Timeless Passion: 10 Historical Romances To Savor (90 page)

Various cries of dismay went up all around the table. Katie looked at Michael, the questions clear in her eyes.

“Not to do the cooking,” he hastened to add, “but to help me, and to help with the rest of the housework. You can’t do it all.”

Katie looked relieved. “No, perhaps not. But the woman is
dishonest
, sir.”

“Sshhh. She’s not dishonest,” Michael tried hard to communicate with only his eyes that he wanted Katie to shut up. She looked as if she would argue with him, but then she glanced sideways at Mrs. Mallory and then said nothing.

“As I say, she’s not dishonest. She’s been on the staff here for over thirty years, and she has always made a valuable contribution.”

Katie rolled her eyes.

“Lizzie Jessop is the last of the servants who were here in your parents’ day, isn’t she, Michael?”

“Yes. Exactly,” said Michael. “Jessop is a tradition we must uphold. I’m planning to talk to her tomorrow, if I get the chance. Try to smooth things over.”

“Good idea, Michael.” Mrs. Mallory sat back in her well-padded dining chair and folded her hands over her enormous girth. Perhaps she was finally full, Michael thought, ungraciously.

“Well, as I was saying, people in the village are very curious about Katie. They’d love to meet her. And of course they’d love to see more of you, Michael, now that you are feeling better. The village dance is coming up next month.”

Michael sighed. Mrs. Mallory’s purpose was about to become clear.

“The dance has been held on May Day for at least the last two hundred years,” she said. “It is impossible that you have forgotten.”

Michael glanced at Katie and noticed that a pink flush of embarrassment was coloring her cheeks rather prettily. She moistened her lips and looked down at her table napkin, refusing to meet his eye.

“The dance seems a marvelous opportunity for Katie to meet everyone in the village, wouldn’t you say?”

“Absolutely. I hope she enjoys it very much,” Michael said, rather crossly.

Mrs. Mallory wasn’t giving up that easily. “And what about
you
, Michael?”

“What the hell would I do at a dance, Marjory? Except drink myself stupid and chat to the vicar?”

Four children looked up sharply, their eyes wide.

“Your parents always made the effort to attend. And you yourself were talking about upholding tradition, just a few minutes ago.”

George piped up. “You could invite Mrs. Jessop, if you think no one else will go with you,” he said, in a helpful tone of voice.

“Dear God,” Michael said, under his breath. This was too much.

“Blasphemy. In front of the children,” Katie murmured.

Michael gave them what he hoped was a withering glance.

“You should consider attending the dance, Michael,” Mrs. Mallory persisted. “It’s a duty that comes with your title, like attending the House of Lords, although I understand you’ve been shirking that responsibility, too.”

Michael sighed deeply. “You know I can’t bear sitting in the House, Marjory.”

“He can’t bear sitting anywhere — he’s always saying so,” said Roy. It was the first of Roy’s usual tactless interjections at the meal, and Michael was grateful it was such a mild one.

Alfie’s eyes were almost out on stalks at the mention of the House of Lords. He leaned forward across the table, and said, “Hey, Mister, have you ever met the king?”

“On several occasions. Though he doesn’t usually attend the village dance.”

Mrs. Mallory gave a snort of impatience. “Think it over, Michael. Think about what your father would have done.”

Michael thought for a moment and then he smiled. “I think if my father had taken Katie Rafferty to the dance, my mother would have slapped his face and banished him to the billiard room for a fortnight.”

“Michael!”

Katie had obviously had enough. She stood up and started clearing away the plates, none too graciously. When she snatched Michael’s plate, a drop of gravy landed on his sleeve. He scowled down at it, and then glanced up and saw her face reddening with alarm. He reached languidly for his napkin and dabbed away the spot.

She looked visibly relieved. “Shall I be serving the pudding, now, sir?”

For a moment, Michael felt contrite. It wasn’t her fault that she was caught in the crossfire between him and Mrs. Mallory. But really, he
couldn’t
take a servant to the dance, not even one as pretty as Katie.

After lunch, they moved to the drawing room at Mrs. Mallory’s insistence. Michael knew what the wretched woman was trying to do: force a motley group of people with nothing in common to pretend they were a real family. He scowled at the woman, but he let her have her way. For the moment, at least.

Michael hoped to ignore everyone and gaze out of the window, but Alfie tugged at his sleeve.

“I’ve got an idea about the car, sir.”

Michael leaned forward and whispered to the boy, “Spill.”

“Roy told me that people in London siphon petrol out of other people’s tanks if they need some.”

Michael frowned, and glanced across at Roy who was sitting stiffly on the chesterfield next to Mrs. Mallory, receiving a grilling about something or other.

Alfie’s chattering revealed a keen interest in the physics involved in siphoning petrol. Michael was beginning to get the impression that Alfie was a boffin in a child’s body, one of those midget geniuses that some unlucky parents discovered in their otherwise normal families.

Michael’s physics was a little rusty, so he couldn’t really help Alfie. Michael had been a classical scholar at Cambridge, and a disinterested one at that. His chief talent had been attracting pretty girls to go punting with him, on the river. Michael had been an expert at handling the shallow watercraft — and handling the girls who liked to recline in them. He could see them now, trailing their fingers in the water and enjoying the afternoon sun. He sighed. Those days were gone.

He realized Alfie was trying to ask him something.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“Should I ask Roy to siphon some petrol for you, Mister Lord? Then you could really take the MG for a spin.”

“Heavens no! Roy will get into trouble if he does something like that,” Michael lowered his voice so that Katie and Mrs. Mallory couldn’t hear. “Roy mustn’t do that. Under any circumstances.”

“Will you ask Mr. Hammond, then? He must get a petrol allowance for the farm, I reckon.”

Michael shrugged. “I’m not sure. He’s always driving around in the Austin. He must get the petrol from somewhere.”

“If he’s got plenty, he could give us some, couldn’t he? I’d love to see that car of yours going, sir. The engine in a roadster does over five thousand revolutions a minute.” Alfie was a mine of useless information.

Michael smiled. He’d love to see the MG going again, too, especially when he remembered Katie’s pretty face flushing with pleasure when she got into the passenger seat. “I think I will telephone Mr. Hammond. That’s a good idea.”

Perhaps there was a petrol allowance, Michael wondered, for running the farm vehicles and taking stock to market. And if it were true, Hammond was making full use of it. He was always borrowing the Austin and taking girls out on little jaunts. Yes, he envied Hammond. Not only did the bloke have two fully functional legs, he also had the confidence of a man about three times more attractive than he actually was. All that man had to do was start talking and twenty minutes later, all the village lasses were like putty in his hands. If Michael didn’t do something about it, he’d be all over Katie.

Michael wondered how Hammond had escaped the war. He seemed perfectly fit and healthy. Perhaps he was exempt because of the farm. Michael had never been remotely interested in the details. His father had handled it all until his recent death. All Michael knew was that Hammond was allowed to stay and the other men had all been drafted. These days, the farm was worked by three conscientious objectors and a land girl.

His curiosity roused, Michael abruptly left the gathering to wheel his way to his office, where he telephoned Hammond straight away. He reckoned the boy was right. Maybe there was a petrol allowance.

Chapter Seven

“Has anyone asked you to the dance yet?” Mrs. Mallory inquired when she joined Katie in the queue at the butcher’s shop.

“Oh yes,” Katie replied and rolled her eyes. “You’d never think there was a shortage of men in this village. I wish people would stop asking me.”

“And is one of them Michael, may I ask?” A glint came into Mrs. Mallory’s eye.

“Michael?”

“His lordship.”

“I know his lordship’s name is Michael, but he won’t ask me. He can’t dance. He doesn’t like music, and he doesn’t like me. Three very good reasons why he won’t ask.”

“I was hoping he would.”

“I’m going with Arthur Perkins. The policeman. At least he’s polite.”

“Oh, I am disappointed, Katie. I thought it would be a chance to get Michael out of the house. He used to love the village dance, and it would be a chance to show people that he’s back in charge now, to begin to win people’s love and loyalty like his parents did. Tell Arthur you’ve changed your mind.”

“I’m shocked you would even suggest such a thing,” Katie said, but she kept her tone of voice light and good-humored. “Arthur would be very disappointed.”

“I know. But I think someone else may feel a little put out when he realizes he’s missed his chance. And it wouldn’t be cricket to change horses now, would it?”

“You’re mixing your metaphors, Mrs. Mallory.”

Katie smiled, struggling with the image of Arthur and Michael as rival mounts. Arthur Perkins, the village policeman, was a bit of a pit pony with his wispy brown hair and his tubby underbelly. Michael was pure English Thoroughbred — refined, highly strung, and immaculately groomed. The type of animal you longed to reach out and touch to see if it was really as warm and smooth and handsome as it looked. Yes, she knew which one she liked best, even if she only admitted it to herself.

Then she bit her lip and experienced a wave of guilt. Surely, it wasn’t right to have even a hint of
that
kind of feeling for a man like Michael. His injuries made it highly inappropriate. On the other hand, if you were lucky enough to work for a rich, handsome, young man you’d be almost bound to have secret dreams. If the man expressed interest in you it would be a huge temptation, but still one best avoided. Affairs between employers and servants went on all the time, Katie knew, but they nearly always ended in disgrace for the girl. She knew all about that, and Tom had only been a grocer’s son.

Heaven knows, she didn’t want a man, anyway. She’d only agreed to go to the dance with Arthur because he wouldn’t stop asking her until she said yes.

• • •

She aroused him. Every time she was near, Michael thought about what he would have done if he had been on his feet. The flirtatious little jokes he would have told just to see if his interest was reciprocated, and the moves he would have made if it were. He would have crept up on her working in the kitchen and tried to steal a kiss. Her reaction would have been priceless. He would show her around the estate, impressing her with his rank and privilege before shocking her a little with an invitation to the hayloft to enjoy a
spectacular
view.

That was all over now. He could see the years stretching out in front of him while he sat like this, miserable and aloof, until he became old and hunched. If he ever did take a wife, he supposed it would be a platonic arrangement; he’d find a woman who wanted to marry him for his title and they would live like a pair of amiable neighbors, enjoying quiet breakfasts on the terrace and polite but distant conversation.

God, that wasn’t what he wanted!

He’d rather have nothing than endure that. Before his accident, he’d been such a passionate man. He
loved
the company of women and had no trouble getting it, either. He always had a girlfriend. And then there was Connie — blond, statuesque Connie — of whom his parents had thought so highly. Though they didn’t really know her, not like Michael did. She was a superficial person, difficult to fathom at first, hiding her true feelings underneath her languid good manners. Her people were richer than the Farrendens, and since his family was extremely wealthy, that made her the catch of the century. It had been a consummate triumph when she agreed to marry him, and his parents had been so thrilled.

They never knew about his accident and how it had all fallen apart with Connie. It was a kind of comfort that they died thinking he would marry a fine girl and take over the estate when he came back — victorious, of course — from the war.

But then the nagging doubts came. Is that what his parents thought? They must have been worried out of their minds while he flew sorties every day for the RAF. They had followed the war news with great anxiety, both of them having lived through the first one. They clutched at each other’s hands and told each other it would be over soon. And it was, for them.

They had been returning from London in their car just after the blackout was enforced in earnest. Using car headlamps was forbidden and they shouldn’t have attempted the journey at all. They lost their way in the dark, which was understandable since the road signs had all been removed.

Michael sighed. They must have gotten flustered and tried to get back onto the right road. Michael’s father was already dead at the scene. His mother died three days later in hospital. So he had survived and they had died. Needlessly.

He’d toyed with the idea of joining them. Thought about finding his father’s old rifle and doing the deed himself. But his mother would be disgusted by such cowardice. She would tell him that option neglected his duty to his tenants and to the villagers whose loyalties belonged to him. Four centuries of tradition abandoned because he didn’t want to buck up and run the estate as he had been born and bred to do.

There was no easy way out.

Chapter Eight

Scraping the plates in the scullery, Katie was glad the meal had gone as well as it did. Empty plates meant they had enjoyed it, and just for today, she left the stack of dishes on the draining board for later. She went back into the warm kitchen to listen to the wireless. Michael was still there, of course, notwithstanding everything he had said about needing to write important letters in the peace and quiet of his study. Katie had come to realize that lately his lordship spent most of his time in the part of the house that used to be called “below stairs.”