Pity help them. They needed a child dug out of a well. Although Mr. Seymour had shoulders like a blacksmith and a tall, strong frame, he had white elegant fingers that did nothing more strenuous all day but ink his pen.
She hoped they could use a man who could issue high-handed orders, for that would be Mr. Seymour’s only true skill.
Chapter 4
Being an idle wife wasn’t as easy as it sounded. After her scare, Starling wasn’t brave enough to touch another book and so, straightening her shoulders, she followed the aroma of roasting meat to the kitchen.
“May I help?” she asked Mrs. Trelevan, who was possibly five feet tall and five feet wide. She had gray-streaked hair and round red cheeks.
“Bless you,” Mrs. Trelevan answered, aiming twinkling pale eyes at Starling. She rinsed her knives in the reticulated water piped to the sink. No luxury had been overlooked in this house.
“I could wash those dishes.”
Mrs. Trelevan glanced at Starling’s hands. “I’ll give you a job, right enough. Freda!”
“I’m getting the flowers ready for tonight,” a voice answered from an arched alcove.
“Run upstairs and get Mrs. Seymour’s gloves.”
“My things haven’t arrived yet.” Starling reddened with discomfort.
“No gloves? Well, then, we’ll make do. See this-here ointment.” Mrs. Trelevan lifted a jar from a shelf above the sink. “I use it every day. Comes from sheep’s wool. Smells like it, too.” She opened the jar and dug her fingers in, and before Starling realized what she meant to do, she dabbed an unpleasant-smelling cream on Starling’s hands, back and front. “Rub it in,” she said with an encouraging smile. “You need to keep those hands of yours protected while you work.”
The cream was sticky at first but melted when smoothed on, leaving a shiny glaze on Starling’s skin. “Bless you,” she said in wonder to Mrs. Trelevan. She glanced at the bowl of peas that Mrs. Trelevan had begun to shell. “There’s enough here to feed the starving hordes. Let me help.”
Mrs. Trelevan laughed. “You’ll be wanting to dress for dinner.”
Starling glanced at her bodice. “I’m already dressed.”
“The other ladies will be changin’ into evening gowns.”
“I don’t have an evening gown. My things haven’t been collected yet.”
“Freda, come in here. What do you think, girl? Can you spare the time to do a little fancyin’ up of one of Mrs. Seymour’s day gowns?”
“No offense,” said the kitchen maid, who had a smiling mouth and wide eyes like her sister. “But there’s not much I can do with the one she has on. Do you have anything a little...plainer, Mrs. Seymour?”
“Plainer than this?” Starling raised her eyebrows. “Only a gray gown. I don’t think it could be fancied up, though. It is, um, very like your uniform, except for the color.”
Mrs. Trelevan grinned. “Freda is a wonder with the needle. You shoulda seen what she done with my Sunday best. A very elegant creation now, it is.”
“I’ll need to see what you’ve got.” Freda washed her hands in the sink. “There’s a roll of patterned silk in the store room, water-stained along the length. Mr. Seymour brought it home from the emporium, thinking Mrs. Brighton could make use of it. Might be, I can use it for you...if you can arrange the flowers while I sew.”
“Thought she might manage,” Mrs. Trelevan said smugly. “Do anythin’ to get out of arrangin’ flowers, Freda would.”
Starling would do almost anything to be allowed to arrange flowers, and along with idling, Mr. Seymour had told her to do that task. However, she doubted he would like Freda being taken from her job to sew for one of his shopgirls. He’d definitely ordered Starling to have no gaudy gowns. “I’m not sure Mr. Seymour would approve.”
“We’d ask him, wouldn’t we, Mrs. Trelevan, but he’s outside helping the Burdons.” Freda chewed at her lip.
“Oh, he’d approve.” Mrs. Trelevan nodded confidently. “He wouldn’t’ve thought of Mrs. Seymour bein’ embarrassed without her trunk. He’d want us to help where we can.”
“I’d need to get the alterations done quick because I’ll have to run out food to the rescue team.”
Mrs. Trelevan tutted. “Bless you for thinkin’ of that. I don’t know where my head is. Mrs. Burdon will be too worried to feed the men.”
Starling cleared her throat. “Mrs. Burdon is the child’s mother?”
Mrs. Trelevan nodded. “Miss Tammy’s the sweetest little six year old you’ve ever seen, but such a one for gettin’ into things. No point in bein’ negative. If anyone can get her out of that well, Mr. Seymour can.”
“Course he can.” Freda nodded for emphasis. “Never gives in once he’s set his mind to helping.”
“So, they will dig the child out?” Starling reached for the pea bowl and began, mechanically, to split and open the pods.
“The well’s too narrow for anyone to get down, and Tammy’s wedged. They’re just afraid that...”
“Go on.”
“Looks like rain. If that happens...there’s a seepage problem. They think the well might fill before they can get her out.”
“Shouldn’t we help?” Starling’s fingers stilled.
“Four men there already. We’d only be in the way. Best if we take out drinks and food. They want us to do anything else, they’ll soon tell us.”
“I want to help if there’s anything for me to do.”
“Bless you,” Mrs. Trelevan said. “Mr. Seymour made a fine choice of a wife. Indeed he did.”
* * * *
Starling stood by the window in Mr. Seymour’s splendid blue and gold bedroom and stared out. The expected rain sheeted down. She could barely see the gathering of people down by the river. Umbrellas sheltered some. The trees along the banks threshed in the wind.
At the polished table, Freda sat squinting at her sewing. Starling wasn’t sure what the maid meant to do with the gray uniform, but the gown had been buttoned and unbuttoned and pinned. The roll of silk, patterned with pink and purple flowers on a blue background, had been partly unwound and cut into.
“I have to go out and see how...how my husband is.” Starling walked to the door.
Freda glanced up. “We keep the waterproofs by the back door. And the umbrellas. Follow the path to the back gate.”
After she’d donned the suggested coat, she headed outside. Rain sliced down, making visibility low. Starling came upon the huddled men near the wind-whipped trees some distance from the back gate. She stared at the flow of the river, but the depth was summer low. The water ran fast and dirty.
She glanced at an area covered by a makeshift canvas roof. Only a few stones edged a hole. Apparently, the well had been unused for years and was not easy to spot, which might explain how the child had fallen in. The diggers ignored Starling, which gave her the opportunity to assess the situation. A pale-faced young woman covered by a black cloak stood just under the canvas calling the child’s name. No answer came. Starling’s throat thickened.
“I’m Starling, from...” She indicated Mr. Seymour’s house. “You must be Mrs. Burdon.”
“Yes,” the woman answered distractedly. “Jane Burdon.” She covered her quivering mouth with one gloved hand. “Do you think Mr. Seymour will get her out? He’s over there.”
Starling narrowed her eyes at the three dirt-streaked men who were peering into another hole mounded on one side with soil, but she didn’t spot Mr. Seymour. A few minutes later, she saw him emerge from the hole, shirtless and muddy.
“We’ll need strong shoring,” he said to the men. “The sides are beginning to move. Take the wagon to the timber yard, Derry, and tell Joe I sent you. Grab every piece of planking you can find. Don’t take more than half an hour. We can’t wait any longer than that, or the work we’ve done will be a waste of time.” He hauled a bag of dirt out of the hole and dumped the weight on the slippery verges. His big shoulders strained.
“Need spelling yet, Seymour?” A stout man emptied the soil and handed the limp sack back to him.
“Not until it’s safe. I’ll go on until the shoring arrives.” Mr. Seymour wiped a stained hand through his dirt-plastered hair.
This morning, while he’d wandered around more than half-naked, Starling’s only reaction had been embarrassment. She’d never seen a bare man before him. Now she gazed at his manly form, wishing he wasn’t quite so physically attractive. She would hate to see such a fine body injured, and she was scared for him, but as he stood with the rain sluicing over his skin, he looked insoluble, like a great stone monument.
Within moments, and not even glancing at her, he disappeared headfirst back into his hole.
Starling held her umbrella over Mrs. Burdon. “He’ll get her out,” she said, repeating the words the servants had told her. “He never gives in once he’s made up his mind to help.”
“I wish I could see Tammy. I can’t even hear her. Mr. Seymour says he knows how far down she’s wedged.” Mrs. Burdon’s face creased with worry.
Starling reached out a tentative hand. Mrs. Burdon grasped her fingers. The men continued to empty the bags of soil while Mr. Seymour filled them. The hole looked tiny, not much wider than a man’s shoulders, yet the earth being removed seemed never-ending.
When the shoring arrived, Mr. Seymour widened the hole, and then the heavy-set, older man, who Starling had identified as Mr. Burdon, took over. Mr. Seymour paced. Not wanting to be noticed by him, certain he would not be bolstered by her presence, Starling pulled the waterproof farther over her head, left the umbrella with Mrs. Burdon, and squelched in her waterlogged boots back to the house.
“May I have something sustaining to take out to the men?” Starling’s hands trembled as she spoke to Mrs. Trelevan. Perhaps after her poor night’s sleep, she was tired. She had no reason to be frightened. No one had been hurt and the little girl would likely be rescued.
“Bless you.” Mrs. Trelevan poured boiling water from her kettle and filled a bottle with hot, sweet tea. “We can make cake if the men want sustaining. I’ve got nothing prepared but dinner.”
Within a quarter of an hour, Starling had returned to the well. She poured the tea into mugs and passed them around. Mr. Seymour took his with both hands. Dirt ingrained his fingernails and mud clung up his arms to his elbows. His once cared-for hands were blistered and covered with small cuts, as damaged as hers had been by the laundering.
“Your hands are very dirty. If you would like, you can use this first.” She offered him the towel from the bottle, but in his lordly way, he held out his hands for her to clean. Adopting her role as an obedient wife far too easily, she wiped them, dabbing the cuts and trying not to touch the blisters. The intimate contact shortened her breath. The man was strong and handsome, and she would share a chaste bed with him again tonight.
The rain continued to drizzle. The men continued to dispose of the soil Mr. Seymour dug from the hole. Mr. Elliot arrived, discussed the work with the men, and after a jaunty tipping of his rain-soaked hat to Starling, returned to the house. Likely he’d only wanted news. Although tall and broad-shouldered, he was clearly a gentleman unused to outdoor labor. She’d thought the same about Mr. Seymour, who had surprised her, but she knew Mr. Elliot wasn’t needed. Only one man could tunnel at a time.
Other than nodding thanks to her when she passed food or poured tea, the rescuers kept their concentration entirely on their task. Twice more she went back to the house, ferrying hot tea and, later, the big brown cake Mrs. Trelevan had made. Ginger, she called the taste. Hourly, Starling learned more about the luxuries in life.
Dusk began to shade the sky. The hole, angled to a depth of six feet, had now been changed to intercept the well. Mr. Seymour seemed to be digging faster as the day waned. Finally, he called, “We’ve hit the stone wall. I should be able to tunnel through in no more than an hour or two.”
Mrs. Burdon gasped and put her soft, white hand to her throat. “He’s found the edge of the well. He’s almost reached her.”
The men above ground showed a tense satisfaction. Mr. Burdon clapped Derry on the back, grinning.
Mr. Seymour came up for a chiseling tool. He noticed Starling and frowned. “You’re still here? Why?”
“In case you need me.”
“You should be indoors with the others.”
Mr. Burdon came over and put his arm around his wife’s waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder. “You’ve been wonderful,” he said to Starling. “But I can take care of Jane now that Seymour has finished the worst. You ought to get back to the house. You look as though you could do with a good coddling.”
“Thank you, Starling,” Mrs. Burdon clung to her husband’s coat lapels. “I agree. I shouldn’t have insisted you stay out here in the rain with me.”
“You didn’t ins—”
“Mrs. Trelevan serves dinner at eight,” Mr. Seymour interrupted with a distracted expression on his face.
Mr. Burdon glanced at his fob watch. “It’s not much after seven.”
“Go.”
Rebuked, Starling left. Despite his attitude toward her, she had relented hers toward him. He’d worked long and hard. She might be wary of him, but she had to admit to a grudging respect.
She had accepted his bargain. From now on, she would, to the best of her ability, do the job for which he had hired her.
* * * *
Alasdair crashed the mallet onto the stone chisel. The well walls were thicker than he’d expected and better built. His plan was to dig beneath Tammy and bear her out along the new shaft. Some years had passed since he had last tunneled, and he ached in a way he could never forget. Each beat of his hammer on the chisel brought back memories of being confined in a dark and airless space. He coughed, clearing his lungs.
The rain hampered the digging and the shoring hampered the tunneling. If he couldn’t get the child out within a couple more hours, he doubted she would live. No one had heard a cry from her since his hired wife had begun impressing the diggers with her selflessness.
He struck the stone, hard. His hand was wet and slippery, whether from the damp or his perspiration he couldn’t tell, and the chisel flew out of his grip. He sought the tool in the dark, grimly determined to break through the rock by sheer persistence, if necessary. Persistence had served him well the last time he had mined and would again. The word applied to Starling, too. Unwillingly, he remembered her readiness to stay out in the pelting rain despite the blue of her hands and the pinched white of her face.
He struck the stone again with more force. Insisting on sharing his bedroom with her had been an inspired move. Not for a second had his servants queried the hasty marriage, nor had Lavender. His lips stretched hard over his teeth. He would not disabuse her of that idea too soon.
A rock dropped on his shoulder—a rock as hard as Lavender’s final words to him seven years ago. He shoved the impediment aside, fully intending to use Starling to make Lavender regret trampling on his heart.
He inched forward. First, he had to rescue Tammy.
Chapter 5
Starling sat, rearranging her newly refurbished skirts. While the others settled themselves into their dining chairs, she examined the rose arrangement between a pair of silver candelabras on the polished dining table. She knew now she should have cut some inches from the stems. The blooms sat at eye height, which made seeing past a matter of leaning sideways. In the future she would be more careful—that is, if anyone let her do the flowers again.
However, the ladies praised the roses and the paintings on the wall while Mr. Elliot filled the wineglasses. Starling sipped her wine. The taste hit the side of her cheeks and puckered her mouth.
“It’s a shame Dare is not here for dinner.” Mrs. Frost wore shades of violet again. Diamond teardrops shivered on her ears. “We need a man at the head of the table.”
“Not half as much, I expect, as he is needed ou
tside. I’m sure he’s tired and...” Starling stopped, appalled that she had contradicted a lady.
Mrs. Frost took a spoonful of soup. “The accident was most unfortunate, of course, but he should leave the digging to the others. Gentlemen don’t perform manual labor.”
“True.” Mrs. Elliot wore emerald green, frogged with black braid down the front. “But he’s never been one to leave the dirty work to others.”
Mr. Elliot grinned. “I’m content to let him dig for hours in a muddy hole while I spend time with my dear wife instead.”
“Too, too flattering of you,” Mrs. Elliot said, her expression droll. “But only when you were told you were not needed outside.”
“But I am, of course, an Elliot of Bellamie Hall.” He leaned back, his eyebrows aimed with expectation at Mrs. Frost. “A gentleman born and bred.”
Mrs. Elliot rapped a finger on the back of his hand. “Don’t give Starling the wrong impression of you. She is your new sister-in-law and married to my favorite brother. Where did you two meet, Starling?”
Starling swallowed a spoonful of the green soup made from the peas she had shelled. “Ballarat,” she said, remembering Ellen telling her she’d had a long journey from a place she’d never been.
“Were you born in Ballarat?” Mrs. Frost blotted her mouth with her napkin.
Starling took a bigger sip of wine. That seemed to be the way to get used to the foggy taste. “No. I was born in Adelaide.”
“What was your single name?”
“Smith.” Starling drank down the rest of her wine. The second half tasted better than the first, rather like sugared rhubarb.
“I’ve never met a Smith. What did your people do?”
Starling wished Mrs. Frost would stop interrogating her. She cleared her throat. “My people’s main concern was with charity. I learnt business matters from Mr. Seymour, if that is what you are asking. He is an amazing teacher.”
“There speaks a loyal bride,” said Mr. Elliot. “As an old friend of Alasdair’s, Lavender was just making certain he had chosen the right wife.”
Starling Page 4
