No Other Love (3 page)

The housekeeper sighed, her expression softening. “Mr. Fletcher is a good man, if sometimes rough in his ways. And I have no desire to go to Mrs. Fletcher, as I assure you it would help none of us. Men will do foolish things for a pretty girl, and you’re far prettier than most. But whether you brought this on or not, I advise you to be careful.”

Rose was about to defend herself but thought better of it. The housekeeper had been kinder than she needed to be given the circumstances, and she was not blaming Rose for anything, simply warning her. A warning she would certainly heed.

“Yes, of course. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Never mind that. Finish up and get some rest. The morning will come soon enough.”

Rose stood in the middle of the kitchen after Mrs. Craig left, trying to make sense of why Luke Fletcher would care what she did. Whatever the reason, being accorded favors by the master’s son would not sit well with the others.

She fumed as she swabbed the floor, heaving the heavy mop around the kitchen as she contemplated the trouble she was likely to encounter. But soon her indignation wore off and her movements slowed as she began to see that this was not such a bad turn of events after all. In fact, it was very much for the better, as Mr. Fletcher’s interference meant she would be able to move throughout the house, a dramatic improvement in her situation.

As badly as she felt that her advancement came at Dottie’s expense, her father was more important than anything else. She stood a better chance of finding his killer now, and that was all that mattered.

It was after midnight when she dumped the blackened water out the back door and put the mop away. Climbing the steps to the servants’ quarters took the very last of her strength, and when she reached her room she had barely enough energy to undress. With great effort she shed her shoes and dress and stepped out of her petticoats. Taking care not to disturb Lydia, whose sleeping form was revealed by the pale moonlight, she set her shoes under the chair and her clothes atop it. A great sigh of relief escaped her as she unfastened her corset and took her first deep breath since early that morning.

Without even changing her chemise for a nightgown or removing her stockings, she fell back onto the lumpy straw mattress. But like every night since her father’s death, she could not escape the vision that came to her as soon as she closed her eyes.

Her father lay on the ground, his face pale and clammy, his lips a faint blue. Blood soaked his shirt, turning it black.

Rose fell to her knees in the deep February snow, tears coursing down her cheeks.

“No, no. Oh, God, Papa,” she sobbed, the sound echoing in the silence of the wood.

“Rose,” he said, his voice weak. His eyes were open and direct, full of pain.

“It’s okay, Papa. I’ll take care of you,” she choked out, her hands working frantically at his coat and shirt to get to his wound. Taking off her apron she pressed it to his chest. “I’ll get Aunt Olivia. She’ll know what to do.”

“No, Rose,” he gasped out, his voice so faint she had to lean down to hear him.

“I must get help,” she sobbed, hardly able to see through her tears. “You've lost so much blood.”

“Stay,” he said, his hand reaching for her. He was so cold, his once strong grip
too weak to hold on to her. Despair pressed down on her as she took his hand in both of hers, willing her life into him.

“Who did this to you?”

His face was relaxed now, as if he were already leaving her. “Fletcher…”

“What do you mean?” she asked, willing him to keep talking, to stay with her.

“My sweet girl,” he said, closing his eyes.

The next moment he went utterly quiet, not even a breath moving through him. Rose held his hand in hers, unable to let go, still pleading with God to save him.

Chapter Two

A cheerful humming wakened Rose after what felt like mere minutes of sleep. Opening her eyes she saw Lydia, already dressed, braiding her hair and pinning it back. Wishing for a few moments of peace, Rose said nothing, gazing out the window as the gray light of dawn lit the sparsely furnished room.

This had always been her favorite time of day. She and her father used to sit at the kitchen table in companionable silence, eating a slice of buttered bread with a cup of tea as the sun rose over the countryside and lit up the windows.

There was no stopping the coming of day. The feeling had once been a comfort to her. Now it just made her more aware of her burden.

Lydia turned as Rose sat up in bed, her round, freckled face brightening immediately.

“At last you're awake,” she exclaimed. “I tried to stay up for you but I just couldn't keep my eyes open. Well, I daresay you won't be working like that again. Oh, the girls are just in fits about it, I tell you. You're not here a day and already you've created a scandal.”

She went on, oblivious to the effect she was having on Rose. “So tell me,” she said, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “What did you do to make Mr. Fletcher so smitten with you?”

Rose’s heart sank at the damage Luke Fletcher’s foray into the kitchen had caused. Determined to correct Lydia's misconceptions, she spoke with more than usual force.

“Lydia, I don't know what everyone’s saying, but it's all a terrible misunderstanding. I admit it's strange that Mr. Fletcher would have wanted to intervene on my behalf, but there’s nothing at all between us. I spent only a few minutes in his presence when I arrived yesterday. Perhaps he was trying to do me a good turn, but it’s nothing more than that. We've barely spoken to one another.”

“But of course! You helped him into the house when he was injured, which is terribly romantic. Though it would have been more romantic had
he
helped
you
. Even so,” she continued darkly, “when he's done with you, you'll have no one to protect you anymore.”

“He won't be done with me, as he hasn’t begun anything with me,” Rose replied firmly, standing up to retrieve her corset and petticoats. “I mean nothing to him. Besides, I have my own beau at home. I’m not interested in anyone else.”

“It’s easy as pie to like two fellows at once, especially when one of them is far away,” Lydia responded, her dreamy countenance suggesting she was recalling just such a scenario.

“I’ve only just arrived and everyone thinks ill of me,” Rose said, thoroughly dismayed. “And I don’t know how I’ll face Dottie.”

 “Yes, Dottie’s furious, and she’s been known to hold a grudge.”

Rose groaned at this and sat down heavily on the bed, her face in her hands.

“Don’t worry,” Lydia consoled. “They won’t be too awful, as they all think you can get Mr. Fletcher to sack them. Anyway, I’ll help you. I can see you’re a good sort.”

Rose looked up, smiling wanly at her new ally.

“Thank you, Lydia. That’s very kind of you. I’m afraid you’ll also need to explain to me what I should be doing from now on, as I haven’t a clue.”

“Oh, that’s no trouble. You’ll get the hang of it in no time. And now that you’re a maid we can really get to know one another. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Just make sure you don’t get on Mrs. Fletcher’s bad side. She doesn’t forget anything.”

Remembering Mrs. Fletcher’s displeasure of the day before, Rose feared she had already managed to rub her the wrong way, but there was nothing to be done about it now except make sure the mistress of the house had no further reason to notice her. How difficult could that be?

“We’d best hurry down for breakfast,” Lydia told her. “Mrs. Beech, our cook, makes a horrible fuss when anyone's late to table, though luckily we don’t need to do much serving in the morning. We set food out on the sideboard and they come down and eat when they please.”

Rose rushed to dress, but she struggled with her corset lacings. Aunt Olivia and she had always laced each other up, so she was grateful when Lydia came behind her and with a few tugs set her to rights. Hastily Rose donned her petticoats, dress and a new white apron she’d sewn expressly for this position. Her hair, which she would normally have plaited before bed, had completely fallen out of its pins. Pulling a brush out of her valise, she tidied it before twisting it into a serviceable knot at the back. The hair that framed her face was shorter, as was the style, but since this was not the sort of situation one curled one’s hair for, she braided each side and pinned that back as well. Lydia stood watching her and sighed dramatically.

“My mother always said red hair was a sign of the devil, but yours is so pretty it's hard to believe that’s true. Of course, the talk about you might convince people otherwise, but we won’t pay them any mind, will we, Rose?” Lydia said, smiling and waving her hand dismissively.

How had
she
become a
we
? Bemused though she was by her new roommate, it was a comfort not to feel so alone. Grateful to have someone at her side, Rose followed Lydia out of the room and down to the servants’ hall.

The entire tableful of servants ceased talking and looked up as soon as Rose entered the room. Throwing her a look of encouragement, Lydia took a seat on one of the long benches and Rose followed, squeezing in at the end.

Someone walked by and placed dishes on the table, far out of her reach. Glancing up, Rose found herself face to face with Dottie who, as scullery maid once more, was bringing all the food to the table before sitting down herself. This she soon did, sliding in directly across from Rose and fixing her with a look of contempt.

Rose concentrated on getting food on her plate, no easy task when most of the people at the table had no interest in passing food to her. But she had not come all this way just to be intimidated at the breakfast table. Ignoring Dottie’s constant glare, she asked politely but firmly for the buns, raspberry tarts and fried potatoes until her plate was full.

Eventually conversation started up again, though she could feel everyone looking at her with either suspicion or outright malice. Everyone, that is, except Lydia, who gave her arm a comforting squeeze.

As soon as breakfast was eaten they all scattered and left Dottie to clean up, but Rose lingered in order to apologize. She had barely begun before Dottie interrupted.

“If you’re so sorry, why am I still scullery maid?” she demanded.

“This wasn’t my doing, so I’m afraid I cannot undo it,” Rose replied, all too aware that as apologies went, hers wasn’t very impressive.

“That doesn’t help me none, does it?” said Dottie before turning on her heel and heading into the kitchen.

Rose stood where she was, her face hot with shame. Never before had anyone disliked her so. To be hated now, when she was new and so unsure of herself, left her shaken. In all of her planning, she’d never considered outright hostility from the servants.

After a few deep breaths to settle her nerves she went in search of Lydia, who took Rose on a quick tour of the house.

The main part of the building, which was more or less a square but for where the ballroom protruded on the bottom floor, comprised the family living space. The library, ballroom and drawing room were on the left side and the morning room, dining room and billiard room were on the right. Upstairs were the master bedchamber, Mr. Fletcher’s private study and three smaller bedchambers, one of which was currently occupied by Luke Fletcher. The topmost floor held still more guest chambers, though they could not be used in the full heat of summer.

The pantry, servants’ hall, kitchen and laundry rooms were in a wing that extended off the back of the house from the dining room. Above the wing were the maids’ quarters.

At Lydia’s direction Rose cleaned and polished while committing to memory everything she saw and heard. She thought it best to wait until she knew the habits and patterns of both servants and family before she began her investigations, so she resolved not to do anything out of the ordinary for the first few days.

The other servants remained cold toward her, but even so it was good to be working in the general living quarters, as she would be privy to all manner of conversations. The family gave little thought to the staff, often speaking as if they didn’t exist, so she was hopeful that sooner or later she would overhear something useful.

It was late afternoon on her third day when she entered the morning room. She cleaned the windows with a water and vinegar solution and carefully dusted the writing table, taking care to replace the pen, ink and sheets of paper exactly as they had been. Next she went around the room tidying books that were scattered about. It was not until she set the pile on a table that she noticed the book sitting on top.

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s collection of essays had been a favorite of her father’s since its publication earlier in the year. Even now she could hear him reading aloud passages to her and her aunt of an evening, after they’d eaten and all the chores had been done.

A smile curved her lips as she recalled the many times he’d referred to or quoted from it, so often in fact that she’d begun to tease him, making up silly quotes and insisting they came from Emerson himself.

 She heard her father’s laugh as if he were right beside her, and then her heart was breaking all over again. Silently she spoke to him, as she often did, once again promising she would not let his murder go unpunished. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she hugged the book to her chest, wishing with all her heart that she could have him back again.

She stood there for several long minutes until gradually she became aware of someone watching her. She knew without looking it was Luke Fletcher.

He was standing in the doorway, looking bigger and more intimidating now that he’d recovered from the fall. Dressed in a black jacket and trousers and gray pinstriped vest, he was unnervingly handsome.

“Why are you crying?” he demanded. Crossing the room in two strides, he gripped her shoulders until she was forced to meet his gaze. With an urgency that took her by surprise he searched her face, genuine concern in his eyes, so near he overwhelmed her. She could smell the clean spice of him, feel his heat as he waited for her answer.