“I do not approve of her neglect of Violet,” I returned, “but I have not been here long enough to take exception to anything else . . . except the atrocities served at table.”
Was that a grimace or a fleeting smile? Impossible to tell on a face that rivaled the crags for rugged immobility.
Baron Hammersley scrawled his frank on my letters to the village merchants and to one I had written to Cressy and returned them to me. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Maxwell,” he said. “And you are right about Cook. I fear inertia has claimed me for too long. It’s time to set things to rights.” As I curtsied and turned toward the door, he added,” “But I foresee I will need help, Miss Farnborough. A good deal of it.”
I paused, straightened my shoulders, and continued my walk to the door. The rosy cloud on which my dream-man had rested for eleven years was developing licks of gray. Concern for his wife was no excuse for suffering a house turned topsy-turvy by too many strong characters straining at the bit—none of them with a thought for the five-year-old in the nursery.
Thayne Hammersley exasperated me, shocked me, frightened me. Sometimes I thought him mad. Yet for all his imperfections, he still tugged at my heartstrings.
Clearly, my common sense had deserted me.
Chapter Seven
The next morning I visited the nursery and found Violet arrayed in another party dress, this one with tiny puff-sleeves and a skirt falling from a high waist in a series of ruffles that ended half-way between her knees and ankles. Whatever the effect of her mother’s long illness, ’twas clear it had not stunted Violet’s growth.
“Are there trunks of old clothes in the attic?” I asked Nanny Roberts.
“Indeed, miss, I’m sure there are, though probably only the best were kept.”
Silks, satins, the most delicate linens . . . I heaved a sigh. “Perhaps some undergarments?” I suggested.
Mrs. Roberts’s took a deep breath, her plump breast swelling to pouter pigeon proportions. “There’s only one way to find out,” she declared.
“Must we ask Mrs. Maxwell for a key?” I asked, my voice dropping to a totally unnecessary whisper.
“The door at the top of the servants’ stairs is kept locked,” she told me, her gray eyes lit with a conspiratorial gleam, “but not the door from the nursery corridor.”
“A-ah.” I smiled. “Come, Violet,” I said. “Today we are going to explore the inside of the house.”
And off we went, with Nanny Roberts leading us through a small door at the end of the corridor and down a long dark passage which seemed to follow the ridgeline of the roof. I carried a single candle inside a glass chimney, while Mrs. Roberts wielded the nursery’s straw broom, a clear necessity, for no one had come this way in a very long time except creatures I didn’t care to think about. My skin crawled but I could not show fear in front of Violet, so we kept moving forward. Falconfell seemed to have grown twice as broad since yesterday’s circumnavigation.
At long last, another door. If it was locked, I was going to be hard put to suppress a scream. Of frustration, of course, not fear of small dark places with multiple webs and rodents.
The door creaked open. Light! After the corridor we’d just traversed, the dim light from small attic windows seemed like the brilliance of the sun at high noon. I carefully set down the candle just inside the immense attic storage space and stood quite still, my eyes widening at the jumble ranging before me. Broken and cast-off furniture, rolled carpets, small trunks, large trunks, sea chests . . .
Where to begin?
More than a hour later, defeated by red eyes, runny noses, and hacking coughs, we slipped back into the passage beneath the roofline and carefully closed the door. Nanny Roberts juggled both broom and candle as my arms were laden with a surprising array of garments from sturdy petticoats to ancient livery to linen and muslin gowns with so many yards of fabric I staggered under the weight. Merciful heavens, how had the ladies of the eighteenth century managed to walk? Perhaps their hoops took most of the tonnage.
And now a more serious problem, I thought as we finally emerged into the space outside the nursery with its broad windows overlooking the valley. Either I sought out Martha Beaseley, the family seamstress, which would alert Mrs. Maxwell to our raid on the attic, or I attempted to create the garments myself. Fortunately, I’d spent a full three months in my elder brother’s household when his children’s beloved nanny had rushed away to attend her father’s final illness. During that time I had mended enough gowns and skeleton suits to have a good idea of how they were constructed. The gowns, fortunately, being much easier than the fitted boys’ garments with all those buttons.
Coward! my inner voice mocked as I determined to make the gowns and undergarments myself. But Violet was enough of a challenge without instigating another confrontation with Mrs. Maxwell so soon. I would give Hammersley time to work a miracle in that direction if he could.
When I bent down to give Violet a hug, she had the strangest expression on her face. Excitement? Had she enjoyed our morning’s adventure beyond the confines of the nursery? Or was it hope—someone other than Nanny was noticing her at last? Or did she possibly feel a thrill at flaunting the rules, for there could be no doubt she sensed that Nanny and I had stepped beyond that bounds of what was expected. I looked straight into those unfathomable dark eyes, so like her Aunt Maud, the witch, and promised to return later that afternoon.
Fate was kind and I managed to slip back to my room without being caught with my great mound of treasure. I spread the various items out across my bed . . . and grimaced. What was that saying about biting off more than one could chew? I would have to enlist Bess’s aid. Between the two of us, we’d get the job done.
A pleasant man, Ross Hammersley, if too disconcertingly like his cousin Thayne. His chestnut hair tended to wave, with an occasional stray curl falling over his forehead, while the master of Falconfell brushed his unrelentingly straight hair back from his face. Fewer lines radiated from Mr. Hammersley’s blue eyes; his shoulders were broader, his smile untinged by cynicism. His face was fashioned with less planes and angles than his titled cousin, with no signs of inner pain. In short, Ross Hammersley was a fine specimen of a man. I was pleased to have him as my guide.
With a grin and a hearty “Good afternoon, Miss Farnborough,” Ross Hammersley offered me a stout walking stick. He scanned my boiled wool cloak, peered down at my stout boots, and nodded his approval. “I trust you’re not afraid of sheep or mountain goats,” he ventured, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“You’ll find I am a sensible creature, Mr. Hammersley. “Wary of bogs and precipices and what you call shake holes, but not poor dumb animals who are only interested in their next mouthful of grass.”
Another approving nod, followed by a shrewd look. “Falconfell is awash in Hammersleys,” he said, “If you are Thayne’s cousin, you are also my cousin, so I think it must be first names for us, do you agree?”
“Of course,” I murmured, aware I was being reeled in by his charm as efficiently as a trout on a hook. But friends had not been in abundance since my arrival at Falconfell. “I am Serena,” I told him.
“Ross.” We shook hands. I felt his warmth, his strength even through both layers of gloves.
He led me to a path through the trees at the back of the garden, a lovely secluded tunnel filled with twittering birds and occasional glimpses of sunshine through the green canopy overhead. All lost in less than ten minutes as the trail began to climb in a series of switchbacks that rose rapidly above the trees and soon had us on an eye level with the nursery on the top floor of Falconfell. And, yes, there was Violet leaning out the window, waving, with a solid shadow behind her, undoubtedly Nanny with a tight grasp on her charge’s skirt. I waved back.
“An odd child.”
I turned to Ross Hammersley so quickly I nearly lost my balance on the steep path. “In what way?” I demanded, not bothering to hide my rush of annoyance.
He considered. “She has Maud’s
eyes and sees more than she should. An old soul is our Violet.”
“Nonsense!” I declared, none too pleased with him. “She’s a five-year-old who has just lost her mother. One cannot expect her to romp about, uncaring.”
The steward of Falconfell offered me a look that clearly labeled me a newcomer, ignorant of reality. “With the few times Violet saw her mother over the years, there could be little love to miss. I doubt the child is grieving over much.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. Clearly, Mr. Hammersley was not the paragon I thought him to be. But the day was bright, the wind brisk enough to blow away sorrow and doubt, at least for the moment. “I believe you were going to show me some sheep, Mr. Hammersley.”
By the time we had skirted crags, forded small rivulets, and crossed a bubbling mountain stream on a rough wooden bridge, I was winded enough to beg for a halt. I planted my feet firmly against the wind that threatened to blow me off the mountain and looked behind me. Far below, the multi-layered roof of Falconfell; beyond it, the green of the narrow valley with the river a thin blue line winding its way down the middle. Breathtaking!
I turned in a circle, drawing in the essence of the moor around us. Waving grass, rocks, sheep. And not too far off the trail, the tell-tale brighter green of a bog. Noting my look, Ross said, “They look the same on Dartmoor?”
“Close enough.”
“Then you should be safe enough. Use your stick to probe any place that looks doubtful.”
“What about the shake holes?”
“They’re in a different area entirely. We’ll save them for another day.” He turned and continued our climb toward the top of this particular peak. Another day. In spite of his careless words about Violet, I rather thought I might like to repeat my outing with Ross Hammersley.
As I followed the narrow path upward, with sheep occasionally skittering out of my way, I worried my feeling of warmth like a dog worries a bone. Was I drawn to my distant cousin Ross because he was a strong, handsome man who was being kind to me? Or was I drawn to him because he was so much like Thayne, the Thayne I once knew, not the man he was today? I didn’t even notice when we veered off on a side path and began to descend into a cleft. Only the rush of falling water brought me back to the moment. Ah! Suddenly, we were surrounded by more than moorgrass. Granite outcroppings, spiky shrubbery, and waving green ferns framed a waterfall not more than three feet across, though the drop to the swirling pool below must have been ten or a dozen feet. The sun caught the spray, forming a miniature rainbow.
“We’ll picnic here,” Ross said, lowering the pack he had been carrying on his back. “Climbing is notorious for working up an appetite.”
I admit it, I clapped my hands like a babe in leading strings, then blushed as furiously as a maiden receiving her first invitation to dance. Perhaps I could simply spread out my arms and allow the wind to fly me back to Falconfell before Ross Hammersley saw me for what I really was. An aging spinster captivated by the kindness of a stranger.
As we perched on a rocky outcropping and ate chicken in a flaky crust and nibbled lemon biscuits, washed down with a shared flagon of ale, I knew this was a moment I would treasure forever. I would return to Falconfell ready to cope with whatever drama might come my way. I thanked Ross most sincerely, and we continued the remainder of the distance to the highest point.
“We call it Falconcrest,” Ross said, “this mountain behind the house. “Not very creative, I fear.”
“I like it. It fits.” Everywhere I looked, moorgrass, distant peaks, a few higher, many lower. White dots of sheep, a shepherd’s hut diminished by distance to the size of a dog. Scudding clouds— “Ross! Is that a storm moving in?”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded decidedly profane. “Fortunately,” he said, “going down is faster than coming up.” He motioned for me to go ahead of him.
Alas, we didn’t make it. The only kindness Fate granted was reaching the lower part of the mountain before lightning began to dance along the top, though the crashing booms of thunder seemed to roll straight down the hillside, threatening to slam us to the ground. Ross grabbed my arm and hustled me even faster, slipping and sliding as we fought to reach the shelter of the trees.
But of course Ross shook his head when I paused to catch my breath beneath the thick branches of a large fir. “Dangerous here,” he panted, and dragged me after him, finally bursting out of the trees, across the garden, and into the kitchen. Where Cook shrieked and stood with her mouth agape, looking at us as if we were a pair of invading Vikings. “I beg your pardon,” Ross said, and ushered me toward the servants’ stairs.
We had nearly reached it when Mrs. Maxwell declared most awfully, “Mr. Ross, what is the meaning of this?”
He skidded to a halt, his arm still firmly gripping mine. “The meaning, my dear Mrs. Maxwell, is that we climbed Falconcrest and were caught in the deluge. I am, like a gentleman, escorting Miss Farnborough to her room.”
“Miss Farnborough can find her own way to her room, Mr. Ross. Your cottage is that way.” With a dramatic gesture worthy of Mrs. Siddons, she threw her arm straight out, pointing at the door we had just come in.
Shocked to the core, I goggled at her. She couldn’t possibly be implying . . .?
Yes, she was.
I threw off Ross’s hold and stepped in front of him. “Mrs. Maxwell, I do not know whether to thank you for your concern on my behalf or applaud your performance. Surely to anyone with eyes to see, it is clear Mr. Hammersley and I were caught in the storm and in dire need of drying ourselves and changing our clothes. Since I am new to this house, it is a likely assumption that I did not know where to find the servants’ stairs. I am most grateful to Mr. Hammersley for his concern. And for the concern I am certain is felt by everyone in this kitchen who can see us dripping mud all over your clean floor. So, if you will excuse us. . .”
I turned to Ross with as warm a smile as the icy rain on my face would allow. “Thank you for a perfectly splendid afternoon. We must do it again some time.” Our eyes met and we both burst into laughter. I was still smiling when I reached my room.
Chapter Eight
Surprise rippled through me later that evening when I entered the antechamber where the family gathered before dinner. The man I thought to be Hammersley, chatting cosily with Justine Raibourne, proved on closer inspection to be my companion of the afternoon, Ross Hammersley. I was still gaping when a sly voice said, “He prefers to dine in his cottage. Says he’s a far better cook than our Nettie. Which I’ve no doubt is true,” Maud added, “so who could blame the poor man?”
A wave of heat rushed through me. Was I the reason Ross was dining with the family?
“Thayne insisted he join us,” Maud offered, as if she could read my thoughts. “Declared the dining table overfull of females, that he and young Avery needed support.”
Of course. A wave of guilt swept over me. For a few short hours I had allowed a stranger’s undivided attention to turn my head. A stranger who looked like Thayne. And now I would be sitting at table with both of them. Flibbertigibbet! my inner voice mocked.
“Miss Farnborough.”
At the sharp note in Lady Hammersley’s tone, I raised my gaze from contemplation of the rich colors in the carpet and a foolishness unbecoming a woman close to entering her fourth decade. “Good evening, my lady.”
“Am I to understand you climbed Falconcrest today?”
“I did indeed,” I returned with more enthusiasm than was probably becoming. “I was born and raised in Devon and anxious to see the high moors of the Pennines.”
“I was under the impression you were here to see to Violet, not to go traipsing about with the steward.”
Her voice had risen until it filled the modest-sized room. Ross looked as shocked as I. Justine’s expression could only be called a triumphant smirk. Maud’s reaction was difficult to judge as she always looked sly. Avery, who had just entered the room, appeared puzzled by the sudden tension. Looming beh
ind him—I wanted to sink!—Thayne, lord of the manor.
“Good evening,” he said smoothly. “What an excellent opportunity to say what needs must be said before we go in to dinner.” He nodded to his step-mother and to each of us in turn. “Isabelle, Maud, Justine, Serena, Avery, Ross . . . it seems I must make clear Miss Farnborough’s position here. Serena is a member of the family. She is not an employee. She is as well known for her skills at organization as she is for her skill with nursing. I have asked her to assist me in the running of the household, something that has been sorely neglected during Helen’s lengthy illness. Serena’s methods are her own, as her time is her own. She may come and go, see whom she pleases without censure.” Once again he scanned each face. “Do I make myself clear?” Bless you, bless you. I was in falling love with him all over again.
Fickle creature! Were you not basking in his cousin’s company only hours ago?
I snarled at my inner voice as Justine uttered a faint huff of disgust and the dowager mumbled something inaudible beneath her breath. Relief swept through me when Hammersley offered the dowager his arm and everyone paraded into the dining room, leaving me to trail behind at the tail of the line.
Lower than the salt, that was the life of a meddling busybody, no matter how many kind words Thayne Hammersley used in an attempt to make my position here come up smelling sweet.
The meal seemed interminable, the quality appalling. The ladies’ escape to the drawing room brought more winces as I suffered through Justine’s attempt to play her way through a sheaf of simple folk tunes she had found in a small chest near the grand piano.
“Helen played so well,” Isabelle, Lady Hammersley, pronounced loudly enough I almost felt sorry for Justine.
Even Maud looked uncomfortable. “I’ve not heard that tune in a long time,” she called to Justine. “Brings back memories, it does.”
Justine’s hands crashed down on the keys with enough dissonance to make me jump. Not that I could blame her. “I am certain Miss Farnborough has a delightful repertoire of tunes we have not heard before,” she declared, her blue eyes glazing to ice.
Brides of Falconfell Page 5
