Who is he? Is he the man Mr. John said would be patrolling the property? Can it be in connection with the private meetings Mr. John and Duncan held about the possible war? She’d seen the crate filled with fine wooden boxes down in the corner of the library. Titus had gotten snoopy and opened one while she was dusting. Because of that incident Brigit knew the boxes each contained a fancy-looking firearm. It all probably linked together.
Brigit balanced on one foot and rubbed the back of that calf with the toes of her other foot. War. Politics. She wrinkled her nose. Such matters were for men. She needed to mind her own business.
In the few seconds she’d not paid attention, the stranger disappeared. Someone was walking straight toward the house. She pressed her face closer to the window pane and squinted. Oh. It was Mr. John. Clearly, whomever he’d met wasn’t of any danger to the household. Since Mr. John saw fit to slip out of the house and hold his meetings in the dark, Brigit decided ’twas best she ignore them. Aye, that was what she’d do. She’d forget she ever saw a thing. Maids were supposed to ignore, disregard, and overlook any matter that wasn’t set squarely in front of them. She’d do just that—especially because she liked the Newcombs and wanted to be the best maid they’d ever employed.
❧
“Oh, let me guess: Emily’s gearing up for her holiday entertaining.” Duncan sauntered into the dining room and smiled at Goodhew and Brigit.
“She does this every year. It wasn’t much of a guess,” Goodhew said to Brigit.
“I heard that!” Duncan drew closer to where Brigit sat on the floor in front of a massive oak and marble buffet. He gave her a playful smile. “Maybe you can explain it to me. Why do women think they have to put the food and drinks in these fancy dishes? Men just want a plateful. In fact, if the plate is full, we can’t very well tell if it’s a fancy one or a plain one.”
“Ladies don’t fill their plates.” The twinkle in her eyes let him know he’d managed the right approach.
“But who cares about the plate as long as the food on it tastes decent?”
“The ladies do,” Goodhew said with a sigh. “Which is why I’m doing inventory. It’s just as well. I’ll need to replace a few things.”
“Is something missing?” Duncan forced himself to sound only passingly interested.
“Just a cup here or a plate there—the ones the children managed to chip or break. That lovely, rose-shaped silver tray is gone, but it’s because Mrs. Waverly declared it was hers after a church tea and carried it away. Miss Emily was too much of a lady to squabble over it.”
Duncan took the lid off a crystal candy dish and popped a gumdrop into his mouth. He offered the dish to Brigit and Goodhew; both declined, so he set it back down and helped himself to another before replacing the lid. “Do we have enough trays then?”
“Eight,” Brigit reported. “Eight silver trays. Miss Emily has as many china ones—lovely, hand-painted ones. The two glass ones bring the total up to an even dozen and a half. We haven’t even looked at the large trays yet. I’m thinking she has trays aplenty.”
Duncan slowly chewed the gumdrop. “Enough that she won’t miss one or two?”
Brigit smiled at Goodhew. “She’d probably not miss them, but Goodhew certainly would!”
Goodhew nodded urbanely at that praise. “Thank you, Brigit. Now how about the chafing dishes?”
Brigit dipped her head and walked her fingers on the rims of some silver pieces. “There are four chafing dishes and four—no, five—pairs of candlesticks.”
Duncan watched as Goodhew scribbled the figures on a pad of paper and nodded.
Brigit leaned into the piece of furniture and took a closer look. “I’m thinking the candlesticks are wanting a good polishing. They’re showing tarnish about the bases.”
“You’re right. That simply won’t do. We’ll see to that later, after the inventory. The Newcombs always host a New Year’s Eve ball. All the families from the shipping company are invited. We’ll need the punch bowl. Do you see it?” Brigit scooted a bit closer to the other edge of the cabinet. “Which one? There are two in here. One’s all silver; the other’s silver and crystal.”
“Emily prefers to serve the punch in crystal and wassail in the silver.” Duncan went back for more gumdrops.
“I’m thinking that would look quite festive.” Brigit reached into the center of the nested punch bowls. “There’s something in here.” She carefully unwound a length of red velvet.
Cook came in the room. “Ah, look! You found the dinner bell.” She bustled over and grabbed it. She rang it a few times and smiled at the clear, high tinkling tone. “Isn’t that the prettiest little thing you ever saw? Years ago, when ’twas just old Master Newcomb and John living here, I’d use that to summon them for meals. I don’t remember why we stopped.”
Goodhew took the bell from her and handed it back to Brigit. He gestured for her to wrap up the bell and put it away. “The children make a fair bit of noise. Especially with the lasses playing the piano, the bell simply wasn’t practical.”
“They both play well.” Brigit put away the bell and shut the cabinet. “Miss Emily said the twins will begin lessons soon.”
“I need to speak to Miss Emily,” Cook said. “We’ve just finished counting the linens.”
Duncan watched Brigit tense. He’d done the same thing.
The butler looked at his wife. “Is there a problem?”
“Not exactly. It’s all there. It’s just that a few of the table linens are showing wear, and the one from supper is hopelessly stained. It’ll have to become a picnic blanket. Miss Emily will want to replace them.”
“I’m a fair hand at stitching.” Brigit stood, closed the buffet doors, and discreetly dusted off the back of her skirts. “If those pieces need only a bit of mending, I could see to them.”
“I can attest to that from the shirt Emily had you make for me.”
Brigit flickered a quick smile of thanks.
“No use wasting your time on old tablecloths, Lass.” Duncan glanced down at the shirt covering his chest, then back up at her. “Your efforts would be much better spent by sewing more of those fine shirts for me, and I brought home material for just that purpose.”
Cook snorted. “You’re a scoundrel, Duncan O’Brien. This very morning I told Miss Emily the staff is needing new aprons. Don’t you be thinking to steal away Brigit and her needle.”
Sticking to the truth always worked best, especially when spinning a web. Duncan let out an exasperated sigh and looked at Brigit. He waggled his brows playfully. “She’s right. I am a scoundrel, and you’d best be warned.”
He left the room, pleased as could be. Brigit had just gotten an eyeful of things that any thief would happily snatch, and she seemed quite relaxed. It shouldn’t take long at all now.
❧
Brigit dusted the downstairs and hummed under her breath. She looked at the gumdrops and scrunched her nose. Duncan was an odd fellow. He’d picked out the black ones. Aye, that was the only color he’d eaten. She should have accepted one—she could have put it in her pocket and given it to Mum. Too late now. She wasn’t about to invite herself into the Newcombs’ candy dish.
The library was the last place she’d need to dust. She saved it for last because the scent of the place always brought her such an intense longing for home. The mingling of smoke from the fireplace, the leather from the countless volumes on the shelves, lemon and beeswax furniture polish—’twas her idea of what heaven might smell like.
Top to bottom, one side to the other. Dusting didn’t take any concentration—’twas a grand chore for that very reason. Brigit enjoyed having a chance to be alone with her thoughts. In fact, she liked having a chance to be alone.
Especially after having been around Duncan awhile earlier, she needed to remind herself of a few choice facts. Duncan had been pleasant and polite to her in the dining room, but he was that way with everyone on the staff. When Trudy ended up falling from the stairs into his arms,
hadn’t he made sure she wasn’t hurt before he set her down? When Fiona asked him to read a letter from home to her, hadn’t he stopped what he was doing and read it twice, so Fiona could relish all the news? Aye, Duncan O’Brien might have a devilish smile, but he had the heart of a choirboy.
Brigit rolled the ladder toward the left side of the far wall and climbed up. As she dusted, she tried to rub out any personal thoughts of Duncan. She needed her job, and the fastest way to lose it would be to be moon-eyed over him.
The door opened as she climbed down at the right end of the row. Duncan and Timothy entered. Timothy held a book and exclaimed, “I thought the punishment was cruel.”
“Why is that?”
“Because she bore it alone, and she couldn’t have gotten with child unless—”
“Why, Brigit,” Duncan interrupted his nephew. “So you’re dusting in here, too?”
“I have the downstairs today. Would you gentlemen prefer for me to come back later so you can have some privacy?”
Duncan gave her a keen look. “You’ve done a fair bit of reading. Have you read Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter?”
She could feel the heat rush to her cheeks. “It was given to me as a gift. I ceased reading it when I came to realize the nature of the subject.”
“Sidestepping the indelicacy, do you agree with Tim that the punishment was cruel?”
“From what I recall, it seemed unnecessary.” Brigit chose her words carefully. “The child’s existence made the issue clear.”
“Exactly,” agreed Timothy.
“What of other crimes and punishment?” Duncan leaned against the desk. “Say. . .theft. What would be reasonable?”
“I’ve read that in some places in the world,” Tim said with relish, “they cut off the thief’s hand.”
Brigit shuddered in horror. She turned back to continue dusting. The whole time she worked in the library, Duncan and Timothy carried on a lively conversation about various forms of punishing criminals. Duncan managed to use examples of discipline problems aboard a sailing vessel. He capitalized on the opportunity to mentor Timothy and give him advice on how to maintain control. His theory of discipline versus punishment held merit. Brigit found herself thinking Captain Duncan O’Brien undoubtedly earned his men’s allegiance fairly.
❧
Duncan felt restless. Surely something would happen soon. He’d made certain Brigit viewed things she could easily steal and pawn. For awhile he’d almost forgotten himself. He’d managed to track Brigit into the parlor and immediately snagged the twins as an excuse to go in and monitor the maid. Brigit ended up teaching the girls a simple tune on the piano. When they’d each learned it, she set them a few octaves apart and let them play it as a duet. They made up several silly lyrics to go along with the music, and Duncan had to admit Brigit was quick to find a rhyme and had a sense of whimsy.
She’d also not forgotten to do her tasks; because once she had Julie and June set up on the piano bench, Brigit flipped the cushions, plumped the pillows, and rolled up a rug. Not long thereafter, Duncan saw her fling that very rug over a line and beat it. Cold as it was outside, she’d come back in with rosy cheeks.
He refused to be beguiled by her pretty face. Sooner or later she’d slip up, and he’d know it. Duncan sensed that time was at hand. He’d retired to his bedchamber, but rest eluded him. Duncan finally took off his shirt and shoes yet restlessly prowled until he got rid of some of his energy. At long last, he looked out in the hall, yawned, and left his door ajar. He didn’t bother to fold back his bedding—he lay atop the counterpane and dozed.
The slightest rustle and click woke him.
Fifteen
Brigit woke to a shout. She yanked on a robe and hastened into the hallway. Lee, Trudy, and Fiona stumbled from their rooms, too.
“Did someone die?” Lee quavered.
Trudy ran for the stairs. As she struggled to yank open the oftentimes stubborn door, she wailed, “If somethin’s a-wrong, I’m finding Duncan. He’s strong enough to protect me!”
Fiona tromped down the stairs, fluttering her hand under her nose and muttering, “That perfume she’s wearin’ is strong enough to revive Goliath and make him keel over dead a second time.”
By the time Lee and Brigit reached the second floor, the family was up and standing in a knot by the master suite. The children were in nightshirts, and Miss Emily’s flannel nightgown peeped out from beneath her roomy shawl. Mr. John had his arms around Miss Emily, who was weeping.
Duncan wore a pair of black britches and a blacker scowl. He folded his arms akimbo and spoke through gritted teeth. “We’ve been patient far too long. Enough. Enough, I say. Whoever’s the thief, confess now.”
“Thief?” Trudy’s gasp conveniently bumped her right up against Duncan.
Duncan righted her and took an aggressive step forward. He shoved the children behind his back. “The ring. I want it now.”
“What ring, Unca Duncan?” Phillip asked as he scratched the cowlick at the back of his head.
“Anna’s wedding ring.” His voice rivaled a thunderclap.
“Anna’s got a wedding ring?” Fiona yawned. “That makes no sense at all. The lass isn’t even betrothed yet.”
“Timothy’s mother was named Anna,” John said somberly. He continued to shelter his wife in his arms and rub his hands up and down her back. “Emily kept the little gold band in a special place. It was to go to Timothy’s wife someday.”
“No further explanations,” Duncan rasped. “Everyone is to go to his or her room. One at a time, you’re to visit the necessary. Open the laundry chute, then close it. Whoever took the ring is to slide it down the chute. We’ll not be able to determine who took the ring, so you can keep your wicked little secret.”
Emily wiped her eyes and quavered, “Whoever took it, I just want it back. If you’re in dire straits and needed money, you could have come to me. I’d have willingly helped you. I still will. Please—just give back Anna’s ring!”
Brigit blinked to keep from crying along. She swallowed hard and held her hands tightly together at her waist. She’d once had a ring—a pretty little emerald Mum gave her for her thirteenth birthday. What a treasure it had been—a symbol of her becoming a young lady. When they’d arrived in America, Da barely had any money left. Brigit sneaked away the second afternoon and pawned her ring. They’d eaten three meals before Mum noticed Brigit’s ringless finger. The memory still tore at Brigit—not because of the sacrificed ring, but because of the anguish on Mum’s face. Miss Emily looked as bereft as Mum had.
“Back to your rooms now.” Duncan looked fearsome as could be, and Mr. John had his hands full, trying to calm Miss Emily.
June stared up at her uncle with saucer-sized eyes and tugged on the leg of his trousers. “I’m not big enough to open the laundry door.”
Julie added, “Me, neither.”
Duncan’s craggy face softened for a moment as he bent down and rumbled, “Now there’s a fact, but I’ll not fret over it. Neither of you is tall enough to have reached the ring in the first place.”
Titus poked Phillip in the side. “That leaves you out, too, Shrimp. You’re too short.”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“Boys!”
Phillip got up on his toes and stood shoulders-to-ribs with Titus. “I opened it before and threw Julie’s do—.” He cut off the word and flushed brightly.
“Phillip, you’ll keep those feet on deck here.” Duncan set his hand on the lad’s shoulder to make his point. “I’ll deal with you about the doll.”
Emily pulled away from John. “Phillip, did you take the ring?”
“Why would I want some stupid, old, girl’s ring?”
“The rest of you go to your rooms,” Duncan ordered. “In ten minutes you’re to start making your trips to the laundry chute.”
❧
“No ring.” Duncan paced in the library. He wheeled around and frowned. “How did you an
d Em both sleep through someone sneaking into your room?”
“We weren’t in the room.” John cleared his throat. “Em—well, I’d carried her to the necessary. She’s not feeling her best in the early mornings. It looks as if you’re going to be an uncle again.”
The news stopped Duncan in his tracks. He looked from his brother-in-law to his sister and back. “Well, I’ll be switched.” For a moment he grinned. Babies. Em loves babies. But at her age? I’m almost twenty-one. That makes Em. . .thirty-five. A surge of anger swelled. “That does it. You can’t have this kind of upset in your delicate condition!”
“Delicate?” Emily let out a watery laugh. “Family, yes; delicate, no. I’m healthy as a draft horse. I’m just so s–sad that s–someone is embarassed to c–come—” She dissolved into tears again.
“Whoever it is isn’t embarrassed; she’s wicked. And we already know who it is, so let’s stop beating around the bush.”
John jerked to attention. “You saw who took it?”
“No, but I told you and Em—”
“He made a wild accusation when he said ’tis Brigit.” She sobbed into John’s chest as she clung to his shirt. “I know he’s wrong. I just know it.”
Duncan heaved a sigh. The last thing his sister needed was for him to add to her agitation. He gave John a look, and John nodded. They’d take care of it later. Duncan then said as softly as he could, “Our Emily, don’t be in a dither. I won’t do anything rash. You have my word on it.”
She lifted a tear-stained face to Duncan. “Stop sounding as if I made you gargle vinegar, Duncan O’Brien. This whole thing is a tragedy, and I’ll not have you add to it by accusing an innocent. No, I won’t.”
He had no trouble giving her his promise. “I won’t harm an innocent.” I’ll catch Brigit red-handed.
❧
The uneasiness in the house was palpable—between the election results and the theft, everyone was on edge. Miss Emily had Goodhew call the staff together while John was at work and the children were at school. Brigit watched her as she pasted on a tremulous smile.
Redeemed Hearts Page 10
