3

Lady Densbury was close enough to death that no one would question it very much if Sarah helped her over the threshold of heaven just a little bit early, would they?

It had been hours since Sarah had fled from the dowager and Mr. Everard. She’d run in the first direction she could think of—which was simply “away”—and had ended up circling the house and coming in through the kitchen.

She’d been so mortified that she went to bed with her head buried beneath her pillow and now, as she rose and prepared for the day, her face still flamed at the merest hint of remembering. If she thought about having to face Mr. Everard once more, well, it was enough to make her want to run in the other direction. Again.

She dressed simply since it was neither Sunday, which meant services at the church, or Wednesday, the day of the torturous dinners up at Helmsfield. When Sarah had started this job back in January, there’d been an excursion of some form nearly every day, but those had quickly tapered off to the occasional visit to the village to shop or have tea. They hadn’t even done that in almost two months.

Sarah, who on most days found the reclusive state of the dowager a bit sad, was rather grateful today that she could depend upon staying home. That way she wouldn’t chance encountering Mr. Everard. If he were still in town next Wednesday, she’d plant herself at the piano without even being asked and remain there for the entirety of the evening, not looking his way, even if it meant forgoing cake.

Her last vision of him would be the frozen, gaping features that swung from his grandmother to her with a look of shock and surprise tinged with a bit of revulsion at the idea of marrying a lowly companion who hadn’t a single thing to recommend her aside from her ability to play the piano and make an old woman laugh.

Although she wouldn’t be making Lady Densbury laugh today. It might be noon before she managed to do more than scowl at the woman.

Sarah trotted quickly down the stairs to avoid the temptation of sliding down the polished curved banister like a four-year-old. A set of drawing rooms near the bottom of the stairs had been converted into the dowager’s bedchamber and dressing room, an accommodation the earl hadn’t seemed to know about, even though it had been done nearly three years prior. It was a sad reflection on the state of the family.

It was as if the earl was simply waiting for his mother to die.

The fact that Sarah herself had thought such a thing fleetingly this morning was completely different. She’d thought it in exasperated love for the meddling woman.

A look around the room, decorated in soft shades of blue and occasional splashes of deep, vibrant red, revealed the dowager countess was taking her time with breakfast. She was still wrapped in her dressing gown, seated at the small table near the window that curved around the corner of the house.

Sarah nodded at the maid laying out the dowager’s clothing for the day and then retreated to the drawing room. When Lady Densbury was ready, she’d come out, settle into the drawing room with a book or other time-passing activity and pretend that she was awaiting visitors who rarely, if ever, showed. The vicar came by on occasion, as well as a handful of ladies in the weeks after they returned from London, but by and large, days at Cloverdale were quiet.

A fire was already blazing cheerfully in the drawing room, filling the area with warmth and light.

Soon the sun would top the trees and the room would be a golden oasis for most of the day. The number of windows meant a great deal of light, but also a great deal of chill, so Sarah set Lady Densbury’s black shawl on the back of the chair nearest the fire so it would be warm when the dowager wanted it.

A glint of silver tumbled out of the woolen nest, and Sarah jerked to catch the jewelry before it fell. A smile touched her lips as she ran a finger across the large amethyst heart in the center of the brooch. Silver hearts intertwined around the stone, and a silver crown topped the entire curling mass of shiny nostalgia.

And just that easily, she forgave the old woman for her embarrassing declaration. Lady Densbury was a romantic. She’d loved her husband enormously, and by all accounts he’d loved her, as well—enough to haul her off to Scotland and cause a great scandal when his family had declared her an unfit choice of bride.

They’d spent a year in Edinburgh where he’d bought her this luckenbooth brooch as a token of his unending love for her. It was easily the dowager’s most prized possession. Not because of the enormous gem’s value, but because of the love it made her remember. Sarah lost count of the number of times she’d heard the story.

It was understandable that the dowager would want such a love for Mr. Everard. He was her favorite relation, and she wasn’t loathe to admit it.

It was less understandable that she wanted Mr. Everard to fall in love with Sarah.

Sarah fixed the brooch firmly onto the shawl, then set about preparing the rest of the room for the day.

Book and spectacles on the table to the right of the chair. Basket of embroidery work on the floor beneath the table. Table to the left of the chair empty and ready to hold a cup of tea. Footstool tucked neatly beneath the upholstered wingback chair, ready to slide into use when it was wanted. Drapes pulled just so to let in plenty of light but not cause a glare.

The wrapped parcel of Madeira Pound Cake had been placed on the small table by the window where Sarah and Lady Densbury took their meals. Sarah didn’t remember what she’d done with it last night, whether she’d dropped it when she ran or left it with her bonnet and pelisse in the kitchens, but she was happy to see the parcel this morning.

She unwrapped it and took a large bite of cake. Who needed to wait for slices when there were mortifying memories that needed burying?

Still, she couldn’t eat the whole thing or she’d be sick, so she wrapped the now heavily divoted chunk of cake back in the linen and set it on the tea table.

With nothing else to do, Sarah made her way to the square piano that took a central place of prominence in the other half of the drawing room.

Sarah loved this old instrument so much more than the modern one she played at Helmsfield. Possibly because it hadn’t been situated to remind her that she’d been excluded, but also because it seemed like the piano knew music was loved here. The strings seemed to vibrate more brightly and the keys bounced back more quickly.

A quick flourish of notes seemed to finish waking up the room. Sarah always played in the morning, embellishing simple waltzes or minuets or sending complicated sonatas echoing through the house.

This morning definitely called for more of a loud, echoing sort of song, because while Sarah had found it in her to forgive her employer, she was still more than a little bit miffed.

Making cow eyes at Randall Everard and dreaming he’d notice her was one thing. Having it announced that she’d been chosen for him and found lacking was another.

Randall’s horse stood in front of the house, saddled and ready to depart. He’d intended to leave today, having delivered the updated numbers and money to his father. It was two days’ easy ride, putting him back at Bluestone in time to celebrate Christmas with the tenants and area gentry. He’d even packed his saddlebags this morning with clothing and food for the journey.

Yet the leather bags were still sitting in a chair in his room instead of being flung across the front of the saddle.

Why was he standing here instead of halfway down the drive?

Because last night he’d seen something in Miss Gooding that fascinated him, something he’d thought was there but never seen evidence of. He would be a fool if he didn’t at least see if that glimmer was a flash of momentary sun or an indication of a fine, rare jewel.

“Randall, are you leaving today?” His mother crossed the hall to where he was standing by the front door.

The same place he’d stood last night watching Miss Gooding try to figure out how to get her cake home without making it obvious she had it.

“No, Mother, I was thinking that I might stay through Christmas.” Randall didn’t know he’d made the decision until the words popped out of his mouth, but as soon as he heard himself say them, he knew it was the right choice.

“Oh.” She said nothing for a moment and then gave him a bright, genuine smile. “That’s wonderful. It’s been a while since we were all actually home for the holiday season.”

That was true. Before his brothers had married, it hadn’t been unusual for George or Cecil or even both of them to choose remaining in London over making the journey north. Last year it had been Grandmother who had chosen the city over the country, saying her wardrobe needed refreshing and she didn’t trust the country modistes. Not only had she returned home with trunks full of clothing, but she’d brought a new companion as well.

“It’s a nice idea,” Randall said, “the whole family together for Christmas. Perhaps we can convince Grandmother to stay at the main house for the duration of the celebration.”

Whether he was ready to consciously admit it or not, this was likely his last Christmas with his grandmother, and he wanted to relish every moment of it.

“I suppose.” Mother frowned, deep grooves framing her pinched lips. “She’ll insist on bringing her companion.”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and tilted his head to consider his mother. “Why don’t you like her?”

Dark eyebrows arched over equally dark brown eyes. “Aside from the fact that she cost my cousin a very estimable livelihood? She’s entirely too questionable. We’ve no idea where she comes from or who her people are. We don’t even know who she was working for when your grandmother plucked her out of a snowbank on the edge of the ice-skating pond.”

Randall couldn’t help grinning. “I thought Miss Gooding plucked Grandmother out of the snowbank.”

The countess waved a hand through the air in dismissal. “The dowager had no business ice-skating at all. Emily tried to make that quite clear.”

“Which is probably why Emily is no longer Grandmother’s companion.” Randall slid his hat onto his head. “Grandmother has never taken kindly to being told what to do.”

“Yes, I know.” Mother sighed. “Your father is still trying to live down her many scandals. It’s hard enough, unexpectedly inheriting as a second son. People talk. But to have them question everything he does because his mother was the daughter of a Cambridge professor, well, it’s a lot for a family to live down.”

“It doesn’t seem to have harmed my brothers any.” Both of Randall’s brothers had married very well. The fact that Randall couldn’t see himself married to either woman or even a woman similar to them was part of the reason he was still single at the age of twenty-seven.

“No, it hasn’t. We’ve had to be very diligent about appearances, but it has been worth it.”

Had it really? What had truly been gained by his parents’ obsession with living down his fun-loving grandmother’s scandals? True, Cecil might not have married as well as he had, but George was going to be an earl. An eccentric or two in his family tree wasn’t likely to hurt him any.

Even an eccentric brother who considered having a flirtation with his grandmother’s companion.

Mother clasped her hands in front of her and sent a questioning look to his horse, still standing on the drive, snuffling his nose at a dry leaf near his feet. “Where are you going if not home?”

“Um, Cloverdale.” He did his best to keep his voice as emotionless as possible. He didn’t need his mother panicking. “Look in on Grandmother.”

“Oh.” She was silent for a few moments, but nothing on her face let him know what she was thinking. “We’ll see you for dinner, then.”

Randall nodded and mounted his horse, feeling more than a little ridiculous. Cloverdale was a mile away. He’d walked there and back last night, and he felt a bit absurd riding the short distance on a horse. Of course, Nero needed to get out and stretch his legs a bit, so Randall soothed his embarrassment by taking the long and winding route to Cloverdale.

The air was cold and wet, biting his lungs if he took a deep breath. Nero’s breath puffed around him in icy clouds. It would snow soon, either today or tomorrow.

His prediction came true, with the first fat flakes drifting through the air as Cloverdale came into view. The rounded, elegant lines of the house had always appealed to him, much more so than the imposing stone walls of Helmsfield. It was no wonder that Grandmother had packed up and moved here within days of her son taking up the earldom and residence in the family seat. All of her clothes hadn’t even been dyed black when they’d packed them up.

It was a simple matter to care for Nero and put him in one of the two empty stalls in the small shed behind the house. Soon Randall was bounding up the three front steps out of the snow.

Riotous, glorious music could be heard as he approached the front door. Apparently his grandmother already had visitors. Entertaining ones. Perhaps even two. Surely one person couldn’t manage to play all of those notes.

The maid met him at the door and curtseyed before gesturing him toward the drawing room. He usually came to the dower house his first day in town. He’d visit with his grandmother and read or play chess while Miss Gooding embroidered in the corner. She was always embroidering. It was only slightly more boring than the banal piano playing she did when Grandmother brought her to dinner.

Before he reached the drawing room, he heard his grandmother’s voice.

“That was mighty peculiar business Sunday, preaching on not caring about the thoughts of others.”

Music trilled, the notes rapidly climbing along the keys. “That’s not what he said and you know it. He said that it was more important that a person be clean before God than be understood by his fellow man.”

Randall frowned. That was Miss Gooding’s voice. He was almost sure of it. But it sounded the same way it had been during those moments last night—strong, sure, and without that soft edge of apology he so disliked.

“Bah.”

“You can’t say, ‘bah,’ it’s in the Bible. He read from Romans.” More intricate melodies filled the room. “Besides, you yourself act according to your faith and conscience instead of what is expected of you, even if you won’t admit it.”

There was a pause where nothing could be heard except the beautiful, captivating piano music.

“Bah,” his grandmother said again, although this time there was a distinct note of humor in it.

Randall stepped up to the door and stopped in his tracks once more. There wasn’t a guest or two making magic on the piano. There was simply Miss Gooding, playing to rival the masters he’d heard in concert halls while carrying on a conversation well enough to best his sharp-witted grandmother.

And confound it all if there weren’t something wildly attractive about that.

He cleared his throat. “One also has to consider the Bible’s command to live uprightly in the eyes of man, though. Fearing God while honoring the king.”

It was an abrupt way to announce his presence, and Miss Gooding’s fingers stumbled to a melodic halt.

Grandmother looked up. “Randall! Perfect. You’re just the man I need.”

“I am?” he asked.

“He is?” Miss Gooding inquired at the same time.

“Of course.” The dowager pointed a shaky, crooked finger at her companion. “You can hardly haul greenery in from the woods by yourself.”

Thin golden eyebrows winged upward, and Miss Gooding’s mouth quirked. Instead of making her face look angular and pinched, though, it made her look like some sort of fairy or wood nymph Shakespeare would write about. It took Randall a moment to realize it was all in the eyes. She was looking directly at the dowager, not at her toes or the floor. The expression in those pale blue eyes seemed to make all the difference.

“I wasn’t aware I was going into the woods today.”

“Well, you weren’t.” His grandmother adjusted her shawl, revealing the silver brooch he’d seen her with for as long as he could remember. “But now that Randall has come, you can.”

The companion stood and crossed her arms. “And why am I going into the woods?”

Grandmother covered her mouth with her shawl and coughed several times, taking shuddering breaths in between. After a moment, she swallowed and carried on as if nothing had happened. “I want Christmas greenery.”

Silence fell over the drawing room.

Randall stepped forward. “Christmas isn’t until next week, Grandmother.”

Before the old woman could answer, Miss Gooding stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly together and held to her chest as if she were an excited young girl. “And why limit the celebration of Jesus’s birth to a single day—or even twelve? There’s no rule that says we can’t extend that a bit.”

He frowned. “But tradition—”

“Was made to be broken,” Miss Gooding said firmly.

Randall looked at her. He’d found himself doing that quite a bit of late. She wasn’t cowering, wasn’t keeping to the shadows. In fact, she looked ready to go toe to toe with him over a few twigs and branches.

Apparently he was going to go chop down a holly bush.