Eulogy's Secret (The Huntley Trilogy) (8 page)

Eulogy threw him a withering stare. “Mr. Huntley, I cannot thank you enough for all your help, but a busy gentleman such as yourself must have plenty to attend to. Don’t let me detain you a moment longer.”

It took a second for her words to sink in. By Jove, I’m being dismissed, he thought. Huntley bristled, two can play that game. After giving Miss Foster the benefit of his most winning smile, he pulled up a chair.

“It so happens I am free until the evening.” He lied, the Duke, whose appointment he was about to miss, would be furious. But Huntley couldn’t leave, not now, not for anything. Farrell couldn’t take his eyes off Miss Foster, fascinated, and so was Huntley.

After an awkward silence Farrell spoke. “I was reet sorry to hear of you ma’s passing.” His hand twitched toward a pewter tankard, but stopped.

“Oh.” Eulogy cleared her throat. “You knew her well?”

“Aye, I had that honor. A great woman, Ella. None could match her kindness or beauty.” He looked up sharply. “Until now, that is.”

Huntley rolled his eyes. “Enough flannel, Farrell. I won’t have Miss Foster spoken to with such familiarity.”

Surprise sparked across Farrell’s rheumy features. “Foster you say?”

“Yes.”

A look passed between the two, and then, for the first time Farrell looked directly at Huntley. “You are this young lady’s betrothed?”

“Oh no.” Huntley nearly choked. “An acquaintance come to see Miss Foster safe.”

“Mr. Huntley was kind enough to find me lodgings when I arrived in London.”

With bleary eyed respect, Farrell extended a shaking hand. Huntley recoiled.

“Well I’m reet grateful to you, Mr. Huntley. I thank yer. Doubly so as I let yer down so badly all those years on.”

Huntley reeled, amazed that the drunken sot had remembered. Feelings of frustration and anger, long since forgotten, rose to the surface then subsided. It was after all a long time ago, what point in raking up ancient history?

Quietly, Huntley spoke. “What’s passed is passed. Best leave it there.”

But to Huntley’s surprise, Farrell frowned. “Only, the way I let you down has weighed heavy on me conscience ever since.”

“Forget it.”

Farrell seemed determined to continue and glanced anxiously at Miss Foster. “But this is my chance to make amends, for so many things. I’d rather keep no secrets from Ella’s girl and have everything in the open.”

Huntley narrowed his eyes. Perhaps it was as well that Miss Foster knew what her-supposed-guardian was really like. “Very well, if that’s what you want.”

Farrell seemed to crumple a little, as if the weight of confession almost too much. “Best you say.”

“No, you don’t have to tell me anything,” Miss Foster interjected.

“Please, lad. Go on. I want her to know.”

“Very well. As it’s what you want.” Grim faced, Huntley drew a deep breath to address Miss Foster. “Ten years ago I was starting out, trying to make a name as a dealer in fine art. I knew of Farrell’s past work and had also heard of his…decline, a once great artist fallen on hard times.”

“And?”

“And, I had this sudden crack pot notion of giving him a chance to resurrect his career. I convinced an influential patron that I could keep Farrell on track. All Farrell had to do was stay sober enough to paint.” Huntley let out a dry laugh.

“And?” Eulogy glanced anxiously from one tense face to the other.

“And I was played for a fool. Farrell took the advance payment and drank it away. No picture and one very unhappy client, who blackened my name with potential clients. It took years to repair the damage to my reputation.”

“Oh!”

“So you see Miss Foster, if you have a romantic notion about reforming this old reprobate, think again.”

“I’m so sorry, Huntley. One day I’ll repay yer. Yer have my word.”

Huntley sneered. “Your word is worthless. This is no place for a young woman. Miss Foster, come with me.”

But  much to his irritation Miss Foster didn’t move.

“It were Ella’s wish, that if anything ever happened to her, that I would tek an interest in her child. Miss Foster, if yer would allow it I’d like yer to stay here. I will treat yer like one of me own blood.”

Eulogy positively glowed. “Mr. Farrell, I can think of nothing I’d like more.”

“Good, that’s settled.”

“It most definitely isn’t!” Huntley jumped to his feet. Suddenly he didn’t give a damn if Miss Foster was Farrell’s kin or not.

“But I want to stay,” Miss Foster said quietly.

“It isn’t seemly,” Huntley interjected. Really, for a penniless waif, Miss Foster was remarkably stubborn.

Quiet resolve in his watery blue eyes, Farrell met his stare. “Mrs. Featherstone shall be chaperone and I pledge to treat Miss Foster like a lady.

Jack teetered. How could he object to a father taking in his own child? “As you wish.” He bowed curtly. Truly he was glad to have her off his hands, and yet… with a grimace he reached for his calling card.

 “Take this. If you are troubled send for me.” He hated, deep down, that he needed to see her again, if only to make sure she was safe. “Good day, Miss Foster. I wish you well.”

They shook hands. On impulse, Jack bowed and pressed her fingers to his lips. Letting his warm breath linger, his eyes met hers in challenge and yet it was he who trembled. Need struck home like a runaway carriage and snatching away his hand, he made for the door, fully intent on never seeing Miss Foster again.

Chapter 7

Eulogy followed Mrs. Featherstone up two flights of wooden stairs. The older woman breathed heavily and paused on each landing to catch her breath.

“It wasn’t always like this.” The housekeeper gestured to a mark on the walls, the ghostly outline of the painting that once hung there. “Since the master fell on hard times, piece by piece, all the pretty things got sold.”

Eulogy struggled for something to say. “It must have been a grand house back then.”

“Aye, that it was.” The housekeeper’s age-spotted hand tried the handle of a paneled door. “Anyhow, things is how they are and here we are. Your room.”

Mrs. Featherstone blustered on ahead, drawing the curtains and raising a cloud of dust. Eulogy sneezed, as she peered into a spacious, well-proportioned room, the furniture shrouded in sheets

“I’m sorry. I’d have tidied if I’d known. Tis a big house for one woman to keep in order.”

“It’s me that should apologize, arriving unannounced like this.”

“That’s quite all right, dear.” Mrs. Featherstone lifted the corner of a dust sheet. “If I remember rightly, the furniture is quality. Mr. Farrell don’t come up to this part of the house. Happen he forgot all about it.”

The cover slid off to reveal a finely carved, if outmoded, settle that was richly upholstered in silk tapestry and clearly a valuable piece.

“And the bed, once I get the dust of the hangings, tis second to none.”

Eulogy’s mouth dropped open at the magnificent four-poster bed hung with plush velvet curtains, a far cry from her functional cot at Easterhope.

“Why it’s lovely,” she breathed, fingering the carved oak, leaving silvery trails in the dust.

“Tsk, tsk, happen I’ve not kept up with things as much as I’d like. Happen a good clean is in order.”

“I will help.”

“Well I’m not sure, you being a guest an’ all.”

“Nonsense, I insist.”

Relief brightened the older woman’s face. “Well, if thee’s sure Miss.”

“It’s not in my nature to be idle, Mrs. Featherstone.”

“Then we shall rub along just fine, thee and me and sooner we get the copper boiling, sooner things get clean.”

After two hours and innumerable buckets of hot water later, a pleasant room began to emerge from beneath layers of grime. As she worked for the first time in weeks, Eulogy forgot her troubles, finding comfort in physical activity. It wasn’t until Mrs. Featherstone suggested a break whilst she made supper, that Eulogy realized she was weary to her bones and sank onto the bed.

Left alone, she inhaled deeply, the clean pillows smelt of laundry blue, fresh air and home. Suddenly her limbs felt like lead and her eyelids started to close. She tried to stay awake, intending to help Mrs. Featherstone with the food. But instead fatigue washed over her and despite the hour, for the first time in weeks, she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

At first, she drifted in a pleasant hinterland surrounded by comfort and security, where everything was safe and in its place. Then the familiar nightmare found her, the one she’d had ever since Mary Foster died. She stood on a cliff edge with unseen hands pushing at her until she fell, clutching at the empty air for an anchor but tumbling in nothingness. Darkness, deeper than the grave, consumed all happiness, leaving in its place a hollow, roiling sense of despair.

With a whimper she forced herself to wake from the nightmare. Wide eyed and disorientated she stared at unfamiliar shadows, trying to make sense of everything.

“Miss Foster? Are you all right? I heard noises.”

Someone was tapping on the door.

Through a fogged mind Eulogy recognized Mrs. Featherstone’s voice and slowly remembered where she was.

“A bad dream. Please, do come in.”

“No dear, just wanted to tell you tis suppertime. Can you find your own way to the kitchen?”

“Is it truly that time already?”

“Fraid so dear, you were sound asleep. It seemed a shame to disturb you.”

A candle flickered on the bedside table, the sun having long since set. With heavy limbs, Eulogy pushed the quilt from her legs that Mrs. Featherstone had laid there whilst she slept. This small act of kindness nearly undid her. Crossly, Eulogy swiped away tear. She could not afford to cry for if she did she might never stop.

Down in the kitchen, Mr. Farrell greeted Eulogy warmly.

“Mauvoreen, come in! I hear you had a sleep. I am pleased.”

During the afternoon the previously disheveled Irishman had washed and shaved, donned a clean linen shirt and brushed his hair. His eyes remained blood shot, but he had obviously made an effort and Mrs. Featherstone positively glowed with approval. He welcomed his guest with outstretched arms, and if his hands shook, he took pains to conceal it.

“Sit, Mauvoreen.” Farrell pulled out the chair closest to the fire. “Mrs. Featherstone’s cooking is second to none.”

And indeed, the delicious smell of thick gravy woke a fierce appetite in Eulogy. Smiling weakly, she sat.

“Now Miss Foster, if you’d pass that plate…”

The three of them sat round the table to a meal of stewed rabbit with dumplings in rich gravy.

“I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. Tomorrow I’ll clean the dining room.”

“Oh, but the kitchen is so cozy,” Eulogy said.

Conversation lulled again and they ate in awkward silence. From beneath lowered lashes Eulogy snatched glances at Farrell, a man of middling build, with tousled gray hair that had once been blonde. Deep lines etched his face, but when he caught her watching him and smiled, his faded blue eyes came alive. Eulogy liked him instinctively, a warmth and honesty about him, the likes of which she hadn’t met in a long time.

“Might I ask how you knew my mother?”

Farrell’s fork clattered to the table. The ginger cat, hitherto sleeping by the fire, caste him a dirty look, stretched and stalked off.

“I…I…” A shaking hand reached for the porter, “I…” He pushed the jug away.

“I am sorry. It was just when you said I looked like her. I so want to know about my mother.”

“You are right to ask.” His voice fell away.

Eulogy thought it best to change the subject.

“I shall not impose long. My intention is to find employment and rent a room.”

“You will do no such thing!” Farrell half rose.

Mrs. Featherstone tut-tutted. “Now, Mr. Farrell, you’ll frighten the lass. Sit down and be calm.”

Farrell bowed his head. “Excuse me outburst, Mauvoreen. Happen as I’m not fit for gentle company. What I was trying to say was that you are to stay here as long as you like. My home is your home, humble as it is.”

 “Oh, it wasn’t my intention to appear ungrateful, you are too kind...”

“Tis not kindness Mauvoreen, but a desire to right a wrong.”

The hairs prickled on the back of Eulogy’s neck. “Oh?”

But Farrell withdrew again, tracing circles in the gravy on his plate. Eulogy waited, her patience rewarded as Farrell sighed and looked up.

“I know you want to hear of your mother….”

 “More than anything.”

His eyes met hers, weighted with pain.

“Your mother…Ella…was a wonderful woman.”

Eulogy gripped the table top. “Ella?” Her voice shook. “Her name was Gabriella?”