| |
Elizabeth gladly let Hicks pursue his list. She chose to wander along the Market Street.
At one end, before a rough wall, clustered a few men and women. Their clothes were tattered and patched, their skin sallow and marked with sores, their bones looked raw at their open collars and their wrists. Several scratched at hidden vermin. None were young. Their former employment either didn’t suit them or they didn’t suit it.
Off to one side, a little apart as if she feared leaping vermin, stood a white-haired woman. Her clothes looked clean and had no obvious tatters. She looked hearty but pale, yet her crossed arms and fierce scowl would turn away many.
Elizabeth approached. “We need an additional maid at the Grange. What is your name?”
The woman made no attempt to smile winningly. “Meg Tilney. Who are you to be offering that work?”
“Miss Fortescue. I am the new housekeeper.” One of the men made a vulgar comment that she ignored. “Do you wish a position?”
“I used to work at the Grange. Left, years back. Old Lady Harcourt wanted rid of me.”
“Have you worked here in the village or nearby since then?”
“No. I was over t’Growky ways. Took a turn to come back, see what’s for.”
“What work have you done?”
“Maid. Laundress. In a dyeworks for a while, but that don’t put a roof over your head.”
“You would be Least Maid and must be willing to help as needed in the laundry.”
“I ain’t says as I’m int’rested. Heard the old baron cracked it up a few years back. Heard his grandson’s a right sight. His woman cast `im off and married elsewise.”
“You would be required to behave with proper respect to your betters.”
“Who do I answer to? You or that raw bones Hicks?”
“You are familiar with Mr. Hicks?”
“Familiar?” Meg Tilney laughed, and the merry and sly change to her face and eyes was wondrous. “We used to walk out, afore the old lady showed me the door.”
From that, Elizabeth divined the dowager Harcourt had run a strict household. Perhaps this woman had slowed down with her age. “Behavior must be circumspect,” she repeated.
“Whatever that means.”
“It means that you must be modest in behavior and speech. Can you manage that, Meg Tilney?”
The woman’s scowl returned. Those flat eyes surveyed Elizabeth. “I can be, for room and board.”
“Re-introduce yourself to Hicks. If he is amenable to your re-hiring, then head for the Grange.” That set two tests for Meg Tilney. If she passed both, the woman would do for Least Maid.
“I don’t want to talk to him.”
“He is butler at the Grange. Speaking to him now is a condition of your employment. You will answer to me, but he can also give your orders.”
The woman looked at the stained sack at her feet. Then she sighed and picked it up. “He better not think I’m the same Meg Tilney.”
“I will see you this afternoon on our return to the Grange. You will receive a meal and a bed. Tomorrow we will discuss your duties.” Elizabeth turned away without waiting to see what Meg did.
A half-hour later, as she browsed through tooled leatherwork, considering a book she wanted re-bound, a man at her elbow cleared his throat. She jumped.
“You hired a maid,” Hicks grumbled.
She dropped her hand. A swallow did not restore her heart to her chest. “A least maid. Meg Tilney. She said she once worked at the Grange. We won’t have to wait while she learns her way about.”
“I know her. She ain’t a good sort.”
“Perhaps in the past twenty to thirty years she has changed?”
“Thirty-seven.”
That was an odd number to remember. Too exact. Had he missed Meg? “We’ll see if she comes to the Grange this evening. She says she’s been living in towns. She might not care for the walk.”
He grunted. “Meg will never shy of hard work.”
“Have you finished your list? Shall we start back?” Please say no. Elizabeth wanted to avoid another afternoon tea with Lord Harcourt.
“Not by half. You finished?”
“I still have much to do.”
“Don’t be hiring no one else here.” Then he stomped off.
She stared at his receding back. For an aging man, he was still very upright.
She wouldn’t have looked for a servant among the others waiting for hire. But why was Hicks so adamant that she hire no one here in Widderly?
With no answer to be had, Elizabeth shrugged and continued to the next seller. A cloth was spread on the ground, with wares placed on it. The seller had avoided the booths and hadn’t cared to bring a table. Looking at the wares would be difficult.
But oh, such wares! Scarves of plain linen were worked with fanciful embroidery. She dropped to her knees to examine the scarves only to be drawn to the beribboned purses. Vividly strange needlework decorated purses for under the skirt. Flowers and vines, birds on the wing, nuts and leaves. This one depicted a shy fawn peering through a blooming bush. That one had fish swimming through water, the stitchery creating the dappled shadows of leaves on the water. And this—.
The purse was in her hand before she knew she’d reached for it.
French-knot apples looked ripe for harvest. Beneath the tree, grazing on the falls was a silvered unicorn. Its long mane brushed the grass. Peering from the leaves was a young woman’s pert face, her red-gold hair entwined with the green leaves.
“Caught, you see,” the woman seller said, “by her own curiosity.”
Elizabeth tore her eyes away from the purse. “This stitchery is extremely fine.”
“My thanks. I have time and patience.”
“I have never seen such beautiful work, and I’ve lived many places.”
“London. Portugal. Bruges.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Yet you find your heart here on the moor.”
Elizabeth blanched. Here was truth that she’d tried to avoid. “How much for this purse?” The cost would be astronomical. She cast a glance over the blanket, yet she saw nothing that tugged at her like this purse did. The blanket had no empty spaces. No one had stopped to browse, let alone drop to their knees as she had.
“No cost. It is yours. See, it is you.”
And it was. The very color of her hair, the shape of her face, the blue eyes, a mirror of Elizabeth herself. She still could not put it down. “You must let me pay. This must have taken days upon days.”
“Weeks. I finished it last night.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. It is for the lady who captured the hard heart of the Harcourt.”
She nearly dropped the purse. She did recoil. “I think not.”
“Yet you have,” the woman said gently.
For the first time she looked at the woman, not just at her but to her, seeing her.
She wore the drab clothes of a countrywoman, dark on dark with a scarf tucked into her waistband. Her black eyes snapped with life. Her silver hair coiled around her head. A long nose and long chin, long neck and long limbs. Her bones looked fragile, and she was thin enough that the fierce moor wind would blow her away.
She had stilled for Elizabeth’s examination, but then she moved quickly. Before Elizabeth realized it, the woman had rolled up the scarves and tucked them into a linen bag.
She dared not let this woman’s belief stand. “I have not fallen for Lord Harcourt. Your imagination serves you well for this stitchery, but not with—no. His lordship and me? No. Our social standing is too disparate.”
The woman had stowed her wares as Elizabeth delivered her denial, but now she stopped. Her gaze shifted over Elizabeth’s shoulder. She squinted and looked puzzled. “Why do scarlet coats stand behind you?”
Elizabeth looked around, but only the people of Widderby and of the country around milled behind her. No one passing wore scarlet.
“Family?” The woman drew out an empty linen bag and shook it open.
“Family? My father and my brother are in field regiments. They are in Portugal now.”
Those black eyes pierced to Elizabeth’s soul. “Then I am not mistaken. You need not worry that you are now lower than he. Lord Harcourt cares nothing for society. He never did, not even when he pursued that green-eyed viper. Very soon you will know of whom I speak, my lady. You will protect him. He has your heart as well.”
Her heart began to race even as sense asserted itself. “That’s not possible,” she whispered. The crowd’s noise was like buzzing bees. Hot and cold shivered through her. She stared at the unicorn. It flicked its tail—but that couldn’t be. None of this could be.
But, oh, she wanted it.
She tried another denial. “I haven’t worked for him a month.”
“Little Bit,” she used Elizabeth’s own father’s name for her, “time does not matter when two hearts are yoked.” As she reached for the purse with the fish swimming the brook, her hand stopped, suspended almost above Elizabeth’s knee. “Dark eyes through candleflame.” She flinched. “A pistol? Sapphires. This is most confusing.” Then she smiled, her eyes unfocused and dreaming. “A bower. You are indeed yoked together. Stay close to him. He hasn’t discovered the worst yet. That is coming.”
“Who are you?”
The woman laughed. “Sebilla. An old man comes for you, Little Bit. You best meet him. Enjoy your gift.” She shooed Elizabeth away.
Dazed, she climbed to her feet. “Miss, Miss,” she heard, and the villagers’ talk roared in, a chaotic din that had muted as she talked to the woman. She felt like a doll under glass, serene and calm until the dome was lifted, then sound accosted her. She swayed. Someone caught her arm. Eyes wide, she looked around—and saw Hicks.
“Mr. Hicks? What is it?” Elizabeth scrambled to remember the reason they had come to this loud market. “Have you finished your list?”
“You best come with me. You know spice goods, don’t you? Having been in London and all. A man’s trying to sell me a twisted old root and dried up little flowers.”
She chuckled, hearing the description of ginger and cloves. “That root and those dried flowers create wonderful flavors.” She recalled the stitched purse and looked down. The unicorn remained in her hand, still fantastical, still beautiful. Her face had receded into the leaves. How had she seen it so clearly? She glanced around to thank Sebilla—.
The woman had vanished. All the wares, the cloth that had protected them from the dirt, all gone. The grass didn’t even look flattened.
“Where did she go?”
“Who? That tradeswoman? Off yonder, to the river.”
“I wanted to—.” She didn’t remember her other questions.
Who was this Sebilla? The woman might answer only that she sold stitchery. Where did she live? What business was it of Elizabeth’s to discover those answers? Those strange last statements, a pistol and sapphires, a bower. Her cheeks heated. The lady who captured the hard heart of Harcourt. He has your heart as well.
Dealing with the spice merchant dropped her back to the mundane, out of the realm of Faerie into which Sebilla had cast her.
She determined to forget the whole encounter.
Yet the unicorn purse was a vivid reminder.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
When Elizabeth realized they would return to the Grange before teatime, she wanted to count the trip to Market as a futile exercise.
Yet she couldn’t cast her encounter with Sebilla to the recesses of her mind. When they saw the carriage at the entrance, with its ornate gold decoration on the black door, Sebilla’s voice echoed once again, this time adding those strange words from the end of their encounter, candleflames and a pistol, sapphires and a bower.
Hicks gave that gravely sound of his disgruntlement. “The cousin’s come.” He spat over the wagon’s edge.
The cousin? She didn’t know what that meant. “I beg pardon?”
“Geoffrey Harcourt. Wife along as well, like as not, the green-eyed witch. We’re in for several uncomfortable days.”
Green-eyed viper. Elizabeth shivered. “Who is this Geoffrey Harcourt?”
“Cousin, like I said. Heir to the title and estate. Hiyup!” He snapped the reins.
A woman and a man emerged from the house, dressed in dark green and dull brown. Matched livery, which only the wealthier houses paid for. Elizabeth sat up straighter. The unicorn purse burned a hole in the bag she had taken to market. Not guilt, yet the emotion felt closely aligned, as if she knew something she should tell.
“That’ll be the maid and the valet. Probably new and wanting to usurp our places at table. There will be a to-do at table.”
Hicks jealously guarded his status, but he didn’t like anyone commenting about it. “No, there will not be,” she said firmly. “Put me down before you drive around to the back.”
“What do you think you can do?”
“I am the housekeeper. I will be the housekeeper.”
He snorted, more laugh than disgruntlement. With Hicks, it was hard to tell.
It was several more minutes before they neared the entrance. The two servants had finished their trips to the carriage. Another man came out and climbed up to join the coachman. He snapped the reins, and the carriage rolled forward to the stables.
Elizabeth jumped down. Her market bag in hand, she breezed into the entrance. Noises drifted down from upstairs. A man complained; she didn’t recognize his voice. A woman answered, her voice too low to carry the words. She almost wished the woman shrieked like a harpy. Harcourt’s former betrothed, the green-eyed viper. Her presence was bound to upset Lord Harcourt.
A gentleman did not go on the attack against a woman. Lord Harcourt would retreat.
The hard heart of Harcourt.
She knew nothing of his relationship with his cousin. Not good, she ventured, for the man had married the woman who had rejected him. She would eventually become the Baroness Harcourt. As long as Erik Harcourt lived, she was baroness-in-waiting, her ambition thwarted by the man she’d rejected.
Hicks had called her witch. Sebilla called her viper. Elizabeth didn’t question either naming. She didn’t want to impute petty motives to people, but her mother had taught that good and evil walked the world. In her few years in service, she’d learned that adage’s truth.
How would the baroness-in-waiting react when Erik Harcourt married then sired an heir?
The voices drew her to the family wing where the doors to the dual suites for the Lord and Lady stood open.
Elizabeth intercepted Jessa’s arrival with tea. “Why have you brought that tray up here?”
“They ordered—.”
“You take orders from me, Jessa, and from Hicks. Not from visitors. Tea is served in the morning room.”
“They won’t—.”
“Who allowed them to take the Lord’s and Lady’s Chambers?”
“It’s not that they were allowed. They just headed there.”
“Have they previously stayed in those rooms?”
“Hicks had them in the blue and gold rooms last time.”
“When was last time?”
“Two—over two years ago. It was autumn.”
“Very well then. Deliver the tea to the morning room. You should probably bring a fresh pot in a few minutes. I don’t expect this one to stay warm. Inform Lord Harcourt that tea will be in the morning room, not his study. And Jessa, expect the arrival of a Meg Tilney. We’ll put her to work helping you immediately. She worked here, many years ago. Mr. Hicks knows her.”
A smile flashed across Jessa’s face. “Yes, Miss Fortescue. I should tell you that Cook has pushed dinner back two hours.”
“Excellent. Inform Hicks to polish the shiniest pieces of silver. Those two hours should give him time.”
The weight of the unicorn purse in her market bag grew heavier as she neared the master suite.
Footsteps behind turned her about. Lord Harcourt climbed the stairs. She needed to draw their visitors’ wrath before he arrived—yet she prayed he wouldn’t retreat to his room and leave her alone to deal with this mess.
She paused in the doorway to take in the scene.
The couple occupied the sitting room that linked the two chambers. A well-dressed Town buck kicked the hearth fender. A woman lounged on the chaise, barely covering a yawn. The liveried servants bustled about the bedchambers, working in the rooms and in the dressing rooms beyond.
Elizabeth stepped into the sitting room and curtsied. “Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt? Welcome to Feldstone Grange.” She lifted her voice to let it carry, to her approaching employer and to these unknown servants. “My apologies, sir and madam, on not being present upon your arrival. The mistakes in your rooms would not then have occurred. I must tell you that this suite is kept closed, on his lordship’s orders.”
“Harcourt won’t mind,” the woman drawled. Her eyes were green stones, glittering chips that surveyed Elizabeth, slowly inspecting the dull garb she had worn to market. The dark beauty wore apricot, this year’s color for the high-flying set. She had a haughty lift to her rounded chin and had perfected the fashionable ennui rife in the haut ton.
“I should say not,” the buck exclaimed. “Here, who are you?”
Closer inspection had revealed him to be a washed-down image of his cousin, definitely a Harcourt but without the dark hair and eyes of his lordship. His unmarred face lacked the lean angles that gave character. Handsome, but Elizabeth’s mother was of the opinion that “handsome is what handsome does.” Already, she had no good reading of this man’s character.
She dipped an abbreviated curtsey, having already given her best. “Miss Fortescue. I am the housekeeper, Mr. Harcourt. I believe you and your wife previously had the blue and gold chambers. Those rooms are being opened for you. Your servants can see to the remainder of their preparation.”
“I think not,” the woman said, her tones rounded and smooth, lacking the snap that would earn viper from Elizabeth. “We will take these rooms. Sunnig and Lister have begun unpacking. We await tea. That girl should have brought it by now. Harcourt, ring for it.”
“Had you apprised us of your impending arrival, Mrs. Harcourt,” and the little imp in Elizabeth gave the tiniest stress to the Mrs., “all would have been readied for you. You will find tea served in the morning room. I will see a new pot is waiting for you.”
“Here now,” the man straightened. He dropped his arm from the mantel and tugged at his sleeves. “You cannot order us about.” He checked his shirt points in the mirror.
“Miss Fortescue must order you about in this manner,” Lord Harcourt said from behind her. “Geoff, old man, she obeys my orders, not yours.” His smooth voice was neither harsh nor stern, but definitely it was not welcoming. “We’ll have tea below, and you can tell me the reason for this sudden invasion.”
“Must we have an invasion?” the beauty asked. “We are family.” She rose, and Elizabeth wished she could move with such gliding smoothness. She wished she had that apricot satin gown as well. Even crushed from travel, it looked divine. “We have not seen you for an age, Harcourt. We are family, but you never issue an invitation for us to visit, and your few letters suggest that you view us as strangers.”
She swept past Elizabeth who turned to watch. She couldn’t stop herself—or stop her flinch when the woman pressed her palm to Harcourt’s chest. The sole comfort to her heart was his immediate move away from the woman.
“My letters? A letter from you, Geoff, about this visit, would have been welcome.”
“One’s so busy in London,” the man complained.
“You’ve not been to your manor?”
They had shifted to the hall, and Elizabeth followed them.
“We came straight from London.”
“With a stop at Aynsbrough,” Lord Harcourt corrected. He didn’t comment on the obvious lie, but Elizabeth saw the cousin jerk, and the woman huffed. “How is my aunt? Her letter last week gave no hint that you planned to abandon her yet again.” Their responses took them to the stairs. When he lagged behind, they stopped. “Do go on,” he prodded.
“We have things to discuss,” his cousin protested.
“And plenty of time for that discussion,” he countered. “I assume you return to my aunt on Sunday afternoon rather than continue on to your own home. Your steward has broached some issues with the manor.”
“Here now, we thought to stay the week.”
“Not possible. I have business in Thirsk. You must leave on Sunday.” He planted his feet and braced his hands behind his back. “Go on down. I will join you momentarily.”
“But I have not seen you in forever, Harcourt.” The woman stepped closer to him. “Once we were bound together. How can you now expect me to accept such long silences from you?”
Geoffrey Harcourt frowned at his wife then started down without her. Belatedly, she realized her error, and Elizabeth realized that the beauty did not often have to court one man while her husband stood near her. She shook her head as Mrs. Harcourt had to hasten rather than glide down the steps.
Erik Harcourt took a step backward that put him beside Elizabeth. “She never learns,” he said softly.
“My mother—” How curious that she was quoting the woman three times in one day. Surely that was significant. “My mother said that beauty does not have the opportunity to develop intelligence. All her little adages guide my life now, but I certainly railed against them when I was three and ten.”
He gave a huffed laugh. “You’ve proved your mother wrong about beauty and intelligence, Elizabeth.”
“My lord, I have not given you leave to use my given name.”
“I’ll take leave. One thing to help me ensure that I survive this weekend with my sanity intact. One other thing—you will dine with us each night. You will act as my hostess.”
“My lord! No!”
“I trust you have a gown?”
She could lie and say no, but she despised liars—and he might have an unexpected solution.
After Mrs. Harcourt’s apricot gown and her condescending inspection of Elizabeth’s market attire, she would happily wear her only gown, an extravagance for a housekeeper to have, more suited to a debutante and five years out of fashion, but the gown wouldn’t put her to shame. “I do,” she said mildly, “but I do not think it wise that you place me as your hostess, my lord.”
“Please, Elizabeth, you’re my ally against them and,” he dropped his winning card, “I will not allow Letitia Steene Harcourt to play hostess in my home.”
Elizabeth wanted to say “hear, hear”, but she had better sense. “Very well, my lord. M’sieur Diderot has delayed dinner for two hours. We will have tea. You will speak with your cousin. Then we will retire for dinner.”
At her agreement, his dark eyes gleamed, offering to share in mischief.
She could see that little boy, embarking on an impish trick, and her heart tumbled farther into his keeping.