by Lily George
It wasn’t so bad to be this close to his niece. He wouldn’t go all to pieces. He could just pretend she was someone else’s child, and turn away from the fact that she looked so much like her mother. Or he could fixate on the practical needs of her existence, such as how to get her to eat more. And he could concentrate on the matter at hand, which was tucking her back into her bed without awakening her.
As they neared her doorway, Becky hurried past him to open the door. Then she beckoned to Juliet’s bedroom, where she turned down the bed. As he laid Juliet onto the counterpane, Becky swiftly removed her boots. Juliet stirred, then turned over on her stomach and pushed herself to a semikneeling position. That was an odd way to sleep—certainly it couldn’t be comfortable. He made a movement to turn her over, but a flurry of hand-waving from Becky halted his progress.
She motioned him out of the bedroom and shut the door. “She sleeps like that. I cannot think it comfortable myself, but she seems to prefer it,” she whispered.
“Oh. Well. My apologies,” he muttered. Well, that was taken care of. He turned to go.
“Thank you for your help.” She had pitched her voice to a stage whisper. “I had no idea how I was going to make it up the stairs, but I was jolly well going to give it a go. She needs all the rest she can get.”
That was the first time Becky had genuinely expressed gratitude to him for anything, and for some ridiculous reason, it was heartening. “I was just going to go for a walk,” he offered. “Would you like to accompany me?”
“Oh, that would be nice, but I should stay close to Juliet.” She motioned toward Juliet’s door with her head. “She may sleep three hours, or fifteen minutes. It’s impossible to say. And it was such a difficult morning that I find myself in need of a break, too.”
“I see.” That was rather a letdown. It would be pleasant to spend some time in someone’s company. And Becky could be a lovely companion when the mood struck her. “I understand. Sundays at Kellridge are so quiet, I often find myself bored, to own the truth.” There was no need to explain himself or his feelings, but something was driving him to continue this conversation. He wasn’t ready to face the rest of the day alone.
“I was going to work on a new play dress for Juliet, and I am so used to talking with my sisters as I sew. I find it a lonely business to stitch away on my own, with no pleasant chatter to soothe my nerves,” she admitted. “I am sure that you have far more interesting things to do than sit with me as I work, though.”
“I’d be happy to.” He said it almost too fast. No need to look and sound desperate for social interaction. “This is supposed to be a day of rest. Why work?”
“I don’t think of sewing as work.” She gave a shy smile. “It’s always been rather like...like artistic expression, I suppose. I like it.”
“Well, if you enjoy it and wouldn’t mind the company...” He trailed off. “Are you hungry?”
“A little. Why?” She opened the door to the small sitting-room that adjoined her bedroom.
“I don’t like a heavy lunch on Sundays, so I usually have the cook leave something light for me in the kitchens while she has her rest. Perhaps I could bring it up here, and we could share?”
Becky settled into her chair, pulling a small heap of lavender cotton into her lap. “That would be quite a treat, actually.”
Paul dashed down to the kitchens and found the light luncheon that had been set out for him in a basket—bread, cheese, cold meat, sliced apples. And a few slices of a rich chocolate cake. Normally he would grab a bottle of wine to go along with such a repast, but somehow, that didn’t seem right. So he took a bottle of spring water and two glasses from the nearby cupboard.
When he returned to the sitting room, Becky was hard at work, her dark head bent down over the lilac fabric. Sunlight streamed in through the window, and a clock ticked softly upon the mantelpiece. Everything was calm, and quiet, and still. And yet—it filled his soul with a sense of peace, rather than of tedium.
Any given afternoon in London he would be pursuing risk, or excitement or enjoying a fast time. London was his second home, and his respite from the responsibilities of being master of Kellridge. This, for some reason, was far more satisfying than any of those pursuits. He laid the luncheon on a little table and drew it close to Becky, so that she could help herself as she pleased.
“Thank you for sharing.” She set a small stitch in the bodice. “Do all the servants fend for themselves on the Sabbath?”
“No, they share in a community meal, for I don’t like to make them put forth a tremendous amount of effort on me, unless I have guests. Which isn’t terribly often.” He pulled a velvet-covered chair closer to the table and broke the bread. “Why are you making a new gown for my niece? Did she not have plenty of frocks?”
“She does, but I don’t find them entirely suitable.” She snipped a thread and paused, helping herself to an apple slice. “The fabrics are stiff and cause her to itch. And they aren’t cut loosely enough. She’s in heavy mourning now, but I am making clothes for her to wear for half-mourning in a few months.”
“It’s good of you to think of her comfort.” In fact, it was rather heartwarming. In a period of a few days, Becky was showing more care and concern for Juliet than possibly anyone had in her entire life. “My sister was not sensible. I am certain she dressed Juliet for effect, not practicality. If that little lavender dress suits her, and makes her happier, then we can move her on to half-mourning early.”
Becky glanced up, her delicate eyebrows arched. “Are you quite sure of that?”
“Why not? My sister would prefer her to be in elegant colors. Juliana once told me she had a horror of black. And besides, we’re rather isolated out here in the country. No need to be a slave to decorum.” He wasn’t so much pushing through the usual period of grieving as he was ensuring that his niece was well cared for.
“The more I hear of Juliana, the more I like her—though it sounds like she could be trying.” Becky smiled and resumed her stitching. “She sounds like she would have added spice to life.”
“Spice—yes, I suppose that is the best way to describe her. A little goes a long way, and all that.” He shrugged and opened the bottle of water, pouring it out evenly between the two glasses. “When my father died, Juliana was only thirteen, and I only five years her senior. When I came into the running of Kellridge, and all the estate had to offer, Juliana was by far the biggest challenge I faced.” And the only one he had failed—utterly and completely.
“Because she was so headstrong? I see that in her daughter.” Becky accepted her water with a brief nod of thanks.
“Headstrong, willful and beautiful. She loved so fiercely and lived so passionately. If only she’d found time to calm down, to enjoy the simplicities of life.” Just as he and Becky were doing now. If only Juliana could rest, or calm herself, perhaps she wouldn’t have burned herself out so soon. So much of his life had been spent trying to rein her in.
“Did she find peace when she moved to Italy? She settled there with her husband, did she not?”
It was an innocent question, the sort of small talk he had encouraged by bringing a meal here to share with Becky. Even so, he had to take a sharp step backward. “Yes. Her husband was Italian. They married there, and there she lived until they both died.”
Paul could feel her gaze resting upon him, yet he wouldn’t look up. He wouldn’t elaborate. If he said one more word, the dam would break. He would spill everything—how he behaved most shamefully in the years following Ruth’s death. How Juliana fell in love with her music teacher, the man he himself brought to Kellridge. How she became with child and was sent off in disgrace, to marry in Italy. How Juliana blithely brought shame and dishonor upon their family at the tender age of seventeen and then fell in love with the blackguard who disgraced her. Then bore his child, who now slumbered in the next room.
>
Had Paul been a good guardian and a decent master, one who stayed at home rather than cavorting about London, none of that would have happened.
Chapter Ten
The rest certainly did her charge no good. Juliet wailed and kicked on the floor of the study. All Becky had tried to do was make Juliet change from playing with her blocks in the study to washing up for dinner. Juliet certainly hated change of any kind, even if it simply meant changing from one activity to another.
“Juliet, come now. Your uncle will hear you.” He had allowed them the use of the library after Juliet awakened from her nap, and ’twas nice to have a change of scene. Just as it had been nice to have Paul’s company in the nursery earlier that afternoon. If they made too much noise, he might regret softening toward Juliet. He might freeze up, when he had just begun to thaw. And having Paul be pleasant to her was ever so much better than when he played the distant, forbidding lord of the manor, or the joking, teasing bounder.
Juliet gave another loud wail, and thumped against the table. A bottle of ink, jounced by the force of her tiny foot against the table leg, rolled off the surface and fell onto the thick Aubusson carpet. The stopper slipped out, and the rich black liquid seeped into its deep nap.
Becky stifled a scream of horror and gazed at the spreading pool. That rug was priceless. Just judging by the vivid colors and luxurious texture, it likely cost a small fortune. She fell to her knees and turned the bottle of ink upright, placing the stopper back. Behind her, Juliet ceased her frantic flailing and came to sit beside her.
“Oh no.” Juliet stuck two of her fingers in her mouth, her eyes wide.
“Oh no, indeed.” Becky placed the ink on the table. How on earth would she get that horrid stain out? Paul would be furious. Everything in Kellridge was supposed to be kept just so. And here he had allowed her to use this room, his first true concession to allowing Juliet in his life. And within just an hour, they had completely destroyed its furnishings.
She pressed her trembling hands to her forehead. Perhaps she could run and get Mrs. Clairbourne to assist. Surely the housekeeper would know how best to treat the stain. She stood, grasping Juliet’s hand. “We need to go to the kitchens to get help.” She turned to go, but was stopped by Paul.
He lounged against the doorframe, an inscrutable look hovering in his brown eyes. “I came to see what all the fussing was about.”
“Well, we had a small accident....” Becky began. Had he seen the stain already?
“So I see.” Again, that wry humor. Was he really angry? Or was he teasing her? Her heart hammered in her chest and she squeezed tightly to Juliet’s hand.
He strolled into the room and gave the bell rope a pull. “I’ll have Mrs. Clairbourne come see what can be done. Go ahead and take Juliet to her room.”
“If it’s just the same to you, I’ll stay and clean.” Better to own responsibility for the accident from the start. “I want to help. I know that rug must be quite expensive, and you may dock my salary until it’s paid for....”
Paul shook his head. “No need for that. And no need to stay and repair the damage. I’ll see to it that Mrs. Clairbourne—”
“Nay, I insist. ’Tis my fault. I should have kept Juliet under better control.”
Mrs. Clairbourne entered the room. That good lady turned pale and made a noise like a wounded animal when she spied the spreading ink on the rug. Paul turned to her, assuming command of the situation as a general might on the field of battle.
“Mrs. C., I beg you to take Juliet upstairs to her nursery and watch her until Miss Siddons is able to join her,” he began. “And send an army of maids up here to clean up this mess with whatever elixir you think might do the trick.”
“Vinegar.” The housekeeper shook her head, making a tsking sound as she led Juliet away. “A great deal of vinegar.”
Paul watched them leave and then turned to Becky. “Come. Follow me to my study.”
As Becky trailed behind Paul’s broad back, her mouth went dry. Well, this was it. She was going to be dismissed. She was abysmally incompetent as a nursemaid, just as she had been with everything else. She was no practical use as a milliner and couldn’t even entice a lonely soldier to ask for her hand.
How foolish to think that God had called her here. That she had a purpose in life. Her purpose must be entirely different. She was meant to cheerfully toil at cheap bonnets the rest of her life.
Tears welled in her eyes. In no time at all, she would be back at the millinery shop, begging Nan for her old position. Would she even be able to see Paul socially without being humiliated into the very dust? ’Twould be quite awkward to see him over at Susannah’s home, and be expected to speak with him, even though she had failed him so completely.
He opened the door and ushered her in, the scar on his face making his visage leaner, more unreadable than ever before. As he closed the door behind them, her anxiety welled within. She couldn’t take this. ’Twas too embarrassing.
“I’ll go,” she burst out. What a relief to say the words aloud. “I can leave here within just a few moments, and I shall find a way to repay you for the rug.”
“Go?” He arched one eyebrow and gazed at her, his arms folded across his chest. “Go where?”
“Go back to the millinery shop.” She couldn’t bring herself to say home. It wasn’t home any longer. The site of her many failures, perhaps, but it wasn’t home.
“Why would you want to do that?” Paul leaned against his desk and grasped the edge. “Aren’t you happy here?”
To her undying shame, she could no longer hold back the tears. They streamed out of her eyes and down her cheeks, lavish and unchecked. “Aren’t you dismissing me?”
“No. Why would I?”
Her tears were flowing too fast for her to gauge his expression; indeed, he was shrouded in a mist.
“Because I am terrible at what I do.” Now that the floodgates had opened, there was some comfort in owning the truth. “I can’t manage Juliet. She throws temper tantrums at every opportunity. I try to get her to stop. I try to make her a little lady. I just haven’t the gift for it.”
“Well, Juliet is high-spirited. Just like her mother.”
“A good nursemaid would be able to handle her.” Becky sniffled and pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve. “I don’t understand why God called me here, if all I am going to do is fail.” Her knees trembled violently. In a moment she might fall if she didn’t gain better control over herself.
“I don’t think God had much to do with it. I don’t hold much with providential direction. I asked you because I needed your help. And I still do. And what’s more, I want you to be Juliet’s nursemaid.” Paul’s voice was crisp and decisive. He was slipping back into his role of lord of the manor. In a moment he would turn cold and precise and this wonderful warmth between them would dissipate.
“No. I believe God sent me here, even if you do not. I must have a purpose in life. If this isn’t meant to be my role, what could it mean?” She gave vent to her sobs in earnest. It felt good to cry, after all. Releasing all the pent-up frustration and anger and despair of the past few weeks...giving in to the feelings of inadequacy and helplessness...why, it felt awfully good to just let them flow from her, like a swift-moving stream.
“Becky. Don’t.” His voice was different now, huskier and somehow more intimate. He was drawing her closer rather than freezing her out.
She lifted her head from the now-sodden handkerchief and looked at Paul. He stood before her, a step closer than before, his arms outstretched in a beseeching fashion. “I beg you, don’t cry. Please don’t. It’s the one thing I can’t bear, seeing a pretty girl weep.”
This Paul was different, somehow. In the space of a few moments, he’d become warm and kind. He didn’t laugh or tease her, nor did he shut her out with an air of condescension. And he
called her by her name. He was reaching out to her at a moment when she hurt most dreadfully.
If only he would stay this way forever—why, she would work for him as long as he needed.
* * *
She must stop crying. Paul would promise Becky anything—he would double her pay, he would find another helper for her, he would buy her the prettiest frock in London—if only she would stop. Emotional displays of any kind were horrifying, but none so much as one in the grip of tears. Especially a young, pretty lass in the hold of a weeping fit. Juliana knew this about him and had used it to her full advantage. He would promise Juliana the world, even allow her to marry a rogue and bear his child only a few months thereafter.
This was a vulnerability of his. It was far better than giving full vent to emotion, which was weaker still. No, better to give a girl anything she wanted in order to keep her from crying, and better to never give in to feelings oneself. That way madness lay.
“See here, what can I do to help you? What is it that causes the most trouble?” If they could stick to the facts at hand, he would come up with a solution. And everything would work out just fine.
Becky kept her eyes cast down as she searched for a dry spot on her handkerchief. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with her. I think it’s me. I must be doing something wrong, for it seems like every time we make a little progress, she suddenly jumps backward.”
“Well, what sort of progress are you making?” He leaned up against the desk, clasping the edge of it once more. His shoulders relaxed. He could solve this problem, if only they could get to the root of it.
“Her clothes, for one thing. They were entirely inappropriate for a child—why, she was dressed more as an adult. And she doesn’t eat or sleep with any sort of regularity or schedule. So I spoke to Susannah about it, and she suggested implementing some sort of regimen—some regularity in Juliet’s life.” Becky paused for a moment, glancing up at him with the fire quenched in her watery eyes. “Whenever I try to tell Juliet what to do, or where to go, or to stop playing at a given time—”
