By the time James found a few minutes to visit the salvage site, daylight had faded considerably. A mass of clouds covered the setting sun and hinted at rain to the west. He passed the staff as they made their way inside. The afternoon sun had made the work hot, tedious, and dirty.
The good spirits of dinnertime had disappeared, replaced by the stolid, mechanical movements of five people who had worked all day with no great success. They bobbed and bowed as they approached him. The footman, Robert, was the only one who looked him in the eye.
“Well done.”
The group stopped as one and stared at him with a surprise akin to shock.
“I appreciate that this is hardly the work you are accustomed to at Braemoor.” He cleared his throat. “Madame has told you of your bonus?”
They nodded with enthusiasm though their expressions were still guarded.
“Good.” He rubbed his hands together. “But there is more behind your dedication than money.”
“It helps ease the itch, my lord.” He could tell it was Robert who had spoken, but only because of the pokes in the rib that almost knocked him off his feet.
“Money never hurts, I am sure. Nevertheless I want you to know that you are taking the first steps in rebuilding Braemoor. We will triumph over this catastrophe. We will.”
It was not the right space for such a speech. Did he even believe it himself? No matter, the staff did. They straightened and sincere pleasure replaced the more perfunctory kind. He sent them off with a wave; heartened and more certain than before that they would be back tomorrow.
James made his way around the space they had cleared in the last few hours. He wished he could say he was impressed, but at the rate that they worked, it would be months before they finished clearing the site of debris.
His housekeeper stood with her back to him. Even as he watched she glanced over her shoulder and quickly back at the basket in front of her.
He walked up to stand beside her and still she remained silent. If housekeepers were not supposed to show annoyance, it was equally true that they were not supposed to cry.
“They worked hard today, madame. They made progress. Everyone did. Marfield tells me that the stables and outbuildings suffered no damage and they are running as before. He suggested that we could use the workhorses to move some of the larger debris. There is a salvage company from London that we can commission to direct the work when you have completed the initial survey.”
He stopped, well aware that this sort of babbling was more her trait than his.
“The ash and dust irritates the eyes, my lord.”
She drew a deep wavering breath as she spoke and looked at him with a wide-eyed determination.
Liar, he thought. The track of tears down her cheeks was evidence enough.
James reached over and pulled a piece of scorched, dirty embroidery from the top of the basket. “I would wager my sister, Mariel, would have been pleased never to see this again.” How odd that such a silly thing should survive and recall such memories.
“Was it her first sampler?” Madame cleared her throat and straightened a bit, no longer hovering over the basket as though she feared thievery.
“Her first? I suppose it might have been. Hardly a work of art is it?” He shook his head. “Mariel worked at every little bit of her education, though even she would admit that needlework was never her friend.” He looked closer at the fabric. “Does one learn letters first or the various stitches?”
Marguerite shrugged and looked at him with a blend of interest and curiosity. Taking the fabric that he held out to her she examined the list of names. “Jamie?”
“My Christian name is James.”
“James I can imagine, my lord. Jamie does not suit you at all.”
How could it be possible to say James with a French accent? He bowed to her. “I assure you, madame, that Jamie was an adorable infant and an even more charming young lad.”
That did make her laugh, finally.
He nodded at the scrap in her hand with its list of names. “Mariel is my oldest stepsister. Morgan is my brother. Our sister Maddie died at fourteen, and then there is Rhys. He was probably not yet ten when Mariel did this.”
She nodded, the hurt gone from her eyes, replaced with a look he could only label as longing. “How good that we started here. For it must be filled with happy memories.”
“Not entirely.” She did not need to hear about those days and he tried never to think of them himself. Surely he could dredge up some memory that would entertain her.
“I made life torture for my brothers and sisters. After all I am the oldest, the leader, and lived here for years before they were born. I remember once I convinced them that the marquis, our father, had three wives buried in the cellars and that their mother would soon follow them.”
“My lord, how awful.”
“Oh yes, and Morgan gave me a bloody nose for it. He is such a loyal sot.” Enough sentiment. Enough. She was no longer upset. She was smiling.
He looked away from that encouraging air and up at the old stone wall that had survived the fire. “The top floor was the nursery, below that rooms that no one has used for twenty years, and on the ground level are rooms that we used to house guests.”
“Prentice made a drawing of the rooms and their contents. Was that not enterprising of him?” Her good humor faded. “My lord, today I left a list for you....”
“Yes. I have already sent to London for the physician who cares for my father. I am sure I can convince him to examine Prentice.”
“Oh thank you, my lord. Thank you so much.” If she had been smiling before, she glowed now.
“I can hardly afford to lose any more staff.” He moved a step away and reached out to test the strength of the blackened wall as he spoke. “Not when good replacements are so difficult to find.”
When she failed to answer, he glanced back. The glow had disappeared and she stared at him with a calculating look that he did not find at all reassuring.
“Would you allow some of the field hands to help with this, my lord? Despite your praise,” she said with the faintest echo of sarcasm, “I feel that the work is moving much too slowly. Surely you are anxious to rebuild and the more quickly this work is completed the sooner you can begin to replace what has been lost.”
“I appreciate your energy, Madame, and regret that I cannot spare the field hands. They are in the midst of spring planting.” He gestured to the pathetic bits and pieces in the basket at hand. “And that is hardly worth a day’s work.”
“Today, we learned what we are about. We all understand better how to remove the debris without damaging anything hidden beneath.” She picked up a broken plate. “I think John ruined this with his shovel.”
James took the two pieces. “One of hundreds that are still safe in the west wing. Easy enough to replace.” He dropped the pieces into one of the debris baskets that had not yet been taken away.
“There are any number of items that I am not sure are worth keeping. In truth, I feel that only you can make that decision.” She handed him a mass of toy soldiers, the lead melted enough to fuse them together. “Did you play with these?”
“I must have, but it is Rhys I recall using them.” He looked away from her curious look, determined not to be caught in their sentimental trap again and tossed the mess into the debris basket. “Not worth keeping.”
With a businesslike nod, Madame turned the whole of the basket in front of her into the last of the large baskets that held detritus. He saw some blocks, several drawings, two ruined dolls and a framed picture.
He reached over and rescued the framed drawing from the rubble, fully aware of her game and annoyed by it.
“Madame, there are indeed memories here.” He looked at her steadily, “Not all of them happy ones. Damn few in fact.” With Maddie’s fairy drawing tucked under his arm, he made to leave. “Each day, please bring any items you think are of value to the estate office. I will examine them when I have time.”
~ ~ ~
“Here, Jenneth, do sit down.” Though they were in the Marfield parlor, Marguerite tended to her friend who looked pale and overset. Marguerite draped a shawl over Jenneth’s shoulders and handed her a cup. “M’amie, drink this and rest a moment. You should not be scrubbing the floor in your condition.”
Jenneth leaned her head against the high back of the chair, “Yes, you’re right.” She sighed. “But I do so not want to be one of those women who take to their beds for nine months.” She looked at Marguerite and raised her eyebrows.
Like the Vicar’s wife, Marguerite thought as she nodded. She took not a little delight in the fact that she had been in the area long enough to understand this bit of unspoken gossip. “Jenneth, there is some middle ground between constant bed and scrubbing the floor.”
“I promise to be more careful. I did do too much today, I admit it, and will not press so in the future.”
Marguerite nodded. She would be content with that promise. Already her friend’s color had improved.
“We are a pair, Marguerite. That dust must be dreadful. When you came down the path earlier, you needed no makeup to look the part of an aging crone.”
“It is just as well I do not have a glass in my cottage, for I have no doubt you are right. Despite a wash, I expect that I still do. And will for the next few weeks at least. That is to the good, though. Even if the viscount has seen through my disguise, he is not likely to tell the staff, is he? Let them think I am older. It is what I wish. Though I suppose there is no such thing as a beautiful crone, is there?”
They both laughed at the idea.
“Tell me, Jenneth,” Marguerite said, focusing on the real reason for her visit. “Has the viscount always had this habit? He makes the slightest compliment, and then does his best to undo it! It is so very annoying to be smiling at him one minute and out of countenance the next.”
Jenneth looked away and did not answer.
“Oh please, I do not mean this as gossip. I ask so that I am able to deal with him in a useful way. I have been distracted by it all morning, but first I had to make sure the night guards knew exactly what they were supposed to do. I definitely had to eat some dinner and praise the chef. I had also to talk to Prentice and find a way to convince him that he will never be replaced and that the under butler is doing well. Which, I might add, is a complete lie. Cludde is worthless, and I shall simply have to do his work until Prentice is recovered and is able to hire more staff, for the viscount has made it clear that he has neither the time nor the inclination for more interviews.
“All that time I wanted nothing more than a few minutes to talk with someone who would be able to help me understand the viscount.”
“Marguerite, I am hardly the right person to ask about that family, any of them.”
Jenneth Marfield may not be the right person to ask, but she remained the only person Marguerite knew well enough to question. When Simon Marfield had left for a meeting with the viscount it seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to talk.
Now Marguerite saw that Jenneth’s sympathetic interest had hardened. “Jenneth, you have only to see how his face softens when he speaks of his brothers and sisters. Then you would appreciate how important they are to him.”
“He is responsible for them, Marguerite. There is a vast difference between that and familial affection. I doubt that he is capable of true caring.”
The sentence ended the conversation with cruel finality.
Or would have if Marguerite had been willing to accept that judgment. Instead she leaned forward in the chair and spoke very quietly. “Tell me.”
Jenneth shrugged. “He has no finer feelings. He is selfish and arrogant. He thinks that everyone is the same as he is, interested only in their own gain or pleasure.”
This was so far from her own experience of the viscount that Marguerite sat back and shook her head. “Has your husband told you this?”
Jenneth gave a bitter laugh. “Simon thinks he is the right hand of Saint Michael. As close to an archangel as makes no difference.”
“You know otherwise?” Marguerite asked with true caution, not at all certain that she wanted to hear Jenneth’s explanation for her ill will.
“When Simon wrote and told the viscount that he needed some time for our wedding, Lord Crandall told him to come home and wait until after the harvest.”
“Oh my, I can see where that might cause some bad feeling.” Marguerite shifted in her chair, more than a little unsettled.
“That is nothing. When Simon told him that he would resign, Lord Crandall came to town. He called on me at my home and offered me money not to marry his steward. That is exactly what he called him. Not Simon, not Marfield but ‘my steward’.”
Oh, my lord, how could you? Marguerite thought.
“It was because I was an actress, you see. Lord Crandall had no hope that I would be the kind of wife Simon needed and that would mean that his work would suffer and Braemoor needed his full attention. Braemoor, Braemoor, Braemoor. That is all Lord Crandall cares about.”
“And yet you are here, after all, so the viscount must have reconsidered.”
Jenneth stared down at her teacup. “He had no choice. I told him exactly what I thought of his offer. I am, after all, an actress and I gave him my theatrical best. But you see, Marguerite, what he said so exactly matched what I most feared. Despair haunted me in those days. I wanted so much to escape what life had become and Simon made that possible.”
She looked up at Marguerite. “The viscount saw that weakness and tried to take advantage of it. It is so exactly like his father, using money to achieve his ends, using his power to make life a misery for others.”
“Oh Jenneth, that is not wholly true. This very day he sent to London for a physician for Prentice.”
“You are being naïve, Marguerite. He called for a physician because Prentice is useful to him. If it were someone else, someone like me, he would no more call for a physician than he would dry your tears.”
Now she knew that Jenneth’s prejudice was unfair. No, he had not dried her tears, he had gone one step better and ignored them, then teased her into a good humor.
“Is there nothing that he can do to raise your estimation of him?” Marguerite spoke gently. “Surely your husband’s high opinion must carry some weight.”
Jenneth considered the question and then shook her head ruefully. “Simon is loyal to a fault and generous in the extreme. He is a genius at land management, but where people are concerned he is obviously too inclined to champion those whom no one else can hold in regard.”
Marguerite wondered if she referred to herself or the viscount.
“I am being frank with you, Marguerite, because I see that same romantic streak in you and the viscount will see it as well. He will have no qualms about exerting his charms to achieve his own ends, to rebuild Braemoor, to make it grander and wealthier with no thought as to the consequences to your mind or your heart.”