by Stacy Henrie
Once he’d escorted the driver back downstairs and paid him, James returned upstairs to find Phoebe and her mother hard at work in their respective rooms. Both women had already changed into simpler dresses and aprons, their sleeves rolled back to work. They were pulling sheets off furniture and making the beds. He watched the activity from the hallway, feeling both fascinated and a bit inept. Every house he’d ever lived in or visited had been ready and waiting before his arrival. He’d never observed the frenetic preparations beforehand.
“What about your room, James?” Phoebe asked when she saw him standing there. “Has it been set to rights?”
He rubbed a hand to the back of his neck. The last two nights he’d slept at a hotel in town. It hadn’t taken him long after Phoebe’s departure the other day to realize he knew nothing about preparing a house like Baywood for daily living.
“No, not yet,” he admitted. “I was going to sleep in my father’s old room.”
Phoebe stopped her bustling about to glance at him, her expression gentle. “When I’m done in here, would you like some help?”
No laughing, no condemnation, no spoken irony at the reversal of his role from heir to servant. He smiled. “I would be ever so grateful for some help.”
He moved down the hallway to his father’s room. The idea to stay in here had come to him in the same moment he’d voiced it to Phoebe. Pushing through the door, James peered at the shrouded space. Whatever work was required, his tidy suit would likely be a hindrance.
He removed his jacket and vest then rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. A breath of stale air filled his nostrils, presenting a problem he knew how to solve. He crossed to the window and opened it. Fresh autumn air, laced with the smell of dying leaves, rolled into the room.
“Seems you do know what you’re doing,” Phoebe said from behind.
James turned. “What do you mean?”
She waved at the window as she set down a bundle of linens. “First order of business when readying the house, open the windows and air out the rooms.” Moving to the twin armchairs before the fireplace, she yanked off the sheets that covered them.
Unsure what to do next, he waited until she approached him with a smile and pressed a rag into his hand. “Swipe this over every flat surface.”
“Done,” he said, chuckling. He walked to the bookshelves and began wiping at the dusty leather covers. “I’d forgotten how much my father loved books.”
“The library downstairs is certainly a testament to that.” Phoebe began making the bed.
“He loved his library, yes, but he also wanted books closer to his room. That’s why he had these shelves built and stocked here at Baywood and at our house in New York.”
James pulled out a slim volume and opened the cover to see his father’s name scrawled inside along with a single-sentence quote. George Austin had penned little sayings or phrases onto the first pages of most of his books. This one read, To every thing there is a season. James recognized the Bible verse from Ecclesiastes. One he’d always liked. Though lately, he’d been wondering more and more what he ought to be doing with this season of his life.
Shutting the book and replacing it on the shelf, he continued dusting. “If my father had a wish to read in the middle of the night, he didn’t have to go all the way downstairs to find a book. He could simply walk over to the shelves here. I’ve done the same in England.”
“I think that’s lovely.” Phoebe straightened the blankets and asked, “Do you miss him?”
“Very much.” The confession surprised James. He hadn’t voiced to another person, in years, how much he missed his father. “He was a good man.”
“I don’t remember much about him, but he had very kind eyes,” Phoebe said. James smiled at her memory and perception—it fit his own. “Do you miss living in America?”
Moving on to dust the windowsill, he considered the question. “There are a great many things I miss. I do enjoy playing cricket and the English countryside is breathtaking.”
“What do you do there?”
He sensed no judgment in the question, only curiosity. And yet the old resentments he’d harbored at feeling useless crept into his voice as he replied, “Most of the time I’m staying at my stepfather’s estate in Yorkshire or Scotland, overseeing the upkeep of the house and lands and addressing any problems the tenants might have.”
“Do you enjoy it?” Phoebe asked with uncanny perception.
James glanced out the window at the red and gold trees and the waves beyond. The ocean was something else he’d missed. What would he do for a living if he had the choice? A demanding voice in his head protested he had no choice, not if he wished to please his family. But for the first time in a long while, he ignored it and instead searched his heart for a different answer.
“If I had my wish, I think I’d be a gentleman farmer. That’s the part I enjoy the most, working alongside the tenants.”
“A farmer?” she repeated, her tone surprised. “You’d wish to give up a life of ease for one of daily work and toil?”
“There are days I think I’d like that.” Something about Phoebe prompted him to answer her curious questions with truthful responses. Their open, honest conversation was a welcome change and a sharp contrast to what he’d experienced speaking to other young ladies back in England.
He took a seat on the edge of the sill, the dusting rag dangling between his knees as he leaned forward. “I’ve repaired roofs and built stone walls. I’ve helped bring in the harvest and planted gardens. I’ve even milked a cow, though rather poorly, I’ll admit.” He chuckled at the memory. “And I rather enjoyed every one of those days.”
“No time like the present then to learn something new.” A pillow arced across the room toward him, but he caught the object before it bludgeoned him in the head. “Ever fluffed a pillow as lord of the manor?” Phoebe’s teasing gaze and smile reminded him of the feeling he’d had of soaring when he stood atop a towering peak in Scotland.
His gaze locked with hers as an invisible, kinetic energy leapt between them. “I am no lord of the manor, Phoebe. And no, I have never fluffed a pillow.”
“If you can repair a roof, you can certainly fluff your own pillows.” Her eyes lit with that impish spark he well remembered from his youth.
Dropping his rag, he rose to his feet. “Is that a challenge, Miss Hill?”
“Perhaps,” she said with an upward tilt of her chin. But James thought her voice sounded a bit breathless. Did he have the same effect on her as she did on him? “Here’s the other pillow.”
She tossed it at him, but he’d anticipated her move this time. He lobbed his pillow in her direction. It bounced off her hip at the same moment hers struck his leg. Phoebe dissolved into laughter and sank onto the bed, clutching at her sides. James laughed right along with her. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d done something a bit unruly. Probably not since his childhood days here each summer.
At that moment, Margaret Hill appeared in the doorway, leaning on her cane. “What is going on in here?”
Another round of giggles consumed Phoebe, so James volunteered an answer. “We are fluffing pillows, ma’am,” he said with a smart bow. Phoebe clapped a hand to her mouth, and James could see her shoulders were still shaking with hidden laughter. Laughter he’d inspired and hoped to inspire again.
How many heiresses of his acquaintance enjoyed working and laughing and conversing about meaningful topics? None, except Phoebe. Once again he found himself admiring the fact that even with her newfound wealth she hadn’t changed who she was inside.
Mrs. Hill arched an imperious eyebrow at them before her face relaxed into a smile. “If you two are finished fluffing pillows, I could use your help in the kitchen.”
“We’re coming, Mother.”
Phoebe stood as James scooped up the pillows from off the floor. After he handed them to her, she placed them back onto the neatly made bed. “You really milked a cow?” she asked as he followed her
out of the room.
He grinned. “I really did. Though I think I’m better at fluffing pillows.”
“That poor cow,” she quipped as they walked side by side down the hall.
James shook his head in mock solemnity. “You mean my poor pillows.”
He solicited another laugh from her, as he’d wished. And as they made their way down the back stairs toward the kitchen, he couldn’t help thinking this last trip to Baywood House might prove to be his favorite one yet.
Chapter 3
Armed with a list of foodstuffs to purchase and tasked by her mother to find someone to assist with the cooking during the next four weeks, Phoebe changed back into her nicer dress and hat for a walk into town. She was pleased when James asked to join her. Their conversation and witty banter earlier as they’d straightened his father’s room had been more than a little enjoyable. Especially the intense way James had regarded her when she’d challenged him about fluffing pillows.
None of the other young men she’d met during her time as Mrs. Tanley’s companion had left her feeling as delightfully off-kilter. Or were unthreatened by her need for independence. But she wasn’t so naïve to believe her and James could ever be more than friends. He lived in England and she wished to live here. He was the son of “old money” and the stepson of an earl, and she would forever be the daughter of a servant.
“I never thought any season here could be as nice as summer,” James said as they strolled toward town, the sea at their backs.
Phoebe murmured agreement. “Spring and winter are probably just as lovely as autumn seems to be.” She hoped she’d be here to see those seasons as well.
“I should like to see those too,” he said, echoing her thoughts.
“And why haven’t you?” She tempered the question by adding, “Seeing as you love Baywood House so much.”
James pocketed his hands, his straw boater shading his handsome face, which furrowed in a contemplative expression. “My family is no longer here, for one. Although all four of my sisters have married Englishmen now, which leaves just my mother, stepfather, and three half siblings in London.” He kicked at a pebble with his shoe and sent it skipping ahead of them. “There have been plenty of times through the years, though, when I wished to come back. This place is in my blood, in my soul. It’s . . .”
“Magical,” she supplied, resisting the urge to touch his sleeve in a show of understanding. She felt the same about Baywood House.
“Yes, magical. But as the oldest and my mother’s only son until my half brother Edward came along, I felt it was my duty to care for her. Even after she married Winston.” The lines around his green eyes pinched with what looked like resignation. “I suppose that’s why I never came back, even when I was old enough to do so. At least not until now.”
“I’m glad you came back, James.” She meant it. He wasn’t to blame for the auction, and she liked getting to know him better. Four years between them had felt like a large gap when she was a child and he was a young man. But now the difference in their ages wasn’t a hindrance. Other things might be, things that hadn’t been a challenge when they were younger, and yet, she still savored the thought of spending time with him over the next month.
He glanced at her and smiled. “I am equally glad that you’ve come.” His words filled her with warmth, which spilled over into her cheeks. “And your mother,” he hastily added, making her smile.
Once they reached the shops and hotels, they agreed to divide tasks. Phoebe headed off to purchase the needed food items, while James, who’d had more experience with hiring servants, went in search of a temporary cook. Several of the older shopkeepers recognized Phoebe and made a fuss over how much she’d grown and what a lady she had become. The compliments and friendliness pleased her and increased her desire to remain in Newport—at Baywood House, if possible.
She exited her last shop some time later, hefting a wooden crate she’d been given to carry her purchases. A young clerk followed on her heels with the rest of the food. Even though the zenith of wealthy summer guests had fizzled out this late in the year, there were still plenty of carriages and motorcars about. At the sound of a horn, she looked up to see an automobile maneuvering toward her. James sat in the backseat of the open car.
“Did you find a car and a cook?” she asked with a laugh as the vehicle pulled to stop alongside the curb.
James hopped out to assist her. “We’ll have the cook much longer than the car. It’s just for getting everything back to Baywood.”
She smiled, thankful for his thoughtfulness. With plenty of hands, the items were loaded into the car in no time and Phoebe took a seat beside James. The breeze picked up as the automobile increased in speed. Clamping a hand to her hat, she held it in place, in case her pins didn’t do the trick.
“Do you mind the open top?” James had removed his own hat and held it securely on his knee.
Phoebe shook her head as she tipped her chin up and shut her eyes. “Not at all.” She relished the feel of the sun and wind on her face. “Perhaps I’ll buy my mother and I a car like this. Though I’d want to learn to drive it myself.” She could imagine the thrill it would be to drive through the countryside.
“Then perhaps I can teach you how.”
Opening her eyes, she glanced at James. “You know how to drive one of these?”
“Yes, but to be fair, it was only recently that I learned.”
“Driving cars, milking cows, and fluffing pillows?” She arched her eyebrows at him. “I never knew you were a man of so many talents, James Austin.”
He rewarded her teasing with a smile that made her breath catch. “Thank you. I think.” She joined in his light laughter. “And you continue to surprise me as well. Though I can’t say I’m shocked to learn the independent Phoebe Hill wishes to own a motorcar. As I recall you were never afraid of trains or boats and were always the first one in line to sled.”
Phoebe nodded in surprise. She hadn’t expected him to remember those details about her. “I would love for you to teach me how to drive an automobile.” She turned her attention forward. “Except you won’t be here. Not after the auction.” And truth be told, she might not be either. The purchase of a carriage or motorcar would have to wait until after she knew what the future held.
Clearing his throat, James studied his hat. “You’re right. I won’t be here.”
The air between them tensed as they rode the rest of the way to Baywood in silence. Phoebe nearly wished she hadn’t said anything about his leaving—she enjoyed their conversation and easy banter. But they both needed to remember this friendship couldn’t last. James wasn’t staying. And as much as she appreciated his company and his willingness to allow her and her mother to live at the mansion at present, she must tread carefully. Otherwise she was in danger of losing the house and her heart.
• • •
Though Phoebe’s mother protested eating supper in the dining room that night, James insisted. The two women were both his guests and an immense help, and he wanted them to feel as such. The simple meal they shared reminded him of those he’d eaten in the homes of his stepfather’s tenants and was every bit as delicious. Mrs. Hill’s talents in the kitchen hadn’t dimmed over time. He also enjoyed the lively, sensible conversation that easily flowed between them.
He was grateful the earlier tension with Phoebe had eased. When they’d arrived back at the mansion, he’d helped her bring everything inside. Then she’d excused herself to help her mother clean the drawing room. James had sensed she wished for some distance so he’d settled on straightening up the library by himself. The smell of books and the sight of his father’s favorite armchair brought back a flood of memories. He hated to think of someone else possessing the cherished items.
As he’d moved about the room, wiping down tables and shelves, he couldn’t help thinking back to the way Phoebe had looked on the ride home, her face turned up to the sun, her lips curved in a candid smile. It was a memory he’d take back
to England with him and one he’d pull out on cold, rainy days when the feeling of not belonging anywhere would creep inside him.
“A lovely supper, Mrs. Hill,” he said, pulling his thoughts back to the present and setting aside his napkin.
The older woman’s cheeks pinked. “Thank you, James. Then again, I remember you seemed to like just about anything I cooked.”
He chuckled. “Almost. I did conceal a great deal of onions in my napkin as a boy.”
Phoebe gave a soft snort and lifted her glass. “I don’t believe it.” Her rich brown eyes held his as she took a drink.
Her uninhibited sniff and teasing challenge were far too attractive to him. And reminded him again of how different she was from the aloof and rather snobbish women he’d met through the years in London, and Yorkshire, and Scotland. Most of them expressed interest in him until learning that his inheritance was rather small in comparison to that of his English compatriots or his younger half brothers.
“Am I being accused of embellishment?” he countered good-naturedly.
She feigned an innocent expression he could see right through. “I’m only saying I find it hard to believe that the dutiful James Austin would refuse to eat his onions.”
He knew she meant the words to be playful, but they pricked instead. Dutiful was how he’d always been described. And yet, hadn’t he done enough out of duty? When would he feel free, at last, to pursue things that had nothing to do with what others wanted or expected?
“We all have our foibles,” he replied.
Phoebe frowned as she studied him. Had she heard the note of regret and frustration in his tone?
“Shall we retire to the drawing room?” he said before she could comment on what she may have observed. She nodded and he came around to help her and her mother from their chairs.
“I’ll see to the dishes,” Mrs. Hill said.
