The Lodestone (6 page)

“How many times must you be told, Jacqueline?” the maid asked sarcastically. “If you don’t mash the tea properly, you get no flavor!”

Cleome reached the bottom of the stairs to see Fanny with her arms akimbo, a fist digging into each of her bony hips. Her stringy, unkempt hair was so blond it was almost devoid of color, and her tight, thin lips and razor-sharp nose made her look even more mean-spirited than she was. The French woman was easily intimidated by the strident English serving maid, whose daily pleasure it was to make her feel inadequate.

“If you please,” Cleome said quietly as she entered the dining room where the two women faced each other. Startled, they turned to her and she went on with firm, no-nonsense authority, “Get the tables cleared, then Jacqueline will help Mary with the rooms. You, Fanny, go and see if Tibbits needs you in the kitchen.”

**

Fanny opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it. Though little more than a girl, Miss Cleome was the mistress, after all, with Lady Adelaide gone. It was difficult to think of her that way, after so many years of watching her grow. But Miss Ramona was in no fit condition to take charge—and never would be. Cleome was learning and she was the light of the master’s life. Jacqueline had already begun to see to her tables; and with a bend of her knee to Cleome, Fanny followed suit. She knew which side her bread was buttered on. With the wages William Desmond paid her and considerations from happy customers an’ all, some folks would say it was buttered on both sides. She wouldn’t risk her livelihood for the likes of the master’s French whore.

**

Cleome wondered if she would ever feel comfortable ordering them all about. When she was a little girl, Fanny had washed her, fed her and even played with her a bit, until she had been caught by Adelaide in the act of “spoiling the child.”

The truth was, Adelaide hadn’t wanted her granddaughter to go the way her daughter had. She’d lost her chance to make Ramona a lady, and she declared she would not make the same mistake with Cleome, who must be ready to take her place in society when her Grandfather Houghton came to his senses. Adelaide dressed Cleome in clothes ordered up from London, taught her to speak like the gentry, and tutored her in refinements that would be of no use to the wife of a farmer or a tradesman. It had placed Cleome irrevocably between two worlds—the aristocracy, of which she knew little and desired to know less, and the simple country folk, with whom her grandmother had never allowed her to associate.

The remainder of the day was uneventful except for a skirmish between Fanny and Della as to who would take Mr. Stoneham his bathtub and awaken him from his nap. Della insisted she could not do it, for the prospect of rousing an adult male with the news that she had prepared so intimate an ablution terrified the innocent kitchen maid. Fanny, in contrast, was eager to serve Mr. Stoneham but she was needed downstairs. A party of six bridesmaids, the bride, a red-faced papa, a nervous mamma and an assortment of companions, chaperones and maids to the young ladies had stopped in that afternoon. As they were in danger of being late for the ceremony, they were demanding a hearty repast to fortify them for a night of traveling over rough country roads. Cleome knew that her assistance would be needed also, as badly as her grandfather hated to see her waiting tables; and it was out of the question for Fanny to be excused from her duties.

“But Miss Cleome,” argued Della, turning considerably paler. “I cannot! I’ve never waked a gentleman for his bath afore. He might be na—” she couldn’t speak the word. “He might not have any clothes on!” she finished miserably.

So Cleome ordered Mickey, the stable boy, to set the heavy wooden tub in place and then help Della carry buckets of hot water upstairs. When all was ready, he would wake Mr. Stoneham. Mickey was a cheerful, strapping lad and he was happy to trade the stables for the kitchen, where Mrs. Tibbits would be sure to slip him a taste of something delicious. Fanny sulked all during tea and afterwards, while clearing away. Cleome was determined to ignore her and had a smile for Young Sam when she entered the kitchen with a tray full of dishes and found him there.

“Uh, Miss Cleome, if you please,” he said awkwardly. “I be needing Mickey in the stables now, with the weddin’ party all prancin’ to be off, and all.”

“Of course,” she replied sweetly. “And he has my thanks for sparing our Della an everlasting mortification.” Young Sam nodded at Della, who blushed and looked away quickly after returning his greeting. Cleome wondered if the scullery maid was in love with the groom. Well, she thought, he’d never find better. Della was a solid, dependable girl and would make Young Sam a good wife. Although Cleome knew that she herself would never marry, she refused to begrudge happiness to those who could.

Mickey rose from the servant’s tea table, his battered cap in his hands, and informed her that Mr. Stoneham’s bath was finished and the tub cleared away. The gentleman required just one more pail of hot water to finish his shaving, he said, which Della was preparing at that moment. Fanny entered the kitchen then, also laden with a full dish tray, and volunteered to take it up.

As unschooled as she was in the art of seduction, Cleome didn’t know what Fanny might do; but she was sure the maid was up to some kind of mischief. Fanny was a good, hard worker, Granda had told her after Grandmamma died and he relied upon Cleome more and more to help run the inn, but she needed firm guidance or she was sure to get into trouble. “Thank you, Fanny,” Cleome replied. “But I can manage one pail of water.”

**

“Come in!” he roared when she knocked on his door. She opened it to find Drake Stoneham bare from the waist up. His back was to her and muscles rippled across it as he stretched one arm out to grope for a towel. With the other hand, he rubbed his eyes, which were tightly closed. “Dammit, boy! Get in here and fetch me a towel ere I go blind! I’ve got soap in my eyes!”

Quickly, Cleome entered, set the bucket down, and dipped a towel in the hot water. She thrust it into his hands and he quickly flushed out his eyes.

“Shall I call for help, Mr. Stoneham?” she inquired, alarmed. Surprised, he turned to her, opened his eyes and stared at her.

“Oh. It’s you.” As he took the towel away from his face, it was her turn to be surprised. He had shaved off his thick black beard, revealing a firm, square jaw and strong chin. His massive chest tapered down to a slim waist and his fine, white teeth gleamed as he smiled at her. She knew she had never seen a more handsome man.

“Shall I call for help, sir?” she repeated.

“No. I’m all right now.” He moved closer to her. “I’m in your debt, Miss Cleome.” His voice slid like dark silk over her name, attracting her like a magnet. She struggled to remain aloof and impersonal.

“Not at all. Mickey has had to return to the stables. It was no trouble, I assure you,” she said, backing out of the room. “If there’s more you require, you have but to ring the bell and I shall send someone straightaway.” As she closed his door, cutting off his view of her, she had again that inexplicable, yet somehow pleasant, sensation of breathlessness.

Chapter Four

By evening, the monstrous clouds building up in the east and threatening to pour out the heavens had dispelled the brief warmth of spring, just as William Desmond had predicted; and a nagging chill had settled over the inn. It was Cleome’s habit to take the record books into the downstairs sitting room after dinner and tally up the expenditures and profits of the day. It was a chore she enjoyed and more than once, she had told her granda that balancing the books was like putting a great puzzle together. He always said it made him proud that she had inherited his quickness with sums.

She had been responsible for shrewd changes in the Eagle’s Head since her grandmother’s death, changes that had saved them a lot of money. Her active brain appreciated any exercise and since Mr. Stoneham had ordered coffee and brandy for his guests, Cleome thought she would have time to attend to her bookkeeping. She was bending over the huge ledger, a rose-colored shawl draped about her shoulders, the feather of the quill pen resting against her cheek, when the door opened and Garnett led the gentlemen into the sitting room. With him were Lord Easton, Sir Rudgely Foxworth and Sir Rudgely’s brother-in-law from Manchester, who owned several coal mines.

“Oh, I say!” Garnett exclaimed on seeing her there. “I believe we’re intruding. I do beg your pardon, Cleome.” He did not sound the least bit contrite.

“Not at all,” she replied with measured courtesy. “Grandfather told me Mr. Stoneham was to have access to the sitting room after dinner. I am finished here.”

“Do not leave on my account,” Drake urged, his voice as smooth as fresh cream. “There’s room for both our endeavors.”

“Although how I’ll be able to concentrate on anything with such a lovely presence in the same room, I cannot fathom,” Garnett interjected, taking the seat nearest Cleome. “What are you studying so intently? Surely not lessons from school.”

Cleome didn’t like his familiar manner, especially in front of Mr. Stoneham and the others, for it made it appear that she and Garnett had a more intimate relationship than that of neighbors. But all eyes were turned on them, as if every man there would relish any return on her part that might instigate a bit of gossip. Lord Easton glared at Garnett and looked at Cleome with obvious disapproval, and she resolved that Garnett must be put off for once and all.

“I am working, sir,” she replied, rising gracefully from her chair. She closed the ledger and replaced the quill in its stand. “Seeing to the books is only one of the duties required of me.” She paused, waiting for the full inference of her words to sink in. But as her pride would not permit her to totally accede to the class differences that would forever divide them, she continued, “I do not recall our last meeting, before yesterday, with any fondness. I trust the years have taught you manners that befit a gentleman of your standing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my day’s work is not yet done.”

Her head high, she left the room; but not before she noted the relief that swept across Lord Easton’s features. His precious heir was safe from her wicked clutches. Cleome knew that’s what he was thinking and she took pleasure in imagining how surprised his lordship would be if he knew what she really thought of his pampered offspring. She had no way of knowing it, but the look in Drake Stoneham’ eyes conveyed a far different message—one of approval for her discriminating tastes.

**

A rumble of thunder shook the house, lightning flashed, and pounding rain battered the cobblestones outside as Cleome put her books away. Taking a candle, she went upstairs to look in on her mother. Ramona was fretful and restless, as she always was when the weather was bad. It had been storming wildly when the ruffians Adelaide had hired had torn Jimmy Parker from her arms by. That night—their wedding night— he had been beaten senseless and left to die. Ramona had not seen him since. Cleome knew this much of the story from Mary, the woman who was friend and nursemaid to her mother; and she had overheard gossip in the kitchen. So she knew the sounds of a summer storm had the power to plunge her mother deep into nightmares of the past. During such times, Ramona avoided sleep, for sleep was no escape.

“It’s all right, Mary,” Cleome told the woman bending anxiously over her mother. “I’ll stay with her. Get some rest. I expect the gentlemen will be late at their cards. You can clean the parlor in the morning.”

“Aye, Miss,” Mary said, with tears in her eyes. “She’s bad tonight.” Mary and Ramona had played together as children, and she loved her mistress like a sister. “I wish there was a way to ease her sufferin’,” she continued. “But there. What’s done is done.”

“You’re a daily comfort to her, Mary. Go on, now; I’ll call if you’re needed.” Cleome read to Ramona for a while and then sang to her over the wind and rain, but it was two in the morning before the invalid finally settled down and dozed off. Cleome pulled back the drapes and watched the downpour for a few minutes; and then she took the candle, intent on retiring to her room, but she met Jacqueline on the landing.

“Are they still at it?” she inquired. “Has Granda joined the game?”

“
Oui
,” Jacqueline replied, distraught. “Oh, mademoiselle! He is over his head with that one. He will not win from him.”

“But like this, I never see him. It is as if he hates this tall man. He cannot stop himself. Mademoiselle, I have see men lose everything, and I know. Your grandfather is not himself when he plays against this stranger.”

Suddenly, Cleome’s chest felt as if it were filled with chunks of ice.
Jacqueline’s anxiety is contagious
, she thought, but her grandfather knew what he was about. “I’m sure there’s nothing to fear,” she said at last. “I’ll look in on them. Go to bed, now.”

Cleome pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders and, shielding her candle from drafts, she hurried to the kitchen. As her excuse to investigate the events taking place in the parlor, she would serve some refreshments to the gentlemen. While the coffee was brewing, she sliced bread into generous pieces and placed them on a large platter. She was about to follow suit with the cheese when she heard a noise behind her and turned, startled to see Garnett Easton standing in the doorway, his elongated shadow falling across the kitchen floor.

“I saw you pass the door of that infernal room of disaster,” he said. “I thought you might need assistance, as it is unusual for young ladies to go gadding about in the middle of the night.”

“I can manage, thank you,” she said. She started to ask him to return to his friends, then thought better of it. “Room of disaster?” she ventured. “What do you mean?”