THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  She started to speak, but he boldly placed a fingertip against her lips. “Not at Bellewyck, nor anywhere else. The estate is understaffed and your good health is essential to perform your duties as housekeeper. Should you disobey me in this matter, your employment must end. My decision is final. Do you understand?”

  Christiana never felt more like kicking someone than she did at that moment. How would she be able to get away from the abbey now without raising suspicion? Chimney sweep clothes had always been her best disguise, especially when she had to meet Blackjack or leave the estate on smuggling business.

  Had Mr. Randolph not chosen to accompany her to the village yesterday, she could have met Blackjack as planned with no one the wiser. Instead, she’d had no choice but to actually sweep chimneys at The Green Dragon.

  “Who will clean the chimneys?” she asked.

  “I shall hire someone. I am quite sure we can entice a master sweep from London to relocate to the village. Fear not, I will think of something.”

  He smiled, clearly pleased with his decision.

  Seeds of panic took root in her belly. She clasped her hands together, recognizing the need to sound calm, reasonable. “But it makes no sense to pay someone else to do the job, especially since I have cleaned chimneys most all my life.”

  His eyes lost all warmth. “What do you, most all your life?”

  “Well, whenever his lordship was in residence,” she quickly amended. “But I also assisted Mr. Hartwell in the village. So, you see, it makes little sense now to—”

  “Who was this Mr. Hartwell?”

  “The master sweep who lived in the village. I apprenticed with him as a child and—”

  “This Hartwell trained you?” His nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched so tightly she saw it pulse.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Was he a relation?”

  “No.” She paused to see if he would interrupt again. Just when she decided to chance another comment, he spoke.

  “Why would this man teach you to be a sweep? Were there no young men in the village, or boys who could have apprenticed with the man? Billy Darrow is but a year or two younger than you. Why not him?”

  “Because, his lordship wanted me to do it. And Billy had other duties at the abbey.” She prayed for patience. “I do not see why all this matters now, Mr. Randolph.”

  “Why, in God’s name, would Lord Bellewyck choose you to do such a thing?”

  Christiana’s barely restrained frustration with Mr. Randolph’s latest attempt to interfere at the estate vanished to witness the man’s distraught, if not horrified, expression. She studied him as he turned and walked away.

  He stopped at the far side of the room, and stared at the floor. The rapid rise and fall of his shoulders conveyed the man’s increasing agitation. Hands resting low on his hips, he seemed to be trying to rein in his emotions or his temper. Perhaps both. When next he looked at her, although some measure of control had been achieved, disbelief furrowed his brow.

  “Are you quite sure Lord Bellewyck ordered this master sweep in the village to train a small child—a little girl—to clean the chimneys at this estate?”

  Clearly he did not believe her interpretation of the facts.

  “Mr. Randolph,”—she softened her voice—“Bellewyck Abbey is a poor estate. His lordship required everyone to earn their keep here.”

  He studied her a moment longer then strode to the fireplace. Standing in profile, one hand resting upon the carved chimneypiece, he studied the fire burning steadily in the hearth. “How old were you when you began this apprenticeship?”

  “Four, almost five.”

  He grimaced as if her answer had inflicted a physical pain. Then, much to her surprise, he returned to her. Lifting her chin gently with a thumb and forefinger, she had no choice but to look him in the eyes.

  “You will never clean chimneys again. Is that understood?”

  The quiet strength in his voice comforted and fascinated her. And the way he looked at her proved rather disarming. Genuine concern lit his wondrously handsome features, reflecting and warming his eyes to such an extent her heart skipped a beat. At once, she remembered ‘twas the same way he’d looked at her after she’d fallen into the hearth the day he arrived.

  “Why does it bother you so?”

  “I saw a sweep boy fall to his death when I was quite young.” He hesitated a moment, as if drawn back in memory. “He died in my arms. I never forgot that boy or the despicable waste of a human life. Needless to say, I have since abhorred the practice of children being used in such a manner. To learn Lord Bellewyck ordered a small child to become a sweep at this estate sickens me.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” she replied in a near whisper. “And thank you for caring about my welfare, Mr. Randolph.”

  Stepping away, he shrugged. “Again, my concern is for Bellewyck Abbey, Miss Tatum. You are the only servant able to read and write with any proficiency—quite miraculous under the circumstances. Should you become injured or ill from inhaling all that soot or falling to your death, the estate would suffer and I would be hard-pressed to replace you.”

  The temptation to kick him almost overpowered her.

  Fortunately, restraint prevailed.

  The man considered the brewing wizard of Bellewyck Abbey had to be the most ancient man Devlin had ever encountered. He could barely move without the aid of a walking stick. And although the physical limitations of advanced age seemed not to affect the man’s mind, his disposition proved another matter entirely.

  Jasper Collins was gruff and, like all the other servants, resentful of any enquiries—in particular, those concerning the brewery or its productivity. Surly, unyielding, and unpleasant as the old man behaved, like the fabled Achilles, he also had a weakness.

  Collins had a soft spot in his heart for Miss Tatum.

  “Did you remember to eat breakfast?” she asked.

  “I remembered,” replied Collins, an element of uncertainty in his watery gaze.

  “Bertie baked some tasty meat pies this morning.” Miss Tatum smiled and patted one of the man’s aged hands. “We could have luncheon together here in the brewery.”

  “If you like,” the brewer replied.

  Without asking his opinion on the matter, Devlin watched Miss Tatum smile at Collins and quit the brewery.

  “Miss Tatum is rather fond of you,” he remarked.

  “Aye,” Collins said, taking a slow draw upon his pipe.

  “I daresay you are fond of Miss Tatum as well.”

  Collins studied him without comment. And the man’s steady gaze through those ancient, knowing eyes proved oddly unsettling.

  “Miss Tatum is most dedicated in her duties as housekeeper,” Devlin continued. “I can well understand why Lord Bellewyck placed such trust in her.”

  Standing at the mention of Lord Bellewyck, the brewer hobbled over to the door then peeked outside. Was he desperately hungry? More likely, Jasper Collins didn’t want to be alone with the new steward—nor did he want to talk with him.

  “Why is Miss Tatum concerned whether or not you have eaten? Do you not take your meals with the other servants?”

  “I like livin’ alone and I like makin’ my own food. Christiana frets over me, but my ways are set now.” Collins made a disgruntled sound under his breath and returned to the table. Once seated again, he rubbed his heavily lined brow in a weary manner.

  “Christiana.” Devlin whispered, savoring the sound of his housekeeper’s given name. “I understand Miss Tatum’s mother was also housekeeper at Bellewyck Abbey until her death. What can you tell me about her father?”

  “He’s dead,” Collins grumbled.

  Devlin glanced at the closed door, determined to learn as much as possible concerning the housekeeper’s background before she returned.

  “Miss Tatum said Mr. Hartwell from the village trained her to be a chimney sweep at Lord Bellewyck’s request.”

  Collins gave a curt nod then, with a
shaky hand, poured himself a mug of ale.

  So, it was true. The earl had ordered a small child to clean chimneys to earn her keep. How could the man be so cruel? Did he never consider a far less dangerous task she might have performed? Were the man alive now, Devlin feared he might beat the earl to a bloody pulp.

  Disturbed by the confirmation regarding Bellewyck’s character, Devlin struggled to gather his thoughts. “It is rare to find a female servant so well educated.”

  “Is it?” The brewer’s pale eyes held a quality of censure.

  “I thought perhaps Miss Tatum had studied with his lordship’s ward as a child. But she told me the vicar’s wife instructed her to read and write. I should like to meet this paragon of Christian charity. I believe her name is Mrs. Snow.”

  “Buried in the churchyard,” Collins replied.

  Rather than have Collins see his frustration, Devlin looked up at the timbered ceiling of the brewery. Naturally, anyone who might provide an honest answer was long dead.

  “I wonder,” he mused aloud, rubbing his chin. “How did Miss Tatum find time to study with Mrs. Snow—or the means by which to travel for lessons into the village? It is a far distance for a child to travel, and still perform her sweep duties at the abbey.”

  The brewer remained silent.

  “The courtesy of a reply would be appreciated, Mr. Collins.”

  “What difference does it make how the child found time for her lessons?” The old man all but barked. “She did and ‘tis a credit to her that she hungered to learn. Bein’ a servant does not mean ye’re an idiot, ye know.”

  “There is no need for upset. I merely thought Miss Tatum had befriended the earl’s ward. That she perhaps accompanied the child to the vicarage for lessons with Mrs. Snow. It seemed a logical observation to me since the abbey had no nurse or governess on staff.”

  His remark was met with steely determination on the old man’s part to remain silent. The only sign that Collins had heard was when the man pulled absent-mindedly at a long strand of wiry gray hair on a bushy eyebrow.

  “The duke is most curious about the ward,” Devlin continued.

  Stony silence. A hard glare.

  “The ward mentioned in Lord Bellewyck’s Will.” Devlin leaned forward and looked with sober regard into the brewer’s ancient gaze. “His Grace will not let the matter rest. Come now, you have been at Bellewyck Abbey longer than anyone else. I daresay there are a great many secrets you have gleaned over the years. I seek the answer to but one.”

  A strange stillness hovered in the room like the pall of death.

  Devlin could not, would not relent. “What happened to Lord Bellewyck’s ward?”

  “His lordship never had a ward,” Collins said.

  “Lord Bellewyck did have a ward, a ward mentioned in a legal document. For God’s sake, man, why would the earl make such a claim were it not true?”

  “Mayhap ye should ask more ‘bout Lord Bellewyck and less ‘bout a ward? His lordship did much that made no sense to my way of thinkin’.”

  Before Devlin could question Collins further, Miss Tatum returned with a basket of food. The aroma stirred his appetite as well.

  During the impromptu meal, they discussed the ale-making process from the days when the monks used herbs and spices to the practice of adding hops.

  “Jasper’s family has been brewing ale at Bellewyck Abbey for six generations.” Miss Tatum smiled lovingly at the old man.

  For some unexplainable reason, the obvious affection between Christiana and the surly, unpleasant Collins irritated him. How could she look upon this cantankerous, old man with such adoration?

  Devlin snorted and sipped his ale. “For the life of me, I cannot fathom why anyone would want to remain here a month let alone six generations.” Encouraged by the attention his comment received, he continued. “There are situations where one might earn better wages, if not far more comfortable accommodations.”

  The brewer and Christiana exchanged glances.

  “Come, Miss Tatum,” Devlin said. “You are an intelligent, attractive, young woman. Your ability to read and write would serve you well elsewhere. Why not seek a better situation for yourself? Were you to travel to London, you could find work in a respectable house or even a shop.”

  “I have no desire to leave Bellewyck Abbey,” she answered. “My family is here.”

  Devlin blinked. “I was not aware you had family still living.”

  “Family is not always related by blood.” Leaning forward, elbows resting upon the aged surface of the table, she graced him with a gentle smile. “I can well understand that Bellewyck Abbey seems a cold relic from another time to you. Stripped of all the luxuries and furnishings one expects in a home of its size and history. But the abbey is much more to us, Mr. Randolph. This is our home. Because of that, its beauty is not diminished in our eyes. We have worked and toiled this land, some for generations. Many have died in service. Others will never seek an opportunity to travel beyond the village. We have a tie to the past here; to all the people who remain, and those who have gone before us.”

  She rested her delicate hand once more atop the aged, freckled hand of Jasper Collins. “Each one of us is family here. I daresay a person can live in a palace and never know such love and devotion.”

  Devlin glanced about the ancient brewery with its earthen floor and odors of old wood, the musk of dirt, and pungent ale. Pouring himself another mug of the abbey’s brew, he spoke in a distracted manner. “No doubt such idealism is why people like you are content with what little you have. If you had a clear understanding regarding the importance of position and wealth in the world, you would not be so content with your situation, such as it is.”

  “Luncheon is over.” His housekeeper stood abruptly. In an agitated, haphazard manner, she then placed the dishes back into the basket.

  What the devil.

  He studied her quicksilver change of temper, a bit miffed until he realized how his objective viewpoint must have been sounded.

  “I meant no offense, Miss Tatum.”

  She yanked the mug from his hand and tossed its contents onto the dirt floor with almost savage intensity. “Then you are quite possibly the most ignorant, overbearing, judgmental, obnoxious man I have ever met.”

  Incensed by her verbal outrage, Devlin came to his feet, and rested his palms flat upon the table’s surface. “Guard your tongue, Miss Tatum.”

  “No, I shan’t guard my tongue, Mr. Randolph. Is it beyond your thinking that people like us have feelings?”

  “My remarks were of a general nature.”

  Despite the calm challenge of her stare, he noted the rapid rise and fall of her breasts above the neckline of her gown. He could almost read her thoughts in those expressive eyes. Damn if the woman wasn’t considering her options before she spoke again in anger.

  As well she should.

  Much to his surprise, whilst he waited for an apology, she turned her back and walked away from the table. A moment he’d not easily forget. Granted the woman didn’t know he was the Duke of Pemberton, but never in his life had anyone addressed him with such disrespect—or turned their back on him. This woman made a habit of it.

  Just when he believed she’d say nothing more, she paused at the door and pinned him with a look that could melt iron. “And I daresay I have a better understanding about the importance of position and wealth in the world than you will ever know.”

  The heavy door slammed in her wake with such force it flew open again. Stunned, Devlin looked at Jasper Collins. The man stared back at him with that damnable enigmatic gaze and a slight grin upon his ancient face.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “ ‘Tis not the many oaths

  that make the truth,

  But the plain single vow

  that is vow’d true.”

  ~ Shakespeare

  (1564-1616)

  All’s Well that Ends Well

  “What are you doing?”

  Startled half out
of her skin, Christiana looked toward one of many open windows at the stone malting house. So much for thinking the boorish steward might be off doing some task expected of his position. Instead, the man leaned upon his elbows, his handsome head and broad shoulders framed by the window like a portrait.

  How long had he been standing there? For that matter, why did he always have an amused glint in his eyes? It was unnerving.

  “I am turning the barley to keep the rootlets from binding together.”

  “Ah, yes, the rootlets.”

  She shook her head. “You have no idea what I am talking about, do you?”

  “I know you are malting,” he answered with a smile.

  Refusing to be distracted by a flirtatious grin, she tried to think of a sarcastic retort. But he disappeared from the window before she could utter a word. The deep timbre of his laughter floated on the soft, morning breeze. For some idiotic reason, the sound proved a wretched form of torture—like a brief glimpse of sunshine taunting someone on a bleak, gray day.

  With a delicate snort, she returned to her work. “Unlike some people who like to dally all day long, I do not have time for such nonsense.”

  Just then his shadow passed by another open window, and she realized the steward was heading toward the door of the stone outbuilding.

  Desperate to gather her wits and prepare for another confrontation, Christiana closed her eyes. After taking a deep breath, she looked up in time to see him enter the small house, bending at the waist as he adroitly avoided striking his elegant head on the low lintel of the doorway.

  Folding his arms across his chest, the infuriating man leaned against the wall—clearly his favored pose—and said not a word. Then, with the quirk of his right eyebrow—a favored habit—he grinned. “I am here to cry peace, Miss Tatum.”

  She eyed him dubiously.

  “I simply cannot have you avoid me every time we have a tiff. Besides which, I was up half the night considering your remarks in the brewery.”