The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1)

by Rachael Anderson

  “Oh, you’re awake, m—I mean, Collins. Such a happy sight ter see.” She set the tray on the side table and clasped her fingers together in a nervous fashion.

  Collins didn’t miss the fact that she had stumbled over his name, nor did he oversee the nervous twitches of her hands. He studied her, attempting to find something familiar about her, but . . . nothing. The woman was as foreign to him as this horrid room.

  “I made ya some toast and . . . chocolate. I hope ya loike it.”

  Collins finally found his voice. “Would you not already know what I like, er . . . my apologies. I cannot remember your name.”

  Her hands detangled, re-clasping behind her back. “It’s Georgina, but most folks call me Georgy. And yer right. I kna that ya loike chocolate, Collins.” There was a tremor in her voice that bespoke uncertainty.

  “Yes, I do,” he agreed, taking a sip. “I do not, however, like toast.”

  Her answer came without hesitation. “Toast is easy on the stomach. Ya should see ’a it settles before ya try somethin’ more ter your loiking.”

  “And what is more to my liking?” he quizzed.

  She lifted her chin, but her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “Anythin’ but toast, I would say. Ya ’ave a ’ealthy appetite.”

  Collins hid a smile. She had neatly dodged his questions without giving anything away, and yet it was clear she was hiding something. What man didn’t have a healthy appetite, after all? He took a bite of the dry toast and another sip of chocolate to wash it down. “I thank you, Georgina. I must be famished because the toast tastes quite good.”

  She blushed, either at the use of her full name or the compliment, he couldn’t tell. “Are ya feelin’ more loike yourself?”

  “My head no longer aches, if that is what you are asking.”

  She offered him a tentative smile. “Miss Lucy was hopin’ that would be the case. I’m ter show ya ter your room if’n ya loike.”

  “And where is my room?” he asked.

  “Below stairs.”

  “Of course it is.” Collins sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the small window, needing one last look before he said goodbye. Then he brushed a few crumbs from his hands and leaned forward, sliding his legs over the side of the bed. The room spun for a moment then righted. He took that as a good sign and stood. Every muscle in his body ached as he followed the maid out of the room and down the stairs, to a damp and dreary floor that smelled of must. One door down on the right, Georgina pushed it open with a creak and lit a tallow candle on a small chest. Then she stood back to allow him entrance.

  The room was tiny and drab. There were no windows and no forlorn paintings to adorn the gray walls, only a chest of drawers and a single bed. It was as unfriendly a place as it was chilly, and Collins could not imagine that he had ever called this place home.

  On the chest sat a bowl, a pitcher, and a shaving kit, reminding him that he was probably in need of a shave. He scratched at the growth along his jaw, suddenly anxious to be rid of it. “I have no pictures? No mementos of my former life?” he asked.

  “Ya didn’t come ’ere wif much,” said Georgina. “I don’t kna more than that.”

  Next to the candle rested a piece of parchment. Colin picked it up and frowned as he began to read the words written with an elegant hand. It was a list of tasks, containing such things as polish the silver, clean the flue in the yellow salon, and tend to the horses. There were about a dozen demands in all. He lifted an eyebrow and glanced at Georgina, who was quick to clear her throat.

  “Your duties,” she explained. “When you’re feelin’ up ter them.”

  He sighed. “May I clean myself up and have a decent breakfast first?”

  Georgina bobbed her head. “I will be in the kitchen if ya need anythin’.” She disappeared, and her footsteps tread quickly down the hall as though she could not get away fast enough.

  Collins shut the door and walked over to the chest, where he pulled the top drawer open. Inside were a few pairs of stockings, along with some small clothes and nightclothes. The second drawer contained three white shirts—no more pink, thank heavens—and the last contained two pair of trousers and a pair of tan buckskins. The clothing was definitely not in the first stare of fashion, but not as deplorable as Miss Beresford had led him to believe.

  Not wanting to linger in the chilly, damp dungeon of a room, or in clothes that belonged on a ridiculous dandy with a novice tailor, Colin made quick work of shaving and changing. Then he returned to the kitchen, where he found a plate filled with ham, eggs, and bread slathered with marmalade. It smelled so good it made his stomach rumble, and he glanced around for Georgina. She was nowhere to be seen, so Collins sat down and helped himself to a meal that tasted like heaven itself. Once finished, he downed a mug of ale and picked up the list of chores once again. Although his body still ached, his mind felt clearer and he was anxious to see if any of the tasks came as naturally to him as shaving had.

  Lucy walked into the yellow room just as a billowing cloud of ash and soot descended from the flue and cascaded over the top of the earl. He emerged from the haze coughing and spluttering and filthy. Lucy raised her forearm to cover her nose, along with the smile that rose to her mouth.

  “How long has it been since this flue has been cleaned?” the earl demanded the moment he saw her.

  Lucy ignored the question. “I realize you do not care for white shirts, Collins, but this is a very silly way to go about dying it.”

  His glare had no effect on Lucy. She was too busy trying to contain her laughter at the black smudges on his cheeks and nose. A giggle escaped and she was quick to cover her mouth with her fingertips.

  He tossed the brush he had been carrying at the fireplace and gestured down at his ruined clothes. “You find this amusing?”

  She walked forward and touched the tip of his nose then pulled her finger back to show him the residue. “You look like a very tall chimney sweep,” she said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Not a butler, footman, or coachman, but a chimney sweep. Do you not find that peculiar?”

  Lucy had to admit, she was impressed that he had chosen the most onerous task to complete first. She had assumed that he would scoff at the thought of cleaning the flue and take to polishing the silver instead, if he did anything at all. But here he was, covered in ash and soot and looking quite handsome despite everything.

  “This is no ordinary household, Collins,” explained Lucy. “We do what must be done even if the job varies from what is expected of a certain position.”

  He appeared ready to argue then clamped his mouth closed, no doubt thinking a myriad of uncharitable thoughts about Lucy. But he kept those thoughts to himself, which was something he would not have done yesterday.

  She smiled again, delighted by the fact that he was beginning to understand that his place was not to argue but to do as he was told.

  “Well,” Lucy said, clasping her hands in front of her. “I suppose we had best get this room tidied up, and quickly too. I was in town this morning and bumped into Mrs. Bidding, who insisted on paying a visit this afternoon. She will be here shortly, and we certainly do not want to send her away looking like a chimney sweep as well.”

  The earl rolled his eyes—a gesture not lost on Lucy as the whites of his eyes practically glowed against the charcoal of the surrounding skin. But as before, he held his tongue and said nothing.

  “Oh, and I also saw Dr. Short as well. I took it upon myself to ask about your . . . condition.” Not that Lucy had told the good doctor about the earl. She had merely inquired about head injuries in a universal, for the sake of curiosity, sense.

  “And?” said the earl.

  “He said that memory loss is quite common after a head injury and that most regain their memory at some point.”

  “Most?” he asked.

  “I thought that sounded better than ‘few,’” Lucy answered.

  The earl sighed. “Did he happen to mention when I might expect my me
mory to return?”

  “He couldn’t say,” said Lucy. “Each case is different. Sometimes a few days. Sometimes months.”

  “Months!”

  “I’m afraid that is the truth of it,” said Lucy, withholding the fact that he would discover his true self in less than a fortnight, whether or not his memory returned.

  “Blimey, wot ’appened in ’ere?” Georgina said, standing on the threshold and gaping at the soiled room with a mixture of shock and dismay.

  “Collins happened,” Lucy answered, as though that explained everything.

  “No,” said Collins, apparently unable to hold his tongue any longer. “What happened was a severe case of neglect on the part of the owner. You do realize that flues should be cleaned more than once a century.”

  Lucy nearly pointed out that he was the owner and not the Beresfords, but she swallowed the retort. “Collins, you forget yourself.” Which happens to be the actual truth of it, she thought with amusement.

  His mouth clamped shut again, and his jaw tightened momentarily before he was able to pull himself together. With an edge to his voice, he said, “Do you know where I might find a broom, Georgina?”

  The maid nodded and left to fetch some cleaning supplies. As soon as she was well away, Lucy said, “She prefers to be called Georgy.”

  “And I prefer to call people by their rightful names, don’t you?” There was a hint of challenge in his expression that Lucy could not ignore. Guilt pestered her, but she held her ground.

  “Not when one’s friend prefers to be called something else,” said Lucy.

  “Friend?” asked the earl with a lift of an eyebrow.

  “Yes, friend.”

  He watched her for a moment, his expression a mixture of skepticism and perhaps a little respect. “What about me, Miss Beresford? Am I a friend as well?”

  She did not have to think about that answer. “Not yet.”

  The earl’s lips quirked into a bit of a smile. “So there is hope for even a dreadful servant such as I.”

  “Lest you have forgotten, I am a vicar’s daughter,” she reminded him. “My father taught me to believe there is hope for everyone.”

  His gaze captured hers in a look of interest and intrigue, as though her answer had both surprised and pleased him. Lucy found herself quite disarmed. He was far too handsome for her peace of mind.

  “Where are these elusive parents of yours?” he asked suddenly. “You speak of them often and yet I have not been introduced to either.”

  It was Lucy’s turn to arch her brow. “You’ll have to forgive my lack of manners, Collins. I had no notion that the masters of the house are to be introduced to the servants.”

  The earl nodded and let out a breath. “Touché,” he allowed. “I must apologize for forgetting myself again. It is becoming a bad habit, isn’t it?”

  Lucy smiled. “Yes, that is your primary flaw of late.”

  He chuckled, and the deep, melodious sound sucked some of the chill from the room. If a fire had been blazing in the hearth, despite the ash and soot, the yellow room would feel downright cozy.

  Georgina returned with a broom, a handful of rags, and a bowl of steaming water. She handed the broom to Lord Drayson. Lucy was quick to reach for one of the rags, but before she could dip it in the water, Georgina’s hand clasped hers. “Oh, Miss Lucy, ya mustn’t! This is nah work for a gentlewoman.”

  “Georgy, this argument is wearing on me. When are you going to learn that in my mother’s absence, I am in charge and not you?”

  “Your dress will be ruined,” she said, trying a different tactic.

  Lucy smiled. “You and I both know how ‘gentle’ I am not, and I have always hated this shade of lavender. Mama talked me into it ages ago, and you know how she hates any expense to go to waste. The only reason I even wear this silly gown is to wear it out, and if I can speed up that process by scrubbing away some of this grime, I shall gladly do it.”

  Georgina squeezed Lucy’s hand gently, and her voice softened. “Your father loved that dress too, Miss, which is the real reason ya wear it,” she said quietly. “If ya insist on ’elpin’, please put on somethin’ less meanin’ful.”

  Georgina was far more perceptive than Lucy gave her credit for. Though she did not love lavender, this dress did remind her of her father. Perhaps she should go change into something else. Lucy glanced at the earl to see if he had overheard the exchange, but he continued sweeping, showing no sign that he had.

  With a quick nod, Lucy dropped the rag. “You’re right, Georgy. I’ll change and be back in a moment.”

  She scurried out of the room, and as she ascended the stairs, she overheard the earl say, “So Mr. Beresford is . . .”

  “No longer with us,” Georgina confirmed.

  “And Mrs. Beresford?”

  “Gone as well,” said Georgina, then rushed on to say, “But not gone, gone. That is ter say, she’s off to ’elp ’er sister with the birfin’ of her babe and will be back Thursday next.”

  Lucy hesitated on the landing, waiting for his reply. But when it didn’t come, she clutched the folds of her gown and quickened her steps, feeling an unaccountable sadness settle over her. She had already mourned her father’s death. She had worked through her feelings, allowed them to bleed out of her in a painful way, and had finally been able to set them aside to move on with her life. Why then, did she ache at the sight of the earl in her father’s clothes or feel near tears now, simply because a question had been asked about him? Why did this lavender gown suddenly seem more precious than any of her others?

  There was something about the earl that made her miss her father’s comforting arms about her more than ever, and she was stumped as to why.

  Collins swept up a pile of ashes and dumped it into the metal bin. His muscles ached and his head was beginning to throb again, but that was nothing compared to his urgent desire to wash and rinse away the grime that covered his body. Unfortunately, a servant could not ring for a warm bath whenever he chose.

  He arched his back and glanced over his shoulder in time to see Miss Beresford polishing the silver candelabra. Smudges dotted her face, hands, and dress, but her expression was happy and content. They had been working for over an hour, and Miss Beresford had not once complained or made her excuses to find something more amusing to do with her time. Instead, she had scrubbed, wiped, polished, and hummed cheerful tunes.

  When she was not humming, Miss Beresford had entertained Georgina and him with stories of her youth, telling them of the time that she and a neighboring farmer’s boy had buried a small box filled with treasures somewhere in the woods behind the house. They had drawn a map and presented it to her father, who agreed that it sounded like a great game. He had even taken the time to don his treasure-hunting boots.

  Together, the three of them followed the map and tromped into the woods, only to discover that the map was sadly out of proportion and the children had covered their tracks all too well. They had searched for hours to no avail. When Mr. Beresford asked about the contents of the box, and Miss Beresford informed him that his prized pocket watch was one of the treasures, he didn’t think it such a great game any longer. Her punishment had been to read and rewrite all of Exodus 20, and she was to help her mother in the garden for the next month of afternoons, rather than fritter away her time burying other peoples things.

  “Did ya ever find the box?” Georgina asked.

  Miss Beresford shook her head. “No. But it was probably for the best.”

  “Why?” said Georgina.

  “Because Ben thought it would be great fun to add a snake he had found in the woods, along with my pet toad. And well, I’ve since learned that snakes eat toads, so . . .” Miss Beresford shivered, her expression one of revulsion.

  Collins chuckled, realizing he had not minded the work as much as he had thought he might. He grudgingly admitted that it likely had something to do with Miss Beresford’s presence, for it was easy to see why Georgina respected her employ
er so much. When not on the defensive, Miss Beresford had a likeable way about her. She had taken charge of the situation in a kind-hearted way and had even rolled up her sleeves as well. There were many who would look down on her for doing the job of a servant, and yet Collins could not find fault. It felt as though he’d just been taught a valuable lesson—one that he could put to good use when . . .

  When what? Collins frowned. It was errant thoughts such as these that made him certain that he was used to being the master and not the servant, but . . . who was he, exactly? Did Miss Beresford know? Or was he really the equivalent of a runaway—hiding behind Miss Beresford’s skirts like a coward?

  The thought didn’t settle well with him, for he was not a coward.

  “I think that ought to do it,” said Lucy, examining the room with a critical eye. “Collins you are never to clean flues again.”

  “Say it isn’t so,” he said dryly, making Miss Beresford laugh. It was a lovely sound, and he found himself wishing she would do it again.

  Instead she gestured to the door. “Georgy, why don’t you wash up and get a bite to eat before Mrs. Bidding arrives? I would so hate for our conversation to be disturbed by a rumbling stomach. You too, Collins.”

  Collins was both surprised and not surprised by her thoughtfulness. Mostly though, he was grateful, for he was feeling quite filthy and famished, and a wash and food sounded wonderful.

  “Would ya loike me ter draw ya a bath before I go down, Miss?” Georgina asked.

  “A bath sounds heavenly,” said Miss Beresford, “but there isn’t time for that now. Later, perhaps.”

  Georgina dipped into a quick curtsy. “I’ll be back ter attend ter ya quick as a wink.”

  “But not before you have had some luncheon,” said Miss Beresford. “I am quite capable of washing and dressing myself.”

  “Yeah, Miss.” Georgina grabbed the rags and the bowl of grimy water before rushing from the room.