmanned him making him unnecessarily harsh. Since Amy had died he had not once thought of finding himself another wife, thought himself past redemption, too damaged in body and spirit to make an acceptable husband.
But from nowhere this young widow had appeared and feelings he'd thought long gone were stirring within him. Hard times had brought her here, she was a lady born and bred, would not be working as a servant otherwise. She had been here barely two days and already he felt his world shifting beneath his feet as though he no longer had control over his own destiny. He had vowed never to love again, to do so would only lead to further grief and heartache.
Love? What maggot had got into his brain now? Mrs Reed was his employee, the fact that she had hair the colour of ripe corn and eyes as blue as the summer sky was nothing to him. He would send her on her way as soon as he was recovered. There was brandy in his study, he had intended to go there and drink it.
Something stopped him. Perhaps he would try to sleep in a bed tonight, he still felt weak as a kitten, he wasn't sure he could make his way through the house without mishap. It was nothing to do with Mrs Reed's comment about Foster, nothing at all. He was going to remain downstairs because it suited him.
Now his stomach no longer gurgled emptily, he would return to his temporary abode and pray that he did not suffer from the nightmares that plagued him whenever he was prone in bed.
*
Emma wasn't sure what had woken her. The hair on the back of her neck was standing up, something had frightened her awake. Was it the children? She threw back the covers and scrambled out ready to rush to their side. She was at the doorway when a cry of such despair echoed along the corridor that it almost broke her heart.
Snatching up her bed robe she dashed into the passage, it was Mr Bucknall. Her arms were barely through the sleeves when she burst into his room. He was sitting up in bed, his eyes wide open, his face twisted in agony. He was fast asleep, gripped tight by a savage nightmare.
Without a second's hesitation she ran to his side. ‘Mr Bucknall, sir, wake up, I implore you. You are having a nightmare.’
His hands were icy, cold sweat trickled down his tortured face, but he did not wake. He cried out a second time and tears streamed down his cheeks. She could think of nothing else to do but what she did her for her children when they were so afflicted. She climbed on to the bed beside him and gathered him close. For a moment he resisted, still moaned in that heartrending fashion then slowly he relaxed against her. His arms somehow found their way about her waist and he pulled her down beside him.
When she tried to move away he started to toss his head and mutter. She had no option but
to remain where she was, he was in danger of reopening his wound the way he was struggling. ‘There, there, it's all right now. You sleep, I shall hold you whilst you rest.’
Her soothing words worked and within a few minutes of her arrival he was breathing deeply, evenly. He was fast asleep and she was beside him in bed, in her night apparel. In the moonlight she could see he was still in his shirt. That was something, she supposed. She was quite definitely inappropriately dressed, but if she remained on top of the covers until she was able to extricate herself then maybe her reputation would still be intact.
This was the second time today she had held him. His head was heavy against her chest, the warmth from his skin seeping through the two thicknesses of her clothes. As she dozed her mind drifted, when had her husband last held her in this way? Shocked, her eyes flew open. She and John had not shared an intimate moment like this since Jack had been born.
Her hand moved of its own volition to stoke his hair. Foster must have been obliged to wash it because of the blood, and now it was soft and silky beneath her touch. Somehow she slipped down the pillows until she was lying flat. As sleep claimed her she knew, like Pandora and her box, she was going to regret this escapade in the morning.
Chapter Six
It was the cockerel in the stable yard that woke Emma next morning. She felt strangely warm and comfortable, believed she had not rested so well for years. It was what she had always loved best about being married to John, the closeness they sometimes found in each other's arms.
Her sleep befuddled brain cleared. John had been dead for more than a year, and they had shared nothing but arguments for the three years before that. She didn't dare to open her eyes, she recalled exactly where she was and with whom. Thank the good Lord he had now rolled away from her, perhaps she could slip away and he would be none the wiser.
With infinite care she inched her way to the edge of the bed, dropped first one barefoot and then the other to the boards. She froze. Had he stirred? No, his breathing was even, she was safe. After a few more agonising seconds she was on her feet and moving stealthily to the half-open door. She whisked through it and ran back to her lonely bed, climbed in and pulled the sheets up to her chin.
So many strange things had been happening to her since she arrived at Stansted Manor, she was behaving out of character and yet felt more invigorated than she could remember. Perhaps living dangerously suited her better than behaving with decorum. She would make sure that Fred did not ring the neck of the cockerel, without his intervention she would be in dire straits indeed.
A gurgle of unexpected laughter bubbled forth. Why was she getting in such a pother about her reputation? She was no longer a lady but a servant, she need not give a fig for such things. As long as she behaved as would be expected of a respectable housekeeper, no one else would care one way or the other what she did in her own time. There was an unexpected freedom in her straitened circumstances that she had never considered before. She need not agonise about having spent the night in the arms of a gentleman without the benefit of clergy, both she and he knew nothing improper had taken place. That was all that mattered. Well, he fortunately knew nothing about what had happened so that was one less thing to worry about.
She yawned, it was just after four o’ clock, she did not have to rise until six – plenty of time to go back to sleep. As her eyes flickered shut; it was not John she saw smiling down at her but a black-haired, dark visaged man.
*
Rupert continued to breathe as if asleep until he was certain the delectable Mrs Reed had gone. He felt wonderful, relaxed and refreshed and it was all due to the kindness of his housekeeper. He could not imagine any other woman prepared to do what she had done for him. She must never know that he had woken half an hour ago to find himself in her arms.
Somehow he had removed himself from temptation. He breathed deeply, he could still smell the faint lemon scent of her soap. Laughing he held up his own arm and sniffed, the unpleasant stench made him gag. This made her kindness even more remarkable. It was time he had a bath, pulled himself together. He had emerged from the black tunnel his life had become, suddenly had something to live for.
What was it that old fool Foster had said to him? That his blood had ruined her gown. That was something he could do for her without engendering unpleasant gossip. He stretched out, his bare feet poked out. He would return to his bedchamber today, he had had installed a newfangled bath chamber. Today he would make full use of it.
He would wait until it was light enough to see without a candle and then go up to the large box-room on the nursery floor. When he had returned from India he had brought with him many trunks of beautiful material, silks and muslins, cottons and cashmere. Amy had ignored these treasures, her wardrobe had come from the most expensive mantua maker in London. He had all but way often those tedious trips to Town, being obliged to rent a cripplingly expensive townhouse for the season and then dance attendance on his beloved while she dragged him to one tedious event after another.
It was he that had been overjoyed when she had become pregnant; for her it meant the end of her freedom, the loss of her figure. She had moved into the east wing after James had been born telling him in no uncertain terms that she had no wish for another child. He frowned at the memory. How could he have forgotten that they were all but estranged when the fire had killed her and his precious son?
The intolerable grief, now he was being honest with himself, was for the loss of his baby. He could scarcely remember his wife's face now. James, a beautiful child still in leading strings, was forever etched in his memory. He slammed his fist into the bedpost wincing at the pain. So that was why he was attracted to Jack…he had the same floppy brown hair and big blue eyes that his own son had possessed.
Perhaps it was guilt that gave him the nightmares, not because he had loved Amy too much but not loved her enough. If they had been living as man and wife neither of them would have died. Too late to repine. Today was to be the start of a new life; his excessive drinking would end, he would take control. He was quite sure his factor was robbing him blind and it was high time the man got his comeuppance and his tenants their just dues.
He flopped back on the bed, he would remain where he was until Dr Andrews visited later this morning. It was something niggling at the back of his mind, something he had observed in his perambulations last night. Good grief! Not only was the kitchen spotless, the corridor and the rooms he was using had also been taken in hand. This was not the work of one woman and a doddery old man. Mrs Reed had taken it upon herself to appoint new members of staff. Yesterday he would have been in a black rage at her impudence, today he was glad she did not have to do the heavy work herself.
He dozed peacefully until he was roused by a smart rap on the door. Pushing himself sleepily on to his elbows he bid whoever it was come in. A smart young man in clean white shirt, smartly tied neck cloth and buff breeches marched in carrying a laden tray.
‘Good morning, sir, I have your breakfast here. I shall put it on the side table whilst I help you to sit up.’
Rupert was upright in seconds. ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘I am William Everett, at your service, Mr Bucknall. Mrs Reed has appointed me your valet. I am experienced in that position and have already taken your wardrobe in hand.’
The tray was on his lap before Rupert could protest further that he had no wish for a manservant. He scowled. The young man ignored him and continued to talk as if he was addressing an elderly invalid.
‘Cook has prepared you sweet morning rolls, ham, coddled eggs and mushrooms. I have also a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Is there anything else you require?’
Faced with mouth-watering food and a pot of his favourite drink it seemed churlish to continue in a bad humour. Had he not vowed to be a new man? He would start by not dismissing this William before he'd had a chance to prove his worth.
‘Nothing else to eat, this will be more than adequate. However, I wish you to have a ba
th drawn and find me something more suitable to wear.’
‘I shall return when everything is prepared for you.’
Rupert ate with relish, it would seem there was also a cook working for him. If she continued to prepare such delicious meals she could certainly stay. He would reserve judgement on his valet. The sound of childish laughter outside his door made him smile, the movement of his lips pulled on his scars reminding him that he might have recovered on the inside but his appearance was permanently damaged.
*
Within a few days Stansted Manor began to emerge from its dilapidated state. Emma had been delighted to discover that most of the problems were superficial, a vigorous application of vinegar and brown paper on the windows of the rooms that were in use soon had them looking as good as new. It would take more than the few people she had to effect a total change.
Mr Bucknall had not demanded to see her, not appeared in the kitchen, in fact had remained remarkably elusive. William informed her that their employer was busy overseeing the long neglected estate, had already dismissed the estate manager and appointed a local man to run things for him.
Mr Foster was rejuvenated and, as she and he were effectively in charge of the house, had taken to visiting her in her parlour during the morning to discuss what needed doing.
‘It is Sunday tomorrow, I wish to attend church with my children and any members of staff who would like to come with us. Do you think it necessary to speak to him, to obtain his permission? Also, I should like to take on half a dozen more inside staff and I am sure that a further two or three footmen would be beneficial.’
‘The master has never been a churchgoer, I should not bother him with such trivialities, Mrs Reed. These decisions are best left to us. On the matter of more staff, that's something I do need to discuss with him. As butler here, it is my prerogative to ask him such things.’
A Mistress for Stansted Hall Page 5
