A Lady Awakened (16 page)

Yes, he must remember to be thankful he was not a cottager. Thankful for a life in which rats were dispensed with by somebody else, kept away from his meals by methods of which he could remain blissfully ignorant. Thankful for dinners eaten from patterned china on tables laid with linen, and thankful for numerous inventive courses rather than the heel of bread and unprepossessing hunk of cheese now set down before him.

He inclined his head again, and maintained the angle long enough that it might pass for a private observation of grace, in case that was the tradition in this house. When he looked up, Mr. Barrow’s eyes were on him, icy blue, crevassed at the outer corners, and lit with the keen expectancy of a young boy waiting for a puppet-show to begin.

You knew all the right things to say
, the widow had said. Well, with a pretty young girl, yes. But how did one make conversation with a man of Mr. Barrow’s age and station? He glanced about him for ideas. “What do you do there, with the needle and cloth?” He nodded toward the heap of abandoned work.

“Mending.” The man reached for a bit of it and turned it over to show him. “Here’s a shirt that’s grown a hole in one sleeve. I’m putting a patch on.”

“You do that yourself?” The moment it was said, he heard the stupidity of it. Of course the man did his own mending. With no wife and no servants, who else was to do it? “I mean, I’m sure I shouldn’t know where to begin.” He crumbled off one corner of the cheese and took a bite. It tasted faintly of chalk. No, not so faintly. He set the rest down, and tried his best to chew and swallow what was already in his mouth without tasting any more.

“You begin by threading the needle, and for me that’s the difficult part. Eyes not so good as they once were. After that, it’s just a matter of getting the patch to lie straight.” Mr. Barrow’s fingers, knobby about the knuckles and not inclined to lie straight themselves, pressed the patch smooth and he poked the needle up from inside the sleeve. He reached for his bread and bit off a piece. “Sorry the food isn’t better,” he said after swallowing.

“Oh, I’m not very hungry.” He could feel shamed color rising in his face. Had he been that obvious, with the cheese? “I have supper yet to eat and I don’t want to fill up.”

“Not a practiced liar, are you?” Mr. Barrow was smiling, eyes on his needle. “You want to pick one excuse: you’re not hungry, or you need to save your appetite. The two don’t mix.”

“I’m sorry.” He groped for a neater balance of truth and tact. “I suppose cheese must be a matter of particular partiality. One grows up eating a certain kind, and no other region’s can taste quite right after that.”

“Now, that’s a bit better.” The man’s smile creased deeper into his cheeks. “But you’d best marry a girl you won’t ever need to lie to.” He jabbed at the cheese on his own plate. “This is vile stuff. I know. I grew up on a dairy farm.”

“Did you? Was that here in Sussex?” He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. Here, maybe, was the way to make conversation with a person of advanced years: not by thinking of any right things to say, but by drawing out the person’s life story and accumulated wisdom; by asking the questions one might have asked one’s own grandparents, had they been hale enough to survive to such an age.

Mr. Barrow made the task easy. With glowing animation he recounted tales of life in Sussex, a half-century ago, and threw in his decided opinions on the modern manufacture of cheese and butter, and, for that matter, bread and tea, with all the rubbish nowadays added to stretch product and profit.

Theo listened. He’d expected the life-story bits to be compelling, of course, but even the business about cheese was interesting, more interesting than it had any right to be, and what was more, it sounded like just the sort of thing that would interest Mrs. Russell.

He might carelessly drop such pearls of learning in their next sitting-room conversation, and see if her face would light with studious bliss. Or whisper them to her in bed, in hopes she’d look at him as a woman looked at a man who knew all the best ways to surprise her.

Or he might simply bring her here to call, and sit back while she and the old man spoke of such matters as she seemed to enjoy. She would make thoughtful, measured replies, and Mr. Barrow would perhaps be impressed by this example of modern womanhood, with her serious bearing and her devotion to bettering her estate.

A prideful wave of pleasure flushed through him at the thought. Fool. What had he to be proud of? What had he to do in the scene but sit back in a corner, idle as always, and watch two worthy people come to esteem one another? And still, pleasure warmed him as the time limit for a polite call came and went, pleasure simmered in him as shadows crept across the kitchen floor, and prideful pleasure chased along as he finally legged it back to the house, so late he had no time to even dress for supper.

Chapter Seven

M
R
. K
EENE
shifted in his chair. He folded and unfolded his hands on the tabletop, making her wish she could give him some papers to straighten. “I’m sorry, I tell you frankly, to come on this errand,” he said, and Martha knew what subject he would have to introduce.

“You mustn’t apologize for doing what duty demands. I expect Mr. James Russell wishes to know whether the prospect of a direct heir has yet been ruled out?”

So miserable he looked, bowing, a shaft of afternoon sunlight glancing off the bald part of his head. Shame on Mr. James Russell for tasking him with this mortifying inquiry. Shame on her as well, of course, for cooking up the circumstance into which he must inquire.

Three weeks and two days now since Mr. Russell’s passing. She lowered her eyes and brought her voice down too. “I cannot say beyond a doubt, and of course things are tenuous in the early weeks. But I should have expected to know by now if there were
no
such prospect.”

“I see.” She stole a look at him. He straightened, as though grasping for fortitude. “Then I must proceed to the next part of my commission, and prepare you for the likelihood of a visit by Mr. James Russell himself.”

A tiny cold convulsion went through her. Suddenly she had no breath with which to make a reply.

“I’m sorry.” He took off his spectacles and set to polishing them with a cloth from his pocket, probably that he might have somewhere other to look than at her. “I fear he’s heard tales of … how a man in his situation might be cheated of his due. He speaks of protecting his interests.” His brow creased. “I’ll do my utmost, I promise, to convince him of what your character is, but without his having met you I fear he is prey to these wild sorts of speculation in forming his suppositions of what you might—”

“When?” That word, at least, she could manage.

“When did I hear from him?”

She swallowed. “When will he come?”

“Not immediately.” He folded his polishing cloth, put it back in his pocket, replaced his spectacles. “His business concerns will keep him in Derbyshire through the month. I’ll do my best to dissuade him altogether, as I said, and if he remains resolved, I shall know, and tell you, when he sets out for Sussex.” His mouth twisted as though it were full of foul medicine. “He asks me to monitor your actions meanwhile, and report to him.” He examined his own hands for a moment, and then looked up. “Your husband had some objections, I believe, to his brother. Were you aware?”

She shook her head. That the brothers had not been close was of course hinted at by Mr. James Russell’s absence from both the wedding and the funeral, but never had Mr. Russell mentioned any reasons, and never had she asked.

He gave a quick nod, and appeared to confer with himself over whether to say more. “He had concerns, as I understand, in regard to Mr. James Russell’s character, and great hopes of being able to leave Seton Park to a proper heir. I assure you he would never countenance such insult as his brother now makes to you.”

“Did he ever tell you the nature of his concerns? What doubts he had of Mr. James Russell?” Barely breathing, she watched for his response.

Again he took an interest in his hands. “I only gather he thought him unfit to take charge of the estate.” The tips of his ears went pink as he said it.

He knew. Just as Sheridan had known, and all the servants had known, and Mr. Russell had known. Everyone knew what infamy had been in this house—what infamy threatened to infest it again—and no one had troubled to tell her a thing.

The long-case clock chimed. Mr. Mirkwood would arrive in an hour. They must be more than ever careful, now Mr. Keene had been told to keep watch of her.

“I appreciate your telling me so much.” He was a good man, the little solicitor. He deserved better than to be a sort of shuttlecock, batted back and forth between Mr. James Russell’s villainy and her own scheming deception. “I know your professional bond is to the Russell family and not to me. I’m grateful for the personal kindness, and the respect for Mr. Russell’s memory, that must have led you to grant me such consideration.”

“It’s no more than I would want someone to do for my own wife, if she were in your place,” he said, his eyes averted and his voice uncharacteristically gruff. She’d embarrassed him, on top of everything else. So she only thanked him again, and said nothing more.

A
WEEK AND
a half have gone by since I addressed the women servants.” She sat at her dressing table while Sheridan unpinned her hair. Mr. Mirkwood would arrive in minutes, and she would go down a back hallway from her own rooms to the east wing to meet him.

“A week and a half, to be sure.” The maid’s voice soothed as surely as her hands, letting down and loosening the plaits.

“Do you know that none of them has approached me for help in finding a new situation?”

“Indeed.” She sounded thoroughly unsurprised.

“Nor does Mrs. Kearney report that anyone has notified her of an intent to leave.”

“Everybody’s waiting.” Sheridan met her eyes in the mirror as she took up the hairbrush. “They all think it might be a fine thing to go on here under your charge.”

“I’m … touched … to hear of their faith in me.” Through a suddenly tightening throat she said the words. “But Mr. James Russell’s visit puts a new complexion on things. To feign pregnancy—if that should prove necessary—and acquire a baby will be next to impossible under his watch. And his mere presence in the house might be a threat to the servants. I shall tell everyone to give strong consideration to leaving.”

“I’ve considered already, and I don’t mean to go.” With skittish bravado the girl spoke, ducking her head and glancing up from under her lashes. “You’ve borne so much with Mr. Mirkwood. I can’t think it was for nothing. I’ll wait until the end of the month at least.” She drew the brush to the very ends of Martha’s hair. “Now you’d best be off to the blue rooms.”

S
OMETHING PREOCCUPIED
her today. He could feel it in her skin, everywhere they touched. He could feel it in the weight of her hands on his back. He could see it in the lines of her face, even as she closed her eyes to give him privacy for that last, most undignified capitulation.

“Is something the matter?” he said afterward, lying on his side to face her. She lay on her back as usual, propped on the pillow, gaze somewhere distant.

Her eyes came to his and she gave a quick shake of her head. “Only I’ve had some estate business on my mind. Forgive me. I make you a poor hostess.”

“Nothing to forgive.” He touched his knuckles to her arm. “I could distract you from your cares.”

“No, thank you.” A smile flickered over her lips and was gone. Still, she’d smiled, and that was a start.

“In small ways, I mean.” Yes. Why shouldn’t he? “I can help you dress, and plait your hair while you read. I brought something by Humphry Davy today. You’ve heard of him? Everyone in London attends his lectures, even fashionable people. I have a book of his lecture notes. You might read from it, and try out your oratory style.”

She eyed him with that half-disbelieving look that queens must have used on the court jester, once upon a time. But if she was finding him preposterous, well, that was so much attention drawn away from her heavier concerns. Court jesters served a purpose, after all.