0062412949 (R) (11 page)

Piety let out a burst of laughter. “Believe me, Jocelyn Breedlowe, the last thing I require is to be guided, goaded, or gilded.” She turned her back to the bannister and leaned, crossing her arms over her chest. “No, the
very
last thing I need in life is a bachelor, eligible or otherwise. So, if you’re worried about dressing me up and launching me at some knight gallant, then stop. I have come to England to escape marriage, not to launch myself into one.”

“But I am not even sure I can keep you properly situated in this neighborhood or in London society,” said Jocelyn. “I’ve scarcely been in your service for six hours, and already I’ve allowed you to slip away and meet in private with a bachelor neighbor. I know you are accustomed to a very independent way of life, but in England, this sort of fraternization is strictly forbidden. The marchioness has assigned me here for a reason, perhaps an entirely selfish reason, but here I am. You must allow me to endeavor, at the very least, to do you a small amount of good.”

“Of course, Jocelyn. I shall try, really, I shall. As to the other work, I hope you’ll tell me if you do not wish to take part in the heavy lifting and deep cleaning of this house. I have a way of asking far too much of people, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“It’s not that, Piety,” said Jocelyn. “Truly, it is not. I am invigorated by the idea of this old house, and I pride myself on helpfulness, regardless of my position. Let us, at least endeavor to work together. To make a go of the sort of relationship that may suit the both of us. That is all I ask.”

“Absolutely,” Piety said, returning to the window-seat alcove, which glowed dimly with the setting sun. Grinning and holding out her arms, she spun in a slow circle in the soft light. “Just look at this room at sunset! Will it not be simply perfect? Oh, I cannot wait to begin work!”

Indeed,
thought Jocelyn.
Work. Weeks and weeks of work.
She looked around. The room was, quite literally, coated with dust, swimming in moths, and pocked with eroding plaster. The windows were yellowed with neglect—two of them cracked—and the window-seat cushions coughed what looked like ash on contact. Could its current condition really be promise enough for a young woman of Miss Grey’s station? Any lady of quality or means ever known to Jocelyn would have covered her face with a handkerchief and fled at the first sign of dank disorder.

But then again, perhaps Piety Grey was not the lady of quality and means that she portrayed herself to be; perhaps Lady Frinfrock’s suspicions had been correct. It seemed nearly mutinous to consider it, but what did they really know about her? She was confident. Well spoken. She dressed exquisitely, and her manners were, if not always employed, then available to her when she felt a situation warranted them. She claimed to have bought the house, to have plans to employ workers and a staff, yet she thought nothing of pulling lumber off of windows with her own hands.

Considering this, Jocelyn watched Piety float around the room, smiling eagerly, poking her head in every nook, and running her hand along the dusty shelves. She seemed genuinely undisturbed by the chaotic state.

Curiosity got the better of Jocelyn. “Piety? Is this room as grand as your accommodation in New York City? In the house you deeded to your mother?”

“Well, it is certainly dirtier.” She looked around. “And home to more vermin. And leaks.”

“But this room pleases you? It is up to your previous standards?”

“Oh yes, very much. My previous standards amounted to a pin box at the top of five flights of stairs. It was lovely, but hardly spacious. Or convenient. My mother insisted that I remain in the nursery for years and years—far longer than is custom. Finally, when I was oh, about eleven or twelve, my father put his foot down and insisted I have my own suite of rooms elsewhere in the house. My mother responded with this ridiculous theory that I might appear overindulged—spoiled—if I had a lavish room on the family floor. So when I left the nursery, she installed me into a tiny guest room near the attic.”

“Oh.”

“That was where I grew up. And where I grew to understand that nothing I could do would please my mother. Not by living in the room she wished, not by living anywhere at all.”

Jocelyn looked away, allowing her a private moment with such a sad memory. She thought of her own mama, sweet and generous to the end, begging Jocelyn to leave her sickbed, to find a husband while she was still young, rather than stay in Derbyshire to serve as nursemaid. Even as she lay dying, her mother’s only thought had been of Jocelyn’s future.

Across the room, Piety had begun to pull the faded cushions from the window seat and beat them with the broom. Clouds of dust rose from each strike, and Jocelyn moved to pry open a window.

“My heart aches for you, Piety,” Jocelyn said. “That your mother is so, well, that your mother is as you say. Nothing can be done to salvage your relationship?”

“For that, dear Jocelyn, I have given up trying. Our rapport deteriorated rapidly after my father died, and I had to free myself from, well, from her. My first step was to move as far away as possible. My second step was to spend my money as quickly as possible. An investment in property, I’m told, will be more difficult for her to eventually wrestle away. Especially a property as difficult to re-sell as this one. I bought a house no one wanted. No one that is, but me.”

She looked around again, holding her broom like a sword. “This house,” she said, “and an ocean between us. It should be a very good start, don’t you think? And now I shall have whichever bedroom I wish.”

CHAPTER NINE

A
fter an uncomfortable night spent on dusty, threadbare couches in a chilly parlor, Piety convened Jocelyn and Marissa in the drawing room to sort out their plan for the day. Coldness permeated the very brick and wood of the walls, their bleakest morning in the dilapidated house. It took longer than usual for Piety to stoke up her optimism and brightness, not unlike the smoky, struggling fire in the grate.

“I will call upon my London solicitor and banker before luncheon, if possible,” Piety assured Jocelyn and Marissa over bitter coffee and yesterday’s cake. “We will need far more money than what I brought from New York, not to mention a significant line of credit at a number of shops. Also, this business with the earl must be addressed by my solicitor. Joseph saw us out last night with no trouble, so perhaps Falcondale
has
relented about the passage, but I might as well get the terms in writing.” She glanced to Jocelyn, hoping to reassure her.

“Next, we require a more reliable way to take our meals,” she said, ticking off tasks on her fingers. “The kitchens are in no shape to yet bring in a cook, but that does not mean we cannot have fresh produce, cheese, and bread delivered each morning. Marissa, may I put you in charge of setting this up with runners from a market?” Marissa’s eyes grew large, but she stood tall and nodded, clearly encouraged by the new responsibility.

“Finally,” Piety said, taking up a large map of London she’d located in her luggage, “I shall begin to call on furniture-makers and other craftsmen to outfit this house. First and foremost, we require proper beds, we won’t slee—”

“Hallo?”
A deep voice resonated through the house. Heavy footsteps followed, echoing through the first floor.

Piety stilled. It was too soon for her mother to have located her, but the possibility was never far from her mind. She cocked her head to listen.

The footsteps grew nearer, and the voice called again. A man’s voice, low and jolly.

“The carpenters?” Piety allowed the map to fall to the floor. She scurried from the room, patting her hair and smoothing the dress she’d slept in all night.

“You are expecting the carpenters today?” Jocelyn followed, with Marissa trailing behind.

“If we’re lucky! The man I’ve hired to restore the house came very highly recommended, but, of course, I’ve never met him. I’ve sent word. He knows I wish to begin right away.”

She cupped her hands around mouth and called, “Who’s there?” She winked at Jocelyn.

“Spencer Burr!” came the booming reply. “Carpenter!”

“But it is him!” Piety said happily, hurrying down the hall to the rotunda. Jocelyn and Marissa scrambled to keep up.

“This way, Mr. Burr!” Piety called. She paused beside the derelict stairwell. “Do mind the rubble!”

The sound of the footsteps grew closer, and they craned their heads, watching for the figure of a man to match the voice. They were not disappointed. His bald head came first, poking through the opposite doorway like a battering ram on a tree-trunk neck. “You’ve left the door unlocked, miss,” he said, grinning, “I hope you don’t mind.”

They took a collective step back. The precariousness of their circumstance—three women alone, making camp in a barely secure house—felt truly risky for the first time.

“Not at all,” Piety said, more carefully now. Behind her, Jocelyn made a strangled noise. “Please, do come in. I am here with my staff.”

He shouldered in, broad shoulders and a barrel chest filling the rounded doorway. When he stood to full height, he dwarfed the arch.

“Is this the home of Mistress Piety Grey, recently relocated from America?”

“Yes, it is.” Piety laughed. “How glad I am to receive you, sir. I am Piety Grey.” She wound her way through the littered rotunda and extended her hand.

“We meet at last!” the man said, “I am your carpenter, Miss Grey. Spencer Burr, at your service.”

“How do you do, Mr. Burr,” she said, some of her confidence returning. “What luck to meet you on my third day in town. I have been so grateful to receive your letters.”

“Likewise, miss. We have been waiting expectantly for your arrival these many weeks. We’d begun to think you’d never arrive. My, but aren’t you a young little thing.”

“I am young, Mr. Burr, but I am rich.”

“Are you now?” Spencer Burr chortled, punting a chicken pillow out of his way. “Well, we received the first bank notes, just as you promised, so I have no reason to doubt it.”

“The job is substantial,” Piety replied, looking around, “of that you can be sure. The stairs, certainly, are a total loss. Far worse than I predicted in my letters. Indeed, all the damage I described is trifling compared to the reality we now face. We’ll have to prioritize and set down a schedule.”

The large man nodded and began to walk a slow circle around the rotunda, studying the walls and ceiling. “Stairs lost, I should say.” He stopped in front of a gaping hole where the main stair once rose.

Piety explained what she could remember of her conversation with the earl about the stairs, while Mr. Burr paced and nodded, extracting a piece of graphite from his pocket to scribble notes directly on the wall.

“Who can say,” Piety went on, “perhaps the servants’ stair in the kitchen will be easier to restore first.”

“Only one way to determine,” he said. “Let’s have a look.”

They looked for more than two hours. Piety walked through every room with Mr. Burr: the rustic kitchens; the damp, moldy cellar; and her favorite space, a jewel-shaped solarium with foggy glass on the edge of the garden. They discussed her expectations and his predictions for budget and schedule and feasibility for each. The stairs, he conceded, would, in fact,
not
be replaced in a week. On this, the earl had been correct. A trained architect would be required, he said, in order to direct their proper restoration.

There were other concerns: damage or decay that had not been accurately described, improper ventilation, and mice. So many mice.

Mr. Burr was thorough—in some instances, painfully so—but he was also resourceful. He provided Piety with the direction of possible architects she might hire for this or that reconstruction, including the oppressive stairs. He knew artisans who could rework the mosaic tiles in the solarium, and a man with little trained dogs who could come and help ferret out all the mice. When he had a working list of supplies and craftsmen needed, Mr. Burr, himself, took his leave, although a small crew remained to begin demolition.

Piety was grateful for the immediate progress—
any
progress—but the noise of construction grated more than she expected, and she found herself drifting. The house had a lovely garden terrace, and she wandered outside, squinting into the spring sunshine.

Oh, gracious, the growing list of needs,
she thought, embarking on an overgrown garden path. The expense would be considerable. The repairs would take months, if not a full year.

Before she could stop herself, she glanced at Falcondale’s house over her garden wall. She wondered if he would agree with Mr. Burr’s assessments.

She came upon a stone bench and stared at it, too preoccupied to sit. She glanced again at his house.

He wouldn’t care enough to agree, she thought. This work did not affect him beyond the imposition of the passage. And anyway, she dare not ask him. He was a distraction, and she could not afford to lose focus. She’s wasted enough time thinking of their kiss. She’d lost sleep, wedged against the lumpy back of the velvet couch, reliving it. Even during her critical tour with Mr. Burr, her mind had drifted to it.

If she
must
obsess over it, perhaps she could force herself to feel badly about it. Penance, et cetera. In honor of Jocelyn, she tried to conjure up piteous feelings of guilt. Her chaperone had been entirely correct to remind her of the risks of such behavior. Piety knew all of the things that decent young ladies were meant to do and not to do, and kissing bachelor neighbors in deserted music rooms was not among them. If Jocelyn, or Tiny or, God forbid, the marchioness knew, her legitimacy as a well-meaning resident of this street in particular—and upstanding young lady in general—would be shot. She was independent, but she was not reckless, usually.

Piety’s only excuse was how very
necessary
the entire interlude had seemed at the time. It had been as essential, somehow, as restoring the house or staying ahead of her mother. If she had anything to feel guilty about, it was that her priorities had become scrambled.