“The Clawsons have extended an open invitation to stay with them at any time,” Suzanne said. “I shall return tomorrow afternoon.”
“Let me write a letter to Mr. Peters before you go, then.”
Amber was grateful she had applied herself better to the tasks about the cottage. She could bake soda bread on her own now, and make all manner of roasted vegetables and soups. She could care for the chickens and horse. She still avoided the milk cow as it was filthy, and Suzanne did not mind caring for that animal as much. They hired out the laundry to a washerwoman in Romanby, but Amber could make beds, place fires, sweep floors, clean pots, and fetch water. She was more assured than before of her ability to care for herself, but her heart was heavy at the prospect, and heavier still at the thought of how eager Suzanne must be to leave.
Amber wrote the letter to Mr. Peters and then helped hitch Sally to the gig. She did not remain to watch Suzanne disappear down the lane and instead returned inside and exchanged the lacey mobcap she wore at all times for the knitted cap Suzanne had made her the week before. Thus far Amber had only worn the knitted cap at night as it was not the least bit attractive, but now she was alone and there was no reason not to enjoy her own comfort. The cap fit tightly against Amber’s head and helped keep her warm, something that was becoming increasingly difficult as she was almost without any hair at all and the season was sharply cooling.
The new growth of hair that had given her so much hope in July had fallen away in August. There were some fuzzy wisps on the left side of her head and her right eyebrow was nearly grown back, but she was not inclined to give either development much credibility. Rather than hoping for deliverance from her affliction, she found herself feeling the need to find a way to accept it. She had hoped that after her mother’s visit she could return to Hampton Grove and find a place within her family again. It was difficult to accept that would not be the case. Would it ever be?
Amber spent the evening beside the kitchen fire reading A Midsummer’s Night Dream—the library was well stocked with several familiar collections—and she was slowly making her way through literature she had once only attended as a topic of conversation. Now she read them from a different perspective of wanting to better understand their contents, context, and acclaim.
She tried not to think of the howling winds outside the window or how she would cope when winter would set in and the weather became more severe. She would have to find a way to get supplies from town. Suzanne interacted with Mr. Dariloo when he made his visits—Amber had not seen him since her arrival—and she did not know if he would be willing to fetch foodstuffs and supplies. Perhaps she would have to hire a servant, but how could she expect anyone to replace Suzanne?
When she finally took a candle to her room and curled up beneath the layers of quilts on her bed, she allowed herself to feel the day’s despair. Why had her father not stopped at the cottage when he’d come to Northallerton? He would have passed the road leading to Step Cottage on both his arrival and departure, but he had not stopped in at all? What had she done to deserve such spurning from her family? How would she cope without Suzanne?
Suzanne returned to the cottage late the next afternoon just as Amber was placing the pot of water, chicken bones tied in cheesecloth, and potatoes in the coals for soup. Amber looked up from the hearth to see Suzanne set the unopened letter addressed to Mr. Peters on the table.
“Suzanne?” Amber said with regret even as warmth filled her chest. She stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She’d sewn it herself a few weeks earlier so as to protect her dresses, adding a flounce to the bottom. Though it was completely impracticable to have done so, the weight of the flounce helped the fabric lay better and gave it a feminine touch. “You should return to London. You have already stayed too long.”
“I have made my decision,” Suzanne said, moving to the fire to stare into the flames and hold her hands to the heat.
Amber watched her for several moments, her heart heavy for so many reasons, some of which made her feel horribly selfish and unkind. “But your mother . . .”
“Mama passed on three weeks ago, Miss.” Suzanne said it so quietly that Amber nearly did not hear it over the crackling of the fire.
“What?” she asked, certain she had misheard.
Suzanne glanced at her quickly, then stepped closer to the fire. “She was very ill when I left,” she said, unable to hide the regret in her tone. “And, as you know, my sisters had informed me of her increasing frailness throughout the summer. It was not as much of a surprise as it might have been. She passed away peacefully with my sisters and their families around her, for that I’m grateful. By the time I received word, she was already interred.”
“Three weeks ago?” And you did not tell me? Amber added in her mind. While she awaited Suzanne’s confirmation, she was reminded of an evening when Suzanne had returned from town complaining of a headache. She had taken the rest of the evening in her room and remained out of sorts for a few days following. Amber had feared she was ill, but Suzanne stated she was simply not sleeping well and in time returned to her usual self, which was naturally subdued. Though they worked side-by-side and Amber dared feel they shared genuine care for one another, they had not lost all distinction of rank. Suzanne did not confide in her mistress.
“I did not tell you for fear you would expect me to stay now that Mama’s care was not a reason to return.” She began removing the pins securing her bonnet. In the process she met Amber’s eyes. “Or perhaps some part of me knew that Lady Marchent would not come and I feared for you to be alone.”
“I am not to be your priority any longer,” Amber said with a lump in her throat as Suzanne moved to hang the bonnet on one of the pegs near the door. “I am so sorry you were not there to say good-bye to your mother. If not for me you would have been.”
“I am not holding blame toward you for it,” Suzanne said, smoothing her hair away from her face. “And I have not regretted staying, Miss.”
Amber was surprised to hear it. How could Suzanne not regret it? They both had to work so contrary to their inclinations just to have the smallest degree of comfort, and a great deal of their time was centered on the most base and repulsive necessities of self-sufficiency. However, Suzanne’s peace of mind stirred Amber’s awareness of the increasing peace she felt as well. She rarely raged, out loud or in her mind, over the unfairness of her situation or the primitive conditions of the cottage. She no longer pined so strongly for society and fine things. But she had never considered that Suzanne’s feelings may have changed, and she did not entirely trust the possibility as it was exactly what Amber would want to hear.
“I shall never be able to adequately thank you for all you’ve done,” Amber said. “But I renew my sentiment that you should return to your family. You have done more for me than anyone else in my life ever would.” She wiped at her eyes and turned to the fireplace so Suzanne would not see her tears. She turned the pot using the metal hook, embarrassed to have shared such feeling, though a part of her was relieved to be so honest.
“Miss,” Suzanne said softly, causing Amber to turn toward her again. “I have considered all aspects of my circumstance. I have heard tell of the harsh winter we are to expect in this place and had already determined that should Lady Marchent not keep her word regarding her visit, that perhaps God would be telling me I was better suited in the county of Yorkshire than in London.” She gave a small smile. “I shall stay until your future is settled.”
After several seconds of silence, which Amber used to contain her emotions, she cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Suzanne nodded and folded back the sleeves of her dress, preparing to work anew upon the life they had made for themselves.
Amber went about finishing the preparations for dinner. She had saved the eggs from yesterday so as to attempt a Yorkshire pudding. She had tried twice before and failed but hoped tonight would result in success.
After a few minutes had passed
, she spoke again. “I wonder if we could have Mr. Dariloo bring someone to move the trunks and things from the other upstairs bedroom and put them in the servant’s quarters. If you shall be staying the winter, you need better accommodation and the upper floors stay quite warm.”
“You would allow me to take the second bedchamber?” Suzanne said, her eyes wide at the prospect.
“I would insist upon it,” Amber said, glad the idea met with Suzanne’s favor and did not make her uncomfortable. “I believe we shall both be in need of every comfort possible these next months. I would be honored if you would take the other room.”
“If that is the case,” Suzanne said, smiling herself, “I would be honored to do so.”
“Thank you for staying with me,” Amber said again, without looking up. The sincerity of her words made her feel both vulnerable and comfortable, as though she’d discovered something new that felt oddly familiar.
Suzanne looked at her for quite some time before Amber looked away, embarrassed though she could not determine exactly why. Suzanne was quiet for a moment before she answered in an equally reverent tone, “You’re very welcome . . . Amber.”
Chapter 20
Thomas had been overseeing the workers in the apple orchards on the east end of what he hoped would soon be his own lands when the rain drove them from the field. Despite feeling frustrated with losing half a day of work, he was pleased with the overall harvest thus far and had talked himself out of a poor mood by the time he reached the back entrance of Peakview Manor, the family estate located nearly equidistant between Northallerton and Romanby where he resided with his brother, Albert, and Albert’s growing family. Since Thomas’s return from London in July he had immersed himself in the management of his land and had never found more contentment in all his days.
Thomas hung his oilskin coat on the hook inside the doorway and then removed his working boots, placing them on the woven mat left beside the door. Lady Fielding had pointed out the mud and wet he brought in from the fields on more than one occasion, and he was determined not to give her more cause to complain against him.
He’d left his top boots by the door that morning and began to pull on the right boot before his foot encountered something inside the leather. He extracted his foot quickly, then turned the boot upside down, smiling when a far smaller shoe fell to the stone floor. He picked up the small black lace-up shoe, which most certainly belonged to his niece, then turned his attention to the other boot, which contained a similar treasure.
Thomas had always found Lizabeth endearing but had increased the time he spent with her in hopes of quieting some of her more spirited moods that had begun when her little brother—the next Lord Fielding—had been born.
The Dowager Lady Fielding, Thomas’s mother, had assured the other adults that it was a normal phase when a new baby usurped the position of the reigning youngest child in a household, but suggested privately to Thomas that perhaps a bit more attention toward Lizabeth would help remind her she had not been replaced. It was not a difficult task to fulfill, and Thomas enjoyed seeking out his young niece on the evenings he came in before she’d been put to bed. He would indulge her with whatever game or story or adventure she requested of him, and he felt his own cares soften in response. Apparently, today, she had escaped her nursemaid long enough to start their games early. Lizabeth was already showing a disposition more similar to her father than her mother, something which concerned Lady Fielding quite a lot.
After pulling on his shoe-free boots, Thomas took the dainty shoes and made the rounds to the drawing rooms and breakfast room on the main floor. Lady Fielding had fresh flowers placed in the rooms twice a week, and if Thomas was careful, he could remove a bloom or two from each arrangement unnoticed.
Once he had adequately gathered his ammunition, he went into the study long enough to write a note, which he then took with him to the third level, where the nursery was located. Lizabeth had reading time following luncheon each day, and although he feared he would get into trouble for interrupting, he arranged the shoes, now filled with chrysanthemums and rosebuds, in front of the door, then placed the note in front of the display. He knocked quickly, then ran several feet down the hall to a recessed window where he pulled himself tight against the wall so as not to be seen.
The door opened, and he bit his lip to keep from laughing at Lizabeth’s exclamation of delight. “What does it say?” she asked, surely addressing her nanny regarding the note.
“It says that if you are a good girl, your uncle shall join you for tea this afternoon.”
More squeals and hand clapping and then a reminder from the nursemaid that she would have to finish her lessons. Pray, what type of lessons was a three-year-old child to learn? The door closed, and Thomas removed himself from his hiding place, quite pleased with his quick answer to her game and wondering how she had gotten away from her attendant long enough to hide her shoes in the first place. A scamp indeed. Only time would tell if her baby brother inherited his father’s free-spirited disposition. Whatever would Lady Fielding do if he had?
As Thomas made his way to the family rooms on the second level, his mind moved from shoe bouquets to how he would spend his afternoon. Coming in from the fields early allowed him more time to work on organizing the estate records.
After Thomas’s return from London, he had taken upon himself the task of gathering the documents necessary for the transfer of land from the Fielding estate holdings to Thomas himself. Albert, busy with matters of his own, hadn’t attended to it over the summer, so Thomas had undertaken the task of setting in order nearly two hundred years’ worth of ledgers and documents which had been stored in numerous places throughout the manor.
When Thomas entered the library, Albert was at the desk looking over some papers with a quizzing glass held to his eye. As the second son, Albert had not been raised to take over for their father and never been studious toward the requirements of being Lord Fielding. Only when their older brother, Charles, died following a debilitating bout of pneumonia did anyone consider whether or not Albert was capable of the position. Only two years later their father had passed too, giving Albert the title and the responsibility at the age of twenty-four—the age Thomas was now.
Albert had been sent immediately to London for a wife—it was their mother’s belief that only marriage would settle his mind to his responsibility. Despite the mourning period, Albert married Miss Diane Broadbank in a private ceremony and set to work getting an heir of his own, which had been accomplished this summer. He’d done what was expected of him, but had been a bit of a bear those first years. Thomas had been at Oxford during that time but heard of his brother’s struggles through correspondence from their mother, who worried greatly. However, in the end her wisdom had been proven. Albert had risen to his position and performed his responsibilities admirably.
Albert looked up from the ledgers and quickly hid the quizzing glass. Thomas did not comment on it, as he knew Albert did not want to draw attention to the fact he could not properly see the figures without his instrument.
“Did our fine weather drive you indoors?” Albert asked with a smile, seemingly pleased at the interruption.
“Much to my displeasure,” Thomas said, looking out the large window behind his brother’s head at the expansive grounds where the trees were just beginning to change color. “If I could have three fine days together I could finish the harvest.”
“Three fine days together?” Albert repeated. “Does such a thing happen in England this time of year?”
Thomas smiled. “One can certainly hope, can he not?” He looked toward the crates of files, loose papers, and ledgers stacked in one corner. They had gathered records from all over the house and stored them here for Thomas to attend to as he could. They could easily have set the task to Albert’s secretary, but both men were of a mind to have a better understanding of the estate and this proved to be a good way to become educated. “At least there is plenty to occupy me indoors.”
“You say that with such—dare I say it?—affection.”
Thomas smiled. “Despite how it troubles you to hear it, I find establishing order quite satisfying. Each of the Barons had a different system—or no system at all—and putting the records together will create a far more manageable system for future use. I find it an exciting prospect.”
“You are a queer man,” Albert said with an exaggerated expression of concern.
“Better a queer man than a blind one.”
Albert laughed, and they returned insults and disparagements while Thomas chose which crate of papers to start with.
“Enough of that,” Thomas said after Albert called him a bird-witted nincompoop. “Now you’re just repeating yourself. Have you not reports to go over?” He waved toward the papers in front of Albert, then turned his back and ignored his brother’s mumbling. It was all in good fun, as it had always been between them.
Thomas pulled a crate in front of one of the leather chairs near the fire and picked up the stack of papers resting on top. It took nearly an hour to sort the papers into time periods, then he took one portion at a time to a set of shelves in the back of the library that they had cleared for the purpose of organizing the records. He tried not to be discouraged by the fact that despite the hours of sorting he had already completed, he had yet to find two of the documents necessary for the transfer of title he’d hoped would have been finalized by now. He and Albert were running their lands separately, even if the legalities were not yet in place. Still, Thomas wanted a deed of his own. He wanted to feel like his own man.
Thomas finished the first crate and moved onto the next.
“Did you hear me, brother?”
Thomas broke away from his focus on the papers and looked at his brother. “Forgive my distraction,” he said. “Do repeat yourself.”
A Heart Revealed Page 15
