by Amy Atwell
“Yes, my lady,” Mrs. Chalmers said with a nod.
Lady Vaughan seemed to notice Martha for the first time. “You, you’re not the new serving maid, are you?”
“Me? No, ma’am, I’m Mrs. Bendicks, the gardener’s wife.” Martha dropped a knee-creaking curtsy.
“Thank heavens. You wouldn’t do at all.” Lady Vaughan turned back to Mrs. Chalmers as if Martha ceased to exist. “Cook, remind Paget that I want another six servants hired. There’s far too much to do around here for any of you to manage.”
Martha delivered the other luncheon tray upstairs and returned to the kitchen to find Mrs. Chalmers chopping vegetables for supper with a large knife and a strong arm.
The cook vented her spleen along with her energy. “She’s always like that. There’s no convincing her we’re all living hand to mouth. Did you know she’s going to London to buy new gowns? Wants to have all the latest styles when she comes out of mourning. I only hope Mr. Minton can talk some sense into her.”
“Would she truly replace the staff?” Martha asked quietly.
“No,” Mrs. Chalmers said. “Mr. Minton has already assured Paget that we work for the Duke of Ambersley, and no one but the duke may dismiss us. I’ll not be leaving Ambersley while she’s here. Heaven knows what she’ll do if we don’t keep a close watch on her.”
Martha tried to imagine Johnny under the guardianship of Lady Vaughan. In less than a heartbeat, she decided she’d rather face the constable than hand her child over to that woman.
That night, after Johnny fell asleep, Martha shared her revelations with Tom. “The woman’s mean and calculating. I’d worry so, if Johnny were in her clutches.”
Tom tilted his head to watch the sleeping child as he drew on his pipe. “’Tis best for her to be returned to her family,” he said gently, knowing the words would cause his wife pain. “It only gets harder each day we keep her.”
“But her ladyship is not a Vaughan by blood.” She kneeled by his chair. “Please, Tom, let us wait upon the duke’s arrival. I fear what kind of man he’ll be—his mother was a murderess.”
Firelight played across his weathered face. “I’ll think on it.” Which he did, most of the night and well into the next day while Johnny helped him at his labors.
Finished weeding the kitchen herbs, the two headed toward the rose garden on their way home. Rounding the corner of the Hall, Tom stopped with a gasp.
Someone had cut and removed more than half of the bright blooms. In the soft breeze, bushes waved freshly chopped stems where vibrant petals had been that morning. Strewn on the ground lay evidence of the culprit’s work—discarded blossoms in red and pink littered the grass like bodies on a battlefield.
Johnny stood like a pillar, unsure what to make of such a scene. “What happened?” she asked Tom in a whisper.
Unshed tears glistened at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t know, child.”
“Lady Vaughan wanted roses throughout the Dower House,” Paget answered from behind them. “She cut them herself.”
The normally stern butler shook his head sadly at the destruction. “I’m sorry, Tom.”
Tom bent over one of his beloved bushes. Nearly all the flowers had been cut from it. “She’s destroyed this plant. I’ll have to prune it back so far, ’twill take a year or more to recover.”
His gaze swept the garden. “I’m glad the duchess is dead. I couldn’t bear to see her face were she to witness this. She spent hours tending this garden.” He turned and held out his hand. “Come, Johnny.” Nodding to Paget, they left.
Johnny hurried to keep up with Tom’s strides. She spied his clenched jaw and a fire gleaming in his eyes. She’d never before seen Tom angry. “Will the roses die?” she asked in a small voice.
Tom’s expression softened. “No, we won’t let them die. I’m too upset to do them any good tonight, but tomorrow’s a new day. I’ll teach you how to save bushes even after they’ve been abused like that.”
“You’ll let me help save the rose garden?” It seemed an awfully important task to trust to her.
Tom chuckled and squeezed her hand. “I think you would be the perfect person.” As they walked home, Tom battled his conscience, Martha’s tales from last night still fresh.
“I don’t like Lady Vaughan,” Johnny announced, as if she’d read his thoughts. “She’s not at all nice.”
With a struggle, Tom’s conscience surrendered to a laugh. “No, she ain’t. Not at all."
~
Over the following week, Johnny learned to prune the delicate rose bushes. Tom taught her to define the plant’s shape while not pruning back so far as to stunt its growth. Together they collected the rotting carcasses of the forgotten blooms and watered the plants that had withstood Lady Vaughan’s pillaging.
Tom gave Johnny the added responsibility of continuing their care. “I must return to my other tasks, but I want you to look after the roses every day. Can you do that?”
Johnny agreed with all the gravity of her seven years.
Daily she visited the rose garden, if only to watch the bees lazily hover above the blossoms. After her chores one afternoon, she lay upon the grass to listen to the insects and birds, and inhaled the scent of the roses she’d rescued. The sun warmed her, and the grass tickled the back of her neck. She pulled down her tricorne to shade her eyes as she squinted at the clouds.
“Hello.”
The little voice made Johnny sit up so fast her vision swam.
Standing a few feet away, a little girl almost Johnny’s age wore a yellow dress with a white pinafore. A matching bonnet covered her raven curls. “What’s your name?” the girl asked.
“Johnny.”
“I’m Olivia.”
“I know.” Johnny scanned the garden, but they were alone. “Where’s your governess?”
Olivia giggled. “I don’t know. Curtis is always giving her the slip, and today I snuck away, too. She was reading to us about how Spain declared war on us. Do you know where Spain is?”
Johnny shook her head. In truth, she didn’t know what Spain was, much less where it was or why it would want to declare war on Ambersley. Fortunately, the subject seemed unimportant to Olivia.
“I see you up here with the roses sometimes. Mama brought back armloads of them for our house. They smelled so pretty, but then they all died.” Olivia reached out to pull a stem toward her and sniff at the pink rose.
“Mind the thorns.” Johnny scrambled to her feet and showed Olivia how to feel along the stem to avoid a painful pricking.
“Miss Trent said you’re the gardener’s apprentice, and that I shouldn’t talk with you because my older brother’s the duke. I think that’s silly, but she said it would make Mama mad.” Olivia’s nose wrinkled in disdain of her elders’ opinions, then she sighed. “There’s no one to play with here. It’s boring.”
Johnny recognized sadness in the girl’s voice and cast about for something that might entertain Olivia. “Would you care to see the kittens at the stables?”
Olivia brightened immediately. “There are kittens?”
Johnny laughed. “Always. Rory likes a stable without rats. Come along.” There was no sign of Rory in the stable, but Johnny went unerringly to the harness room and showed Olivia where the cat and her latest litter lay wedged behind a barrel in the corner.
Olivia cooed over the gray and white balls of fur. The kittens were floppy on their feet, but more than willing to pounce upon the leather tassel of the coach whip Johnny dragged along the floor. Olivia laughed, and Johnny smiled, pleased she’d been able to make the girl forget her boredom.
“What’s going on in here?”
Johnny was startled by the unfamiliar voice, but Olivia greeted her older brother with a giggle. “Look at the kittens. Aren’t they cute? Do you think Mama would let me have one?”
Curtis gave a heartless laugh. “She wouldn’t let me keep the puppy I found. She made Paget take it away and drown it.”
Johnny kept sile
nt but knew Paget had given the puppy to the village smithy.
Curtis poked a kitten with his finger until the kitten retaliated with tiny but razor sharp claws. “Ouch! You little demon.” He shoved the kitten, and it rolled across the floor in an undignified heap. The boy stepped forward, a grimace on his face. Afraid he meant to kick the helpless creature, Johnny pushed the boy aside while the kitten found its footing and scampered to the safety of its mother.
Curtis stumbled then glared at her. “How dare you?” He pushed her against the barrel. The mother cat hissed angrily at being so disturbed.
Red-faced, Curtis stood half a foot taller than she, and Johnny knew she’d never be able to best him in a fight. Though she held the coach whip in her hand, she didn’t dare raise it. Instead, she tried desperately to make peace.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want the kitten to get hurt.”
“Kitten!” Curtis spat. “Who cares about a kitten? They should probably all be drowned. Just more mouths to feed around here. I hear you’re an orphan, and the Bendickses let you live with them. Maybe I should talk to my mother and have you sent to an orphanage so there’s one less mouth to feed.” His gaze lighted on the whip. “Are you threatening me with that? Give it to me.”
Johnny lifted her shaking hand to comply when Rory entered the harness room.
He stopped short and smoothed back his wild white hair. “What’s this? Have we all come to visit the kittens, then?”
Curtis sneered at Johnny before turning. “This boy was threatening my sister and me with this whip. I demand that you punish him.” His clipped tone reminded Johnny of Paget when he issued commands.
Rory quickly surveyed the room before clearing his throat. “Aye, Master Curtis. I’ll see to it, but I’ll have to speak to his guardian first. You take your sister home now, sir, so she can recover from this shock, and I’ll see to Johnny.”
Curtis’s eyes narrowed as if he’d argue, but then he turned on Johnny. “Stay away from me and my sister.” He stalked past Rory and grabbed hold of Olivia’s arm. She barely managed to dump the kitten into Rory’s hands before being whisked out the door. Johnny could hear her crying as Curtis dragged her from the stable.
Swallowing hard, she raised wide eyes to Rory. “I’m sorry, sir. Will I get a whipping?” She was prepared for whatever punishment Rory might mete out.
“Heavens no.” Rory took the whip from her. “The day I let an untried boy like Master Curtis issue me orders is the day I leave Ambersley. I don’t know what happened here, but it looks as though you were about to land into a peck of trouble.”
“I thought he was going to hurt the kittens. I wanted to protect them.”
Rory handed her the kitten. “Good for you. But you shouldn’t have crossed Master Curtis. I’d give him a wide berth if I were you.”
“I was only trying to be friendly with Olivia,” Johnny said as she let the kitten hop to the floor.
“That’s Miss Olivia to you and me, Johnny. One day you’ll understand, boy, that the likes of them and the likes of us don’t mix. Everyone has their place on this earth, and we must each stick to it.”
Rory’s words echoed in Johnny’s ears as she slowly walked home. She had never thought about the differences between the servants and their masters before. She was accustomed to Paget’s word being law at Ambersley, but now even he had to bow before Lady Vaughan and her children.
She sensed a shifting in the balance of her world, and though she didn’t completely understand everything that went on around her, of one thing she was certain—she had made an enemy.
Chapter 3
London, March 1805
On deck of the East India ship, Derek Vaughan drank in his first bittersweet sight of London in eight years. From the throng on the docks—more active than an ant colony—to the chimneys belching smoke into the gray sky, he’d once thought London the most exciting city in the world. But after living in the panorama that was India, his homeland appeared dingy and overcrowded.
He turned to the burly giant beside him. “Home again, Cushing. Are you eager to return to dry land?”
His servant shuddered at the gentle gibe. “To be sure. I’ve never been so seasick in my life. May we never again make such a harrowing journey.”
“Aye,” Derek agreed absently as he gripped the rail and stared out over London again, besieged by long-buried memories more turbulent than the stormy seas they’d traversed. “It’s time for us to forge ahead with our lives.”
They continued to stand their watch over the hive of activity on the dock while the ship was safely moored. Even without words, the older man’s presence buoyed Derek. Slightly past his prime, Cushing stood strong of limb and broad of girth. Though he laughed readily and was always the first to join in song, creases etched in his leathery face hinted at personal loss. At five-and-twenty, Derek understood loss too well, and so had never pressed for details.
“Two more morose men I shall never hope to see.”
Derek glanced over his shoulder at tow-headed Harry Coatsworth. Tall and lean with arms akimbo, his cousin radiated the happiness of a man about to debark on his native soil—a man assured of the open-armed welcome of his family. Where Derek found it difficult to uproot the joy in life, Harry tended to trip over it.
“Two more morose men you shall never find,” he responded. He waved Harry to join him at the rail where Cushing, silent, flanked his other side. These two men were all the family and friends he had—or needed. He would always remember they’d both been by his side when Harry delivered his painful tidings.
’Tis your father. He’s dead.
The memory of those simple words sent a swift searing pain through Derek’s belly, much like a gunshot. Though he’d left London convinced he would never again see the man he’d called father, the finality of those five words had caught him unprepared. That Harry, with little more than a score of years to his name, had taken it upon himself to travel halfway around the world to deliver the news still astonished him.
His cousin leaned on the railing and held his peace for fully a minute—half a minute more than Derek would have thought possible. “Are you yet sorry you returned?”
He turned to lean against the rail. “No. ’Tis my filial duty.”
“Duty?” Harry snorted. “It’s your inheritance.”
Derek remained silent. Any bequest meant little, but he couldn’t as casually discard the notion of repaying a debt of honor. Reginald Vaughan had raised him, though Derek had been no more than a cuckoo in the nest. Despite a notorious wife whose public and outrageous liaisons culminated in murder, the man he called father had always treated Derek with the utmost respect and paternal love. Always—until that final day when Derek had confronted him with the truth.
To refuse to return to England would have been churlish, and Reginald Vaughan’s memory deserved better than that. Derek had returned to fulfill his obligations as head of the Vaughan family, regardless of what it might cost him personally.
An elbow poked him in the ribs. “You’re still pining for the lovely ladies you left behind,” Harry said.
Cushing chuckled.
Derek frowned, but that only urged Harry on with his foolery. “Do you think I didn’t hear the feminine sighs over your silky dark locks, your penetrating blue eyes, your fine leg in the saddle, your penchant for stealing a kiss?”
“Did you also hear what they whispered behind their fans? Their furtive questions about my prospects or sad laments over my mother’s behavior?” Derek laughed darkly, the memory of Helena Thorne haunting him. “No, if I miss anyone, it’s my men.”
“And what did the cavalry think of our fair captain?” Harry looked pointedly at Cushing. “Did they admire his fine leg in the saddle?”
The giant scratched his nose. “His leg? No, but I did hear tell he had an excellent seat, and they were confident he’d keep his head when facing the bayonets. They were proud to follow him.”
“High praise indeed,” Harry said with
sincerity.
“Oh, and there was a tailor in Jaipur who swore the Master’s shoulders were the finest in all of India for showing off a well-cut coat.”
“Cushing—”
“What? You still own that coat.”
Derek tried to curtail Harry’s infectious laughter with narrowed eyes but failed to repress his own twitching lips. In truth, he wasn’t one to preen before a mirror, for contemplating his own reflection only reminded him of unanswered questions.
“With a barony and a well-cut coat, you shall find yourself an heiress and make your fortune,” Harry said.
Derek’s own dark laugh joined theirs.
