“No, this is perfect.” Olivia drummed her feet up and down to loosen the tight wrap of sheets. Surrounded by the familiar scent of freshly ironed linen, the feel of the down pillow, the pleasure of warmed sheets, bed was her haven tonight. She could see the shadow of Big Sam’s feet outside her door. Just for tonight she needed to have him on guard. Home had always been comfortable. Now it made her feel safe.
She adjusted the pillow so she could sit up. Before Kendall could ask “What are your plans for tomorrow, my lady?” Olivia told her.
“First thing in the morning I am going to write a letter to Jess.” She had the wording almost perfect. She would not tell him exactly what had happened. There was always the chance the letter would find its way into the wrong hands. “After that, I will go to the kitchen.”
“I am delighted that you are writing to your brother, and when you are in the kitchen again everything will be normal, like nothing happened.”
Olivia could not see her maid’s face clearly; the candle was flickering its last, and Kendall was watching the guttering flame as she spoke.
“What do you think happened, Kendall? I was sick from eating something bad. I ruined my clothes.”
“If that is what you wish us to believe, Lady Olivia, I had best cut your hair into something other than that ragged mop. What was the vicar’s sister thinking to do that? She should know that cutting hair to prevent a fever is foolishness.”
Kendall smiled at Olivia’s surprise.
“If you wear one of your gowns with a fichu, no one will see the bruises on your throat. It is fortunate that you are always cold. No one who knows you will think it odd for you to dress that way in the kitchen in April.”
“All right. Yes, that would work. You are a genius, Kendall.”
“Nonsense. There is a way to explain everything, my dear. I learned at the feet of a master. Your mother was brilliant at it.”
“Everyone says I look like Mama with my hair this way.”
“Everyone needs spectacles.” Kendall took Olivia’s chin between her fingers and looked her in the eye. “You are so much more charming than your dear mother ever was. How do you think you were able to convince your father and your brothers that practically living in the kitchen is an acceptable activity? That smile of yours. That’s how.”
Kendall let go of her chin and stood up, with a hand to support what she called “her aging back.”
“You would have to look like a suffering martyr and have the patience of a saint if you wanted to be your mama’s twin. Not you. You always look as though each moment is a gift and you cannot wait to see what it will bring. It is so unrefined.”
Olivia smiled; she couldn’t help it. Kendall could make smiling sound as unsophisticated as salting your food before tasting it. And Kendall was wrong. It was not her smile that won people over. It was her cooking.
“The short hair is very becoming on you, Lady Olivia. You know I have wanted to cut your hair for years.”
“You are very patient with me. Why do you stay here at Pennford when you know I could care less about what dress I wear or if I have the newest bonnet? You could dress the finest ladies in the land. Your talent is wasted here.”
“Now that sounds exactly like your mother’s false humility, may the Lord rest her soul.” Kendall began to tuck in the sheets that Olivia had just loosened. “There are few ducal families who are as considerate of their staff as your family. Your father observed more than how the guillotine worked while he was in France.”
“I know that lesson by heart, Kendall.” Olivia erased her smile and did a creditable imitation of her father’s quiet voice. “If we do not want a revolution in England we must treat our servants as more than slaves to our whims.”
“Do not make fun of your father.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I was not. It is how I hear it, as though he is still reminding me.”
“Go to sleep, my lady.” Kendall tightened the last sheet. “Count your blessings as I will count mine.” Kendall took a moment more to replace the spent candle with a new one, but left it unlit. “Good night, Lady Olivia.”
“Good night, Kendall,” Olivia replied dutifully. She slid under the covers and as soon as Kendall was out of sight she drummed her feet to loosen the sheets again, turned on her side and tucked her arm under her pillow.
Now she had a story every bit as exciting as Mama’s. Olivia Pennistan had been rescued from death in the forest by a handsome man on horseback. Did that not have as much drama as living in France during the revolution?
Everyone knew that story. How unfortunate no one would ever know hers. If they did it would mean ruin. If they knew she had been stripped of most of her clothes and tied to a bed they would never believe that she had not been raped. The grip of panic that came with the memory made her short of breath.
It was hideous to be without power, to be at the mercy of people she did not know, could not even see. Her heart began to race and each time she closed her eyes she was afraid that when she opened them she would be back on that bed.
Turning onto her back, Olivia stared at the gatherings of the canopy above her. No matter how hard she tried she could not rid herself of the feeling that she needed to escape, the driving need to run, to hide before they woke up and came after her.
Tears dripped from her eyes and down the side of her face. She would have died if Major Garrett had not found her. As nice as it would be to see Mama and Papa again, she still had too much to do to leave this earth yet, and people who needed her as much as she needed them.
Olivia turned her face into the pillow and prayed that the stupid Galatian peach thieves would die a horrible death. That they would be stripped and tied and left to starve.
If only she had not left the vicar’s before Big Sam was ready. But how did they know that he was not with her? How long had they been waiting for a chance? How could they have been in Pennsford and not been recognized for strangers? Annie had recognized Major Garrett as a newcomer. Could it be that her kidnappers were not strangers at all? They could still be watching, waiting for another chance. She glanced at the door again and was reassured by the shadow of Big Sam’s feet.
Olivia was half tempted to hold Jess responsible. If it were not for his foolish gambling excesses, this never would have happened. She would write the letter as soon as she was awake and the courier could take it when he left after breakfast. Olivia thought over the wording of her letter one more time. A letter is like a recipe, she decided. Words were the ingredients and how you put them together was the measure.
Dear Jess, You must come home immediately. There is an emergency that only you can deal with. Do not delay. Leave for Pennford at once. I need you desperately.
She liked it, urgent and personal. She hoped it would work. She hoped Jess was staying at the house on Meryon Place. She hoped the courier was not waylaid.
Guilt pulled at her for not being honest with Lyn. He had been so happy to see her, laughing when she told him that she missed him even more than she missed the kitchen.
He laughed so rarely that she was sure she had made the right decision to keep her suspicions to herself. If she had told Lyn about the threat to Jess’s land, he would have gone all cold and solemn. Everyone would have to tiptoe out of his way until David insisted they have a round of boxing. Someone’s lip would end up bloodied or worse. She would much rather work on her new corn and cheese roll recipe than on a poultice for a black eye.
Of course the same might happen if Jess came home. The difference was that Jess would deserve it.
Stop thinking about it, she commanded herself. Otherwise she would be awake forever. She sighed, reveling in the fact that she was at home, she was safe here, and fell asleep on the thought that she would see Mr. Garrett tomorrow.
26
IT WAS NOT YET LIGHT as Olivia hurried downstairs. The courier’s satchel was on Lyn’s desk as always and she pushed the letter way to the bottom. She ran the rest of the way to the kitchen. She could hear Mary talking
to someone, sounding much more cheerful than she usually did at this early-morning hour.
Rising before dawn to renew the fire, warm water and begin the bread for the day did not come naturally to Mary. Olivia often wondered why she had opted to be a kitchen maid. She did not have her mother’s talent for cooking and was never shown any favoritism, this early-morning task being proof of that. But, Olivia realized, she herself had spent years trying to play the pianoforte as well as her Mama, never winning more than a sad smile and the suggestion that she “practice more.”
Olivia loved the early morning, only partly because it was time to start cooking. She enjoyed the quiet of this little part of the world, her world, with usually nothing but Mary’s yawns for company.
It only lasted an hour. By the first light, Cook would be in charge and the kitchen staff would stumble in. The garden boys would bring in their baskets and fruit from the succession houses.
Olivia heard a male voice rumble an answer to Mary’s prattle and slid to a halt to listen just outside the kitchen door.
“He is the most proper of valets. Wants the duke’s water hot enough to burn. Says he can cool it easier than he can heat it.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
Delight thrilled through her as she realized who it was. Reasonable was one of Mr. Garrett’s favorite words. Even more than the words, it was his voice, the friendly quality. Intimate even, so that you wound up telling him more than you ever intended.
What was he doing up at this hour? Her pleased surprise faded as it occurred to her that he was trying to sneak away before she had a chance to see him again. He was already tired of her and flirting with someone else.
“Water that hot may seem reasonable to you, sir. You are not the one carrying boiling water up and up and up. Been many a water boy burned doin’ it.”
“Good morning, Mary.” Olivia breezed into the kitchen with every intention of ignoring Mr. Garrett, until she saw that he was sitting on the table where she usually did her baking.
“That is not a chair, Mr. Whoever-you-are. People prepare food on that table. Stand up and find someplace else to sit. Better yet, go into the servants’ hall.”
He stood with a nod of apology.
“Miss Lollie!” Mary said.
“Mary, you know better than that. No one is supposed to be in the kitchen unless they have business here.”
“It’s not even light yet, Miss Lollie. This is Mr. Garrett. He is new to the staff and has had a long night. Besides, I don’t mind the company.”
“You’re working here!” What in the world was this game? Olivia could not decide if she was pleased or put out by his new status. So she gave him a look she hoped duplicated Tildy at her most suspicious.
“Yes, I was offered a position last night.” He acted as though they had never met. She could hardly complain about that.
“I am Lollie.” She bit back several less appropriate comments, most of them born of pure curiosity. She could wait and talk to Lyn or David. After all, one of them had hired him.
He gave her a perfunctory bow. “How do you do, Miss Lollie.”
“What is your position, Mr. Garrett?” After all, Lyn wasn’t here right now and Mr. Garrett was.
“I am to provide security for all who need it. To be sure that there is no threat to anyone who lives here. Especially at night.”
She nodded, chastened by his gravity. Mary made a swooning sound. “Ooooh, you are? I didn’t think Lord David was afraid of anything.”
“He does strike one as extremely competent, but he must sleep sometime.”
“I don’t know when, Mr. Garrett. I see him late at night and early in the morning.”
“Obviously he sleeps in between, Mary.” Olivia turned her back on Mr. Garrett’s smile and Mary’s confusion. She did sound like a shrew. Or someone who was jealous. How could she begrudge Mary a few minutes with an attractive man? Mary’s world was as filled with sisters as hers was filled with brothers.
Olivia sorted through the basket near the side door, searching for a cap. At least the cap would forestall comments about her hair. Mary was definitely flirting; she had not even noticed that Olivia’s hair was gone. Of course, since most days Olivia just piled it on top of her head, it could be that Mary did not really know how long it was. Had been. She heard Mary giggle. Flirting, Olivia decided.
Pulling on the cap and the smock that would protect her dress, Olivia stepped to the table, across from Mary with her back to their morning caller. She pulled away a chunk of dough and began to help with the kneading.
“Mr. Garrett was telling me he started his rounds last night.”
Olivia glanced over her shoulder at him. He was sipping from the mug of ale that must be his choice of morning drink. Or was it his bedtime favorite?
“I did not see a soul moving about. Hackett was at the main entrance, Big Sam was at your door and the halls were as empty as the grounds.” He spoke directly to her, his eyes reassuring.
“We all feel better knowing that, Mr. Garrett,” She kept kneading as she spoke, but she turned her head so he could see that she was as serious as he was. “Thank you.” Now that she took a moment to look at him she could see that fatigue accentuated the lines in his face. Olivia turned back to her work torn between feeling sorry at being the cause of his exhaustion and immeasurably relieved that he was still here. To protect her.
“Oh we truly do feel better, Mr. Garrett, sir.” Mary spoke with such enthusiasm that Olivia raised her eyebrows at her and felt churlish when the girl blushed.
They worked on for a few moments, but Mr. Garrett did not take the hint and leave.
“How are you, Miss Lollie?” Mary asked loud enough to include Mr. Garrett in the conversation. “Are you feeling well enough to be in the kitchen?”
Olivia heard her curiosity and wondered what the servants’ gossip was. “I feel wonderful, Mary. In fact I am well enough to make cinnamon buns.”
Before Mary could do anything more than grin with pleasure, Mr. Garrett interrupted. “If you will excuse me, ladies, I am off to the gatehouse.”
“You can’t leave now, sir. You must wait and have a cinnamon bun.”
Mary’s distress was flattering, for all that Olivia wished that Mr. Garrett would leave. When he was this close it was too hard to convince herself that her personal safety was the only reason she was happy he was still here.
She did not look him in the eye, but stared at his hands as she rhythmically rolled and folded and pressed the dough.
They were strong and square and very, very clean. As though he had never done a day’s work in his life.
MICHAEL COULD NOT TAKE his eyes off her arms. Of all the ridiculous things to find appealing. While the rest of Olivia, every inch, was soft and sweet, her arms were strong, without an ounce of anything soft about them. He watched the muscles flex and relax as she kneaded the dough. Hours and hours of such work would strengthen the weakest arms. He imagined those hands, those arms doing something besides working dough, and decided it was time to leave even if he was going to miss a tasty treat.
“One of Lollie’s cinnamon buns is the only proper welcome to Pennford.” Mary said with a shy smile that made him smile back.
“I will have one at breakfast.” He closed his eyes for a minute and made himself turn away before he opened them. “Did you say that it would be ready by ten?”
“Yes, but sir, no one waits until breakfast if they can have a bun sooner. Even Cook allows it as long as there are some set aside for the duke and his brother. When the garden boys come in with the baskets, and the footmen come, they will smell the cinnamon and sugar and rush through their morning work.”
“Waiting for Miss Lollie’s cinnamon buns is hardly the way to begin my first day at work here. I will come back later and hope for the best, but perhaps not as late as ten.” Michael walked out of the kitchen to the sound of Olivia’s and Mary’s laughter, as fine a welcome as any cinnamon bun could be.
F
og rose through the trees and off the grass, as the first light seeped into the sky over the fields to the east of the castle. Michael walked along the path toward the gatehouse noting that a friendly smoke was pouring from the chimney at the stables. He could hear horses and grooms moving about, some laughter and a few curses. The day started with the light here. This was a pleasant enough life if you weren’t used to the city.
Michael considered taking Troy for a run but realized he needed some sleep before he did anything else.
He lay down on the blanket-covered bed, fully dressed, at the ready in case someone came.
Four hours of sleep refreshed him, even if he dreamt of something that smelled of cinnamon and was always just out of reach.
A sound woke him fully. Not a carriage or a horse at the gate, but the quiet click of a well-oiled door closing. He lay very still. It was not the door to his bedroom, but the sound of the door to the outside, down the narrow round of stairs that led to the small parlor.
Looking out the window he saw the fog had grown more dense, obscuring all but the vague shape of a man as he was swallowed in the mist. Since he was headed toward the castle Michael convinced himself it was one of the footmen delivering a message. Or a cinnamon bun. He took the time to dash some very cold water across his face and slick his hair back. He needed a bath, but that would have to wait.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs he smelled cinnamon. Ah, the gift-giving fairy had brought him a cinnamon roll. Something between satisfaction and longing made him smile.
Michael came around the high-backed chair by the small fireplace, pretending that his mouth was not watering, but forgot food immediately when he saw, on the chest inside the front door, a basket containing a paper-wrapped parcel. He ripped the paper open and found a blue dress, with two petticoats, both white, of a quality that was obvious.
God help him, someone had left more of Olivia’s clothes here. He grabbed the basket by the handle as the distinct smell of Olivia’s cinnamon and spice perfume enveloped him.
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