Sold to a Laird Page 6

  How very odd that she wasn’t hungry.

  She wanted to ask if anyone had seen her husband, but that was not a question she would venture to her servants.

  She took a piece of toast and poured herself some tea before walking to the table arranged before the window. This view had always epitomized the beauty of Chavensworth, the majesty of the estate. Below her, in sloping fields that seemed to go on forever, were sixty acres of lavender. Beyond them were the home woods, a thickly bearded forest now green with spring growth.

  She should try to locate her husband. It was only too easy to get lost in Chavensworth’s two hundred rooms. Perhaps Mr. Eston—Douglas—was hungry. Her duties as a hostess, as the chatelaine of Chavensworth, supplanted any irritation she might feel with him.

  A few nibbles of her toast, and she was done. She nodded to the footman stationed outside the dining room, a sign that she had completed her meal, and walked toward her mother’s room.

  In the foyer, she straightened her bodice and adjusted her collar before pressing both hands against the front of her skirt in order to inspect her shoes. Even though her mother had not awakened from her unnatural sleep, it would not do to appear in her presence slovenly. The Duchess of Herridge was very conscious of appearances.

  Slowly, Sarah pushed open the door, scanning the shadowy room for Hester.

  Instead of Hester, however, her husband sat on a chair at the side of her mother’s bed. Her husband. Nor was he engaged in respectful silence. Instead, he was conversing with her mother as if they had been properly introduced.

  “…didn’t speak a word for hours. I would think her shy, but the glint in her eyes makes me think that assumption is incorrect.”

  “It isn’t at all proper for you to be at an invalid’s bedside,” Sarah said, entering the room and sliding the door closed quietly behind her. “Especially my mother’s.”

  “It was proper enough when I came yesterday,” he said as if unsurprised at her sudden appearance. Did the man have eyes in the back of his head? “Why is it not today?”

  She decided to ignore that question and ask one of her own. “What were you talking about?”

  “I was telling your mother about our wedding.”

  “She is not to be told,” she said hastily. “It would only disturb her.”

  “You’re her only child,” he said, glancing at her. “She would want to know anything that happened to you. Good or ill.”

  “She will not hear you,” Sarah said, arranging herself on Hester’s chair at the end of the bed.

  “Perhaps she will. Perhaps she’s smiling in her sleep.”

  She glanced at her mother, wondering if he were jesting. But there was no change. Yet neither was there a smile on Douglas Eston’s face, only a look of intensity that made her wonder at his thoughts.

  “I do not know what I shall do without her,” Sarah said, a bit of honesty she’d not intended to reveal.

  He didn’t respond.

  For long moments they sat silent together. Ten minutes later, she stood, walked to the other side of the bed, and bent down to kiss her mother’s cool cheek.

  “I will be back at noon, Mother,” she said in a low voice, just in case her mother could indeed hear her. She glanced at Douglas. “I have chores waiting.”

  “Of course,” he said. A quite amiable answer, but one that didn’t quite match the expression in his eyes.

  Was he irritated at her? Annoyed? Or simply curious? How very odd that she couldn’t decipher his mood. She was very good at reading people, but he remained annoyingly mysterious.

  She took refuge in silence, leaving the room with undue haste, grateful that it was a sickroom after all, and that he couldn’t call after her.

  Douglas sat with the duchess for another quarter hour, feeling a sense of peace in the dim room.

  There were some of life’s blows that took a person unawares, some that were too difficult to survive alone. When those times came, as they would to each person, they were easier to endure when standing shoulder to shoulder with another human being.

  He’d been eight when his parents had died of cholera, fourteen when Alano had rescued him. A callow boy, not yet a man, but certainly believing himself one. Sarah would have him to lean on, but would she accept him? Or would she ignore his presence as much as she did the fact that her mother was dying?

  Chapter 7

  Despite the fact that there were numerous tasks to be done during the day, Sarah discouraged the servants from being about their duties before half past six. Anything earlier was an unnecessary waste of coals and candles. The only exception was Thomas, as underbutler, who was balanced between positions in the household. At times he served as butler, and at others, he was head footman, whichever was more necessary to the smooth order of Chavensworth.

  The first-floor maids had already opened the shutters and windows of all the lower rooms. Two of the younger maids were in the process of blacking the fireplace in the Chinese Parlor. She nodded in satisfaction when the younger girl—Mary—spread open a cloth over the carpet in front of the fireplace and placed her housemaid’s box upon it, withdrawing the supplies that had been issued to her on the beginning of her employment only two weeks earlier: two small squares of leather for polishing the brass andirons, a selection of brushes for applying black lead as well as the lead itself, emery paper, and a japanned cinder pail containing a sieve and a fitted cover. Once the grate was cleaned, the two maids would spread the lead over the bricks, buffing it with the brushes provided.

  Sarah began her morning as she did every day, by meeting with Mrs. Williams. She found the housekeeper in the butler’s pantry and watched approvingly as the woman mixed together the ingredients for Chavensworth’s furniture polish. Linseed oil, turpentine, vinegar, and spirits of wine were applied with a soft flannel rag, then buffed with a clean duster. Every month they made furniture paste together, a concoction of beeswax, soap, turpentine, and boiled water, allowed to steep for two days until it was ready to use. The paste was saved for the most valuable of Chavensworth’s furnishings, such as the inlaid chest in the Garden Room, or the French tables in the Chinese Parlor.

  She would have to speak to the carpenter this morning if she intended to spend another night in the Duke’s Suite.

  A week’s supply of tea leaves, dried, had been saved in a glass jar, to be used to sprinkle over the rugs on the first floor, then brushed away. Each week a different floor was similarly treated, a rotating method used with most of the chores at Chavensworth. As it was, the estate employed over fifty people, but only fifteen in the house. The cleaning never ceased. Nor was it ever completely done.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said to Mrs. Williams now, “we’ll discuss the menus this afternoon, between two and three.”

  Mrs. Williams nodded. She was a woman of few words but excessive energy, a point in her favor as far as Sarah was concerned.

  “I am certain you know by now, Mrs. Williams, that I have wed.”

  To her credit, the woman didn’t look the least discomfited by that news. She merely stopped what she was doing and turned to face Sarah.

  Mrs. Williams always seemed to have the temperament of a well-contented cat, easily set to purring, and rarely annoyed. Her round face was dusted with a permanent rosy blush on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Divots framed her mouth as if directing a watcher’s attention to her pale blue eyes. Those eyes rarely seemed irritated, and for that reason she was looked upon with great fondness by the staff of Chavensworth.

  “I had heard, Lady Sarah.”

  All in all, there wasn’t much more to be said, was there? She had a husband. He was in residence. Beyond that, what could she possibly say?

  “Congratulations, Lady Sarah, on the occasion of your nuptials. Will you be celebrating?”

  She blinked at Mrs. Williams for a matter of seconds, long enough that the time seemed absurdly elongated.

  “Will I be celebrating?” she repeated stupidly before latchi
ng onto an excuse. “No, Mrs. Williams, given my mother’s health, that won’t be appropriate.”

  “Very well, Lady Sarah.”

  And that, it seemed, was that.

  A few minutes later, she left the housekeeper, walking through the kitchen, nodding to Cook and her helpers, past the scullery, and into the area where cleaning supplies were stored.

  Every week, she took inventory of this area. Cloths, brushes, and knives for cleaning candlesticks and lamps were kept on the second wooden shelf. A bucket filled with tallow grease scraped from candlestick holders sat on the floor. A set of knives used strictly for lamp trimming rested on the bottom shelf. The tradesman who supplied the oil visited Chavensworth every week and aided in teaching the maids how to keep the lamps in perfect order.

  On a second set of shelves were the hard whisk brushes made of coconut fiber and used to brush the carpets in the dining and sitting rooms.

  He wanted to see her breasts.

  Her fingers rested against the raw wood of the shelf as she stared, unseeing, at the stacks of brushes made from goose wings.

  This morning he’d been caring and attentive of her mother, and all during that time, she’d thought of what he’d said. He’d imagined her breasts.

  She looked down at herself.

  Had she laced her corset as tightly as decorum dictated? Had she been as proper as she should? Or had she secretly allowed the lacing to slip between her fingers so that it wasn’t quite as tight as usual?

  Nonsense.

  The maids would be airing out the Duke’s Suite. The housemaids knew she liked her bed to slope from head to feet, but the cot on which she slept had no feathers. Would they inquire of Douglas? How did he like his mattress shaped? Swelling slightly, perfectly flat, or did he prefer his mattress with a discernible dip in the middle? The housemaids would beat, shake, and turn the mattress to his preference.

  Another mystery about her husband.

  The maids would dust the rooms, wipe the ledges, polish the mirrors, and sweep the floor. If it was time for it, they would polish the furniture, then dust the wall of gilt cupboards, before scrubbing the floor with a mixture of very little soap and soda so as not to discolor the floorboards.

  Would they wonder why she’d not slept with her husband?

  For that matter, would they wonder about her husband?

  She couldn’t say anything to them at all. She would never divulge anything personal to the servants. Doing so was a breakdown in hierarchy, and Chavensworth ran so smoothly for reason alone. Everyone had his place. Everyone was expected to behave in a certain manner, in a certain way.

  Without order, there was chaos, even at Chavensworth.

  Thomas escorted him half the way and was dissuaded from accompanying him to the kitchens only after Douglas assured him he was capable of following directions. The underbutler laid out a series of turns that Douglas unerringly followed to the family dining room.

  There was no need for defense at Chavensworth—the estate would simply absorb any intruder and cause him to become inexorably lost.

  He breakfasted on oatmeal and kippers, both excellent. He pushed open the door of the kitchen to tell the cook exactly that.

  She was a large woman, a testament to her talent in the kitchen. A bright red apron was tied snugly around her waist, topping a dress the shade of summer squash. Her blond hair was arranged in a ringlet of curls and perched atop her head like a cap.

  “I thank you, sir,” she said, her plump face blushing an unbecoming red.

  “Is that the accent of Scotland I hear?” he asked, smiling at her.

  “It is, sir. Glasgow was my home for twenty years.”

  Cook’s helpers were scattered through the large room, and each one of them seemed to cock her head, ears twitching to hear his answer.

  “I knew it had to be a Scottish cook with a fine hand at the oats,” he said.

  “You’re the first to say, sir,” she said, blushing even redder than before.

  He left the kitchen, not bothering to ask for directions. Sometimes, the greatest adventures are those for which there are no guideposts.

  Douglas found himself in a room that would have been considered a Great Hall in any castle. Life-size paintings dominated the walls, stretching up to where the ceiling arched upward even higher. Three crystal chandeliers stretched from one end of the room to the other. For all its dimensions, however, the room struck Douglas as being one of the coziest at Chavensworth.

  Throughout the room were scattered groupings of chairs and sofas and lamps as if to urge a visitor to stop and rest for a moment. The walls were covered in a gold-patterned damask, the ceiling painted in a matching shade and embellished with plaster curlicues highlighted in dark brown.

  The windows, stretching easily twenty feet high, made up one entire wall and were covered in heavy gold velvet draperies, tied back with gold rope ending in tassels larger than his hand. Ebony Chinese screens blocked off the doors at the far end of the room, more of an inducement to remain in this lofty room and simply contemplate the silence.

  In front of a marble fireplace so large that he could stand upright inside it, were two flanking sofas. Between them was a low table almost as wide as his bed, and on each side of the sofa was a circular table adjoining a blue overstuffed chair.

  A hundred people could easily be accommodated in this room, and yet two would find it a comfortable retreat.

  Chavensworth was filled with sitting rooms, parlors, and rooms devoted to individual occupations such as music and cards. A large ballroom on the third floor looked empty, desolate, and rarely used. There was, in addition to the large library, a room that looked as if it were devoted to records. A series of ledgers was stacked in large bookcases along the walls.

  Where did Lady Sarah disappear to during the day?

  He didn’t bother opening any of the doors on the second floor, deciding that they were probably bedrooms or guest rooms.

  Instead, he found himself at the rear of Chavensworth, heading toward the stables. A curious convergence of odors struck him then: the lavender from the fields to his left and the pungent aroma from the stables farther away. He began to smile, feeling in that instant that he had truly come home. This was not some province in India, or some tiny Asian country where people who looked like him were rare. No, this was nearly home with the sound of English in his ear and the promise of a certain sobriety of purpose and regulation of his days.

  The air was warm, accompanied by a mischievous breeze that flattened the material of his jacket against him as it flirted with his collar. The sky was intently blue, not a cloud in sight to mar the purity of the day.

  How many times in his lifetime had he wished to be exactly where he was right now, walking down a country lane, en route to an uncertain destination, only knowing that he was filled with contentment. He needn’t fear for his life. Nor was he going to be attacked for the discoveries he had made. Here at Chavensworth, he felt a sense of safety and security he’d not felt in a very long time.

  He was nearly at the stables if the sounds ahead of him were any indication: the striking of an anvil, the whinny of horses, the call of one man to another. He ignored all of them, suddenly transfixed by the sight atop a small knoll. He left the lane, veered to his right, following a well-worn path in the grass. Someone had thought to lay boulders down into the dirt, to create a toehold. He made his way up the knoll, and stopped, as fascinated up close as he had been in the lane.

  The structure that faced him was hexagon-shaped, topped with a domed copper roof now gone to verdigris. He recalled Sarah’s words—I like to study the stars.

  How long had it been since she’d come here? Evidently some time, since he couldn’t open the door. He pressed his shoulder against it, and when that didn’t result in any success, he bent and excavated the dirt from around the base of the door.

  The interior was damp and dark, the dirt floor giving off a sour, musty smell. A telescope was still affixed to a pulley, b
ut when Douglas focused the lens, all he could see was a blur. He lowered the telescope and tied off the pulley so the instrument was held flat against the wall and out of the way. Turning in a slow circle, he measured the room mentally, wondering if it would give him the space he needed. Shelves ringed the room, and a stool was tucked beneath one. A series of grates covered the dirt floor. The domed ceiling could be sealed so that rain would not ruin his work. In the winter, the building would have to be warmed somehow, but he had months before having to worry about the cold weather.

  He ticked off the assets of the observatory: It was well away from other people and structures, thereby ensuring that the chemicals he used would not catch another building on fire, or produce a gas dangerous to other individuals. But the greatest asset of the observatory was its isolation. He could have the privacy he needed, no, required.

  He was changing the world, and the less the world knew about it, the better.

  Chapter 8

  She should be ecstatic. She should be overjoyed. Her husband had disappeared, and not one person at Chavensworth had seen him since breakfast. Not one. Thomas claimed no knowledge of his whereabouts, and when Sarah went to visit her mother at noon, Douglas was not there.

  Truly, she did not have time for this. If the silly man had gotten into some kind of danger, she would have to find him.

  She sent one of the footmen to the stables to see if he had been spotted there. Perhaps he’d taken one of the horses to ride in the countryside. Hopefully, the stable master had the good sense to tell the man to remain on the main lanes. There were rabbit holes and burrows aplenty in the fields. A horse could lose its footing all too easily, not to mention break a leg. She also had Thomas send another footman to the river, to see if Douglas might have wandered to the boathouses.