Mrs. Wyatt waved her on her way, too occupied with scrubbing Finn’s hair clean to take the time to speak, as Mrs. Temple carried in a mop to deal with the water on the floors.
Before heading upstairs to her chamber, Bethanne poked her head into the drawing room. Aunt Rosaline sat at the bench before the pianoforte, still in her red velvet gown, staring wistfully down at the keys as Joyce read to her from the most recent gothic novel she’d acquired. The usual pang stabbed Bethanne’s heart at the sight. She forced the tears to subside and slipped away, before her aunt noticed her presence and became agitated because of the change.
On the occasional table beside the stairs, a letter rested on the silver salver. Jo’s handwriting. Bethanne snatched it and hurried up the steps to her chamber.
If not for the chill in the air, she would have taken a seat at her vanity and read the letter before changing clothes. Such a course of action didn’t seem to be a stroke of brilliance in the given circumstances, however, so she rushed through the process of disrobing and putting on a dry dressing gown and wrapper. Once she was in dry clothes, she stoked the fire in the grate. Finally, when she was dry and somewhat warm, Bethanne took a seat and broke the blue wax seal of Jo’s letter.
As expected, Tabitha’s husband, Lord Devonport, would be bringing both Tabitha and Jo to visit. Unless weather caused a delay, they’d arrive at the cottage the day after tomorrow. Brilliant. Maybe with Jo and Tabitha’s help, Bethanne could sort out a solution for her newest bout of problems. Tabitha, at least, would have a better idea of what might or might not work in terms of dealing with her father, and Jo had always been good with figures.
Hastily, she set the letter aside to read more thoroughly after the rest of the house was in bed, then made her way down the long hall to Finn’s nursery.
Mrs. Wyatt had already dried him off and helped him to don a warm dressing gown, and they were sitting by the fire. His red-rimmed, puffed-up eyes told Bethanne all she needed to know.
“Ready for a night-night story, my angel?” Bethanne lifted him into her arms, carried him to his bed, and lay down next to him. “What will it be tonight? Sleeping Beauty? Or maybe Puss in Boots?”
“Boots,” Finn said with an emphatic nod of his head.
No surprise there. Her darling boy loved animals more than Joyce’s sweets, and that was saying something. As Mrs. Wyatt slipped out of the room, Bethanne started weaving the tale. By the time the nurse reentered in a dry gown, Finn’s droopy eyes had closed completely, despite his story only being half complete.
Ever so carefully, Bethanne extracted herself from Finn’s grasp and rose, meeting Mrs. Wyatt in the corner. “You’ll fetch me if you need anything?” she said to the nurse.
Pulling Bethanne into a hug, Mrs. Wyatt chuckled. “Master Finn and I will be perfectly fine tonight. But as always, if anything is amiss, you’ll be the first to know.” She settled into the overstuffed chair closest to the grate and pulled her sewing into her lap.
Within minutes of Bethanne coming home with her purchases, it seemed, the three servants had each selected a sewing project and set to work. Nurse, seamstress, occasional maid—Mrs. Wyatt didn’t seem to mind any of the roles, and almost begged to take on more than she’d been given.
With a final glance at Finn’s sleeping form, Bethanne left the room. She made her way back downstairs and to the drawing room. Both Mrs. Temple and Joyce were there, sitting with Aunt Rosaline now. Like Mrs. Wyatt, Mrs. Temple had started work on her sewing. Taking up a seat between the two servants, Bethanne did the same as she listened to Joyce’s soothing voice reading from The Castle of Otranto.
Every now and then, Bethanne would look up at Aunt Rosaline to be certain she was as well as could be expected. Typically in these moments, she had a careworn, aimless expression on her face. On a rare glance, Bethanne’s aunt seemed entranced in the story for a moment before the clarity dropped away from her eyes again. Though rare and fleeting, those moments were the reason Joyce continued to read the gothic novels.
When her eyes were too weary to focus on her stitches any longer, Bethanne set her sewing aside. Aunt Rosaline had begun to doze, and Joyce’s voice had trailed off to silence.
“He’ll be back, you know,” Mrs. Temple murmured, breaking the stillness.
Bethanne had no doubt to whom her housekeeper referred. She’d been unable to remove Lord Roman from her mind since yesterday, and his interference in town today had not helped matters in that regard. The afternoon tea had made it impossible for Bethanne to think of little other than him. “You shouldn’t have encouraged him.”
The cook and the housekeeper passed a knowing glance between them.
“None of you,” Bethanne said, more forcefully. “The last thing we need is for him to go poking his nose into our business. He’s already seen and heard far too much.”
Joyce placed a slip of parchment inside the book to mark her page. “But Miss Bethanne—”
“But nothing. Lord Roman may not know Uncle Drake, but I have no doubt Lord Herringdon does. We cannot take the chance.”
Mrs. Temple frowned and Joyce pursed her lips. “How do you plan to keep him from discovering things he oughtn’t?” Joyce asked. “He’s coming for tea each day. Surely he’ll see the family resemblance between you and Finn, and then draw conclusions—whether they’re the proper conclusions or not.”
Bethanne didn’t have the heart to deny him those visits…not after she’d seen how Aunt Rosaline reacted to him. She sighed. “I don’t know.” Then she decided to change the subject while she could. “My cousins Jo and Tabitha will be coming for a visit. They’ll arrive with Lord Devonport the day after tomorrow.”
“I’ll prepare rooms for them first thing in the morning,” Mrs. Temple said. She, too, abandoned her sewing in the fading light.
“Should I plan anything special for supper?” Joyce asked. “Miss Faulkner has always enjoyed my roasted pheasant and parsnips.”
“That sounds lovely.” Bethanne walked over to the pianoforte and gently prodded her aunt, to no avail. If her head drooped much further, she’d land upon some of the ivory keys and startle herself awake.
Joyce rushed to her side, and together they hefted Aunt Rosaline to her feet and guided her up the stairs to her chamber at the end of the hall. Mrs. Temple followed behind them and assisted with changing Aunt Rosaline’s clothing and putting her to bed.
When they finished, they went separate ways to find their own beds. Bethanne wearily trudged to her own chamber. Before she could sleep, she wanted to go over the accounts. Maybe she could find a solution in there, to fend off Uncle Drake’s questions. And she wanted to read Jo’s letter more fully. Bethanne had never regretted her decision to become her aunt’s caregiver—not for a single day—but she desperately missed her cousins.
They couldn’t arrive at Round Hill soon enough.
Roman woke in a sweat, a terror-inducing scream ripping from his lips with both hands tight around the silly, feather-filled pillow.
He was strangling the life out of the thing. The counterpane lay in shreds at his feet. Thank God he hadn’t turned the lantern over in his fit. He’d have been burned alive before he ever came out of the stupor. Even more reason he needed to stay absolutely as far away from other people as possible.
Gradually, he pried his fingers free from the pillow. It fell limply to the floor, joining the tortured counterpane. He took a breath, willing his pulse to slow to a mere race. Then he took another breath.
After pulling a coat on over his shirt, Roman undid the two bolts, then strode through the dower house and unlocked the front door. Cold morning air hit him like newfound freedom, washing over him in waves and leaving him shaking and dazed from the sudden shock of it.
He took a few steps through several inches of snow toward the great oak in the lawn before he realized he hadn’t drawn on his boots. It didn’t matter. The icy claws digging into his feet hurt less than the memories…less than the dreams which forever haunted
his sleep.
Roman sat at the base of the tree watching the sun rise over the horizon. In his life these last fifteen years, such a moment of reflection—of enjoying the world around him—had been a rarity. This freedom to do as he wished fit oddly on him. In his days with the Dragoons, a new day meant new orders, a new mission, or at the very least more of the same.
Why did it all feel so devilish uncomfortable on him?
Only once the sun was fully in the sky, blinding him with the brilliant reflections off the surface of the snow, did he rise again. He returned to the dower house, dressed himself properly, returned the glass vial to his breast pocket, and then began the journey across the field to meet the waiting carriage.
He’d informed Hassop’s butler, Milner, upon his arrival that they’d meet in a few days’ time, go over the staffing needs and the like. First, he wanted to find some sense of comfort with his new surroundings.
So why was he headed off to the Cottage at Round Hill so bloody early in the morning, instead of inspecting the grounds or in some other way familiarizing himself with his new position?
Major Lord Roman Sullivan had ever been the soul of duty, the one his superiors could always count upon to do as he’d been ordered at the appropriate time in the appropriate manner. He’d never been one to shirk his duties.
But perhaps Lord Roman Sullivan—sans Major as part of his title—would view life and duty in a different way.
Even if he was to take a new tack, riding off into town to collect his supplies and then seeing to the neglected responsibilities of another man instead of learning his new role left an almost sickening feeling in the bottom of his gut. Or perhaps it was the thought of seeing these townsfolk again, the very people who’d treated Miss Shelton so basely yesterday. It stung that, as the overseer of his father’s estate here, he had a responsibility not only to the Hassop House staff and tenants, but also to these people who’d so affronted his sense of decency and propriety.
He’d thought he was returning to civilization, but what civilized society would treat a lady in such a manner?
Roman wasn’t a fool. Clearly, because of the boy, they thought her a woman of loose virtue. But was it truly a worse sin for an unmarried lady to have sexual relations than for a man to kill for his wage, as countless men had done for centuries? Was it more immoral for a woman to have a child outside of marriage than for married men to seek out whores or other men’s wives?
Such justifications made no sense, and only served to stoke Roman’s ire. The hypocrisy was sickening. Hence the feeling at the bottom of his gut.
Still, he collected his purchases in town, thanking the lumber master for filling his order without delay, and then directed his team toward the Shelton ladies’ cottage. The little house seemed oddly quiet when he arrived. Still. Perfect.
Retrieving a shovel and post from his cart, Roman set to work repairing the fence.
After tugging the counterpane into place with Mrs. Temple’s help, Bethanne fluffed a few pillows and settled them at the head of the bed. “Will you have Joyce help you bring the tub up here? I’m sure they’ll all want to wash off the grime of travel when they arrive tomorrow.”
“We’ve already brought it, Miss Bethanne,” Joyce called out from the hall.
Bethanne turned as Joyce and Mrs. Wyatt lugged it inside the room, placing it in the corner near the hearth. Their straining only served to remind Bethanne how imperative it was for her to find a new manservant. But where could she find one? The men in town were not an option, considering her reputation.
Finn loped in behind them, jumping into the tub as soon as it was settled on the floor. “Bath!” He flapped his hands about like he was trying to splash them with the nonexistent water. Either that or he thought to make the tub fly.
“Not right now,” Mrs. Temple said with a chuckle. “My back is still sore from drying the mess you made in your bath last night.”
Bending over at the waist, Bethanne picked Finn up and lifted him clear of the tub. Just as she placed him on the floor, a loud thwack sounded from somewhere in front of the house. She jumped. “What on earth was that?”
Joyce led the way from the guest chamber, and they all bustled along to follow her out. “Could Miss Faulkner and Lord and Lady Devonport be here already?”
“I’ve never heard a carriage that sounded like that,” Mrs. Wyatt said as they went down the stairs. She lifted Finn into her arms to hurry their descent.
“I can’t imagine they’d be here yet,” Bethanne murmured. “They aren’t due until sometime tomorrow.”
Another deafening thwack sounded, followed by a rapid series of them. If it was Jo, Tabitha, and Lord Devonport, the “surprise” Jo had written of bringing was something Bethanne suddenly dreaded receiving.
“If it’s a horse, I fear for the rider. And the horse.” Mrs. Temple reached the front door first and ripped it open just before Bethanne flew past her.
It was neither horse nor carriage.
Lord Roman stood by the crumbling fence, stripped of both overcoat and waistcoat despite the snow all about his booted feet, pounding a new post into the ground. He had no cravat in sight, and his beaver hat was nestled precariously amongst a stack of pickets. A strong gust would blow it away at any moment, never to be found again.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Bethanne demanded. The bitter wind whipped through her gown as she crossed to him, twirling her skirts into a tangle around her legs, but she didn’t slow.
With a great swing of his arm, he struck a nail, driving it through the picket onto the new post he’d apparently already put in place. “I’m fixing your fence.”
Bethanne said a silent prayer for patience. “Thank you for making that clear, Lord Obvious.” She probably should have prayed sooner, given the unbecoming sarcasm she’d been unable to contain. Perhaps she ought to begin praying constantly.
He lifted his arm for another blow, not deigning to comment on her disrespect.
Another powerful gust of wind blew over her, leaving her trembling in its aftermath. A single, fat snowflake landed on her nose, followed soon after by a series of them. “I suppose the better question is why are you fixing the fence?”
“I would think,” he said slowly, as though he measured each word before he uttered it, “that, too, would be rather obvious, Miss Shelton. The fence needs fixing.”
Mrs. Temple rushed out with Bethanne’s redingote, wrapping it around her shoulders. “It is very kind of you to do so, my lord,” she said, practically falling at his feet in worship, blast the woman. “Won’t you come in to warm up in a bit? Joyce has a soup on for luncheon that will warm you straight through to your toes.”
Luncheon? Wasn’t it enough that the man would be joining them for tea every day for the next eternity? Bethanne gaped at her housekeeper. Never in her life would she have thought the woman so audacious as to overstep her position in such a way.
“Thank you,” Lord Roman said, smiling an overly charming smile at Mrs. Temple. “I would appreciate that.”
“It’s the least we can do, you know.” Mrs. Temple dipped a curtsey and scurried back to the house. Joyce and Mrs. Wyatt smiled and waved at Bethanne from the doorway when she gawked at Mrs. Temple’s retreating form, shooing her forward with their hands, as though she ought to be encouraging the man.
Saints above, she could scream.
“You ought to go inside, Miss Shelton.” Lord Roman took another swing with his mallet, then stepped back, checking the height of the new post against the part of the fence still standing. The snow coming down had reached a steady trickle, leaving a dusting in his dark hair that made it appear more silvery than normal. “You’ll catch your death out here, otherwise.”
“You ought to go home, Lord Roman,” she countered. “We do not need your help.”
He put the mallet back into his cart, pulling out a shovel in its stead. “You’re as headstrong as they come, aren’t you?” Then he moved to where anothe
r post had fallen and dug a hole to prepare for its replacement.
“This isn’t about being willful, my lord.”
The muscles beneath his trousers strained with each dig into the earth. “Is that so? Then what is it about?”
Bethanne crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes to the gray pillows of clouds overhead. “You’ve seen how the townsfolk treat me. You’ve seen—” Her breath caught, and she stopped herself. “You know what I am.”
“And what is that?” He tossed a mound of dirt to the side and dug in again, knitting his brows together.
“A pariah. Or perhaps you’d lean more toward those who would call me a lady bird. In either scenario, I’m not the sort of woman with whom a gentleman such as you should be associated.”
Lord Roman stopped his digging and leaned on the handle of the shovel. He stared her straight in the eye. “Am I to understand you’re trying to protect my reputation?”
Put in those terms, it did sound a bit absurd. Bethanne nodded anyway. “Yes. That’s precisely my concern.” Easier to let him believe that than the alternative. She couldn’t even give him a hint that she was trying to hide something. She had a niggling suspicion that if he thought something was amiss, he’d stop at nothing to discover the truth. That couldn’t happen.
“Find a more appropriate reason to refuse my assistance.” He placed the shovel back in the cart and pulled out another post. “You’re a lady, living with only female servants, a senile old woman, and a little boy. You have no one here to protect you. No one to fix your fence or carry your provisions. Someone has to take care of you.”
“My uncle has provided for our care quite well.”
“Quite well?” he scoffed. “Why has he not provided you with a manservant? Why has he allowed your fence to fall into such a state of disrepair, when you have a precocious child and a wayward aunt who need to be kept safe?” Lord Roman positioned the post just so, then took up his shovel again to refill the hole.
The man was determined to find fault with everything around him, whether fault was to be found or not. Bethanne tossed her hands up in the air. “We had a manservant until two weeks ago.”
The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah Page 5
