by Allie Borne
Bernard sat back on his aching feet and appraised his mistress. She was a beauty, this much he had noticed despite his rheumy, watery eyes. Apparently she was also made of some substance. No, not a cream puff, as he had first estimated. Perhaps she was more like a piece of cinnamon toast-sweet and appealing, yet filling. He might actually like having this female around. Yes, he might indeed.
Gifting her with a rare grin, Bernard returned to his weeding with renewed vigor. “Jest wot did ye’ ‘ave in mind M’Lady?”
“Well, I can definitely help with the vegetable garden, if instructed in how the general maintenance is done. Also, I was hoping to set up a schedule for renovating the rooms. As you were here when the household was properly maintained, I was hoping for your advice on how to begin, as well as an account of how the rooms were arranged.
“I feel the charm of this place seeping into my bones and I would love to restore it to its former glory. I realize that my husband and I haven’t yet the funds to do so all at once, but with some smart planning and hard work on our part, I believe the place could again be presentable by next fall.”
She knew she was rambling but she wanted desperately to achieve a connection with this man. Lindsay was lonely, and beyond that, Bernard seemed to have a close bond with this house. Somehow, she felt, if she could connect with Bernard, she could also come to feel at home here. Lapsing into silence, she continued to weed, moving away from Bernard as she crawled to the cucumber vines.
“Alright.”
“Alright?”
“Aye. I have to begin supper. But if you would follow me into my ‘relic’ of a kitchen, I might be able to answer your questions about the home’s former decor.”
“Oh, thank you, Bernard! I really appreciate it. Let me help you. I will just wash up at the pump and be right in.”
Shaking his head, Bernard climbed the stoop to the kitchen. He grinned despite himself. This is what it must be like to have a daughter, he thought, and then felt foolish. The silly young chit warmed his heart.
Returning to the coal darkness of the kitchen, Lindsay began slicing the loaf of bread that Bernard had laid out for her. “As I have shifted the living arrangements to make room for Bobby, I thought that I might as well ready the attic room for a maid. This will require me to prepare the study. Is the desk in the study repairable?”
“I suppose it might be made to function, temporarily, until a new desk can be purchased. You’ll no doubt want to keep the small desk in the attic for when the nanny uses that space.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” Lindsay’s cheeks pinked at the reference to children. She quickly changed the subject.
“Bernard, could you direct me towards the cleaning supplies, so that I might prepare the study? I would like to have it habitable by this evening, if possible.”
“There is a room to your right, Mistress, with most of our rags and buckets. There is a broom in the corner that you can use as well. Lye soap, what’s left of it, is on the top shelf. We will have to make more this fall.”
“Yes, I see that it will be a race to get ready for the winter.”
“Also, have we any feathers for a mattress for John? The new maid will be needing the cot, once she’s hired and I know it is too early for straw.”
“We’ve barely enough for a pillow, M’Lady, but I’ll wager I could purchase some at market this Saturday. I have a mind to set up the old hen house again, if the master agrees. We’ve only the two hens left and we’ll need some brood hens and a rooster, if we’re to feed the six of us.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely! Bobby can help you with the repairs first thing tomorrow. What should I use to put the dust in, once I have swept?”
“There is a dust bin beside the mop, bucket, Mistress.”
“Bernard, I do not mean to seem impolite, but have I noticed a marked change in your dialect? How is it that you seem to flow back and forth from the colloquial to the more refined?”
“Oh, I was raised by poor country peasants, M’Lady, but I have book learnin’. I have more often reverted to those ‘colloquial’ intonations, as you call it, since I have had less contact with society.”
“I see,” Lindsay smiled. “Thank you for your help, Bernard.” Loading up with rags, broom, and dust bin, Lindsay headed up to the study. Shoving the door open, she sighed. The ceiling was luckily low but she still could not hope to reach the eight foot height. Setting down her burden, she turned to fetch a ladder when she heard a thumping outside of the billiard’s room.
“Oh, Bernard, thank you!” Lindsay gushed, her eyes filling up with tears. It was silly of her to be moved by Bernard’s thoughtfulness. It was a simple gesture; one she had come to expect at her old home. Here, away from comfort and wealth, Bernard’s willingness to carry a heavy wooden ladder up a flight of stairs for her proved tantamount to slaying a dragon.
Following him into the study, she tied a rag about her face and climbed to the corner where he leaned the ladder. Linnie immediately became so absorbed with her task that she did not even notice Bernard’s departure. Dusting, then washing, Lindsay removed buckets full of dirt by the time the lunch bell rang.
Feeling not at all like eating in her newly clean dining room, Linnie breezed through, grabbed a plate and made a sandwich. Filling a simple tin cup with tea, she walked through the music room, then, paused briefly to set down her repast, she pulled two loosened boards away. Having thus cleared the exit, she regained her lunch and stepped out to the garden.
Setting the cup beside her, Lindsay sank into the wrought iron bench and, wheezing, sucked in her first rattling breath of fresh air all day. Silence surrounded her. She found the touch of the breeze and the rustle of the leaves soothing and invigorating. Closing her eyes and leaning her head back, Lindsay was asleep before she could form a conscious thought.
Chapter Ten- Honored Guest or Hired Help?
“The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men... lea'e us nought but grief an' pain”
~Robert Burns, 18th Century Scottish Poet
Charles was exhausted. Wilson, while a good friend, demanded thorough and consistent work from his employees and Charles had been away for two long weeks. The receipts and bills had piled up on his desk. Not trusting to his ability to acquire a ready dowry, Charles had chosen to surreptitiously supplement his paltry inheritance with employment as an estate manager. This position came about when Wilson Bonneville, a dear friend of Charles’ parents, had to fire his manager for stealing from him.
Growing up, Charlie had become aware of Wilson’s trouble with numbers, as his father had brought him on several visits to Lord Rochester’s estate. Periodically, Daniel Donovan would check his friend’s books, to insure that all was in order. Wilson never let on that numbers would not sit on straight lines for him, as they did for other men. Shortly after word spread that he had returned from the navy, Charles had received a desperate letter from Wilson’s wife, and had gone to her aide.
Lord Rochester brought out the books, as he had with Charles’ father and it soon became apparent that George Drake, the estate manager, had been skimming from the tenant’s rent monies. Drake was fired immediately and Charles, with nothing better to do at the time, had agreed to stay on until reliable help could be found.
That was three months ago. Since then, Charles had become an integral part of estate management and was paid handsomely in return. Wilson never treated Charles like a servant, but much like an eldest son. The Bonnevilles had only one daughter and thus were even more reliant on Charles for his gentile status. Charles could stand in for Lord Rochester whenever Wilson was unavailable for social or political occasions.
Rubbing his aching neck, he leaned back in the desk chair and squeezed his eyes shut. How will I ever extricate myself from this obligation? Charles had hit the books by seven this morning and it was now three. He had at least another three hours of work ahead of him and tenant rents to collect on the morrow. Sighing, Charles rose to pace the floor in indecision. No, there was no c
hoice. It had to be done. Pulling the elegantly embroidered bell pull by his employer’s desk, Charles sat to pen his note.
Dear Lindsay,
I am very sorry, Dearest, but the negotiations with the Lord Bonneville have dragged on and will employ me well into tomorrow afternoon. Please, do not wait up for me. I will make this up to you.
Love,
Charles
Waving it to speed the drying time, Charles just had time to fold and stamp the wax when John’s butler, Simon, entered the study. “Simon, my good man, I am famished. Could you see if Cook could have a cold plate sent up? Also, I will be staying over tonight, so I shall need my chamber prepared. Please send this note to my wife. Thank you, Simon.”
Bowing with only the slightest quirk to his eyebrow, Simon returned, “Might I be the first in the household to congratulate you on your nuptials, Sir Charles?”
“Yes, Simon, thank you. Please allow me to share the tidings with his lordship, personally, as it might come as a bit of a shock.”
Bowing again in agreement, Simon backed from the chamber. When the butler departed, Charles sank his head upon the desk. He hated this lying, or more, not telling his wife the whole truth of his situation. Right now, he felt like a first rate clod. Yet, if I tell her of the reality, that I am a lowly working man, and may even be the illegitimate love child of my mother’s first beau, my newly tonnish Lindsay will turn from me, of that I am sure. I would rather face her wrath than her disgust, disinterest, or worst of all, her pity.
Mary, the maid, entered with his cold plate and was gone before he could even muster a, “thank you”. On her heels came the infamous Cynthia. Her wispy blonde hair softened the sharpness and angularity of her features, putting one in mind of a true-to-form Aphrodite, Venus with her hard edges exposed.
“Hello, Charles. I hope your toil has not over tried you. Here, permit me to pour you a brandy.” Cynthia’s tall and willowy frame glided to the decanter. Her gracefully long, piano fingers caressed his glass and slid past his hands as she set it upon the desk.
Cynthia’s wiles were well known and yet, for the knowing, no more easily averted. She was a master of seduction. Cindy, as her friends called her, was considered by many bachelors to be a rare commodity. At two and twenty she was already a widow. Cynthia Bonneville had married Lord Parton, an elderly man, against her parents’ advice and had been happily widowed some eighteen months later.
“What are you about, Lady Parton? I was unaware that you had returned to your ancestral home.”
“Is this the greeting I get from my intimate friend? Why, Charles, I do believe you forget yourself,” she cooed, draping her arms around his neck loosely, she leaned her torso against his. Charles could not help but notice that Cindy had neglected to place a handkerchief into her corset, offering him a clear view, all the way down to her perky pink nipples.
“I am not in a position to humor your invitation,” he retorted, removing her arms from his neck. “Not only am I very busy but I have just brought my bride home to Braxton Hall and am eager to return.”
“A bride? To that old dump? Charles, really!” Her expression showed humor and perhaps a hint of envy.
“I am in earnest. So, if you please?”
“Come, Charles, let us not quarrel. I had hoped we would renew our association. It is a pity you did not consider me before you went and married some naive little whippet. I imagine she has bored you to tears already. Do not worry. You need not rush home. It just so happens that I have my old nanny here and can send her over. Let me guess, she is fresh out of the school room and you fear she shall set the old heap on fire before you return? Nanny Francis will take her well in hand.”
She is eighteen, Cynthia, a mere four years your junior. She is blessedly innocent and I wish to keep her that way. Now if you don’t mind-”
“Come to my bed tonight,” she interrupted, sitting upon his lap and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “I know what will keep you satisfied. You need not hold back all of your deviant desires from me.”
He would be lying to claim that images of Cynthia’s bed did not flit without welcome through his mind. But the idea of her thin angular body coming anywhere near him made his stomach clench in disgust. Charles stood, sending her tumbling to the floor. “Out!” he barked. Cynthia regained her composure so quickly, it was as if she had decided to leave of her own accord. Her tinkling laugh echoed down the hall, imitating the clinking of ice in a glass. Her bazaar intensity sent shivers down his spine. What a little snake!
Returning to his desk and biting down on his ham sandwich without enjoyment, Charles bent back over the ledger. He was determined to finish his work and get back to his wife, before she tired of waiting and left him.
~ ~ ~
“Thud!” Lindsay’s head fell back against the iron bench, bruising her neck and bringing her painfully awake.
“Ow!” Rubbing her neck, Lindsay felt the stiffness overtake her body. Standing, to work the kinks out, she grabbed her sandwich and paced the bricked walkway in front of the bench. The chicken from last night was even tougher after another round on the spit. She chewed thoughtfully as she assessed her progress so far.
The study was clean now, if not sparkling. She would check on Bobby’s progress and direct him to the small room when he had repaired John’s living space. Then, she would fetch Charles’ paperwork and books and place them upon his ‘new’ desk. Perhaps she could find a spare candelabra and a rug as well. The chimney! She would need to clean out the grate and flu and get a fire started, to give the space a homier feel. No doubt Charles would have several entries for his ledger after purchasing farm equipment.
Bobby was working in the bedroom adjacent to the master chamber. As Lindsay came up the stairs, Bobby looked up and stopped what he was doing to give her an appreciative look. “ ‘ello, doll! And who might you be? The new maid? Name’s Bobby Smith, the new handy man.” Wiping his palms on the front of his trousers, Bobby offered his hand to shake. Lindsay returned his firm shake, momentarily taken aback that she could be so mistaken.
Looking down, Linnie realized that she still wore her dust-covered cotton and kerchief. “It is nice to meet you also, Mr. Smith. I am Lady Donovan, the mistress of the house.”
Bobby’s face turned white, as he realized his error. “Oh, Lady Donovan, I ‘pologize for my manner. I should not ‘ave...I mean I did no’ know...”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Smith. I am sure that your behavior is normally that of a gentleman. I know I look nothing like a lady of quality at the moment, but I would hope you would treat any young woman in this house with the utmost respect.”
“Uh, yes, of course, Ma’am. I will be on my best behavior, that is, I mean; I am a respectable worker. I shan’t be a bit o’ trouble. I promise ye that.”
“Of that, Bobby, I have no doubt. You come highly recommended and I would hate to think that Ms. Thomas was mistaken about your character.” Standing straighter, Bobby inclined his head in understanding.
“Have you found sufficient furnishings for John’s chamber?”
“Aye, Mistress. I was just putting the finishing touches on this wash stand and his room will be prepared. I need only carry the cot down and Miss Thomas will fix it up with some linens. John said he’d move in after he fed and groomed the horses.”
‘Very well, I am moving the rest of Lord Donovan’s things into his study on the second floor. If you could move his trunk into the master bedroom I would greatly appreciate it. Also, the desk in the study is in need of repair. When you are through here, could you come to the study to inspect it?”
“Yes, M’Lady, of course.” Lindsay nodded curtly as Bobby turned back to the wash stand.
Linnie loaded up the books and ledgers in a wooden crate from the attic and carried them downstairs. Placing the books in strategic positions along the built in shelves and centering the ledger on the desk, Lindsay noted some items she would like to add. She imagined a rug, vase with flowers, knick kna
cks, and drapes; she pictured the small framed sketch of herself alongside the ledger on the desk. Mayhap Lindsay could encourage Charles to at least think of her, even if he were unwilling to spend time with her.
Linnie had just knelt with the hand broom, to brush out the ash-laden grate, when she heard Bobby clomp into the room. “Mr. Smith! Tell me what you might be able to do with this chair and desk.”
Opening and closing drawers, then picking up the chair, Bobby nodded sagely. “They’re fixable. T’will take me a couple of hours but I can mend them well enough to last a might longer.”
“Perfect! Go ahead and fix up the desk. Then, move yourself into the stable after dinner. I will need you to go over the stable routine with John, so he can leave that business to you, come the morrow.”
“Aye, Ma’am.”
After sweeping out the grate, Lindsay went on a scavenger hunt to find the necessary items. After displaying her likeness and a few trinkets from her room, she went in search of Betsy. Betsy was hustling up the stairs with linens and quickly directed her towards the vases. After picking an assortment of wild roses and daisies from the garden, Lindsay stood back to assess her handy work. The space was shabby and bare but it felt homey and, well, clean. In short, it was a total transformation.
She twirled about in the open space in front of the desk and hugged herself in celebration. Charles would have to see that she supported him now. He would be so happy and proud of her. She longed to earn that gaze of shocked approval that she had so easily garnered from him as a young child.
Prancing up the stairs, Lindsay entered her chamber and immediately stripped down to her underclothes. Thinking better of it, she disrobed completely. “Oh, how I wish for a bath,” she sighed, and fell back upon the feather tic. She would not dare ask Betsy or Bernard to haul bath water for her, when they had worked just as diligently today.
