by Jen Turano
“Mr. Addleshaw asked me to tell you, Mrs. Hart, that your butler, a Mr. Kenton, I believe, is having difficulties with Mrs. Haverstein. Mr. Addleshaw believes you might need to come to the main drawing room in order to help sort out that concerning situation.”
“Why in the world would Mr. Kenton have gone anywhere near my daughter when he knows full well that Iris still holds a great deal of animosity toward him?”
Mrs. Macmillan let out what sounded exactly like a sniff. “I’m sure I have no idea. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to inform our cook that we’re going to have more people than expected for lunch today.”
As the sound of Mrs. Macmillan’s footsteps retreated from the tower room, Abigail turned from the door and blew out a breath. “What an interesting choice of a housekeeper my grandson has made, but—” she blew out another breath—“I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you to your own devices, dear. Tensions between Mr. Kenton and Iris go back decades. I really can’t leave him to deal with her unpleasantness on his own, even if I’m sure Archibald is keeping an eye on the situation.”
“I’ll be down as soon as I get dressed,” Lucetta said, earning a smile from Abigail.
“There’s no need for you to rush, dear. I’d hate for you to join everyone looking anything but your best. And speaking of looking your best . . .” Abigail hurried through the door and was back in a remarkably short period of time, holding a lovely walking dress of ivory in one hand and what looked like a corset, petticoat, chemise, and stockings in another. Placing them on the chair she’d recently abandoned, she beamed a smile Lucetta’s way.
Lucetta did not return the smile as her gaze lingered on the walking dress. “Why have I never seen that particular dress before?”
“Because it’s one of the ones I ordered from Worth, and was only delivered from Paris a few days ago.”
“You ordered me a dress from Worth?”
“In all honesty, I ordered you more than one, as well as a few items from Jacques Doucet, and some adorable tailored suits that I know you’ll enjoy from John Redfern.”
“How did you fit them in my trunks? They were quite full with items I personally packed for this trip.”
Abigail batted far too innocent lashes Lucetta’s way. “Would you be very put out with me to discover I took it upon myself to take out all of those ratty-looking clothes you seem to enjoy wearing when you’re at your leisure, and replaced them with the new items I procured for you?”
“You know I never get put out with you, but . . . didn’t you do the exact same thing to poor Millie when she went off to Newport?”
Abigail gave a flutter of her lashes. “Did I?” With that, Abigail spun on her heel and practically pranced out of the room, humming, if Lucetta wasn’t mistaken, a wedding march.
“She’s far more diabolical than people give her credit for,” Lucetta said to the room at large before she dunked underneath the water to wash the rose-scented soap out of her hair and off her skin. Stepping from the tub a short time later, she dried off with a soft piece of linen before wrapping the linen around her. Moving to the chair where Abigail had left the new clothing, Lucetta pulled the chemise over her head, pulled drawers up her legs, and then reached for the corset. Soft satin met her touch, and after adjusting the laces in the back, she pulled the corset around and over the top of the chemise, thankful that there were clasps along the front of the garment, which prevented her having to ring for help. After the less than subtle lecture Mrs. Macmillan had delivered regarding the trunks, Lucetta shuddered to think what the woman would say if someone had to climb up to the tower in order to help Lucetta get dressed.
Struggling into the walking dress, she began buttoning up the back the best she could, but when she got to just below her shoulders, she couldn’t reach the remaining buttons. Eyeing the bell, she stepped toward it but stopped when she heard what sounded like something moving—from inside the wall of the bathing chamber. With a heart that had taken to beating a rapid tattoo, she tiptoed up to the wall and pressed her ear against it, frowning when only silence met that ear. Stepping back, she eyed the wall for a moment, moved close to it again, and gave it a sharp rap.
When nothing rapped back at her, she felt her lips curve as she made her way to the door, the thought flashing to mind that the gothic nature of the castle was obviously affecting her. Turning the knob, she stepped into the tower sitting room, coming to an immediate stop when she saw, much to her dismay, that she was no longer alone.
Standing smack-dab in the middle of what had to be a very expensive Aubusson rug was . . . a goat. It was watching Lucetta with eyes that seemed a little wild. Realizing that the poor thing was obviously as surprised to see her as she was to see it, she took a step forward and held out her hand, intending to give the goat a reassuring pat.
She realized almost immediately that she’d made a rather large mistake, because the goat let out what sounded like a shriek, right before it lowered its head and charged her way.
8
Feeling more the thing after having washed the moat water off him and changed into the clean clothing Stanley had left out for him, Bram headed out of his room, brushing an errant strand of hair from a now patch-free eye.
He still had no idea how he was going to explain that matter, because even though Stanley had come up with a plausible explanation, Bram wasn’t comfortable, and had never been comfortable, fabricating the truth. Granted, he could always volunteer to play a pirate at his mother’s theatrical event, but . . . there really was no guarantee the play was of a nautical bent, and . . . he’d draw his mother’s suspicions for certain given that he never volunteered to perform in any of the local performances. She would definitely realize something was amiss, and then . . . she’d throw herself into the process of trying to puzzle out exactly what that something was.
While he loved his mother dearly, she was very opinionated regarding what she felt was, and was not, appropriate for her children. Bram had the sneaking suspicion she would not be pleased to discover he was enamored with Miss Plum. Especially since mothers were rarely keen on their sons forming alliances, no matter how respectable, with actresses.
“Ah, Mr. Haverstein, I was just coming to look for you.”
Lifting his head, he found Mrs. Macmillan heading his way, holding a feather duster in one hand and a piece of armor, oddly enough, in the other.
“I’m just now returning from delivering a message to your grandmother—a message I was forced to deliver all the way up to the tower room, I might add.” She continued with a telling narrowing of her eyes his way. “The message concerned a troubling situation that is currently transpiring between your mother and Mr. Kenton. As you are the head of Ravenwood, I thought you should be apprised of the situation posthaste, or as quickly as I was able to seek you out after having traveled down all of those many, many stairs leading from the tower.”
“I appreciate your dedication to your position as housekeeper,” Bram said, doing his best to keep his lips from curving, even though that’s exactly what they wanted to do as he faced his extremely cantankerous housekeeper.
“Your mother is in the red drawing room.”
“I’ll go straight there.”
Mrs. Macmillan lifted her chin. “See that you do.”
Continuing down the hallway even as he reconsidered his positon on keeping unsuitable members of his staff in his employ yet again, Bram made it to the first floor and walked down another hallway, finally coming to the red drawing room a few moments later. Moving through the door, he scanned his surroundings, barely noticing the dark and heavy furnishings he’d paid a small fortune for, or the ornate tapestries of bloody battle scenes that hung from each and every wall. As his gaze settled on his mother, who was sitting in an ugly chair upholstered in brown tweed, and then drifted to the man sitting in a chair opposite her, he wasn’t able to resist a grin.
The gentleman, curiously enough, was wearing a cheery gown of yellow, paired with a matching hat
, but the hat had taken to listing to the right while the white wig the gentleman was wearing was listing to the left, giving the man a lopsided look. Upon closer observation, Bram realized that the man truly was Mr. Kenton, his grandmother’s butler, and a man Bram had spoken to a few times when he’d unexpectedly encountered his grandmother out and about around New York.
He’d once come across Mr. Kenton and his grandmother while he’d been riding a horse in Central Park, although it had been more of a case of almost being run down by them. They’d been in an open phaeton, which had taken him aback, given that phaetons were fast vehicles normally reserved for the younger set. But there Mr. Kenton had been, holding the reins in hands that had clearly been shaking while Abigail beamed back at Bram from her seat beside her butler.
Another time he’d come across her in the gentlemen’s suit section at Arnold Constable & Company, where she’d immediately sought his assistance in helping Mr. Kenton choose the perfect suit, even though, in Bram’s opinion, Mr. Kenton hadn’t been aware he was suit shopping until that very moment.
The last time he’d encountered Mr. Kenton had been on the Hudson River, right beside Bram’s private dock. He’d been about to board his steamboat when a horn had blasted, and the next thing he’d known, Abigail was waving madly to him from a steamboat she was on, calling to him that she and Mr. Kenton were on their way to visit friends. Before he’d been able to invite her to come in and enjoy a cup of tea with him at Ravenwood, she’d turned and yelled something to the captain of the boat and they’d quickly chugged away down the Hudson.
Her behavior had seemed somewhat peculiar to him, but after further reflection, Bram had come to the conclusion that Abigail had most likely been trying to sneak a peek at Ravenwood and had gotten caught in the process, which had evidently left her flustered and fleeing. That’s when Bram had begun to realize that his grandmother might be trying to build some type of relationship with him, and had also realized that she wasn’t nearly the ogre his mother had always made her out to be.
“They’ve been staring at each other without speaking for the past twenty minutes.”
Tearing his attention away from his mother and Mr. Kenton, who were, indeed, staring, or rather, glaring at each other, Bram turned and settled it on a distinguished older gentleman. This gentleman was looking completely at his ease, even while wearing a gown of ivory trimmed in lavender that Bram was fairly certain he’d seen Miss Plum wear a time or two. When the gentleman rose to his feet, Bram moved to join him, shaking the man’s extended hand.
“I’m Mr. Archibald Addleshaw, Mr. Haverstein, but since your grandmother and I are fast friends, do feel free to call me Archibald.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir, and you must call me Bram.” Bram withdrew his hand. “May I assume you’re related to Oliver Addleshaw?”
Archibald nodded before he settled himself once again into the wing-backed chair positioned in front of floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows. Gesturing to a matching chair right beside him, he waited until Bram took a seat before he leaned forward. “Oliver’s my grandson, and I’m delighted to learn you’re acquainted with him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him well, sir. Oliver and I never mingled in the same social circles, although I have run across him in some of the gentlemen clubs throughout the city. I did hear rumors he’d gotten himself engaged lately, so please pass along my best wishes to him when you see him next.”
“He’s actually married now, to Miss Harriet Peabody, a great friend of Lucetta’s and a dear friend of your grandmother’s.” Archibald smiled. “Abigail will probably tell you at some point that she was responsible for bringing Harriet and Oliver together, as well as having a bit of a hand in seeing one of Oliver’s best friends, Mr. Everett Mulberry, and Miss Millie Longfellow well settled.”
Bram frowned. “When you say responsible . . . ?”
Archibald’s smile turned into a grin. “She fancies herself something of a matchmaker these days.” After speaking those slightly concerning words, Archibald leaned back in the chair and crossed a leg in a very unfeminine manner, the crossing having the skirt of his gown lifting up a few inches, showing a remarkably white leg in the process. That the leg sported a black sock that was currently pooled around the man’s white ankle had Bram grinning.
“I don’t mean to be forward, sir, but I’m more than willing to lend you a change of clothing if you have nothing of your own to change into,” Bram said. “I’ve never actually worn a gown before, but I have to imagine they’re not as comfortable as trousers. And since it’s clear you’re not wearing, er . . . petticoats, I have to imagine you’re experiencing a few drafts here and there.”
Archibald returned Bram’s grin. “Gowns do seem to be a little breezy, and while I thank you for the offer of a change of clothing, I did bring a trunk of my own.” He nodded to Iris and Mr. Kenton and lowered his voice. “I just didn’t feel comfortable leaving Mr. Kenton alone with your mother, since I’m well aware of the strained relationship those two share.”
Before Bram had an opportunity to ask a single question about the strained relationship his mother apparently shared with Abigail’s butler, his grandmother suddenly sailed into the room. She immediately looked her daughter’s way, shuddered ever so slightly, and then made a beeline for Bram and Archibald.
Stopping beside Bram as he rose to his feet, she sent him a lovely smile and reached up to pat his cheek. “I’m so glad you’ve abandoned that patch, dear. You have such a handsome face—though the patch did lend you a rather rogue-about-town appearance.” She patted his cheek again in a very grandmotherly fashion. “Do be sure to avoid the patch subject if at all possible the next time you’re with Lucetta, though. I’m fairly sure you don’t actually have a reasonable explanation as to why you were wearing it, and it won’t earn you her esteem if she decides you’re too peculiar.”
“How do you know I want to earn Miss Plum’s esteem?” he asked slowly.
“You’d be a fool not to, dear, and I’m your grandmother—we know everything, especially as pertains to our grandchildren, as well as their love—”
Whatever else she’d been about to say got lost when Iris suddenly let out a loud huff, shot to her feet, and advanced toward them with a look on her face that had Bram longing to make a hasty retreat.
“It’s about time you decided to put in an appearance, Mother.”
Abigail seemed to swell on the spot. “If you must know, Iris, I’ve been seeing to Miss Plum. If you’ve forgotten, she did recently suffer from a swooning attack. I, being responsible for the young lady and her welfare, needed to stay with her until I felt she was somewhat recovered from her ordeal.”
Iris released a snort. “Miss Plum, as even I know, is an accomplished actress, her skills unrivaled on the stage. Because of that, it was obvious to me that Miss Plum’s swoon was nothing more than a ploy to divert attention away from you, as I’m sure you knew from the moment she sank so perfectly to the ground. Furthermore, I’m sure you’ve been making yourself scarce in an effort to readjust whatever madcap scheme you’re currently involved with, a scheme that has you bringing an actress of all people to Ravenwood.” Iris crossed her arms over her chest. “I think some explanations are in order, Mother.”
Abigail crossed her arms over her chest as well. “And I will be perfectly happy to oblige after you explain to me what you were trying to do to poor Mr. Kenton.”
“We were communicating,” Iris said with a sniff.
“By glaring at each other?” Abigail pressed.
“I think Miss Iris is still put out with me over the whole pulling her from the window episode,” Mr. Kenton said, walking slowly their way on legs that looked anything but steady.
Striding forward, Bram took hold of the elderly gentleman’s arm and steered him to the nearest settee, helping him take a seat. “Would you like me to ring for someone to show you to a room, Mr. Kenton? I have yet to be apprised of all that has happened, but I’m assuming
all of you have experienced some long hours. Because of that, I’m sure my mother would agree that any discussion of past events can surely wait until you’ve rested.” He leaned closer to the gentleman. “You’ll not win an argument with her if you’re not at your best.”
To Bram’s surprise, Mr. Kenton sent him a smile. “I do appreciate your concern, Mr. Haverstein. Do know that even though I haven’t had much to do with your mother over the past thirty years or so, I well remember how difficult it is to win an argument with her. Truth be told, that is exactly why I resorted to muteness for the past half hour.”
Iris let out another snort, but when Bram looked up at her, the very corners of her lips were curving—until she turned her attention to him and wrinkled her nose as her gaze lingered on his eye, the eye that had recently been covered with an unexplainable patch. To his relief, she shook her head and returned her attention to Mr. Kenton, quite as if she wasn’t up to discussing her son and his peculiar ways at this particular moment.
“There would be no need for us to argue about anything, Mr. Kenton, if you’d only apologize for thwarting me in my desperate attempt to run away from home.”
Abigail immediately began tsking. “Honestly, Iris, that thwarting happened decades ago and since you still managed to become Mrs. Haverstein, you were obviously successful with the running-away-from-home business in the end. Because of that, I’m not certain I understand your continued animosity toward Mr. Kenton, who was simply trying to prevent you from breaking that all too stubborn neck of yours.”
Abigail moved to the chair Bram had recently abandoned and took a seat, gesturing Archibald into the seat right beside her. Waiting until he’d rearranged the skirt of his gown, she looked back at Iris, who’d plopped down on a light pink fainting couch that didn’t actually suit the décor of the room. “If you’ve forgotten, dear, Mr. Kenton stopped you in your attempt to climb out your third-floor bedroom window. The tree you’d intended to climb down was little more than a scraggly sapling, so in all fairness, you should be thanking the man for saving your life.”
