“Thoroughly.” A silly smile appeared on his lips. His eyelids lowered, casting a dreamy facade.
“And exactly what kind of poetry did she read?”
“Who knows . . . but she sat right next to me, wanted to keep me company. Clare was afraid I would be bored, but how could I be bored with her in the room? She is an angel.”
An angel . . . Freddie sighed. His friend’s heart was lost for sure.
There were a few young gentlemen of their acquaintance who were prone to falling in and out of love many times during a Season. He and Trevor had scoffed at such tomfoolery in years past but now it had happened to Trevor. Cupid’s arrow had never taken aim at one of the Rutherford boys’ hearts. Mrs. Harris had every right to think Trevor would not be ready for dinner on time. He simply sat there in a daze.
“I may not be able to see the color of her eyes or hair but there ain’t nothing wrong with ma-hearing,” he commented with a smile.
“Let us see what we can do to get you ready for dinner, shall we?” Freddie tried to rouse his friend from his dreamlike state. “We’re to see Clare and her family belowstairs, you know?”
“Clare . . .” the stricken mooncalf lowed.
“That’s right, now let’s move along.” Freddie nudged Trevor to straighten so he could remove the banyan.
Even though they had only been there for twenty-four hours, the future between the two lovers was clear. Freddie thought it best not to mention their impending departure lest his friend break down in tears before their hosts. Clearly Trevor could not see beyond the next time he was to meet his beloved, and perhaps for now it mattered not.
Well before their day of departure arrived, Freddie expected Trevor’s common sense would return and he would realize what he had to do. Surely he would propose, knowing his father, Lord Rutherford, would be happy to see one of his sons take the step of matrimony.
As for the Harris family, the blessing for the marriage would not be too long off and Freddie felt certain the subject would be broached to the would-be bride before the Cumberland snow had a chance to melt.
Even as Rosalind rushed from one dwelling to the next, she knew very well she would arrive late for dinner. With Clare focusing her time with Mr. Rutherford’s rehabilitation, it fell upon Rosalind’s shoulders to visit the tenants and deliver the much-needed food baskets. She’d done her best to keep each tenant stay short but it was near impossible to limit her time, especially since she knew it might be days until her next visit.
Upon return to Thistles, Gordon took charge of the sled they’d used and Rosalind raced up the servants’ staircase to her bedchamber to change out of her traveling clothes. Her maid stood waiting with Rosalind’s long-sleeved, blue frock, having both the lace and white ribbon which seemed more adornment than a simple dinner at home, but there was no time to change into another gown. Rosalind took a moment to sit and regain her composure while having the curling iron touch up her hair. Loose curls draped artfully over her forehead and a smooth chignon captured the wayward strands that had come loose from her outdoor journey.
“Thank you, Sally. I think I’ll leave the shawl.” Rosalind draped it over the back of the dressing table chair. She already felt a bit warm from rushing about and could not see bringing it with her to the dining room.
“A handkerchief, miss.” The maid held out the small folded linen.
“Yes, I’ll be needing that.” Rosalind retrieved it, tucking it into the wrist of her sleeve. She had developed a slight sniffle since the last heavy snowfall and pressed it often to her nose. Stepping swiftly through the door and to the staircase, she descended and came to an abrupt stop on the ground floor. Rosalind took a breath to calm herself and then headed to the parlor where the family and guests gathered to wait for dinner.
Mr. Worth stood when Rosalind appeared at the threshold.
“No, Mr. Trevor, do not even attempt it!” Clare warned Mr. Rutherford, laying her hand upon his arm to stay him. “You do well enough sitting right there.” It was true. Their guest looked a bit stiff, as if being very careful not to cause himself injury.
“Rosalind, dear, there you are!” Mrs. Harris announced in a much louder voice than Rosalind thought necessary.
“Good evening. I apologize if I have kept you waiting.” Rosalind noticed Mr. Worth stepping toward the end of the sofa to make room for Rosalind to sit next to him. She hesitated but did so nonetheless. Once seated, Mr. Worth sat, at what she considered a respectable distance, as well.
“Thank you,” she replied to his courteous gesture. “I am so very happy to see how much you have improved and that you are now able to join us, Mr. Rutherford.”
She had not yet made his acquaintance nor even seen him, for that matter. When he arrived, Gordon and James had both helped him up the staircase and to his bedchamber straightaway with much effort. Thinking back to that time, when she had mistakenly thought Mr. Worth was his friend Mr. Rutherford, it occurred to Rosalind now that she may have been wrong not to countenance the offer of hospitality to the strangers. It had appeared Mr. Rutherford had been rather bad off.
“I cannot take all the credit, Miss Harris. Miss Clare, here, has been indispensable to my recovery.” He glanced at her sitting next to him, and could probably no more keep his adoring expression concealed when he gazed upon her than stop his heart from beating. For Mr. Rutherford, it seemed, the presence of Clare’s two family members and his friend simply ceased to exist when he gazed at her.
And if that were not enough, Clare returned his ardor.
It made the atmosphere in the room, at least for Rosalind, fairly uncomfortable.
Mr. Worth, as if also sensing the awkwardness, cleared his throat. “I believe our meal is waiting for us.”
“Yes, Mr. Worth, you are correct.” Mrs. Harris stood and glanced at Clare.
Clare leaned toward Mr. Rutherford and whispered, “Are you ready? Can you stand? Shall I help you?” She aided Mr. Rutherford to his feet and she, along with Mrs. Harris, carefully escorted, or rather, led, him to the dining room, leaving Mr. Worth to offer Rosalind his arm. Of course it was up to Mrs. Harris to play chaperone, which unfortunately, left Rosalind, to her dismay, obliged to walk with Mr. Worth into dinner.
He stood and waited. Rosalind felt more uneasy than she had moments ago when Clare and Mr. Rutherford stared so blatantly at one another.
Mrs. Harris’s high-pitched prattle carried through the corridor and into the parlor. “We have a delightful meal planned this evening, I think you will agree, Mr. Trevor. It is a shame Mr. Harris cannot be here to dine with us.”
Yes, Rosalind’s father did have an important and thankless occupation. He spent much time away from his wife and daughters.
“Do take care, Mr. Trevor,” Mrs. Harris continued. “Clare, why don’t you see Mr. Trevor comfortably settled at his place? I’ll see what is keeping your sister.”
Rosalind had no wish for the chaperone to return and check on her status. She stood and offered Mr. Worth a polite smile before taking his arm. She was fairly certain neither of them harbored the illusion they shared anywhere near the admiration Clare and Mr. Rutherford had fostered. To be honest, Mr. Worth most probably enjoyed Rosalind’s company just as much as she relished his.
“Won’t you gentlemen remain at the table and enjoy some port?” Mrs. Harris offered the guests after they had finished their evening meal.
“I feel I can speak for Trevor when I say we would prefer to remain with the ladies.” Freddie rose from the table and walked around to the other side to help his friend to his feet. Clare, who sat next to Trevor, stood to participate.
“I am feeling fatigued but I do wish to spend time with my hostesses before I retire,” Trevor replied. His tired eyes seem to brighten when he beheld Miss Clare.
“If that is what you wish, sir,” Mrs. Harris replied. “I think we should withdraw into the parlor. The room is a bit larger for the five of us and I believe we shall be more comfortable there. I shall have s
ome tea sent in for us.”
Mrs. Harris stood, followed by Miss Rosalind, and they led the way to the parlor. Freddie offered his arm to Trevor for support and they trailed behind the two ladies. Miss Clare, adorned in a fetching soft green-colored frock, and with the ringlets framing her face, appeared to have taken some pains with the arrangement of her hair.
For Trevor’s benefit, of course.
“I do wish to apologize again, gentlemen, for Mr. Harris’s absence.” Mrs. Harris lowered herself into the chair to one side of the blazing hearth, leaving both sofas vacant for the two couples. “I know you did so wish to make his acquaintance but he is occupied with his work. And in this weather!” She went on. “How that man can devote himself to carrying out his duties with such a cold spell, and at this time of year, while we have guests . . .” She shook her head. “He is committed, that is all I can say.”
“He is to be commended for his dedication.” Freddie left Trevor’s side to return to his end of the opposite sofa where he had sat previously.
“Here, allow me to place this . . . right . . . there.” Miss Clare took great care placing a small square cushion under his left arm. “How is that?”
“Very comfortable, I thank you, Miss Clare.” Trevor could not hide his lingering gaze and the admiration in his voice. “I know I should retire early but I would like to, very much, stay for a bit.”
“Well, what shall we do then?” Mrs. Harris, seemingly oblivious to the cooing lovebirds, was certainly bound to come up with something to amuse them for the evening when Miss Rosalind spoke.
“I know my father would have loved to have Mr. Worth play for us.” She turned toward Freddie absolutely expressionless. “He thinks our guest is quite accomplished.”
“Good Lord, not that.” Trevor faced away from the group while voicing his displeasure. Yes, Freddie had heard the despairing remark.
“You play the pianoforte?” The ringlets framing Clare’s face bounced when she turned her head toward him at the news.
“Oh, yes. He’s quite the protégé.” Trevor’s sarcasm had also not escaped Freddie.
“Not really, Trev. As it happens,” Freddie said, feeling a bit self-conscious admitting his musical ability, “I’ve got a bit of talent after many years of lessons and much practice.”
“Come now, don’t be modest. You’re some sort of genius. You can play everything!”
“Not everything.” Freddie did his best to downplay his skill, or at least Trevor’s recounting.
“Oh, do play something. Anything!” Clare brightened. “I do love when Rosalind plays but she doesn’t oblige us often.”
“Yes, please, Mr. Worth, do indulge us,” Mrs. Harris said.
“Consider me convinced. I shall be happy to do as you ask.” Freddie stood and glanced over his shoulder as he stepped toward the pianoforte on the opposite side of the room. He took his place at the keyboard and began to play.
True to his word, Trevor lasted until almost the end of the third measure before his head lulled against Miss Clare’s shoulder and he fell asleep. Freddie did not mind so very much. His friend had admitted to being greatly fatigued. At the very least, Trevor could have shown a bit of consideration and snored in time to the music.
Chapter Ten
The next morning Freddie found himself alone in the breakfast room again. He partook in a leisurely meal but after finishing he felt irritated. It was not the fault of anyone, really.
Trevor’s jacket was the smallest irritant. It now had a daily cleaning, which made it tolerable, but the pattern and the color . . . the simple truth was he had not fancied it and wearing it day in and day out was nearly more than Freddie could bear. And he did not particularly care for being idle.
It had been at times such as this when he might find a friendly card game, anytime day or night, and lose a great deal of money. But no more! Freddie would not allow himself to slide into that vice again.
He pushed away from the table, determined to find some industrious occupation for this day. Freddie ventured into the kitchen where he knew he would find somebody. People who might know the location of the family.
“Is there anyfing ye be needing, sir?” a shy, young scullery maid, whom he gave a tremendous shock with his unexpected presence in the kitchen, asked. She’d been wiping down the heavily stained and scarred work table.
“Ehh . . .” Freddie looked about the unfamiliar surroundings, feeling even more unsettled in a place where he knew he had no business. “I . . . I thought perhaps . . .” He pointed behind him as if that might bring clarity to the matter. “As it happens . . . eh . . . might there possibly be some way I can contribute?”
“Sir?” She tilted her head as if struggling to understand his meaning.
“Eh . . .” Freddie smiled, hoping a friendlier face might put her more at ease. “I know there is much to do during this time of year, for the kitchen, that is. Since I am idle, I thought . . . I might . . . If it is not too much trouble, be of help?”
“Wont to ’elp, ye say?” She kept tight hold of her apron with both hands. “I’s don’t know, sir . . . I canna . . .”
“If I could make myself useful . . . Yes.” He shrugged his shoulders and nodded. She got the idea. The kitchen was not his normal . . . er . . . not since he was a boy had he entered the domain of domesticity. “Eh . . . may I speak to Cook?”
Freddie may have been out of his milieu but he knew the hierarchy of the kitchen staff. It was the same in every household. No kitchen maid would have the authority to dole out tasks . . . but the cook would know exactly how best to deal with him.
“Cook, ye say?” The maid kept her head bowed and glanced up, keeping him under careful watch. “I’ll get ’er, sir, right away, sir. She’s just in the next . . .” The maid bobbed a curtsy and swept into the inner sanctum, most probably the next room, but from Freddie’s perspective the bowels of the kitchen area could have tunneled underground for miles.
Freddie stood near the large worn-wood table and glanced about at the many vessels containing lord knew what types of kitchen staples. Then his thoughts drifted to what he might do. What type of absurd notion had he come up with that brought him here? The household servants will think his attics were to let!
A middle-aged, sturdy woman, wearing a mop cap and wiping her hands on a cloth, approached. “Ye asked ta see me? Wot is it ye be wonting, sir?”
This was dashed-awkward. He rubbed his neck with his hand. “I’ve noticed that . . . well, it’s all the holiday preparations . . .”
“Ah, yes, sir. We’re all busy with making dinner for tonight and tomorrow night, then the New Year’ll be here the day after, and Mrs. ’arris ’as asked for a special—”
“The thing is—”
“Ye wont summin’ made up for ye?” Cook, although she tried to be accommodating, was clearly irritated by his presence. “I dunno if—”
Freddie shook his head and held his hand up to stop her; she misunderstood what he was getting at. “I’m not— What I want to know is may I be of some help?”
“’Elp?” Cook’s eyes bulged and she sputtered.
“No, no. Nothing like that. I see that the entire household is busy with festive preparations and I thought that I might find some way to be of service.”
“There’s always a need for—” Cook screwed her face. “It’s not right for ye ta work ’ere in the kitchen, sir.”
“I should be the one apologizing to you. I am the first to admit I have no experience to speak of.” Freddie thought of his time spent in the kitchens of Faraday Hall. “Well . . . I suppose that is not entirely true. I did mix several batches of biscuits, cakes, and muffins in my youth under the supervision of the kitchen staff.”
“Well . . .” She stared at him for a very long time then nodded. “All right, then. I’ll find summin’ for ye. Just give me a bit o’ time.” Cook motioned to the maid. “Maggie, find this gent an apron and ’elp ’im off wit ’is jacket.”
“Aye, Cook’ll
find ye summin’, all right.” Cook shuffled away, shaking her head, muttering under her breath. Not much could be understood. “Don’t know . . . all odd sorts, them is . . .”
Freddie reminded himself this was the new Freddie. The thoughtful, helpful, industrious Freddie. However . . . taking in his surroundings, second thoughts were casting doubts. What had he been thinking? Why had he not returned to the pianoforte instead?
The return of kitchen maid Maggie with his apron caused Freddie to remove his jacket and unfasten the buttons of his waistcoat. He regarded her with a sideways glance. There’d be no backing out now. She probably thought him mad.
“Here ye are, sir.” She still averted her gaze but he could have sworn he heard her snicker.
It was of no matter. Freddie had no one but himself to blame for his demotion to the kitchen.
Rosalind clutched her cloak tightly around her and braced herself to withstand the cold for the last few steps to Thistles. She undid the latch and leaned against the heavy wooden kitchen door, holding tight to her basket that now contained several sprigs of mistletoe, and stepped inside.
This morning’s journey to the village had been a bit earlier than usual to make time for her second trip in a few hours that afternoon. Clare usually took one route while Rosalind took the other. Currently her sister’s time and attention had been consumed by the constant care of Mr. Trevor. Rosalind had no intention of neglecting their neighbors on the west side of the village and took it upon herself to see all the food baskets delivered.
Maggie met them and held the door open.
“Will you see that Cook gets this?” Rosalind handed the basket to Maggie and unfastened the clasp holding her heavy cape.
“Yes, Miss Rosalind.” Maggie stepped away.
Gordon, who had accompanied Rosalind on her morning deliveries, stowed the sled they’d used to carry the goods and followed a few steps behind her.
“Allow me to take that for you, miss.” He drew the damp brown outer garment from her shoulders.
A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) Page 8
