To Have and to Hold (6 page)

Back in her own wing, descending the worn stone steps to the basement, she heard a voice coming from a door midway down the narrow corridor. Her steps slowed as she drew closer. She could hear several voices now, men's as well as women's, and the sound of cutlery. The servants' hall, then. They were having breakfast.

She stopped dead, clutching at her skirts. How could she just—walk in? What would she say first? Maybe one of them would speak first. A knot in her stomach began to ache. She'd say her name, tell them she was the new housekeeper.
Hello
—no—
Good morning. I'm Rachel
—no—
I'm Mrs. Wade. I'm the new housekeeper.
After that... she couldn't imagine anything after that. Things would just happen, it would unfold naturally. Other people would talk, she would answer. She would look them in the eye and do what she had been forbidden to do for the last ten years: speak.

She brushed at her wrinkled skirts, smoothed her hair, straightened her spine. The knot had ascended to her throat, but she ignored it. Now or never. Taking a deep breath, she made herself march into the servants' hall.

There were too many of them. Someone's sentence broke off in the middle of a word and silence fell over the room. She took in a table, scrubbed oak, chairs all around it, only half occupied, but—
so many people.
And their faces staring, turning, gaping, eyes, eyes, looking her in the face, looking her up and down. She saw them all and kept looking, engaging all the eyes, because if she looked away, if she hunched her shoulders and made herself invisible, she would fail at this post and lose her only chance at saving herself. So she looked back at them, even though their wide, curious gazes felt like pinpricks all over her skin. But she could not, simply could not speak.

The silence lengthened, became absurd. And then someone laughed—a woman, with a high-pitched giggle, nervous and mean. Rachel made herself look at her. She was young, twenty or so, dark-haired, with small brown eyes in a pointed face. Beside her, a boy in the rough clothes of a stable lad began to snicker.

Over the laughter, her voice quavered humiliatingly. "Good morning. I'm Rachel—I'm—Mrs. Wade. The new housekeeper."

The sharp-featured woman muffled more laughter into a glass of milk, like a schoolgirl, only the sound was nasty, not mischievous. Still no one spoke. At last, at last, the maid named Susan—the one who had taken her to her room last night, curtsied to her and said, "Yes, ma'am," and "Very good, ma'am,"— stood up at the table and blurted out, "Good morning, Mrs. Wade. I expect you'll want to sit here, since it's where Mrs. Fruit always sits. Used to sit, I mean. It's only porridge today, Cook's in a bad—um—not feeling too brave, he says. Clara, would you fetch Mrs. Wade a bowl an' spoon, an' a mug for 'er cocoa? Or there's tea, ma'am, if you'd rather." By now her freckled face was bright red, and her eyes were darting around the table, desperate for an ally. So: coming to the rescue of hapless, hopeless wretches was a risk for Susan, not an everyday thing.

Once, in prison, Rachel had been ill enough with bronchitis to be sent to the infirmary, and one of the matrons had patted her on the back and spoken softly to her during one long, bad night. The unheard-of kindness had devastated her; she'd broken down and sobbed into her pillow, overwhelmed with gratitude. She felt that way now, and had to grit her teeth to keep the emotion out of her face.

She took the seat Susan pointed to; it was at the head of the table. Clara, a plump, yellow-haired child no more than fourteen, brought her a bowl, and Susan plopped a great spoonful of porridge into it herself. Someone passed Rachel a pitcher of cocoa. She poured some into a mug and pretended to sip it; but her mouth was as dry as ashes, she was afraid she would gag if she swallowed anything.

Susan began to say the names of the people at the table. This one was Janet Barnet, she helped in the laundry, this was Bessie Slater, she was a kitchen maid; this was Jemy, he cleaned boots and ran errands. The words and faces blurred; Rachel couldn't have put the right name to a single soul afterward. Except Violet, the sharp-faced woman with the ugly laugh. Violet Cocker. She was a housemaid.

Somehow breakfast ended, and then the thing Rachel had been dreading happened: someone asked her what chores they should do today. She fingered her mug, twisting it in slow circles on the table. "What"— she had to clear her throat—"What do you usually do?"

Her voice came out absurdly tentative; she couldn't even blame Violet when she snickered and said, "Well,
you're
the housekeeper, don't you know?" Susan started to speak, but Violet interrupted. "Maybe you'd like us to pick some oakum, ma'am? Or take a turn on the treadmill?"

Someone gasped; someone stifled a giggle. "Violet!" cried Susan in a mortified whisper.

Rachel felt her face burning. No words came; she couldn't seem to move, react. She kept her blind eyes on the mug in her hand, turning it in small increments, round and round on the worn oak table.

"Go about your business, Violet," said a voice from behind her. Rachel turned to see a man in the doorway, a huge man, with shoulders so broad they nearly touched the posts on either side of the threshold. "Go on, get to yer chores. You know what they are right enough."

Smirking, Violet finished her milk, dawdling over it as long as she dared before getting up and flouncing out of the room. The others followed, nobody speaking, and in a few minutes the hall was empty except for Rachel and the man in the doorway.

She stood up. "Mr. Holyoake?" she guessed quietly.

"Aye, I'm William Holyoake. You're Mrs. Wade. Will you come wi' me, please?"

She followed him out into the corridor, past several open doors to a closed one. He opened it and stood back to let her go in before him, and she found herself in a small sitting room much like her own. "You can sit down," he invited awkwardly, and she took a seat in the straight chair beside his desk. He removed a key from his coat pocket and opened the kneehole drawer in his desk. "Expect you'll be needin' these," he said, putting a large set of keys in the scoop of her cupped palms, scowling a little. He had doubts about the wisdom of this transfer, the scowl said, but he knew his place well enough not to mention them.

"Thank you." The keys were heavy, like the responsibility that went with them. She could have told William Holyoake his misgivings were no graver than her own, and completely justified. He sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms, his powerful legs stuck out before him and taking up most of the floor space. He was dressed for outdoor work, and rather roughly, she thought, for the agent of an estate as grand as Lynton. He wasn't a handsome man; his broad, strong, fleshy face might even have been called ugly. But something in his aspect was appealing, perhaps the intelligence in his mild blue eyes, or the bluff honesty in his features. She listened as he took the keys back and told her slowly and carefully what door each one opened. "Either me or one o' the maids, Susan most like, will take you round the house an' show you all the rooms an' what-not. I can't now, I've sommat t' do away from here, but mayhap later in the day."

She thanked him again. They sat without speaking for a few uncomfortable moments before she ventured to say, "Mr. Holyoake, I am new at my post, which would be clear to anyone, I'm sure, even if—even—" She stopped, tangled up in the sentence. "You must know how I've come to be here," she tried again. "That is, how it came about that Lord D'Aubrey offered me employment."

He nodded his big head slowly. "I've heard."

"Yes." She imagined the whole parish would hear soon enough. "And so, it won't surprise you to know that I'm not—I haven't the least—that is, I. .."

"You don't know what to do."

She nodded, relieved that it was out. He didn't say anything more, though, so she struggled on. "I can guess what many of the tasks must be, the cleaning and tidying and so on, which would be common to any household. But I don't know quite where to begin, what's to be done first, what his lordship is particular about, and—so on." How
exhausting
this communicating coherent thoughts was.

Another long silence, while Mr. Holyoake seemed to be gathering his own thoughts. He rubbed the top of his head, which was covered with short, sandy curls, as if trying to stimulate his brain. Then he proceeded to tell her what to do.

She was right: most of it was common sense, the things one would do in any house, only on a much larger scale. But it helped just to hear the duties enumerated, learn what was most important in this house and what less so. Susan, Violet, and another girl called Tess were the housemaids, and they did most of the general cleaning. They traded off as parlormaid when there was a need for it, which there wasn't much, his lordship being new to the neighborhood and not having many callers yet. He had a valet, Mr. Preest, who took care of his clothes and personal effects, and also supervised the cleaning of his bedroom and bathroom, about which his lordship was very particular. After his room, the maids started on the first floor with their sweeping, polishing, and dusting. Mr. Holyoake screwed up his face, thinking hard; this wasn't really his bailiwick. The char
&A
laid the fires and cleaned the grates first thing every morning, he knew that. The cook, a Frenchy fellow called Monsieur Judelet, told the kitchen and scullery maids what to do, and if Mrs. Wade was smart she'd stay out of his way, him not having what you'd call an even temper.

"Is there a butler?"

"No, ma'am, and never has been, I can't say why. Mrs. Fruit ran things for as long as I've been alive, and she done a good enough job until she went deaf. After that, the house begun to run itself, you might say, leastwise after a fashion. That's why Violet was insolent before; she bain't used to taking orders. But she's a slothful, rude girl, and so are some o' the others. They need guidance," he summed up with force, looking at her dubiously.

She shared his skepticism. For reasons known only to Lord D'Aubrey, she had become the head of a large and complex domestic staff, and she was almost pathologically unfit for the post. Any one of her new charges was better qualified than she, including the footboy who cleaned the lamps and washed bottles.

And if she failed, she would lose much more than a job. She'd made a decision two nights ago in the Tavistock lockup, and nothing had happened since then to change her mind. If they tried to put her in prison again, she would find a way to take her life.

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Sebastian spurred his sorrel stallion along the bias of a soft, fertile field, still unplowed, and listened to the meadow pipits and skylarks singing in the hedges, greeting the burgeoning spring all around. The beauty of the morning had tempted him almost to the edge of Dartmoor; he didn't turn back until he heard the croak of ravens in the tors, the gleaming rock summits dazzling bone-white in the sunny distance. It was the first time he'd been out riding on his own since before Lili's visit. She'd never let him out of her sight, not being the kind of person who got along well on her own resources. Come to think of it, Lili didn't have any resources.

The cattle had recently been freed from their winter cowsheds and let out to graze in the new green pastures, and the novelty hadn't worn off yet: full grown dairy cows cavorted like calves in the fragrant fields, with udders so milk-heavy they almost dragged the ground. Flocks of shaggy, raddle-daubed sheep followed along after them, cleaning up the meadows in their boisterous wake. In an expansive mood, Sebastian stopped on his way to speak to a passing shepherd or farm laborer, introducing himself and exchanging the time of day. To a man, his tenants were respectful but not obsequious, and definitely more curious about than awed by him. Beneath the courtesy, he sensed a reservation of judgment, a wait-and-see caution he attributed to the relative incompetence of his two predecessors, cousin Geoffrey and his father, Edward Verlaine—that and whatever reputation he himself came with, which was undoubtedly a cause of grave concern to these simple souls.

"Simple souls"—it had a patronizing ring, didn't it? It or something like it was how Sebastian and his friends usually spoke of the lower classes, particularly rural working folk. But the condescension in the phrase had never struck him until now.

South of Wyckerley, at the point where the village main street crossed the Tavistock road, he met his bailiff. Holyoake was mounted on a short-legged gray cob, as strong and honest-looking as he was. He said good morning,
tipping
his dented felt hat.

"Where are you bound for, William?"

"I'm for Swan's smithy, m'lord, to tell 'im o' the harrower we spoke of orderin'."

"Well, ride home with me a ways first, will you? I've something to ask you.''

Holyoake nodded and turned his horse, and the two men began to tread the red, narrow, leafy lane to Lynton Hall at a comfortable pace. "Are you a Devon man, William?" Sebastian opened, reaching up to rub his stallion between the ears.

"I am, sir. My father was the bailey at Lynton before me."

"Was he? I didn't know that. So you've lived all your life in Wyckerley, have you?"

"Never been east of Exeter nor west o' the Tamar, and no farther south than Plymouth." He sounded proud of |t, as if his insularity made him a better man than one who chose to go traipsing all over the globe. Which it may have done, for all Sebastian knew.

"William, I've hired a new housekeeper," he said after a pause.