by Cora Lee
The door shut behind Richards and Hart sighed loudly, rubbing his eyes. At least this was a problem he had a chance of solving.
Chapter Seven
“Ah, Mr. Richards, there you are.”
Hartland’s valet turned and offered Sarah a smile as she entered the master’s suite. His tall, spare form looked slightly out of place among the heavy, dark pieces of furniture, but he seemed perfectly at ease. “You have found me, my lady.”
“Might I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course.” He moved a pile of waistcoats from a chair and gestured for her to sit. “How may I be of service?”
She waited for him to clear a chair for himself, trying to decide how to phrase her question. When he was seated, she opted for directness over polite wording. “I’m worried about Hartland. You know him better than anyone else save perhaps Major Oliver. How does he look to you?”
Hartland had been out in his workshop for five straight days, not even returning to the house to sleep. Mrs. Nichols, the housekeeper, had warned Sarah not to go out there, that his lordship would only allow Richards to wait upon him when he was in this state. But after nearly a week of watching Richards returning with barely-touched trays of food, she could no longer stand by and do nothing.
“He is...” Richards’ voice trailed off as if he wasn’t sure what to say.
“You may be blunt with me,” she said gently. “I need to know the truth.”
Richards cleared his throat. “He is not well, my lady. He’s done this before, but I’ve never seen him this...this determined.”
“Determined to do what?”
“To make his new invention work.”
“Do you know what the invention is?”
Richards pursed his lips for a moment before answering. “He’s trying to create some sort of mask, my lady. One that would allow the wearer to breathe easily even in the midst of smoke or other impurities in the air.”
“A life-saving invention, I suspect.” Then an idea dawned on her. “That’s it, isn’t it? He’s driving himself so hard this time because the mask will save people’s lives. He feels like he’s actually accomplishing something.” Unlike the days he spent reading in the drawing room with her.
“I believe so, my lady. But I do not know how much longer his body will stand up to the strain he is placing on it.”
That was exactly what Sarah was afraid of. “Do you think he would rest if I went out and asked it of him?”
Sarah was Hartland’s wife, and they’d had a moment or two that might be leading to a deeper affection. But no such attachment had developed between them as yet, and Sarah wasn’t sure she held the necessary influence to pry an unwavering man from work he likely considered crucial.
To her surprise, Richards nodded. “He didn’t pass along all the details, of course, but I know that he has made you promises beyond your marriage vows, my lady. Perhaps seeing you will remind him of his duty to you and make him more amenable to resting.”
“That is precisely what I am hoping for.”
Richards sat up straighter, as if his whole body was suddenly lighter. “I do hope you are successful.”
“I shall do my very best.” Sarah leaned forward and gave his hand a squeeze. Not the behavior of a countess toward a servant, but in this case she felt justified in making an exception. Mr. Richards was no ordinary servant and this was not a typical situation. “You have done a wonderful job taking care of him, Mr. Richards. I suspect he wouldn’t be the man he is today without you.”
The valet dropped his eyes to his shoes but smiled. “He is a good master.”
Sarah rose and left Richards to his duties, visiting her own bedchamber and speaking to Lucy before heading down to the kitchen to put the next step of her plan in motion.
She was stopped midway by Nichols. “Lord Ashfield is here to see you, my lady.”
“To see me?” The Ashfields lived several miles south of Hartland Abbey, and Lord Ashfield was the highest ranking aristocrat in the area after Hartland himself. Lord Ashfield was also rumored to be a man of science, as Mrs. Nichols had explained, so it wouldn’t have been unusual for him to call upon Hartland. But to ask for the lady of the manor was distinctly odd, particularly since he’d never been introduced to her.
“Yes, my lady. He is waiting in the drawing room. Shall I tell him you are not at home?”
“No, I’ll see him.” Hartland certainly couldn’t, not in his current state. And though it was unusual for Lord Ashfield to ask for Sarah, their meeting wasn’t strictly prohibited either. “Thank you.”
She smoothed her hair and skirts as she headed for the drawing room, thanking the heavens above that she hadn’t yet changed to go out to Hartland’s workshop. Stopping before the drawing room door, she took in a breath and let it out slowly.
He was standing when she entered the room, hands clasped behind his back, his forehead wrinkled in worry.
Sarah offered him her hand. “Good afternoon, Lord Ashford. To what do I owe this visit?”
He took her hand briefly and bowed over it, but straightened almost immediately. “I’d like to ask you some questions, Lady Hartland. If you don’t object, of course.”
“Questions about what?” She indicated the chair her husband frequently occupied and seated herself on the sofa.
“My wife.” He sat in the offered chair, perched on the edge like a nervous bird. “She set out to call upon you two days ago and has not returned. Nor have her carriage and coachman been located.”
Sarah sat up a little straighter. “Lady Ashfield has disappeared?”
“It appears so. How long was she here?”
“She wasn’t here at all.” Sarah’s shoulders sagged under the weight of Lord Ashfield’s palpable distress. “I didn’t even know she was coming.”
The wrinkles on his forehead drove his brows down over his eyes. “She wasn’t, perhaps, in the village? Or the church next door? Could she have sent the coachman on an errand?”
Sarah shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been much beyond the boundaries of Hartland Abbey since I arrived. But I will ask our staff if any among them have seen her recently, and I’ll send you a note when I have an answer.”
“Thank you, Lady Hartland. I don’t know what could have happened to her.”
Sarah rose and escorted him to the door, wishing there was something more she could do to alleviate his concern. How awful to have his own wife disappear into thin air! “We must continue to hope that she is unharmed, Lord Ashfield. I will let you know what our servants report.”
“Thank you,” he said again, giving her a cursory bow.
Poor man. Sarah shook her head and resumed her journey to the kitchens, pausing to ask Mrs. Nichols to see to questioning the female staff. Mr. Nichols would handle the male servants, but if they turned up no information there was little else to be done.
She tried to push Lady Ashfield’s disappearance—and Lord Ashfield’s anxious face—from her mind. There was yet another person who needed help, and his was a situation in which she could offer assistance.
The kitchens at Hartland Abbey were immense compared to what Sarah had been accustomed to in London, and she’d thus far avoided the whole area. But she had a special purpose today. And when compared to marrying a near-stranger because her life was in danger, navigating the Hartland kitchens wasn’t such a horror.
One of the kitchen maids, Becky, met her at the door and cheerfully complied with Sarah’s request for luncheon items to take to Hartland. The maid found a basket of an appropriate size and headed for the larder, with Sarah trailing behind her.
“Sandwiches should please his lordship,” Becky said almost to herself. She appropriated a loaf of bread, a large wedge of cheese, and a portion of ham, all of which she obligingly sliced and wrapped. “Some pickles, some early apples, pears....oh! And some late strawberries—they’ll be delicious with the lemonade Cook made this morning.” She added a plate of biscuits and some sort
of pastry Sarah had never seen before, then packed it all neatly into the basket.
“What a wonderful meal,” Sarah said, reaching for the basket with a smile. “I’m certain it will tempt his lordship out of his workshop for a while.”
“I hope so, my lady. Judging by the trays he’s sent back to the kitchen, he’s hardly eaten a thing all week. Cook even made a special batch of meat pies she calls empanadas, his lordship’s favorite.”
He probably hadn’t slept, either, if his tenacity about her own safety was any indicator. Sarah thanked Becky and promised to return for the basket, then hurried up to her chamber to change her gown. Richards’ remark about her presence reminding Hartland of his duty to her had given her an idea. She thought perhaps if she wore an older gown, one Hartland had seen her in prior to their marriage, it might spark memories of her as a helpless maiden, which she knew was how he tended to think of her.
Lucy helped her mistress into the older gown and tidied her hair, but Sarah left off her bonnet and gloves. Hartland would be more able to connect with her if he could see her face, and the brim on the bonnet would all but prevent him from doing so. The gloves would be removed for eating, and Sarah saw little point in wearing them simply to take them off again. Once Lucy pronounced herself satisfied, Sarah armed herself with the picnic basket and headed for Hartland’s workshop.
When she arrived, she set her basket down just outside the door and peered in. Hartland was standing before a stout table in his shirtsleeves, his dark hair matted down in some places and sticking up in others, molding a lump of some pliable substance with his bare hands. The lump tore in half without warning and Hartland roared unintelligibly. He shredded the substance and threw the pieces toward the far end of the big room.
“Why can’t I make this work?” he yelled. “It has to work!”
Sarah had seen Hartland come into the bookshop bleary-eyed and wrung out time and time again, and she’d always assumed he’d been drinking and carousing. Occasionally he’d mentioned a days-long spree of inspiration and told her a little about what he’d been working on. In all cases he’d been in obvious need of rest and relaxation, but not like this. This was a side of Hartland she’d never seen before.
It was sheer raging mania.
~~~
Hart saw the shadow fall across the floor just inside the entrance of his workshop, but couldn’t stop himself from flinging bits of rubber across the room as hard as he could. The substance tended to melt in warm weather and become brittle in the cold, but it was the best material he could think of to seal his mask. He had begun adding different things to the rubber sometime yesterday—he thought it was yesterday—in an effort to make it usable at all temperatures, but everything he’d tried so far had resulted in abject failure.
If he couldn’t get the mask to work, more people would die. And it would be his fault.
“Hartland?”
Sarah’s voice startled him into turning around. He’d been expecting his valet, not his wife.
He executed a clumsy bow. “At your service, my lady.”
“Are you truly?”
“Yes, of course.” Though whatever she wanted, he hoped it would be quick. He had work to do.
She smiled and pointed to an enormous basket just outside the doorway. “Then perhaps you’ll help me dispose of this picnic luncheon.”
“I can’t stop. I have to figure this out.”
“Hunger and fatigue cloud the mind,” she replied, walking toward him and taking his hand. “Come outside with me and eat, just for a few minutes. Your head will be clearer for it.”
She had a point there. He was so muzzy-headed he couldn’t even remember which day it was. But his urge to keep going overruled her common sense. “I have to make this work.”
“You’re afraid if you stop, you’ll lose valuable time. Something will happen that you could have prevented if you’d just worked for five minutes more.”
How did she know that? Had she found Joanna’s letter? “Perhaps.”
She took his other hand in hers and stepped closer. “But right now, your actions are sluggish and your thoughts are muddled. You’re like a farm horse that’s been in the fields too long—tired and underperforming. But give the horse a rest, give him food and water, and the next day he’s back to being strong and steady.”
“I can’t stop for a whole day—”
“Ten minutes,” she said, interrupting his protestation. “Surely in ten minutes you can rest and eat. Fuel your brain as you would a fire, and it will burn more brightly.”
A little food might help restore his focus. And Sarah might stop comparing him to animals and flames. “Ten minutes,” he echoed, allowing her to lead him out of the workshop. “But only because you’re prettier than anyone else who’s come to see me this week.”
She laughed and kissed his cheek, squeezing his hands and walking backwards to lead him from the workshop. “Mr. Richards is the only one who’s been out here since you started this project.”
“I know.” On impulse, he released her hands and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You look much better in a dress than he does.”
“When has Mr. Richards ever worn a dress?”
“It’s a long story—one you probably don’t want to hear.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
He studied her face as the warmth of her hands seeped through his linen shirt. Hart couldn’t pinpoint why, but somehow it was important that his wife think well of him. He couldn’t tell her about the intelligence gathering ring and his work for Wellington, nor would she want to hear the ugly details of the shop bombing in London and the mysterious gas he was trying to save people from.
But he could tell her his own personal secrets. “I know you think I’m some sort of profligate rakehell, but I’m actually not.”
“No?” She was still smiling, but her eyes were trained on his and she cinched her arms more tightly around his shoulders. “Then what are you?”
“I’m no angel, either. I don’t deny that I like gambling and drinking, or that I find most people boring beyond reason and treat them as nuisances. But I’m not the womanizer you think I am.”
Her smile faded and was replaced by raised eyebrows. “Are you not?”
“No. I play the game in public, smile and flirt and make lewd innuendos. It’s expected of me. I’ve had my share of mistresses, too. But... I think what I’m trying to say is that I’m not as wicked as my reputation might lead you to believe.”
“My mother will be relieved to hear that.”
“What about you?” he asked with an earnest note in his voice he wished wasn’t there. He was starting to sound like a schoolboy begging for approval.
Sarah tilted her head slightly to one side, as if she was contemplating a great mystery of the universe, then feathered her fingers through the hair at his temple. “I know how you’ve treated me, your servants, and your friend. That’s empirical evidence. Everyone else’s opinion is just theory.”
“And what does your evidence tell you?”
“That you are every inch an aristocrat who thinks himself above most of the people in the world.” Her smile returned. “And that you have a bigger heart and sense of honor than you’re willing to admit.”
Hart’s whole body relaxed. “Are you sure you’re not biased? I am in the process of saving your life, after all.”
“You won’t be saving anyone if you don’t eat.” She kissed his other cheek and pulled away from him. “Come on.”
The sun was so harsh Hart could barely open his eyes when he followed Sarah out of the workshop, but he managed to help her spread out a blanket in the grass near the stream. They sorted through the items in the basket next, and he realized this was the picnic—no servants, no table and chairs, no formal place settings, just Hart and his wife on a blanket.
“How did you carry this basket all the way out here?” Out of habit, he’d insisted on carrying the basket the short distance to their picnic site. T
he thing felt like it was full of rocks.
Sarah laughed. “I’ve been carrying stacks of books since I was old enough to read them. Do you know how much Johnson’s A Dictionary of the English Language weighs?”
“I never thought about it before.” He briefly wondered if she was strong enough to swing the big hammers he kept in the forge and was seized by a vision of his wife working a piece of steel at the anvil. It was disconcerting and intriguing all at once.
“Nichols says you’ve received another letter from the special messenger,” Sarah told him, pulling him from his musings. She’d set out their main course and began assembling a sandwich from the various components. “And I have news from Lord Ashfield.”
At the smell of the sliced ham and cheese, his stomach awakened with a rumble. He built his own sandwich and took a big bite. “What letter? What news?”
“I brought the letter with me. Nichols seemed to think it was important.”
“It is. Where is it?”
She snatched the basket and moved it to the other side of the blanket. “Not until you finish eating.”
“Very well, my lady. What shall we talk about, then?”
“Tell me about your invention—the one you’re currently working on.”
He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to tell her what he was trying to create. He’d just keep the inspiration for the device to himself. “Know anything about making dirty air cleaner?”
“I might. What are you trying to do?”
He’d been joking about her possible knowledge of filtering air, but she answered in a serious tone. Well, maybe she could help him make a connection he was missing. “I’m building a mask that a person could wear when the air is not breathable. It will be made from sturdy leather, with slits through which air will be drawn in. I want to use rubber to form a seal around the glass eyeholes—that’s what I was attempting to do when you walked in—and I need something to scrub the air, as it were, before it is inhaled.”
