Straw in the Wind (18 page)

All of them had been rehearsing something for the evening, and could be found in odd corners, muttering to themselves in the lead up to the social event.

Sara had gone into the dining room early to help Maggie bring the supper through. They placed it on the sideboard so people could help themselves, and they opened the dividing door that led to the drawing room. Oscar had opened the wine and decanted it, and there were jugs of lemonade.

Mr Leighton had told them that he'd prefer candles tonight. Sara had set them out exactly where he'd told her, because he had a remarkable memory when it came to such things. There were sconces along the sideboard, several in trays so the wax wouldn't drip on to the furniture, and on the piano, too, secured in candle holders. When her employer came in to check, she said, ‘Everything is where it should be, Mr Leighton.'

‘Good . . . what are you wearing, Sara?'

‘A brown check skirt and a brown velvet jacket.'

He screwed his face up. ‘Brown! How very sensible of you.'

‘It's all I've got.'

‘Well, at least it matches your hair and eyes. Hold out your arm.' When she did he gently stroked her sleeve. ‘You feel like a lioness.'

‘When did you last stroke a lioness?' she said, trying not to laugh at such a description.

‘You have me there . . . I was going to say you felt like a camel, but it didn't seem quite so complimentary.'

Now Sara did laugh and her employer joined in.

‘Would you take a glass of wine with me before the others join us. Needless to say, you'll have to do the pouring.'

She poured him a glass of red wine with the space of a thumb left empty at the top, so he wouldn't spill it. She took some lemonade for herself.

‘Firstly, I want to thank you for all you've done this week. Mr Chapman and his sister are very appreciative of your care.'

‘It was no trouble, Mr Leighton. It wasn't as though he was dangerously ill, thank goodness, and I like having plenty to keep me occupied.'

‘I know you do . . . tell me, what do you think of Celia Chapman?'

Ah . . . so this was the real objective of this little tête-à-tête. She managed to keep her amusement under control when she said, ‘More to the point, Mr Leighton, what do
you
think of Miss Chapman?'

‘Highly . . . and what's more I seem to think of her all the time. Does she appear to be the type of woman who would encourage attention from a man . . . one like me, I mean, whose vision no longer exists?' He shrugged. ‘Perhaps not.'

‘Did Miss Chapman give you an impression that she would?'

‘I felt perfectly at ease with her, you know, Sara, and I thought that perhaps my liking for her was reciprocated. But then, I imagined that it was just kindness on her part, that I was reading more into her attention because I couldn't see her expression.'

Fiercely she told him, ‘You can see better than most men who have sight; some of them can't see past the ends of their noses. Would you like me to find out if Miss Chapman would encourage your attention?'

‘If the opportunity arises, but be discreet. Discover if she'd welcome me calling on her when I get back to London. I wouldn't like to approach her directly here since she is under an obligation and might feel awkward.'

‘From what I observe, Miss Chapman has a sigh in her eyes every time she looks at you, and she lights up when you walk into the room. And no wonder, you've been flirting with her.'

‘Have I?' He chuckled. ‘I do so enjoy her company, you know. She makes me feel alive.'

Sara finished her lemonade and rose to her feet. ‘If there's nothing else, sir? I thought I might go upstairs and offer my services to Miss Chapman.'

‘How very devious of you, Sara. Off you go then.'

Celia was seated at the dressing table when Sara knocked and entered. Her gown was a pretty pale-lilac colour, and she had a silver pendant around her neck. ‘Is there anything you need helping with, Miss Chapman?'

Celia turned, a genuine smile on her face. ‘I've never been able to afford a maid so I'm used to fending for myself. Shall we go down together? I've never felt confident of walking into a social gathering by myself. Adam says I'm too shy, and the more often I do it the easier it will become.'

And here was she thinking that, because Adam Chapman had an air of confidence about him, he was also wealthy. He was a professional working man, after all, and for that he went up in her estimation. ‘May we talk for a minute or two first, Miss Chapman?'

‘Of course . . . is it something to do with Adam.'

‘Adam . . .? No it's nothing to do with him,' and she grinned. ‘It's Mr Leighton?'

‘Finch?' Colour flooded Celia's cheeks. ‘He hasn't caught the German measles from Adam, has he?'

‘No, but I'm on a mission for him. He wants me to discreetly find out if you'd encourage him if he called on you when he returns to London.'

Celia Chapman gave a nervous laugh, then she giggled. ‘That wasn't exactly discreet, Sara.'

‘I know, but you strike me as the type of woman who would like to know where she stood in the affections of a man. If I may offer recommendation, Mr Leighton is a lovely man. He's kind and thoughtful, and he thinks he's not good enough for you because of his blindness.'

‘What utter nonsense!'

And Celia said it so vehemently that Sara began to laugh. ‘I'll tell him it's yes then, shall I?'

‘I've only known him a week, so you may tell him that I will promise only to think about encouraging him, and will give him my answer in due course. Tell him I will not be approached through a third party, but thank you for the recommendation, Sara. I will seriously bear that in mind.'

Sara said with a groan, ‘Poor Mr Leighton. I can see that you're interested in him.'

‘And I can see that my brother is interested in you, Sara. What do you have to say to that?'

‘That you needn't worry, since we're on different social levels and he is merely trifling with my affections, as men do with housemaids on occasion.'

‘Worry!' Her eyes widened considerably at that. ‘Good Lord, where do you get your strange ideas from? I'm not worried, my dear . . . what if I told you that Adam was definitely interested in you?'

It wasn't normal that a man like Adam Chapman would be looking for a serious relationship with a housekeeper, even if he wasn't wealthy enough to hire a maid for his sister. ‘I'd say that he's made that perfectly clear, but I'd like to know
why
he's interested in me. I get the feeling there's a motive behind his questions, but he uses evasions.'

‘You can trust Adam, you know.'

Sara didn't answer, and she was not about to discuss her feelings towards Adam Chapman. A man like him would attract many women. He'd be gone tomorrow and he wouldn't give her another thought after the door closed behind him. She'd get over him.

Celia took her hands, turned them over and gazed at the palms. ‘Did you get these calluses at the workhouse?'

‘Yes.'

‘Poor you.'

Feeling a kiss soft against her cheek, Sara experienced a moment of sadness, and she wanted to cry for what she'd never missed before, a mother's love. Who had the woman been and what was she like to have left her daughter at an orphanage? But then, perhaps she'd had no choice.

Celia's hands were soft and white in contrast to her own, and she pulled away, saying more sharply than she intended, then immediately regretting it, ‘They were caused by hard work. It's nothing to be ashamed of; I'm used to them.'

‘Of course it's nothing to be ashamed of. Nevertheless, I'll smooth some balm on them to help soften them.'

She opened a small jar and massaged some of the contents into Sara's hands, working it into her palms and her fingertips. ‘You know, Serafina, if you keep on doing this they will improve.'

Did everyone know her proper name? She grinned; it did make her feel a bit grand though. ‘I can't afford such luxuries. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound sharp earlier. The hand balm smells lovely.'

‘I make it myself out of beeswax, almond and lavender oil. I'll leave you this little pot if you'd like. If you wear it to bed with cotton gloves on, it works much quicker.'

‘Thank you, Miss Chapman. That's kind of you.'

‘Please call me Celia, after all, I do call you by your first name.'

‘I will then, Miss . . . Celia,' and they looked at each other and laughed.

Everyone was in the drawing room when they went downstairs.

Adam moved forward to meet her, kissing her hand as though she was a grand lady, and murmuring, ‘You look lovely, Princess Serafina.'

Let him play his games, she thought, but she grinned as she said graciously, ‘Thank you.'

His glance wandered to her hair, which she'd drawn back into a bun, as best she could, and he smiled. ‘The star looks prettier on you than on the Christmas tree.'

‘Do you always notice details such as stars on Christmas trees?' She absorbed his easy smile and told herself to beware . . . to
beware!

‘Usually I do . . . that one fell from Orion's belt.'

‘Yet there are still seven stars left up there. How odd.'

‘How odd that you should know such a thing.'

‘No stranger than you knowing about it. Mr Leighton has books in his library that explain such things as the position of the stars in the sky. I read them in my spare time. I'm afraid that this one did not fall from the sky, but I borrowed it from Mr Leighton's festive decorations.'

‘You have no romance in you, Serafina.'

She chuckled. ‘Oh, I do, I just don't let it run away with me.'

The wine relaxed everyone, and the entertainment began. Oscar consulted a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, first up on the programme is—'

There came a jingle of bells. Fingal suddenly jumped up on to the piano keyboard and stomped along it with a loud discordant tune, stopping only to scratch behind his ear when he reached the middle. When he leaped off at the other end everyone began to laugh and clap. He sidestepped across the floor to where Maggie sat and jumped into her lap.

‘Show-off,' Maggie said.

‘For the benefit of Mr Leighton, that was Fingal playing the cat concerto. Now, we have Fanny, who will recite and act out a short rhyme titled Incy Wincy Spider.'

Fanny leaped to her feet, grinning at everyone and wriggling her fingers about in anticipation.

‘Incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout . . . along came the rain drops and washed the spider out . . .'

Fanny managed the nursery rhyme without too much trouble, until she got to the last line. Then she faltered and looked towards Sara. Sara wiggled her finger at her and Fanny gave a broad grin and copied her actions, shrilling out with great confidence, ‘Wincy incy spider climbed down the spout again.'

She retired pink-faced and smiling after her effort and Mr Leighton clapped loudly and called out, ‘Well done, Fanny.'

Joseph Tunney played the fiddle while Giles sang a folk song in foot-stomping style. Then it was Sara's turn and she played a Bach Sonata followed by a piano duet with Mr Leighton, one that he'd taught her when he'd been home before.

They stopped for supper.

Afterwards, Oscar and Maggie recited a poem between them, then Adam played the piano while Celia sang, her voice sweet and tuneful. Sara turned her gaze on Finch Leighton. He had a faint, but tender smile playing around his mouth as Celia sang, and when she'd finished he said, ‘Bravo, Celia, you have a truly delightful voice.'

‘Thank you, Finch,' she said, the praise bringing colour whipping into her cheeks.

Christmas carols around the piano finished off the evening. Sara couldn't remember enjoying herself so much.

She helped Maggie take the dishes into the kitchen afterwards.

‘There's a meat fork missing,' Maggie said.

‘I expect I'll find it in the morning when I clean the dining room. Let's get off to bed. I've had a grand time.'

‘Aye, me too. Having visitors to stay has perked Mr Leighton up no end, and he hasn't done any moping for a long time and is getting his interest back in everything again.' Maggie took off her apron, folded it over the back of the chair and grinned. ‘You want to watch out for that Mr Chapman. He's got his eyes on you, my girl . . . you mark my words. Goodnight, Sara.'

‘Goodnight, Maggie.' Sara made sure that the door was locked and the candles were extinguished, then retired to her own quarters. She'd forgotten to light the fire and her rooms were cold. Not that she ever used the small sitting room, except when she was teaching her pupils their letters. She was proud of them, especially Fanny, who had managed to retain the nursery rhyme she'd taught her. Undressing as quickly as possible she pulled on a patched flannel nightgown, climbed into her narrow bed and pulled her knees up to her chest. Wrapping her arms around her body she promised herself she'd find an extra blanket tomorrow. It was too late to go and look for one now. She pretended it was Adam Chapman's arms around her, and she gradually warmed up.

Was this how she'd spend the rest of her life, she thought, never really knowing who she was, spending her nights shivering alone in a servant's bed with an imaginary lover, and spending her days polishing somebody else's furniture and wondering if love would ever come her way? Perhaps she'd marry for convenience in the end, like Elizabeth Pawley, who didn't seem to mind her lot in life, or Mrs Cornwell, who'd seemed resigned to hers, and had been desperate enough to answer an advertisement in a newspaper.

The widower got the best of such an arrangement. As well as a wife for his bed, he'd get a mother for his orphaned children, a housekeeper, a cook, and in Elizabeth Pawley's case, a tutor – and all for no expense except the food she ate to keep her alive and working.