Lady Be Good (30 page)

“Enough of what I said!” Miss Everleigh shot an odd, panicked glance toward the doctor. “Sir. Will you shut the door behind you?”

Dr. Hardwick bowed, then pulled the door shut with a thump that smacked of relief.

“Now.” Miss Everleigh cleared her throat. “I believe you were making an apology. And I certainly deserve one.”

Lilah folded her hands at her waist and did her best to look meek. “I am cursed with a rash temper, miss. There is no cause or excuse for it.”

“Is that your claim?” Miss Everleigh blew out a breath. “Well. I suppose . . . there are two shrews in this household, then.”

Had she just made a . . . joke? At her own expense? “Termagant,” Lilah said tentatively, “is the term I prefer.”

The barest smile touched Miss Everleigh’s mouth. “Why not harpy? Or vixen? There’s a very long list to choose from, when one speaks of sharp-tongued women. All of them invented by men, I expect.” She paused. “I thank you,” she said stiffly. “For last night.”

How long ago that seemed! So much had followed. “It was my duty, miss.”

“Yes, of course.” But Miss Everleigh sounded oddly uncertain. “At any rate . . . I propose a bargain. In my illness, I may have made an . . . odd remark.”

So she remembered her fears of her brother. That did not bode well. Feverish delusions would not have lingered with her. “No, miss. I recall no such thing.”

“I see.” With one finger, Miss Everleigh outlined the embroidery in her quilt. “Well, I can admire discretion. In exchange for it, I will reserve my own speculations. And I will allow you to learn what you can from me.” She looked up, frowning slightly. “If that is still your wish.”

Amazed again, Lilah curtseyed. How easily she’d slipped out of her troubles! “Does this mean I’m to stay?”

“Have you not heard a word I’ve said? I can’t manage this estate on my own. Of course I
could
have done, had it not been for that trip to town—and this pathetic bout of illness. Chocolates! Who would have imagined? I cannot blame Miss Stratton, but I will certainly have a word with the confectioners at Armand’s—”

What would Palmer say to this news? More to the point, how long would he be gone? For Lilah had until the last week of June to do as she liked. Until then, her uncle would not look for the notes. And she could think of many uses for her time here. Last night could mark the start of her education, rather than the entirety—as long as Palmer proved willing.

She remembered his hoarse words, in the hour before dawn.
You have talents
, he’d said,
you do not even understand
.

No, she did not foresee any objections to continuing her tutelage.

“Don’t look so cheerful,” Miss Everleigh snapped. “I stand by my previous opinion. Your ambitions outstrip your abilities—and your potential as well. I encourage you to aim lower. Far lower, in fact.”

Lilah swallowed a snort. “You do indeed seem much recovered.”

Miss Everleigh flipped her hand toward the door. “Go on, then,” she said. “To your work. And come back before dinner, to make a report of what you’ve done.”

Where had Palmer gone? Days passed without sign of him. Miss Everleigh, entirely recovered now, paid no notice to his absence. With no call to break for a formal dinner, she kept Lilah working till ten thirty in the evenings. At last, Lilah’s fatigue outweighed her fear of the dark; once in bed, she fell asleep immediately.

Thankfully, Miss Everleigh’s illness seemed to have burned away the sharpest edges of her tongue. She showed flashes of patience, and a grudging gift for instruction. With painstaking care she taught Lilah the small differences between mundane objects and priceless ones. For instance, a lovely, patterned vase might be worth nothing—or, thanks to a single small mark, hidden amid its flowery print, it might be the rarest and most valuable of enamelware.

“Always keep your eyes open,” Miss Everleigh told her. “It never fails that your last look turns up the greatest finds.”

Lilah took the advice to heart. She kept her eyes open at all hours, looking out the window for Palmer’s return. But her watch only ever rewarded her with a different and more disturbing sight. The strapping assayers
prowled through the trees at all hours, singly and in pairs. Sometimes they conferred on horseback. Their jackets fit very loosely over their military-straight backs.

She made herself look away whenever she saw them. The force of her curiosity unsettled her—as did her dreams. Palmer had awakened a hunger in her that she’d never suspected. Her dreams each night left her sweaty and breathless. But that premonition of future grief lingered, giving her a constant warning. If she awaited his return, it was only for the satisfaction of his body. Now that she had the letters, his problems did not concern her.

Five days passed like this. Miss Everleigh commented only once on her distraction. “If you drop any of the crystal, you will pay for what you break.”

After asking how much the dish in question was worth, Lilah took pains to ring for coffee at the top of every hour.

On the sixth day, Miss Everleigh declared their work with the breakables was done. They moved now to the more exhausting task of appraising the furniture. This was physical work, which normally—so Miss Everleigh said sourly—was performed with the aid of footmen. But Mrs. Barnes had yet to find men worthy of that position at Buckley Hall.

The stable hands were fetched inside to assist, but their smell quickly outstripped their utility. Miss Everleigh dismissed them. “We can manage it ourselves,” she told Lilah. “You seem made of strong fiber, and I am no fragile flower.”

Wasn’t she, then? Lilah found herself increasingly surprised by her employer—and more skeptical of Miss Everleigh’s claim that men would not admire her for her
skills. For the icy heiress never seemed more charming than when, with gritted teeth, she insisted she
could
turn over a table on her own, thank you very much—and then laughed in delight at having managed it.

By the evening, having upended countless chairs and settees to look for flaws and carpenters’ marks, both women were sweaty and covered with grime. But they had made better time than anticipated, having nearly completed their catalog of the furniture in the west wing. Only one chest remained, which they had not managed to unlock. Miss Everleigh could find no match for it on the rusted ring of keys the housekeeper had provided.

The dust was making Lilah sneeze. “Let me have a try.” And then she could go bathe this grime away.

“I tell you, I tried every key twice.”

“Sometimes it takes a bit of coaxing, is all. But I’m sure you’re right.” On the sly, Lilah slipped a hairpin from her coiffure. “Why don’t you ring down, see if Mrs. Barnes has any other strays lying about?”

On a huff, Miss Everleigh thrust the key ring at her and stomped over to the bellpull. “One would think a
proper
housekeeper might take an interest—”

“Done!” Lilah flipped open the latch and lifted the lid of the trunk.

“How on earth?” Miss Everleigh hurried back over, then clapped a hand to her mouth. “No! Oh, no!” Nearly keening, she reached into the trunk to retrieve a dusty bottle, which she wiped on her skirt with no regard for the dirty streak it made. “This is awful!”

Lilah picked up a bottle. Naturally, it was in French. “Château.” She knew that word, at least.

“Château Lafite Gilet.” Miss Everleigh stamped a
foot. “Oh, but it hasn’t been stored properly!” She let the bottle sag in her grip. “I feel ill.”

“It’s very rare, then?” All wine seemed much the same in Lilah’s eyes—mutton dressed as lamb. Watching the drunken antics at Everleigh’s, she’d supposed it the preference of those who liked their poison to come packaged more respectably than gin.

“This vintage, yes. It might have fetched a prince’s ransom, if only it had been kept properly. And drunk in time!”

Lilah shifted the bottles aside, counting silently. “Twelve bottles.”

“Such a waste.”

“Are you certain it’s gone bad?” They had visited the wine cellars earlier in the week. Remembering Miss Everleigh’s discourse, Lilah felt the inside of the trunk. “It’s been kept out of the sunlight. The wood is not warped, so it hasn’t been damp.”

“It will have turned by now, regardless. The yokel who put them here—” Miss Everleigh made an ill-tempered grunt. “Wine is meant to be aged, not buried!”

“But if it hadn’t turned? You could still set the lot.”

“There’s no way to tell,” Miss Everleigh said dismissively.

Lilah almost laughed. Amid all these high-flying rules about valuation, it seemed typical of Miss Everleigh to overlook the simplest technique. “Needn’t one only taste it to judge the quality?” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her knife. “We could uncork a bottle.”

Miss Everleigh’s eyes narrowed in a familiar look of disapproval. “That would hardly be proper, Miss Marshall. These bottles belong to the estate.”

It was too late in the day to perform her chastened routine. “So we’re to throw out the whole lot on a guess? If it’s still good, you could fetch a profit from it. How could Lord Palmer object?” Besides, in order to object, he would first have to return to Buckley Hall. How long could one remain in Sussex, anyway?

Miss Everleigh had lifted the bottle to inspect it more closely. “This year was rumored to be sublime.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted a wine that was sublime.”

Miss Everleigh glanced up. “You’ve no idea what you’re missing.”

Lilah repressed a snort. She had a very good idea that she was missing a great lot of things in life. Fewer, though, of late.

She checked herself before she looked again out the window, toward the ever-empty drive. “If you’ve had it before, you’ll know how it’s meant to taste. Isn’t that right?”

Miss Everleigh gave a single, small nod. Then she pressed her lips together. “It’s not done.” But a smile escaped. She quickly trammeled it. “This is terrible,” she said severely. “Not in the least professional.”

“Forgive me,” Lilah said, “but it seems very professional, to make sure the wine isn’t swill before you toss it.”

Miss Everleigh glanced toward the bellpull. “If we rang for glasses, they’d want to know why.”

“In some parts, people drink straight from a bottle, did you know?”

Miss Everleigh wrinkled her nose. “A very peculiar practice.”

“Or convenient.” Lilah took the bottle and set her blade to the seal. “Well?”

Miss Everleigh huffed out a breath. “I can’t . . .”

Not one to incline to tippling, Lilah nevertheless felt egged on by a devil. “For the sake of professionalism, miss.”

Miss Everleigh picked up her skirts and hurried to close the door. “Just one sip,” she said as she turned back. “To confirm it has turned.”

Lilah sliced the seal, then speared the cork and yanked it out. “That smells delicious,” she said, surprised.

“I cannot believe I’m doing this,” came Miss Everleigh’s faint reply.

Lilah held out the bottle. “You’re conducting a very thorough appraisal of the estate, miss. Sacrifices must be made.”

Taking the bottle, Miss Everleigh hesitated once more. “I am setting a very poor example for you.” But she required no further encouragement before tipping back the bottle. Swishing the wine about her mouth, she grimaced. “It’s not what it once was,” she said after swallowing. Then she sighed, looking glumly over the trunk’s contents. “We could not, in good conscience, auction this lot.”

“Sad,” Lilah said. “That something could go from wondrous to wretched, for want of proper storage.”

“Oh, it’s not
wretched
.” Miss Everleigh bit her lip. Then she thrust out the bottle. “Here. Try it.” At Lilah’s transparent surprise, she shrugged. “It’s the ghost of greatness. But if you’ve never tasted greatness, why, then you may well admire it.”

Lilah took the bottle. The smell truly was divine—sharp and robust, with the faint hint of blackberries. She tilted back the bottle for a taste.

Cherries and cream, thinning out into anise. The bitter finish made her wrinkle her nose. “Coffee.”

“Very good, Miss Marshall!” Miss Everleigh brought her hands together. “You have a nose. Who would have thought?”

Lilah gathered that the compliment was not to her actual anatomy. She handed the bottle back. Miss Everleigh took another swallow without even wiping the rim. “Tannins,” she pronounced, blinking rapidly. “They would not be so pronounced, were this still 1867.” She laughed at her own joke, then gave the bottle back to Lilah.

“Another?” Lilah asked, just to be certain.

“I can’t drink all of it myself.”

This was how, an hour later, with the room cast into twilight darkness, they still sat amid the dusty work of their day, the bottle between them, while Miss Everleigh recounted Young Pete’s boyish misadventures with a bottle of stolen port.

“He couldn’t even make it to the water closet?” Lilah felt appalled and amused at once. The poor maids!

“Not in time. But he certainly stayed there the rest of the night!” Miss Everleigh loosed a snorting laugh. “My father took to calling him Peter Porter after that. Oh, he
loathed
the name.” Her laughter faded. “He still does.” She gave a pull of her mouth. “No quicker way to needle him than to call him Porter.”