“Well then, ye must be the new housekeeper,” the red-haired woman remarked from where she stood at the stove. “I’m Mrs. Tremble, the cook. Mr. Stowe should be along any moment to show you around. Here there, Lyles,” she ordered with a wave of one callused hand, “go tell Stowe that Mrs.—Greenway, is it?” she questioned with another assessing glance at Sebastianne, “that she’s down and ready for her tour.”
The young man, who Sebastianne now noticed was dressed in a reserved dark blue and brown livery, set his rag and knife aside and got to his feet, obediently leaving the kitchen.
“And you there, miss,” Mrs. Tremble said, turning her back on Sebastianne to point at one of the young women. “You’ve got potatoes need peeling. If I were you, I’d start on those sharp-like, else we’ll have nothing to eat for the midday meal.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Casting another curious peek at Sebastianne from under her stubby dark lashes, the kitchen maid hurried forward, took up a paring knife and set to work. The other young serving maid, clearly having no wish to receive a similar scolding, picked up a tray of pans and dishes and crossed to a deep metal sink located across the room.
“Polk, is it?” Sebastianne said, quietly addressing the girl. “Or are you Finnegan?”
The servant froze, a potato gripped tightly in one hand. “Finnegan, ma’am. How’d ye know?”
“Parker obviously,” Mrs. Tremble pronounced, tsking under her breath as she moved to bustle around the stove. “That girl uses her tongue far too freely if you’ve a mind to ask me. A hard worker she is, though, and make no mistake about it. Cobbs as well.”
Angling her gaze, the cook sent a speaking glance toward her kitchen helper, who had once more paused in her task and was listening with avid interest. Ducking her head, Finnegan reapplied herself to her vegetable peeling.
“You’ll find I run my kitchen with a fair but demanding hand, as I’ve been doing for nigh on a decade now,” Mrs. Tremble stated. “So there won’t be any need for the reorganizing of things.”
Sebastianne met her gaze, having noticed the cook’s unmistakable emphasis on the word “my” as well as the challenge behind her words. Although she could have, Sebastianne had no intention of meddling with a housekeeping system that clearly functioned to the liking of all parties involved. However, she wasn’t about to let the other woman know that or allow her to lay down rules, even if she didn’t plan to be in the house long enough for it to really matter.
“Reorganization, I have found,” Sebastianne said smoothly, “is only useful where there is an honest need for improvement. So long as I find no such need, then there shall be no adjustments. I have every hope that shall prove the case.”
The cook narrowed her pale blue eyes to study Sebastianne afresh. Then she huffed out a breath and turned back to the stove. “Sit and I’ll pour ye some tea. Unless you’d rather have the making of it yerself, that duty rightly belonging to ye as housekeeper.”
Sebastianne supposed she ought to press the point of her new authority, but since the other woman had unbent enough to make the offer, she decided to accept. “Tea would be most welcome. Time enough after I’m settled to take up the task.”
Waving Sebastianne toward a small table and chair in the corner, Mrs. Tremble went to prepare the brew.
Sebastianne crossed to take a seat, pausing for a moment to straighten her serviceable dark blue skirts before settling in. She wondered how much longer Mr. Stowe would be, deciding that perhaps his delay stemmed in part from a desire to first give her a few minutes to become acquainted with Mrs. Tremble. Clearly, the older woman held a great deal of authority in the house and a great deal more seniority than Sebastianne would ever achieve.
Mrs. Tremble bustled up, plunking down a mug and saucer on the table. “Kettle’s nearly at a boil. It’ll just be another tick. So yer a widow, are ye?”
Sebastianne’s shoulders drew tight, not prepared for the question—although she ought to have known the subject would arise eventually. “Yes, that’s right.”
The cook folded her arms at her aproned waist, plainly waiting to hear further details.
Sebastianne didn’t offer any.
But Mrs. Tremble clearly wasn’t the sort to let a bit of judicious silence deter her. “Lost him in the war, did ye?” she pressed. “Soldier, was he?”
Reaching out, Sebastianne played a fingertip over the handle of her mug, remembering the man she once had loved. Still loved, come to that, despite the more than three years that had elapsed since his death.
“Yes, he was a soldier.”
A cavalry officer actually, who’d looked so dashing in his dark green uniform with its crimson facings, silver epaulettes and shako helmet with a high red plume. She decided not to mention the fact that Thierry had fought for the French side rather than the British. She didn’t think Mrs. Tremble would approve.
“He took a saber to the chest and died almost instantly,” she continued. “At least that is what I was told, and I prefer to think he didn’t suffer overmuch.”
The older woman’s face softened. “Ye’ve my condolences on yer loss. War’s a terrible, senseless thing, if ye ask me. All those brave lads fighting and dying. I’ll be glad when it’s finally done.”
Yes, Sebastianne thought, I can think of nothing I would like more, imagining the relief she would feel when the day finally arrived and the war was over at last. When she could lead her life again without fear or threat or deprivation.
Without Sebastianne quite realizing it, Mrs. Tremble moved to the stove and back, returning with a teapot in hand. Deftly she poured Sebastianne a cup, then set down the pot. Steam wafted in tiny spirals from the russet-hued surface of the beverage, leaving Sebastianne to wait until it cooled enough to drink.
“If ye don’t mind me asking, Mrs. Greenway,” the cook said, laying a fist at her hip, “what’s yer age? Frankly, ye don’t look as if you have enough years on you to be a housekeeper.”
Sebastianne cocked her head and locked gazes with the other woman, her heart beating strongly in her chest. If she was to succeed, she knew she must rise to each challenge, every test. This one clearly could not be ignored.
“And if you don’t mind my saying,” Sebastianne told her, “you don’t look as if you have enough fat on you to be a cook.”
For a long moment Mrs. Tremble stared, her faded blue eyes turning wide. Then she shook her head and barked out a laugh, displaying a set of crooked teeth. “You an’ me, we jest might get on after all.”
Sebastianne returned her smile but made no effort to answer the other woman’s question.
After a moment, the cook turned and made her way back to the stove. “Not fat enough! Ha, ha,” Mrs. Tremble repeated under her breath, plainly amused.
As for Finnegan, the kitchen maid was staring again—openmouthed this time—a half-peeled carrot dangling from her fingers. Polk looked astonished as well, the pan she held dripping soapy water. Taking note of Sebastianne’s inquiring gaze, the two young women returned quickly to their tasks.
Sebastianne had just taken a first sip of tea when the kitchen door opened, and the butler, Mr. Stowe, strode inside. He was lean and moderately tall with greying black hair and eyes that put her in mind of a wise grandfather. Prior to that day, he was the only person in the house whom she had met—excepting his lordship, of course. Even so, she knew him very little, having only exchanged a few brief words with him at the time of her interview. But he had been kind and polite to her on that occasion—qualities she admired, actions she would not soon forget.
“Pardon me for keeping you waiting so long,” he said, looking dapper in a neat black suit, a pair of square spectacles perched on his nose. “If you’re ready now, Mrs. Greenway, it would be my pleasure to show you the rest of the house and to give you a proper introduction to the staff.”
Setting down her cup, she stood. “Thank you, Mr. Stowe.
That would be most welcome.”
“I presume you and Mrs. Tremble have had an opportunity to become acquainted?” he began.
“We surely ’ave, Mr. Stowe,” the cook piped up from where she stood, stirring something in one of the pots for a moment before slamming a lid on top. “Mrs. Greenway and I ’ave been having a right coze here at my table before ye came to find her.”
A faint look of surprise lighted the butler’s brown eyes as if he hadn’t expected Mrs. Tremble and the new housekeeper to get along. Words had quite likely been said among the staff prior to her arrival, along with expressions of unswerving loyalty for the former housekeeper, Mrs. Beatty—as well as promises not to easily accept Sebastianne as the other woman’s replacement.
“Says I’m too skinny to be a cook, she does, Mr. Stowe. Have ye ever heard the like of that?”
One thin eyebrow lifted at the remark. “You are very slender, which is a curiosity I suppose considering your pleasure in sampling your own fare. A paradox, if ever there was one.”
“A parawhatox?” The cook snorted and waved a dismissive hand. “All I know is you can’t tell if a meal’s fit to be served unless you take a taste or two of it first.”
Stowe nodded as if this were a familiar conversation, then turned back to introducing Sebastianne. “These two young women are Finnegan and Polk,” he said, indicating the others. “Please stop what you’re doing for a minute and come forward.”
Wiping their hands on their aprons, the two kitchen maids did as they were told. Standing together, they politely bobbed their heads and curtseyed.
“Lyles is the underfootman whom I believe you have also met, albeit briefly,” the butler continued. ”Ah, here he comes now, back to finish polishing the plate.”
The liveried footman she had encountered earlier came through the doorway, along with a dark, curly-haired man a few years his senior. Realizing that introductions were being made, the pair fell into line as did another two women who’d followed the men into the room.
Parker, the upper housemaid, Sebastianne already knew, but the plump blond girl with her was a stranger. She assumed this must be the much-discussed Cobbs.
With the staff lined up in a neat row, the introductions continued. The curly-haired man’s name proved to be Jasper, and he was the upper footman. His affable smile and open, cheerful demeanor put her instantly at ease. She’d already met the kitchen maid and scullion, of course—Polk and Finnegan returning to their tasks as soon as they were formally made known to her by Mr. Stowe. Parker, the upper housemaid, gave her a friendly nod while the other housemaid, who was indeed the elusive Cobbs, squeaked out a quiet greeting before executing a respectful dip of her knees.
Mr. Stowe informed Sebastianne that Lord Drake also employed a coachman, Mr. Morton, and two grooms, Jem and Harvey.
“You’ll meet them at mealtimes,” he said, “since otherwise they stay in the mews, occupied with the horses and carriages.”
And last was his lordship’s valet, Waxman, who not surprisingly kept his own schedule and took orders from no one but Lord Drake himself. As if mention of his name had summoned him, Waxman abruptly appeared, walking quickly into the kitchen.
At first glance he reminded her of a rule-bound gendarme—tall, proud and full of arrogant self-assurance. His dress was immaculate, as it should be, she supposed, given the custom of valets receiving their masters’ cast-off clothing. His light brown hair was brushed into a sleek wave that he combed high in an obvious attempt to hide the bald spot forming on the back of his head. His features were even, pleasant in a bland sort of way, but not his eyes—his gaze an exacting steely grey that was critically observant of all it surveyed.
I’ll have to be careful not to unduly attract his notice, Sebastianne thought, instinctively realizing she would need to take pains to avoid Waxman when she conducted her search of the house.
“His lordship requires breakfast,” the valet announced in an imperious voice. “Eggs, toast and coffee. I should like the tray made ready in no more than ten minutes.”
Mrs. Tremble shot him an annoyed look. “Ye’ll have it in fifteen and be glad of it. Takes nearly that long to grind the beans and set the brew to steep.”
Before the valet had time to offer a rejoinder, Sebastianne stepped forward. “I would be happy to prepare the coffee for his lordship. Are the beans and mill kept in the stillroom?”
“Aye, and thank ye kindly,” Mrs. Tremble said, appearing grateful for the offer. Clearly focused on the meal she was about to prepare, the cook hooked a wicker basket over one arm and disappeared into the larder.
“Name’s Waxman,” the valet said, suddenly addressing Sebastianne. “And you must be the new housekeeper.”
Sebastianne met his gaze. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Greenway. How do you do?”
“Busy.”
She paused. “Ah, but then aren’t we all?”
Waxman pursed his lips, casting a sideways glance at the housemaids and footmen who loitered listening, and who he clearly thought should be engaged in some more active task.
Before he could make a further remark, Mr. Stowe rejoined the conversation. “I still need to show you around, Mrs. Greenway,” the butler said. “But it can wait a few minutes more while you see to Lord Drake’s breakfast. Pray join me in my room whenever you are ready.”
“Yes, I shall, thank you, Mr. Stowe.“
She frowned as she watched him leave, hoping she hadn’t offended him. But then why should she worry how smoothly she fit into the household? She wouldn’t be there long enough for it to matter.
Remembering the promised coffee, she hurried toward the stillroom.
Chapter 4
“Drake, you came!” Claire, Duchess of Clybourne said, gliding toward him only moments after he entered the elegant Clybourne House drawing room.
“Well, of course, I did,” he replied, leaning down to brush a friendly kiss over his sister-in-law’s soft cheek. “Mama would have my head if I failed to turned up for your party, nor have I the least wish to disappoint you. So? How are you?”
Pausing, he cast an appraising glance at the rounded curve of her belly, which to his untutored eye seemed to grow bigger every time he saw her. “Still glad you braved the journey to London rather than remaining at Braebourne this spring?” he asked.
“I’m barely seven months along and have plenty of energy,” she defended, as if she’d heard the same before—quite likely from Ned. “Anyway, I couldn’t very well let the fact that I’m with child keep me from being in Town for my own sister’s come-out.”
“Your mother could have handled it surely.”
Claire made a face and lowered her voice to a careful sotto voce. “Yes, but could poor Ella?”
He barked out a laugh that drew glances from several guests, who studied him briefly before turning away again.
“And what of you, Drake?” Claire inquired. “How have you been in the week since last we met? Have you located a new solar system or something of an equally amazing nature? You’re always dug deep into one endeavor or another that we mere mortals can barely hope to comprehend.”
He raised an amused eyebrow at her teasing. “I believe you comprehend just fine, dear sister, even if your interests don’t lie among the stars.”
“Oh, I like the stars just fine—stargazing that is. I simply don’t care to know the best method for calculating their orbits.”
“Ah,” he mused aloud, deciding to indulge in his own bit of teasing. “Then I suppose I won’t engage you in a discussion about Kepler’s Laws and why they apply to planets but not stars. Nor point out that the sun is really an extremely large star, which means that when you look into the sky on a sunny day, you’re actually stargazing then too.”
Seeing her arrested, faintly slack-jawed expression, he realized he’d gone as far as he ought. “But enough talk of astronomy.” He paused, ch
anging the subject. “You asked how I’ve been. Truth be told, my time of late has been spent in rather ordinary pursuits. I’ve hired a new housekeeper, who started only this morning.”
As soon as the words were out, he wished he could recall them, his thoughts abruptly filled with images of Anne Greenway—her bewitching features, her lyrical voice, the luminous intensity of her golden eyes and the kissable shape of her full, ripe, ruby lips.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
“Might you care for a refreshment?” he asked, glancing around in hopes of finding a footman circulating close by with a tray of beverages. He could down two or three, he felt sure.
Luckily, Claire didn’t seem to notice his abrupt discomfort. “A lemonade would be most welcome,” she said. “And I am relieved to hear that you have found a replacement for Mrs. Beatty. I know her abrupt departure caused a great deal of unnecessary strife, but now you’ll be able to relax again.”
Drake fought the urge to admit that, for him at least, his new housekeeper was anything but relaxing.
“Come and let us have that refreshment,” she told him with a smile. “Then I suppose I should do my duty and mingle. As should you. No retreating to a convenient corner with pencil and paper in hand so you can scribble away the afternoon.”
“But that’s my favorite occupation at parties. You’re heartless to deny me.”
Chuckling at his mock outrage, she tucked her arm through his and led him forward.
As they walked, he took note of a great many people with whom he was acquainted, as well as many members of his family, including aunts, uncles and the usual assortment of cousins. He caught Edward’s gaze and exchanged a slight nod, unable to help but notice the expression of annoyance on his brother’s face as he stood conversing with the prime minister, Mr. Liverpool. As a confirmed Whig, Ned’s opinions were rarely in accord with the Tory leader’s.
The Bed and the Bachelor Page 3
