Fenella Miller (6 page)

All in all it had been a satisfactory day. If Mr Bucknall had been compos mentis none of the rearrangements could have taken place. His accident had benefited everyone including himself. Mr Foster had told her the master never went to bed because he suffered terrible nightmares. Today he had been sleeping in a bed without any signs of restlessness. It must have been lack of sleep that made him so irritable, it was possible he would be more amenable in the morning.

Mrs Turner had proved to be an excellent choice as cook. The evening meal had been quite delicious. Roast chicken with fresh vegetables from the garden followed by a strawberry tart and thick cream. She had eaten it in her parlour, the staff found it inhibiting having her amongst them.

There had been no problem of this sort at her previous employment, she and the housekeeper had eaten with the large staff. Of course, as a senior servant, she had sat at the head of the table but, apart from that, she was treated no differently from anyone else. The hierarchy below stairs was as rigid as that above. Everyone had a place and woe betide them if they did not stick to it.

With luck Mr Bucknall would remain in his bed tomorrow morning until the doctor had been. He was due to attend at 11 o'clock, so she had been told. This would give ample time to familiarise herself with the rest of the house. She had already been in the drawing-room where Mary had found pleasure in the pianoforte, it was a grand room but one she believed Mr Bucknall would not use. When it had been cleaned to her satisfaction she would have the furniture put under holland covers.

There was a delightful room, known as the yellow drawing room, that would be ideal. The breakfast room would be used as dining room; it would be nonsensical to use the grand dining room and seat him on his own at a table that could easily accommodate more than thirty.

It remained to be seen if Mr Bucknall would acquiesce to her plans. She hoped that when he saw how pleasant the house was he would accept the changes without losing his temper. If he bellowed at any of the young girls they would turn tail. She had warned them to be as unobtrusive as possible, to do their duties early in the morning or when they knew that their master was elsewhere.

A light tap on the door roused her from her reverie. Tilly appeared. "I've come for your tray, ma'am. Do you require anything else this evening?"

"Thank you, no, tell Cook it was delicious. Once the kitchen is cleared, if Mr Foster has no requirements, then you are all free for the rest of the evening. Tomorrow the men must clear the servants' hall so that you will have somewhere of your own to sit in your free time."

Slowly the great house settled into silence. The small brass clock, that was her pride and joy, chimed midnight. Emma was too excited to sleep, she would go to the kitchen and make herself a hot drink. A soothing cup of milk with cinnamon and sugar would do the trick.

It was a balmy night, a full moon streamed in through the windows making a candle unnecessary. However, it was likely to be dark in the corridor so she had best take a candlestick with her. She had removed her cap and apron long ago, her feet were bare beneath her skirts. She did not possess indoor slippers, her boots had to do for both inside and out and it was far cooler without them.

The nightingales were filling the air with their song, there must be a dozen birds at least to make such a wondrous chorus. She was smiling as she glided into the kitchen and came face-to-face with Mr Bucknall.

"I did not expect to see you up, sir, you should have rung. You should not be wondering about so soon after your accident."

His teeth flashed white in the gloom. "What would be the point of ringing when there is no one here to answer apart from yourself and old Foster?"

Was this the time to tell him she had appointed a manservant to take care of him? Perhaps not, she would much prefer this news to be relayed to him in the daytime when there were others in the vicinity. "If you would care to be seated, Mr Bucknall, I will get you whatever it is you have come looking for."

He swung out a chair with one hand and dropped into it. "I could smell bread baking from my chamber. I should like some of that and anything else there is to go with it. I can't remember how long it is since I had bread baked in my own kitchen."

She collected a platter on which she placed several slices of the chicken, chutney, three thick slices of bread and a generous pat of freshly churned butter. She could not understand how there could be any of the chicken left when there was so many to feed. There was also a generous wedge of strawberry tart to go with his impromptu supper.

As she carried the tray through she realised that these items had been given only to herself and her children, no one else had eaten them. Her eyes pricked, it was a long time since anyone had treated her with such kindness.

In her short absence he had been busy lighting candles and the kitchen was now bathed in a warm glow. She could not help but be aware that he had a fresh white shirt on, but no cravat and the strong column of his neck was clearly visible. She scarcely noticed the puckered skin on the right-hand side, it was part of him, nothing to be bothered by. She had seen far worse injuries in the time she had spent on the continent; most wives and loved ones were just grateful their men survived in whatever shape or form.

"Here you are, sir. I was going to make myself some hot milk, would you care for some?"

His snort of disgust made her laugh. "Cider or coffee—either will do."

She had noticed a fresh flagon on the cool slate shelf in the larder. All desire for hot milk had now left her, she would give him his cider and then retreat to her own room until he was done. Her bare toes curled in the thought of his reaction if he should realise how inappropriately she was attired for someone who purported to be a respectable housekeeper.

The brimming tankard was placed beside his elbow, he nodded, his mouth to full to speak. He swallowed hastily. "I thank you, madam, do not let me detain you. I shall douse the candles myself before I retire."

She remembered the changes she had made to his domain. How could she prevent him from returning there tonight? The thought of the house in uproar, her children woken from their slumber, was not a prospect she relished. "It was so kind of Mr Foster to vacate his chamber for you, Mr Bucknall. He has been obliged to remove to the attic in order to find somewhere to sleep." Hopefully reminding him that he was not the only one in the house, that others had needs and sensitivities to be considered, might keep him where he was for tonight at least.

His eyes narrowed, becoming almost black as he digested her remark. When he spoke her confidence shrivelled. "I am the master here, Mrs Reed, it is your place, and his, to accommodate my every wish if you care to remain in my employ. You would do well to remember it if you wish to remain here above a fortnight."

With flaming cheeks she curtsied. "I understand exactly, sir. You have made it perfectly clear. If you require nothing else tonight, I will bid you good night."

She backed out, forgetting to take her candlestick in her hurry to depart. Twice on her return to her apartment she stubbed her bare toe in the darkness. Her humiliation had turned to anger long before she scrambled into bed. The only positive aspect of the unpleasant encounter had been that he had talked of her staying for two weeks, that was a great improvement on demanding that she left in the morning.

* * * *

Rupert cursed his bad temper as the lovely young woman fled from him. He had been taken aback by seeing her toes peeping from beneath her hem, a glimpse of her slender ankles had almost unmanned him making him unnecessarily harsh. Since Amy had died he had not once thought of finding himself another wife, thought himself past redemption, too damaged in body and spirit to make an acceptable husband.

But from nowhere this young widow had appeared and feelings he'd thought long gone were stirring within him. Hard times had brought her here, she was a lady born and bred, would not be working as a servant otherwise. She had been here barely two days and already he felt his world shifting beneath his feet as though he no longer had control over his own destiny. He had vowed never to love again, to do so would only lead to further grief and heartache.

Love? What maggot had got into his brain now? Mrs Reed was his employee, the fact that she had hair the colour of ripe corn and eyes as blue as the summer sky was nothing to him. He would send her on her way as soon as he was recovered. There was brandy in his study, he had intended to go there and drink it.

Something stopped him. Perhaps he would try to sleep in a bed tonight, he still felt weak as a kitten, he wasn't sure he could make his way through the house without mishap. It was nothing to do with Mrs Reed's comment about Foster, nothing at all. He was going to remain downstairs because it suited him.

Now his stomach no longer gurgled emptily, he would return to his temporary abode and pray that he did not suffer from the nightmares that plagued him whenever he was prone in bed.

* * * *

Emma wasn't sure what had woken her. The hair on the back of her neck was standing up, something had frightened her awake. Was it the children? She threw back the covers and scrambled out ready to rush to their side. She was at the doorway when a cry of such despair echoed along the corridor that it almost broke her heart.

Snatching up her bed robe she dashed into the passage, it was Mr Bucknall. Her arms were barely through the sleeves when she burst into his room. He was sitting up in bed, his eyes wide open, his face twisted in agony. He was fast asleep, gripped tight by a savage nightmare.

Without a second's hesitation she ran to his side. "Mr Bucknall, sir, wake up, I implore you. You are having a nightmare."

His hands were icy, cold sweat trickled down his tortured face, but he did not wake. He cried out a second time and tears streamed down his cheeks. She could think of nothing else to do but what she did for her children when they were so afflicted. She climbed on to the bed beside him and gathered him close. For a moment he resisted, still moaned in that heartrending fashion, then slowly he relaxed against her. His arms somehow found their way about her waist and he pulled her down beside him.

When she tried to move away he started to toss his head and mutter. She had no option but to remain where she was, he was in danger of reopening his wound the way he was struggling.

"There, there, it's all right now. You sleep, I shall hold you whilst you rest."

Her soothing words worked and within a few minutes of her arrival he was breathing deeply, evenly. He was fast asleep and she was beside him in bed, in her night apparel. In the moonlight she could see he was still in his shirt. That was something, she supposed. She was quite definitely inappropriately dressed, but if she remained on top of the covers until she was able to extricate herself then maybe her reputation would still be intact.

This was the second time today she had held him. His head was heavy against her chest, the warmth from his skin seeping through the two thicknesses of her clothes. As she dozed her mind drifted, when had her husband last held her in this way? Shocked, her eyes flew open. She and John had not shared an intimate moment like this since Jack had been born.

Her hand moved of its own volition to stoke his hair. Foster must have been obliged to wash it because of the blood, and now it was soft and silky beneath her touch. Somehow she slipped down the pillows until she was lying flat. As sleep claimed her she knew, like Pandora and her box, she was going to regret this escapade in the morning.

It was the cockerel in the stable yard that woke Emma next morning. She felt strangely warm and comfortable, believed she had not rested so well for years. It was what she had always loved best about being married to John, the closeness they sometimes found in each other's arms.

Her sleep befuddled brain cleared. John had been dead for more than a year, and they had shared nothing but arguments for the three years before that. She didn't dare to open her eyes, she recalled exactly where she was and with whom. Thank the good Lord he had now rolled away from her, perhaps she could slip away and he would be none the wiser.

With infinite care she inched her way to the edge of the bed, dropped first one barefoot, and then the other, to the boards. She froze. Had he stirred? No, his breathing was even, she was safe. After a few more agonising seconds she was on her feet and moving stealthily to the half open door. She whisked through it and ran back to her lonely bed, climbed in and pulled the sheets up to her chin.

So many strange things had been happening to her since she arrived at Stansted Manor, she was behaving out of character and yet felt more invigorated than she could remember. Perhaps living dangerously suited her better than behaving with decorum. She would make sure that Fred did not ring the neck of the cockerel, without his intervention she would be in dire straits indeed.

A gurgle of unexpected laughter bubbled forth. Why was she getting in such a pother about her reputation? She was no longer a lady but a servant, she need not give a fig for such things. As long as she behaved as would be expected of a respectable housekeeper, no one else would care one way or the other what she did in her own time. There was an unexpected freedom in her straitened circumstances that she had never considered before. She need not agonise about having spent the night in the arms of a gentleman without the benefit of clergy, both she and he knew nothing improper had taken place. That was all that mattered. Well, he, fortunately knew nothing about what had happened so that was one less thing to worry about.

She yawned, it was just after four o'clock, she did not have to rise until six—plenty of time to go back to sleep. As her eyes flickered shut; it was not John she saw smiling down at her but a black-haired, dark visaged man.

* * * *

Rupert continued to breathe as if asleep until he was certain the delectable Mrs Reed had gone. He felt wonderful, relaxed and refreshed and it was all due to the kindness of his housekeeper. He could not imagine any other woman prepared to do what she had done for him. She must never know that he had woken half an hour ago to find himself in her arms.