Carla Kelly (6 page)

“I know,” she said softly. “I do not suppose that you are accustomed to helping women like me.”

It was honestly spoken and left him no room to hem or haw. “True,” he admitted. “Appearances are deceiving. Excuse the cliché.”

It was her turn to hesitate briefly. “Would it anger you to know that I was having the same thought?”

He laughed. “No, it would not.” He looked at her and she returned his gaze, not boldly, as one of her class and station might, but in a measuring yet friendly way that startled him even more, because he knew that somewhere down deep, they were equals.

He thought then about Huddersfield. I wonder if she is seeking work in the mills, he thought. Juan will not be able to be with her then. “Liria, are you planning to work in the textile mills in Huddersfield?” he asked suddenly when she kissed Juan, deposited him on the sofa, and went to the door.

She nodded. “I have heard of a mill owner who has a school.”

“That may be, but you will be long hours at the loom. Must you do that?”

“If Juan and I are to live,” she replied, and turned the door handle.

He was on his feet then. “Have you another choice? Could you return to Spain?”

“No,” she said, and nothing more.

That is the short answer, he thought, but could not help noticing that she seemed to want to say more. “Is there more?” he asked, knowing how intrusive it was to question her.

He thought she would tell him, but the moment passed. “Very well. I only ask that you come with me to Knare until I can get Sophie and Luster situated. I intend to pay you for your services, and pay your fare to Huddersfield.” He waited for her to object, but to his relief she did not.

“That is kind of you, sir,” she said. She hesitated, and he hoped for one small moment that she would tell him more about herself. “I suppose I should have asked this sooner in our acquaintance, sir, but should I be addressing you differently? Luster told me you are a duke.”

Bother it, he thought, disappointed. “I am. I live in relative splendor in a pile of stones called Knare. I am the despair of my tailor because I dress as you see me. My sister Augusta rails at me because I never bother to go to the House of Lords in velvet and ermine. Now, why should a man wear velvet and ermine? My housekeeper sighs and clucks her tongue because I insist on eating belowstairs.”

“That
is
eccentric,” Liria interrupted, and it pleased him, because it was almost a joke from such a serious woman.

He continued, pleased to be amusing her. “Augusta is nagging at me to marry and set up my own nursery, but . . .” He hesitated. Why am I telling you all this, he asked himself. “Well, I was in love with another, and she married someone else.”

“You can’t forget her?” Liria asked, when he did not continue.

“I should, shouldn’t I? She married a wonderful man, someone I even like, damn his eyes.”

“Forgetting is difficult,” she said.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. And what are you having to forget, he thought. “Augusta is right, though. I will make a serious effort to find a wife this summer. Oh, the original question, I suppose you should address me as Your Grace, but I would prefer that you did not. It sounds so stuffy, and madam, I am not stuffy.”

The next morning, after a consultation with the village’s one physician, Liria assured him that Sophie and Luster were fit to travel. By noon, they were on the road. He wasn’t sure whether it pleased him or not, and he almost didn’t think Liria Valencia was happy about the matter, either. She gave no real outward sign of disappointment that the journey must continue, but there was something in her silence that stirred him to an odd kind of hope that she would miss him. Sitting there in his carriage, watching her when he hoped she wasn’t aware, he realized with a pang that he had gone beyond the disdain of his class for hers. He only cared now what would happen to Liria Valencia and her son Juan. Libby, you would be proud of me, he thought.

He waited for the mere thought of Libby to send him into the doldrums, but it did not. The day was beautiful and he knew as surely as though someone had told him that his melancholy would pass. I will get on with the business of life, he told himself, smiling at the thought.

Or so it seemed to him, until Juan nudged him, a gentle poke in his side that pleased him with its familiarity. He looked down at the drawing Juan held out for his view only, and not to his mother, who sat across from him next to Luster. What talent this child has, he thought, as he admired the profile drawing of the boy’s mother.

Juan leaned toward him. “Mama,” he whispered in Nez’s ear, and the tickling of his breath touched him.

“I know,” he whispered back, admiring the way Juan had caught the pursing of her lips that he knew by now meant deep concentration. Juan had also caught the depth of her brown eyes, and her clear gaze. Something was missing, Nez thought, which made him wonder, in their brief acquaintance, how much time he had already spent admiring her beautiful Spanish face. He touched the drawing. “See there, Juan, you have left out the little mole by her eye.”

Juan frowned, and Nez could tell that he did not understand. Nez smiled and touched the side of his own eye, and the boy nodded, and added a dot to the drawing. “Excellent,” Nez said. He wanted to ask him how he achieved that look of restfulness, which seemed to be Liria’s hallmark. But knew that so much English complexity would be beyond the child.

In his companionable, adaptable way, Juan leaned against him and continued his picture. In another moment Nez found himself fingering the child’s hair, and then gathering him closer, as he had watched Liria do on many a night. He felt a deep sorrow at the thought of sending the two of them to the mills. Perhaps Juan would have a school there, but would a tired teacher of mill brats have the time to look at a drawing, or the wit to recognize lovely talent? He doubted it, and the thought gnawed at him.

They spent the night in Wishart, no more than twenty miles from Knare, but he could tell that Luster and Sophie both were exhausted and in need of beds. The full moon beamed on a beneficent evening good enough for late travel, but even beyond the welfare of his constituents, he had no heart to continue the journey that would part him from the Valencias.

He flattered himself that Liria felt the same way. When Sophie and Luster were both asleep, and Juan slept on a pallet, she did not retire to her own cot in Sophie’s room, but went down the stairs. After a length of time considering the matter, he followed her.

He didn’t see her at once. A coach had come, and the ostlers were hurrying the tired horses away and hitching fresh ones while the coach’s occupants stood stretching, or rushed inside for something to eat. For one irrational moment he feared that she was leaving, but knew the enormity of that idiocy in his next breath; Liria would never abandon her child.

He saw her then by the fence that bordered the highway. She seemed to be watching the inn-yard activity, perhaps even admiring the horses, and he wondered then if she liked to ride. That can hardly be, he thought. Women of her quality usually walked, or hopped onto the back of carts. But there was no mistaking her interest in the horses. He joined her at the fence.

“Nice animals, aren’t they?” he said. “I mean, for an inn yard.”

She nodded. “My brother told me that England’s finest horses come from Ireland. Was he right?”

“Indeed he was. I’ve scoured a few counties across the Irish sea for bloodstock.” He thought a moment. No harm in asking. Be casual, Benedict. “Does, does your family have horses?”

“Some,” she replied. She seemed to hesitate, too, and he wondered if she would continue. “Ours come . . . came from North Africa.”

My God, Arabians, he thought in surprise. “Did your brother ride?”

“They both did.”

“And you?” he asked, practically holding his breath.

“Oh, yes.”

She smiled, and he suddenly wanted to hear her laugh. “A good memory, I gather?” he prompted.

“Yes again, until the
jefe del rancho
caught me and told me I didn’t belong in his fields.”

So that was it. He had seen scraggly looking children hanging around his own paddocks, eager to ride, but knowing the penalties of being caught on his land. Might as well change the subject, he thought, for this one is only going where I thought it would. “Juan likes to draw horses, and I think he is quite good.” He took a deep breath. “Do you think the school in Huddersfield will nurture that talent?”

She shrugged. “I do not even know for sure if there is a school in Huddersfield, sir. I hope, though.”

There didn’t seem to be any inane reply that would smooth that realistic statement, so he changed the subject again. “I do fully intend to compensate you for your time and trouble on my behalf,” he said.

“I have no doubt that you will be fair and generous.”

She replied quickly, obviously without thinking about it, and he was touched by her trust in him, the most unreliable of men. “I will be generous, Miss Valencia. Good night, now.”

The whole business of saying good-bye to the Valencias left him low and uncommunicative for the rest of the journey, which ended at noon on the gravel drive at Knare’s main entrance. Even in his worst days, he usually felt a lift of his heart when the road topped a rise and entered the small valley just beyond the village of Knare. He gazed at it with a frown this time. He was right; it was just a pile of cold stones, the gift of a Catholic house wrested from its owners during the time of Henry the Eighth and given to the first duke of Knare, probably for some dirty doings against the Church of Rome. True, the ivy was appealing, and the little panes of glass did catch the sun in an attractive way. At least it is well run, he thought, glancing at Luster, who looked so weary.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and he waited for the servants to pour out of the door to line themselves along the way to the entrance, ready to bow. Luster looked at him, faint surprise on his face, too, when nothing happened. “They may not be expecting you, Your Grace, but surely someone is at least watching out a window,” he said, shaking his head in dismay.

“You know, Luster, I think I prefer it this way,” he said. “Let me throw down the step and give you a hand.” Before his butler could object, Nez opened the door and unfolded the steps. By the time he helped Luster, his hand still trembling from illness, from the carriage, the door opened and his servants emerged. He looked again, with a deep sigh this time. His sister Augusta came next, and with her was Miss Audrey St. John from next door. She grinned at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Well, Audrey,” he said as the footman ran up to help Luster. “I can only pray you haven’t rearranged all my furniture and replaced the draperies. ’Lo, Gussie. Sophie is safe and sound, if a little crusty yet.”

“Let us hope that she will not scar,” his sister said, nodding to Sophie, who had started toward her, but hung back at her words.

Oh, Gussie, you could hug your daughter, he told himself.

“Mrs. Burlew has died,” Augusta replied in that same tone. “It was two nights ago. In view of the fact that I had just come from my father-in-law’s funeral, I thought it completely inconsiderate of her.”

You would, he told himself. “Let us pray she is feeling some contrition beyond the veil,” he murmured.

“My thought precisely, brother,” Augusta replied. “As a result, your household is leaderless. Thank goodness I am here to save you from some folly or other. I am ready to summon my own housekeeper from London to assume charge here at Knare.”

He flinched in spite of himself and thought of that forbidding gorgon who nipped at poor Fred’s bourbon, sharpened her tongue on ’tween stairs maids, and was even seen coming out of a broom closet once, straightening her skirts, followed a few minutes later by an underfootman. His heart sank. He glanced at Audrey St. John, who stood a little behind his sister and continued to grin at him. He winked at her, which caused Gussie to puff up. “Really, brother, I wish you could see the seriousness of this event! It is hard to imagine a more thoughtless scheme on Mrs. Burlew’s part, with summer coming on. She knows how busy it will be, with your military friends dropping in to see your disgusting armory! What can she have been thinking? Thank God I am here to rescue you.”

Well, toss me back into the arena with the lions, he told himself. Suddenly it was too much: no more Valencias, Augusta here, the country’s worst housekeeper on her way soon, and Luster still weak.

He looked at the row of servants, who gazed back expectantly, ever hopeful, as if praying he would rescue them from Augusta and prevent her housekeeper from blighting their lives. He felt tired, and it was only noon.

“
Who
is
that?
” Augusta asked suddenly.

Startled, he looked around. Juan had just jumped from the top step. Liria stood at the carriage door. He offered her his hand. She descended gracefully, released his hand, and stood close to her son.

An idea took hold then, and he made no effort to shake it off. He could almost see Libby Cook staring at him, her eyes wide, her mouth open in shock. He took a deep breath. “You’re too late, Gussie. I was preparing to retire Mrs. Burlew, and can only wish that she had been able to enjoy a pleasant retirement, poor dear. May I introduce Liria Valencia, my new housekeeper?”

Chapter Five

Augusta gasped. “You never hired a housekeeper!” You are correct, he thought, amazed at himself. “I saw her walking in the rain and had a sudden impulse,” he said. He stared at his sister, astounded that any human being could turn such a peculiar mottled shade of purple. “Gussie, do breathe.”

She did finally, letting out such a gust of wind and choler than Juan moved closer to his mother.

Augusta’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You are telling such a lie, brother,” she declared.

“That’s my story, and I won’t waiver from it, Gussie dear,” he replied with a shrug. I should remember that telling Gussie a lie or the truth is all the same, he told himself. “I might add that the matter has Luster’s entire approval, eh, Luster?”

“Most indubitably, Your Grace,” his butler said without a blink. “Now, Miss Valencia,” Luster continued, “if you would lend me a shoulder to lean upon, I will show you to your domain belowstairs. Haverly, don’t just stand there with your chin dragging on the gravel. Lively, now!” A footman leaped forward and took the butler’s arm. “Juan may come, too, my dear,” Luster said.

Nez barely dared to look at her. Oh, please, he thought. I don’t care how ramshackle your life has been. You don’t belong in a mill, no matter how enlightened it is.

“Aha!” Augusta exclaimed, planting herself in front of the Spanish woman. “This is the first time you have heard of this, is it not?”

Juan gulped and wrapped his arm around his mother’s leg, burying his face in the fold of her threadbare cloak. Don’t bully them, you witch, Nez thought. Pray, don’t treat them that way. They are just two people with very little between them and ruin.

Liria looked at him, and he knew he did not know her well enough to interpret her expression. Please, Liria, he thought.
Por favor, dama.

To his relief, she smiled at Gussie. “My lady, I have had time to consider this offer. I have already told your brother that I will enjoy managing a duke’s estate again.”

You are almost as cool a liar as I am, Liria Valencia, he thought, impressed.

“If you have ever managed even a duke’s potting shed, then I am Caroline of Brunswick!” Augusta snapped.

“Your mustache is not nearly as dark, Gussie,” he murmured. “Where was that estate, Miss Valencia? I can’t recall.”

“Near Bailen,” she replied promptly, “in the middle of an orange grove. My lady, I will give most satisfactory service. Now, if you will excuse me, I think that Luster is starting to droop.
Ven conmigo, Juan. No ten miedo.
Your Grace, excuse us.” She dropped as elegant a curtsy to him as he had ever seen in his life, right there in his driveway, a curtsy worthy of the Court of Saint James, and then gave her arm to Luster. To his further gratification, the other servants gaped, then followed them into the manor. Gussie stared after them.

“I think your dear little brother has matters in control, Augusta,” Audrey said. “But really, Benedict, it is a little hard to believe that
you
found a housekeeper.”

“Oh, I didn’t, Audrey,” he said, happy enough to tiptoe along the selvage of truth, now that Liria had not left him facedown in his own yard. “Luster discovered her, and I am wise enough never to disagree with my butler. You should have seen Miss Valencia managing two invalids. She can handle one household, and I, for one, aim to let her.”

He could tell that his sister was not going to give up without a struggle. “
Miss
Valencia, and she has a son?” Gussie asked. “What will the vicar say? What about the neighbors? Benedict,
why
do you never think of consequences?”

“As your closest neighbor,
I
have no objection, and you know how my papa enjoys a pretty face,” Audrey said, and Nez could have kissed her. “As for the vicar, if I am not mistaken, didn’t Mr. Potter say at dinner the other night that his sermon this Sunday would be on not judging others? Of course, I could have misheard him, Augusta.” She took Augusta’s arm. “Come on, my dear, and walk me to the edge of the property. I would invite you, too, Benedict, but I know that you do not possess a shred of propriety, else you would have thought of it first!”

He laughed and winked at her again. “Audrey, you remain a game goer! Tell your papa I will visit him tomorrow, and even drink some of your tea, if you will pour.”

“Oh, well-done, Benedict!” she replied. “There is hope for you yet.”

He watched them cross the yard, Augusta an unwilling partner, but Audrey pulling her along and jollying her as she went. Sophie tugged on his sleeve, and he looked down at her, surprised. “Heavens, Sophie, I forgot you were there. May I carry Your Highness into the house and let you be an invalid for a few more hours?”

His niece shook her head. “Liria says I should only consider the Bourbons of Spain and France, and the Hapsburgs of Austria and not pretend to be royalty. She claims it is an unsteady profession these days.” She sighed. “But maybe just this once, Uncle.”

He picked her up and held her close. Sophie wrapped her arms around his neck and he kissed her cheek. “And now I will take you upstairs and then root about in the kitchen for something to eat. I fear my household is somewhat disorganized.”

He deposited Sophie in the chamber next to his own. “Do I even dare attempt the kitchen?” he asked himself as he strolled downstairs, content to be at his own ground again. He took the shortcut through the gallery, gazed up at his ancestors frozen in time on his walls, and wondered what they were thinking, if indeed, the dead had a thought to waste on the quick. He paused for a long moment before his favorite portrait, the first Duke of Knare, who by all accounts was the worst of the lot. He remembered the stories about a man who regularly indulged in roguery with his serving women, and had no qualms about taking Catholic lands, with Henry the Eighth’s entire approval.

“I was never that bad, Your Grace,” he said out loud, “although I suppose in our own way and time, we have fought for king and country.” He stood a moment more in thought, considering how nice it would be someday to have other paintings here. I could put all these stuffy progenitors in some other hall that no one frequents. “Then I’ll find an attic for this furniture and buy comfortable pieces,” he announced to his ancestors. “Just you wait.”

He looked around the long gallery with new eyes, imagining his wife reading to a child or rocking a baby, or even just listening to him as he lay on a well-stuffed sofa, shoes off, describing his day. “Heavenly,” he murmured. “I must find a wife. Good day to you all. Mind your manners, won’t you?”

Once he crossed the gallery, the kitchen was not far away, if down several flights. He allowed discretion to take over from valor, and directed his steps to the armory. Up another flight, and he opened the door.

Amos Yore looked up from his worktable, where he was polishing a gun lock. “G’day, Major,” he said in his quiet way, as though Nez had only been gone an hour or two. He gestured to the musket resting in the vice. “You were right to send me to that estate auction for old Lord Withers. Look at these.”

Nez gazed around in satisfaction at the gleaming weapons, and breathed deep of metal polish. “Private Yore, as much as you writhe when I tell you, you truly do have an eye to the beauty of arrangement. Now, I’d have just stuck those swords over there in a row, but you’ve hung them to illustrate thrust, parry, and all those other positions I’m thankfully forgetting.”

“It helps to have adequate wall space, Major,” Yore replied modestly. He cleared his throat. “Betty Gilbert likes it, too.”

“She does? Spend much time here?” he asked casually.

“If I don’t go belowstairs right sharpish, she brings me my dinner, Major.” Yore turned back to the gun lock, as though it needed his concentration. “I let her clean one of the bores, sir. Didn’t think you’d mind, because she knows her business.”

“I expect she does, seeing that her brother and father are my gamekeepers.” He touched Yore’s arm. “They’re good shots, too, Private, so mind your manners.”

“I do, Major,” he said promptly, then blushed. “I mean, that is to say . . .”

“You are a perfect gentleman?”

“Well, no, Major,” he said. “You know I am no gentleman.”

“Consider yourself blessed beyond measure,” Nez declared. “I am currently in trouble with everyone of my acquaintance, even if I am supposed to be a gentleman.” He sat down at the bench by Yore. “Private, I have hired a housekeeper whom I scarcely know, and who is Spanish. She carries an artilleryman’s satchel with the number nineteen stenciled on it. Did you know a sergeant with the Nineteen? I believe this particular one died at Quatre Bras. His name was Carr.”

“Didn’t nearly all the Nineteen die there?” Yore asked. He rested the stump of his leg on the bench and rubbed it thoughtfully. “They served in brigade with us now and then, didn’t they?”

“They did.”

Yore thought a moment more, then shook his head. “I remember an older sergeant, a quiet man, but I don’t remember a Spanish woman with him.” He spoke in a wondering voice. “Major, I thought I would never forget those days, but there’s so much now that I can’t recall.” He rubbed his leg again. “Betty’s father took me hunting with him. You had asked him to thin out the deer over by Finders.”

“I remember.”

“He made me a kind of stand, so I could lean and shoot. That’s what I think about now, and Betty. It’s better, isn’t it?”

“Much better,” he agreed, touched by what he was hearing. “I suppose I just wish I knew a little more about my new housekeeper.”

“Is she pretty?” Yore asked suddenly.

“Emphatically,” he said, startled by his own answer. “You know I’ve been missing those Spanish looks.”

Amos looked around dramatically. “Don’t let an English woman hear that confession, Major,” he said. “Revenge would be swift!”

They laughed together. “You know, Major, I think Allenby might remember the sergeant, and if he had a senora. Allenby of Pytch?”

He nodded, and couldn’t help but flinch a little when he thought of his second meeting with Yore on the London street corner where he was begging only last year. “You told me his wife was taking in laundry to support him.”

Yore brightened. “Not now, Major. The most amazing thing! I got a letter from him while you were gone. I nearly forgot. You won’t believe this, but about a year ago, a relative he can’t remember died and left him enough money to start a little business of his own. He has a sweetshop in Pytch and makes candy. Amazing good fortune, isn’t it?”

Good for you, Allenby, Nez thought. I was trusting that you would know what to do with that little parcel from a relative you’d never heard of. How good of him to die at such an opportune moment. “Yes, amazing good fortune, Yore.” He gestured to the weapons around him, and decided on a monumental change of subject. “And what does my sister tell me but there are visitors here all the time to tour your armory now.”

“It’s true, Major.” Yore grinned. “I think it bothers her ladyship, but there you are.”

“There I am. You said that Allenby might know something about the Nineteen?” he said, reminding the man.

“I’ll write him tonight.”

“Have him send us some sweets, too. After all, Yore, wasn’t I a purveyor of candies once?”

“I believe you were, Major,” Yore replied, and got up when Nez started toward the door. “How is that pretty lady you told me about? The one in Kent?”

He steeled himself for a pang, and it came, but not with enough force to make him flinch. “She is blooming and about to hatch. I think I’ll be a godfather soon.”

“Good for you, Major! I’ll write to Private Allenby and see what he remembers.”

Nez descended the stairs slowly, stopping by the mullioned window on the landing to gaze out at his park. My God, how peaceful it is, he thought. Was there really a time when I thought it boring? He saw a figure approaching, and hoped it was not Augusta returning from Ash Grove, girded for battle over his housekeeper. A longer look relieved his mind; it was one of Sir Michael’s footmen. Maybe he will tell me that my sister sprained her ankle and must remain at Ash Grove for at least six weeks, he thought.

He walked down the stairs and opened the front door just as the man was starting around to the servants’ entrance. “Over here, Cutting,” he said.

The footman handed him a note, and bowed. “Miss St. John told me to wait for a reply, Your Grace.”

He read the note quickly. “Tell your mistress I will be happy to dine with her and Sir Michael. You keep country hours, Cutting?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Dinner is at six. Good day.” Nez took out his timepiece and looked at it. This will at least relieve Liria of the strain of organizing a meal for me tonight, he thought, provided she is even planning to stay.

He took the long way to the kitchen, seeing none of the servants. For one horrid moment he thought that everyone had deserted Knare, that they had all packed their bags and were fleeing his estate like virgins in a bad three-volume novel. “Absurd,” he murmured as he approached the familiar green baize door and went quietly downstairs.

He heard the murmur of voices in the servants’ hall and slowed his steps when he heard his name mentioned. “Oh, the duke’s a care for nobody, but he’s harmless,” someone was saying. “It’s his sister what gets my back up. She scolds and frets and counts the silver, and declares that we all ought to be turned off without a character.”

So I’m a care for nobody, he thought, stung by the title at first, then fair enough to admit that the anonymous comment had some merit. He couldn’t see through walls, but he imagined that Liria Valencia, whom he had nearly left standing in the rain, was probably nodding her head in agreement.

If she was even there; he had to know. Nez went back to the stairs, tiptoed half up to the first floor landing, then clattered down this time, making sure to shut the door at the bottom with a decisive click. When he strolled around the corner into the servants’ hall, all was silent. His servants looked back at him in faint surprise, as though he had not taken his meals belowstairs with them all winter, and they were all caught in collective amnesia. Disagreeable wretches, he thought. Liria will imagine I feed you on bread, water, and kitchen floor sweepings. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Miss Valencia, may I assist you in any way?”