Courting the Countess

by Donna Hatch

  Something shifted in his expression and he let out an unsteady breath. He stepped back, lowered his head, and put his hands behind his back. Something precious, something vital, had passed them by, never to be recaptured.

  Disappointment sent a chill through her. She couldn’t account for what had happened that made him suddenly so unwilling to touch her when he’d seemed to desire her only days ago. Obviously, she’d failed him in some way. Elizabeth swallowed but couldn’t dissolve the lump in her throat.

  He indicated the book in her hands. “Do you wish to read that one to me?” His voice took on a vacant tone that probably meant he had no desire to have her read it to him and was merely being polite.

  Needing a moment to compose herself, she moved to a group of chairs drawn up together next to a table where a lamp shone. She put the book on her lap. All excitement to read the tales of King Arthur and his knights of the round table withered and died in the face of Richard’s coolness. Trying to calm the burning in her eyes and dispel the lump in her throat, she swallowed again. The shuffling of papers came from behind her but she kept her gaze focused on her hands pressed on the cover of the book.

  “Read to me about King Arthur and his knights,” he prompted.

  His clothing rustled as he took a seat near enough to converse, but not near enough to touch. She glanced at him. He sat with a closed book on one knee, papers lying on the cover, and an artist’s pencil in one hand. Using the book as a small writing desk, he began writing or perhaps drawing. His lashes concealed his eyes and his expression remained neutral.

  “Are you sure you want this one?” she asked. “I could choose another book, if you like.”

  “I’ve never read that story, but I enjoy tales of the old knights.” He glanced at her. Something cautious, almost hesitant, flickered in his eyes. He returned his focus to his paper. That brief moment of vulnerability in his eyes gave her courage. He might not be as far beyond her reach as she had feared.

  Moistening her lips, she opened the book and read. As she spoke, his pencil made tiny scratching sounds. Once she craned her neck to see what he was writing. Not words but a drawing spread across his paper. Satisfied he was listening, she continued. The tales drew her in and buoyed her spirit, but her awareness of Richard permeated every word. If only he loved her as deeply as those chivalrous knights, she would welcome the years with him.

  She let the book fall into her lap, stunned at the realization. She wanted Richard to love her—not just offer her a home away from Duchess. Was it possible her feelings for him had grown more than she’d realized? Unable to discern the answer, she picked up her book, seeking answers in the pages. She read until her throat dried. She paused, glancing at the clock.

  “Oh my,” she said. “I didn’t realize how late it had grown.”

  He stopped writing and followed her gaze. “You’re right. I need to meet with the crofter about some roof repairs early tomorrow. I believe I’ll retire now.” He stood.

  Before he turned to leave, she asked, “Who is your favorite knight so far?”

  He paused, his eyes moving to some far off sight. “Either Prince Erec or Sir Galahad, I think.”

  If only she were a fitting Lady Enide, perhaps he would be more like Prince Erec to her. How could she be more worthy of him?

  He added as if an afterthought, “Thank you for reading. I enjoyed that.” Surprise touched his tone as if he’d suspected he’d be bored by her reading. His lips curved but no joy touched his eyes. Again came that impression of caution, as if he held himself distant, not out of repulsion or condemnation but out of a hesitancy to get too close.

  If he held onto his love for Leticia, he would never love Elizabeth the way the knights of old loved their ladies. The thought brought a sting to her eyes.

  “Good night, my lady.”

  She managed around her disappointment, “Good night, my lord.”

  He didn’t remind her to call him Richard. Elizabeth sat in the library long after he’d gone with her head resting in her hands. Tristan was lost to her. Now, apparently, so was Richard. It appeared that she’d live out her life alone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Refusing to succumb to self-pity, Elizabeth arose early in the morning and squared her shoulders. At least Richard had given her leave to hire whomever she saw fit. She might not be an acceptable wife, but she’d be a passable countess. She’d help the less fortunate striving to better themselves.

  Elizabeth summoned the head housekeeper. When Mrs. Brown arrived, Elizabeth stepped back at the cold hostility radiating from the woman. Though she shrank from the housekeeper’s animosity, Elizabeth reminded herself that she was the mistress of the house. Now was the time to assert her authority.

  Mrs. Brown stood at attention, her gaze straight ahead, disapproval etched in the lines in her face. “You rang for me, my lady?”

  “I understand the house is still a bit understaffed.”

  Mrs. Brown sniffed. “I assure you, we will see to your every convenience, my lady.”

  “I have no doubt of that, but I do not wish for you to overwork yourself or the servants. I plan to hire additional help.”

  Her tone turned almost condescending. “Oh, my lady, I assure you, there’s no need for you to get involved in staffing concerns. The butler and I will see to that.”

  “Where do you usually hire new servants?”

  “Often from Town or from an agency. I admit, we’re still looking to fill a few positions but I will handle the matter.”

  “I realize that’s normally how it’s done, but I wish to help the cause of the reformers. In particular, I’ve been following Mrs. Goodfellow’s efforts. I plan to aid her endeavors by hiring as many of those she has reformed as possible.”

  Mrs. Brown’s eyes bulged. “Fill the house with pickpockets and prostitutes? Unthinkable!”

  Patiently, Elizabeth explained, “Mrs. Goodfellow trains those who are ready to make a change. She helps them start a new life.”

  The housekeeper hesitated. “Yes, but—”

  “I understand her institution is nearby.”

  “My lady, that place is filled with the very lowest of reprobates from London.”

  “They have left the streets and are seeking to improve themselves, are they not?”

  Mrs. Brown hesitated. “So they say, but—”

  “I believe everyone deserves a second chance. As the new countess, I wish to do all I can to aid the downtrodden.”

  “But surely—”

  “They are reformed, Mrs. Brown. If enterprises such as Mrs. Goodfellow’s are to succeed, people must offer honest employment to those who wish to find it.”

  “We cannot trust them! Why, they might run off with the silver, or engage in”—the housekeeper dropped her voice to a whisper—“in immoral behavior.”

  Elizabeth drew herself up. “I will take full responsibility of that. What I need from you is a list of staff we lack.”

  Mrs. Brown raised her nose. “May I ask as to whether you’ve received permission from his lordship?”

  Ah, the crux of the matter. Winning over servants was not always a simple matter, but if she allowed the housekeeper to intimidate her, she’d never earn the woman’s respect.

  Elizabeth fixed a stern gaze at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Brown. You may have been with this family for years, but I am your new mistress now and you will not question my authority again, is that clear?”

  Mrs. Brown’s lips pressed into a thin line. Then, “Yes, my lady. I understand perfectly.”

  “Good. I can put your mind at rest that I have indeed received my lord’s blessing on hiring any new staff I see fit. Now, either you give me a list of the positions needed, or I will simply bring home as many reformed pickpockets and prostitutes as Mrs. Goodfellow has available for hire.”

  “Very well.” The housekeeper scribbled a list and handed it to Elizabeth, her gaze mutinous. “Will there be anything further…my lady?” Her tone bordered on insolent.
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br />   “Make sure my carriage is ready first thing in the morning so I may pay a call on Mrs. Goodfellow.”

  The housekeeper sank into a sullen curtsey. “Yes, my lady.”

  Elizabeth let out a breath, savoring her satisfaction for having the backbone to stand up to the formidable woman and assert her authority as the lady of the home. However, she suspected that would not be their last battle.

  Early the following morning after eating breakfast alone, Elizabeth arrived at the Goodfellow manor house situated in a charming glen. Ivy clung to the stone walls and flowers grew in glorious disarray along the walkway.

  A young girl with her hair pulled back into a tidy knot opened the front door and stared at Elizabeth. In the thick accent of those raised in the alleys of London, she asked, “May I ’elp ye, miss?”

  “I am Lady Averston and I wish to speak with Mrs. Goodfellow.” She held out her calling card, which still read Lady Elizabeth Pemberton. She made a mental note to order cards with her new title.

  “Al’righ’, I’ll go an’ get ’er for ye.” Leaving her standing in the doorway, and without taking the card, the girl strode away.

  Elizabeth glanced back at the coachman and nodded, then let herself inside. She stood in a small foyer until a rotund, middle-aged woman hurried to her.

  “I’m Mrs. Goodfellow. I’m honored by your presence. Do come in, Lady Averston, I pray you. I apologize if Nan left you standing. She’s still learning.”

  The lady curtsied respectfully and led Elizabeth into a tiny, threadbare parlor and gestured to a seat. After Elizabeth settled upon a settee, Mrs. Goodfellow perched on the edge of an armchair. “How may I help you, my lady?”

  “I wish to aid you in your cause,” Elizabeth replied. “I have been reading about your work and I wish to hire those who are ready to accept honest employment.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow’s eyes opened wide. “Are you? How lovely! Please, do take some refreshment and we can discuss the particulars.”

  “Thank you.”

  A reed-thin little girl, probably eight or nine years old, with limp brown hair entered carrying a tray that seemed too big for her. Her gaze never strayed from the floor as she set down the tray.

  Mrs. Goodfellow touched the girl’s hand. “Thank you, Janey, dear.”

  The child shied away as if burned, then flicked a hurried glance at Mrs. Goodfellow before scurrying out of the room. Elizabeth’s heart squeezed in compassion.

  Mrs. Goodfellow shook her head sadly. “Poor lamb. We rescued her from a brothel.”

  Elizabeth gasped. “How awful!” The thought of a child forced to prostitute herself made Elizabeth lose her appetite.

  “It is a heinous crime,” Mrs. Goodfellow agreed. “According to rumor, that terrible Mr. Black owns that place. The poor child has yet to have spoken a word.” She smiled. “Now, however, she has a future, and in time I hope she can heal from the terrible abuses she must have suffered, thanks to people with generous hearts like you.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow poured the tea and offered scones, Devonshire cream, and jam. “Pray, how many servants are you looking to employ?”

  “I have a list.” Elizabeth handed it over.

  Mrs. Goodfellow nodded as she looked over the note. “Splendid. We can fill all those positions. I have two or three for each position who I’ll send for your head housekeeper or butler to interview. They can have the final say in which person receives the position.”

  “My head housekeeper is less than enthusiastic at my proposal to hire people from your establishment,” Elizabeth said. “She has some…concerns.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow nodded, unperturbed. “Naturally. Most people do. However, I can personally vouch for everyone here. By giving her the final say, she may be more inclined to manage them fairly.”

  “Very well. I will leave the matter in your capable hands. I also wish to make a donation.” Elizabeth handed her some of her pin money she’d begun saving from the first moment she’d read of Mrs. Goodfellow’s endeavor.

  The gesture brought tears to Mrs. Goodfellow’s eyes. “How very kind of you, my lady.”

  Elizabeth inclined her head as her heart swelled. “I applaud your efforts. Please let me know when your next charity event is and I’ll offer you my support.”

  “Thank you, my lady. I shall.”

  Elizabeth paused. “The child who does not speak…I want to help her. What can I do?”

  “Much as I’d like to keep her here, I think a change of scenery would be good for her, although she’s not ready for employment yet; she’s fairly untrained.”

  “I wouldn’t require much of her.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “I supposed she could work as a ’tween stairs maid. She’s stronger than she looks and very willing to do whatever we ask of her.”

  “I would instruct my housekeeper to ensure that her duties are light.”

  Mrs. Goodfellow hesitated. “I would ask that you do whatever you can to protect her from molestation.”

  “I give you my word. I know what it’s like to be afraid.” The sickening terror returned at merely the thought of Duchess’s wrath.

  Mrs. Goodfellow nodded, her gaze penetrating, and Elizabeth turned her head away before the lady saw more secrets than Elizabeth was willing to reveal. She couldn’t bear disgust and pity in the eyes of anyone who guessed the truth.

  They bid farewell, and Elizabeth left the ivy-covered manor house with a light heart and a happy smile. Even if she weren’t loved, she was safe and could turn her attention toward rescuing others who longed for safety.

  She stopped at the printer’s and ordered new cards. Her next stop was at the shop of a modiste who’d come highly recommended. As countess, it would be her duty to throw a ball and invite all the locals. Such an event required a new ball gown, something that proclaimed her lady of the house and not a shadow that quaked at Duchess’s voice.

  As Elizabeth stood amid swatches of fabric and dress drawings, Madame Prideux dutifully gushed over her “delightful figure” and “lovely coloring” before settling into the business of style and design, all the while, the modiste cooing over her every order as if Elizabeth were some kind of fashion genius.

  The modiste clasped her hands. “My lady, soon everyone will follow your style.”

  Elizabeth laughed softly. “I’m not trying to revolutionize fashion, merely show that my figure is not entirely a loss.”

  Madame Prideux made all the expected protestations and they again returned to drawings and fabrics. Elizabeth ordered evening gowns and a ball gown in bold colors—scarlet, Cambridge blue, and forest green, so unlike the pastels she’d always worn.

  Madame Prideux served biscuits and tea as they completed the measurements and settled on a price.

  “I will come to you for the first fittings soon.” Madame Prideux bid Elizabeth goodbye, visibly gloating over her profitable morning.

  Delighted with the morning’s events, Elizabeth visited the tailor to get fitted for a new riding habit. Afterwards, she stopped at the milliner and ordered a new bonnet to go with her riding habit. Excitement about wearing her own creations warmed her. How delightful to wear something of her choice instead of Duchess’s. It was liberating.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Several weeks after his wedding ceremony, Richard strode up the stairs toward the house, stripping off his riding gloves. A new footman opened the door, grinning. Richard paused mid-stride, and raised a brow.

  The footman’s grin only widened. “’ave a nice ride, milor’?”

  “Er, yes.” Richard eyed him, unsure whether a footman ought to look so happy, and fairly certain he shouldn’t be addressing his master in such a way, but he let the matter go. It seemed bad form to reprimand a servant for unnecessary cheer, especially in the country where manners could relax. “Are you new?”

  “That I am, milor’ an’ ’appy I am to be ’ere.” The man’s accent gave him away immediately.

  “You are
from London, I take it?”

  “That I am. Mrs. Goodfellow said I’d like it ’ere, an’ she was righ’.”

  Richard didn’t question the identity of this Mrs. Goodfellow but nodded as if he did. “Very good. Carry on.”

  The footman touched his forelock, his grin still in place, and returned to his post. Shaking his head in amusement, Richard strode to his room and rang for his valet.

  Wesley came in, a little more bent than usual. “Your bath is already prepared, my lord.”

  “I’m still convinced you’re clairvoyant.”

  “As any good valet should be.”

  Richard stared. “Wesley, did you just crack a joke?”

  “I’d never be so presumptuous, my lord.” He kept a straight face.

  Richard smiled. “Your sister sends her best—through her husband.”

  “Met with your steward today, sir?”

  “If I didn’t need him so badly, I’d tell him it’s time to retire. I feel the same way about you.”

  Wesley looked decidedly smug. “Being needed is my specialty, my lord.” He tugged until Richard’s boots came off but he moved a bit stiffly.

  “Is your rheumatism acting up again?”

  “’Tis of no consequence.”

  “Doesn’t cook have a special liniment for that?”

  “The stable master does. I have already requested more.”

  “I’m meeting with my solicitor in the morning so I’ll need your skills with the cravat.”

  “A mathematical knot would be in order, I believe.”

  Smiling over the valet’s logic, or perhaps his subtle humor, Richard worked the buttons of his waistcoat.

  A diminutive ’tween stairs maid tiptoed into the room carrying a box of coal. She took one look at Richard, her face transforming into terror, and with a squeak, fled the room.