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I was so overset when I lurched upright, intent upon hurrying outdoors to call a halt to the boy’s mischief that I managed to spill copious amounts of tea onto my dress. Trembling with outrage, I did manage to settle the teacup onto the saucer atop the windowsill before snatching up the napkin to dab at my now quite wet gown. Although the window at my side was closed and latched, I could clearly hear the boy’s gleeful cries as they scooped up and hurled handfuls of pebbles at the poor mother cat and her nursing kittens! I caught sight of the mother cat leap up and attempt to chase away the boys; her poor babies, not understanding what was afoot, being flung this way and that, their tiny mouths open as they, no doubt, emitted pitiful mews of alarm.
Just as I flung the damp napkin aside I spotted Mrs. Bertram and a footman rush from the house to yank at the arms of the naughty boys and begin to roundly scold them, at least they scolded two of them, the third one dashed to safety through the open archway at the far end of the courtyard. I could not hear a word the grown-ups were saying, of course, but judging from the angry look on Mrs. Bertram’s face, she was not mincing words. And, judging from both boys’ manner of dress, I surmised them to be the Medley Park sons, although the one who had run off had appeared sufficiently unkempt to have sprung from a stable hand or a washerwoman. I clearly understood now why the ill-bred Medley Park boys had been left behind whilst their aristocratic parents journeyed up to London to meet the king. No doubt, Lord and Lady Medley both wished to escape the horrid antics of their horrid sons.
I began now to wonder about the ‘girls’ Mrs. Bertram had mentioned as being away from home today. What were their ages and were they as ill-behaved as their brothers?
Because Mrs. Bertram seemed to be doing a credible job of disciplining the delinquents, I inhaled a calming breath and sat back down to finish my tea and allow the skirt of my gown to dry. It would soon be time to change my clothes for dinner, so I may as well linger here a bit longer.
However, boredom soon set in. Upon arriving in any new setting, I always feel compelled to explore my unfamiliar surroundings and today was no different. The same compulsion had beset me in Margate, which led me to meeting the Tremont siblings and set off a chain of events I now refer to as the murder in Margate. However, not expecting to ever be drawn into such a ghastly experience again, in moments, I found myself in the hallway outside my bedchamber door attempting to decide in which direction I should turn in my exploration of Medley Park.
Deciding it best to retrace my steps back the way Mrs. Bertram and I had arrived here, I took the precaution of counting the closed doors I passed so that I might more easily find my way back to my own suite. Perhaps this excursion would at least enable me to find my way to the red withdrawing room, which is where the housekeeper had indicated that tea was served every afternoon. By its very color, red, the chamber should not be difficult to find, unless the house had a profusion of scarlet rooms, which I thought unlikely.
Pleased when I did, indeed, manage to reach the ground floor, although this time I did not meet up with even one of the profusion of housemaids Mrs. Bertram had alluded to. Nonetheless, emboldened by my small measure of success, I pressed on. Despite not even the butler being in evidence in the foyer, I quickly came upon a chamber I assumed to be the red withdrawing room. Because the double doors were standing open, I peeked inside and noted both the deep red walls and wine-red draperies. In addition, nearly every chair and sofa in the room was upholstered in either scarlet, or maroon. A pair of housemaids were arranging long stemmed red roses into three enormous crystal vases.
In a further attempt to ascertain my exact location within the large house, I boldly entered the drawing room and without uttering a word to the servants, who also did not cast a glance at me, I crossed to the bank of windows on the opposite wall and looked out. Ah. Just as I expected; the graveled drive that fronted the house lay just beyond this chamber.
Next on my list of places to locate was the dining hall, which is where Mrs. Bertram had said dinner was served every evening at half past seven. Sure enough, only a few yards down the wide uncarpeted corridor, the walls displaying dozens of portraits of long-dead Medley Park ancestors, I presumed, and sprinkled in for good measure, a few paintings of prize-wining horses, judging from the wreaths of flowers draped about their necks, I soon reached the spacious dining hall, situated on the interior wall of the house, meaning the windows looked onto the courtyard. The doors here were also standing ajar. Within the large chamber, a brace of footmen, attired in green and gold livery, were laying out the service for the evening meal quietly murmuring to one another as they worked.
I moved on and soon reached the sharp right turn that corresponded to the one on the floor above. Here, I began to count doorways, thinking I might be able to determine exactly what chamber lay directly beneath mine. At about the same spot on this level, I came upon another pair of double doors standing open, this room filled with an assortment of cushioned wicker furniture. An array of potted plants stood before a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. A multitude of vases containing bouquets of red, white and pink roses, spotted magenta foxglove and stalks of purple hollyhocks and hibiscus sat here and there on wicker tables. From where I stood in the entryway, I could see through the opened doors to the courtyard. So, the solarium was directly beneath my room and it was, no doubt, from here that the Medley Park boys raced into the courtyard and began to harass the mama cat and her kittens.
Crossing the room, I stepped outside and onto a walkway that led onto the graveled courtyard. Beds of ivy and low-lying vines lay to either side of me. Due to the sheer joy of being out-of-doors and surrounded by clean, fresh air, I raised my arms to either side of my body and inhaled breath after breath of delicious, flower-scented air. How delightfully charming it was here! Spotting a bench partially shaded by the house, I headed that way as I began to look about for the kittens.
And, there they were! Delighted, I quietly picked my way to where three of the tiny black and white fur-balls were tussling with one another, the mother cat keeping an alert eye from a few feet away. Moving stealthily, I drew quite near them and noiselessly knelt down to quietly wait until one of the little fluffs of fur tumbled close enough to me that I could have reached out to touch it. At length, because I simply could not help myself, I slowly stretched forth one finger. Sure enough, a brave little fur-baby soon padded over to sniff the end of my finger.
I could feel the little puffs of air coming from its tiny nostrils and when its whiskers began to tickle me, I bit my lip to smother a laugh. When the kitten ducked its head and commenced to rub against my hand, I gently stroked its soft fur.
“Well, aren’t you a sweeting?” I said in a low tone. “Would you like to come and sit in my lap?”
Suddenly, the jarring sound of a male voice startled me. “Were you to put that question to me, Miss Abbott, I daresay I would be hard pressed to refuse.”
“Oh!” I sprang to my feet, which, of course, caused the kittens to scatter and the mother cat to rush forward hissing her displeasure. I felt color rise to my cheeks as I turned to gaze curiously upon whomever had addressed me. Staring up and into the face of a finely turned-out gentleman, I exclaimed, “Sir, you have frightened the kittens!”
The gentleman inclined his head a jot. “Then I suppose I must beg their pardon, however, I am not quite certain how to accomplish that feat. Perhaps you will extend a proper apology in my stead, Miss Abbott.”
I nervously smoothed a wrinkle from my still damp skirt. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I haven’t the least notion who you are.”
The tall young man wearing beige trousers, a plaid waistcoat and navy blue superfine coat, smiled lazily. “Then I must beg your pardon, Miss Abbott. I own that my reply to your question about . . . sitting in your lap was a trifle impertinent but I could not resist.” With another nod, he said, “I am Lord Medley’s eldest son, well, his almost eldest son, Cecil Ruston; at your service.”
A hand casually indicated a spot behind him. “When I entered the solarium a moment ago and saw you here, Mrs. Bertram informed me of your identity; and that Father had enlisted your aid with his latest project. Having only just arrived home from London, I was unaware of my father’s plan. Would you care to walk a bit, or . . .” he glanced in the direction of the kittens, “would you prefer to capture a kitten to sit on your lap?”
That the gentleman was not quite as rude as I had first thought was clearly evident. Still, before replying, I cast a glance downward to ascertain that all was, indeed, well with the feline family. Looking back up, I said, “I would be delighted to walk a bit with you, sir.”
When he extended an arm, I cautiously slipped my bare fingertips (for I had not bothered to don gloves before leaving my room) over the crook of his elbow and we set out to stroll the perimeter of the courtyard.
Because the gentleman said no more at once, I asked, “Were you also up to London for the coronation, Mr. Ruston?”
“Indeed.” He nodded. “At any rate, that was my objective in traveling up to Town. Although, I confess, after only a bit of noise and confusion, I wished only to return to the country as quickly as possible without appearing rude, or . . . disinterested.”
“Disinterested? In the king’s coronation, or . . . the accompanying festivities?” As I awaited the gentleman’s reply, the sounds of gravel crunching beneath our feet pierced the stillness.
“In all respects, actually. I am not the gregarious sort, Miss Abbott. I do not frequent gentlemen’s clubs. When I do darken the doorways of Brooks or Boodles, I instantly become discomforted. I have never placed a bet at White’s nor am I keen to attend horse races, or . . . rush off to . . . I confess, I am unable to recall the name of the establishment where a fashionable gentleman simply must purchase his horseflesh . . .”
“Tattersall’s?”
He aimed a gaze down at me. “So, I take it you are well versed in the pastimes of a London dandy?”
“No, sir.” I shook my head. “Not at all. Like you, I far prefer quieter and simpler pursuits.”
“Such as cataloguing books and brushing dust from ancient artifacts?”
I cast a sidelong look up at him. This time I noted how handsome the gentleman was. His hair was the color of coal and although he had declared he was not a dandy, he wore his hair brushed forward in a style currently popular with London gentlemen called the Brutus. His eyes were a startling periwinkle blue and fringed with long, dark lashes. Mr. Cecil Ruston was, indeed, a very attractive man.
“Given your proclivity for quiet pursuits, sir, I wonder that your father did not engage you to assist him with his task. I expect it would suit your sensitivities quite well.”
A soft snort escaped him. “Perhaps, but I am far too clumsy, Miss Abbott. I am far more likely to drop and break a fine figurine than to accurately assess its value.” And then, as if to prove his point, he stumbled over a bit of greenery growing up through the pebbles beneath our feet. He grinned crookedly. “Truth is, Father would not trust any of his offspring to handle his precious treasures.”
“I see.” A moment later, I said, “I have learned nothing of Lord Medley’s family, sir, save that there are two very young boys.”
“Ah, yes. My half-brothers. The older scamp, Spencer, is nine; a miscreant who lives only to incite mischief. The little one, Harry, is seven and hasn’t a brain in his head. At least, we’ve yet to see evidence of one. I also have a half-sister, Hannah, who is five and ten. Of my three half-siblings, Hannah is the only one I find the least bit tolerable. The current Lady Medley is my step-mother. My father’s first wife, my mother, passed away when I was in leading strings. My brother, Ned, and I are the eldest; we are both nineteen.”
I started. “How can you both . . .?”
“Twins, Miss Abbott. Ned and I are twins, although we are as different as chalk and cheese. Ned is still in Town, rushing from one gala to another, accompanied by his gin-swilling friends. Both Father and my step-mother, and I, as well, have quite despaired of him. Ned is so deeply immersed in the life of a rakehell that we doubt he shall ever become the genteel country squire he ought. He, being the eldest, by a scant six minutes, does leave one to wonder what shall become of Medley Park once he inherits. I confess I have lost many a night’s sleep contemplating what disaster will befall the family once my father is no longer with us.”
“Are you suggesting that your father is . . . ill?”
“Not at all.” He snorted. “I daresay Father will outlive us all.”
I inhaled a considering breath. “So. Disregarding your impertinent remark to me a bit ago, am I to assume that you have already become the genteel country squire you ought?”
His blue eyes cut ‘round, and a sly smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “A word to the wise, Miss Abbott; never assume anything.”
I made no reply to the gentleman’s odd rejoinder. But upon noting that we had very nearly walked the perimeter of the courtyard and that a bit of a chill was beginning to creep into the air, I said, “I expect I should return to my suite now.”
“Very well, Miss Abbott.” He nodded. “Thank you for the stroll. I look forward to seeing you at dinner.”
* * *
SOON AFTER I RETURNED to my bedchamber, a scratch at my door revealed another young housemaid who, upon entering, told me she was called Tilda and that Mrs. Bertram had sent her up to assist me in changing my gown for dinner. Unlike Lottie, Tilda seemed always to be smiling. In addition, the slight girl, who had pale yellow hair and gray eyes, seemed to exhibit the proper degree of subservience expected of a lady’s maid. She agreed at once to perform any task I asked of her and even bobbed a curtsy before leaving the room. Because Tilda was still in the corridor when I exited my bedchamber, as were half a dozen other housemaids and footmen, doing . . . apparently nothing, she walked part of the way with me to the stairwell that led to the ground floor of the house.
“If you like, Miss Abbott, I will come back up later to help you prepare for bed.”
“Thank you, Tilda. I shall ring for you when I am ready to retire.”
“Yes, miss,” she said, and bobbed yet another curtsy.
We parted ways and I managed once again to find my way to the withdrawing room on the ground floor and entered that chamber unescorted, although a pair of footmen stationed outside the door did rush to fling it open for me.
As if he had been awaiting me, Mr. Cecil Ruston also stepped forward. “Ah, there you are Miss Abbott. Come, I shall introduce you around.”
I noted the crimson chamber was now ablaze with light, most coming from the same type of metal chandeliers that I had earlier observed in the foyer, although here not a single one of the candles sat askew. The low-burning fire crackling in the hearth provided a pleasant glow of warmth. Sitting atop low tables before all three of the crimson velvet sofas were the handsome cut-glass vases filled with blood red roses, which I had earlier witnessed the housemaids arranging. Wordlessly, Mr. Ruston led me to one of the crimson sofas, the one occupied by two young ladies.
“You must be Miss Abbott,” said the prettiest of the girls. Smiling, she rose. She stood very nearly as tall as I, which is not saying a great deal as I am not the least bit statuesque.
“Had you shown a bit of constraint, Hannah,” her brother Cecil scolded, “I would have presented you to Miss Abbott.”
Smiling, I said, “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Ruston. Hannah, is it?”
The pretty girl nodded. A cloud of dark curls encircled her dimpled cheeks. She had on a lovely round gown of pale blue silk with tiny tucks adorning the bodice. However, it was her guileless blue eyes, the same periwinkle blue as her brother’s, and also fringed with thick, dark lashes, that arrested my notice.
“Forgive me for staring, Miss Ruston, but you have the prettiest eyes I have ever beheld.”
The girl’s smile widened. “Thank you, Miss Abbott. I quite like your green eyes.”
“Thank you, I’m sure. But, mine are not nearly so exquisite as yours.”
During this exchange, Mr. Ruston remained silent. Now, he spoke up. “I daresay, my eyes are every bit as blue as Hannah’s. Everyone agrees our coloring is quite similar.”
His sister and I both laughed, as did the other young lady who was still seated on the sofa. She now rose. “I am Miss Isabella Ruston.”
“Isabella is our cousin, Miss Abbott.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Isabella. What a charming gown you are wearing.” I judged the second girl to be about the same age as Hannah, perhaps a bit older. She was taller and thinner, a bit lanky actually, and unfortunately, not nearly so pretty. With reddish-brown curls, (unfortunately more red than brown) and very freckled skin, she was also not quite as elegantly attired as her cousin. I had deliberately complimented her frock in case she might feel self-conscious, as young girls often do, over the profusion of brown-spots marring her skin.
With an eye-roll, Mr. Ruston said, “That you ladies persist in speaking only of lovely eyes and fetching gowns, means I must now take my leave.”
Hannah playfully hit her brother on the arm. “We are only becoming acquainted with one another, Cecil. Don’t be such a downpin.”
“You are welcome to join in, if you like,” suggested Isabella in a rather coquettish tone. “Surely there is something about each of us that you find agreeable.”
“Very well, then.” Mr. Ruston aimed a look at me and solemnly said, “I confess I find the color of your hair quite becoming, Miss Abbott. I have always been partial to gold.”
His remark set the younger girls to tittering again, but caught me off-guard. However, I smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Ruston. I expect most everyone in England is partial to gold.”
“What a pity then,” he replied, his tone now a trifle caustic, “that so few are possessed of a great deal of it.”
“Oh, Cecil. That sounds like something you might have read in The London Times,” his younger sister Hannah declared.
“Or recited by an MP on the floor of the House,” put in Isabella.
I noted the admiring gaze she directed up at her tall, handsome cousin.
Mr. Cecil Ruston was, indeed, quite the looker, and his younger half-sister Hannah was very pretty. Her bow-shaped lips and slightly tilted nose were the feminine counterpart to her brother’s masculine features. In my estimation, Hannah and Cecil could have been twins. I wondered now if Cecil was the mirror image of his twin brother. Judging from Isabella’s coloring, she did not appear to even be distantly related to her cousins.
“Do sit here beside me, Miss Abbott,” said Hannah, a hand indicating a place beside her on the crimson sofa.
“Thank you, Hannah, I would be delighted.”
Isabella slipped onto a nearby wing chair and nervously began to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from the skirt of her somewhat faded lavender poplin gown. Something told me her frock might be a cast-off of Hannah’s.
“You ladies will excuse me.” With a nod, Mr. Ruston turned and walked to the top of the room to take up a stance before the fire.
Hannah turned to me. “Isabella only arrived at Medley Park a bit ago. She is to winter with us whilst her parents are . . . elsewhere. Isabella and I both wish to travel to the continent next spring, don’t we, Bella?”
“Indeed, we are quite looking forward to it, unless . . .” A quick glance cut toward Cecil, then back again. “Have you been to France, Miss Abbott?”
“Actually, my mother was French. I recently spent half a year there.”
“Oh!” Both girls exclaimed in unison, their eyes widening with delight.
Hannah leaned forward. “Perhaps you could help us with our French, Miss Abbott. Bella and I would very much like to learn . . .”
At that moment, our conversation was interrupted by another pair of women entering the drawing room. The younger one wore a simple gray merino gown adorned with a white lace collar; her light brown hair pulled into a severe knot. Clasping an elbow of her companion, she slowly guided the frail old lady towards the fire. The elderly woman had hair the color of snow and wore an old-style gown, the black skirt gathered about her middle. With each halting step she took, her cane thumped upon the bare wooden floor. I noted Cecil hurry to take the old lady’s arm and held it as she slowly backed down onto a chair positioned quite near the hearth. The younger woman settled into a high-backed chair directly across from her.
Hannah rose to address the younger woman. “Miss Hutchens, may I present Miss Juliette Abbott, down from London. Father retained her to assist with his cataloguing project. Miss Abbott arrived whilst we were out this afternoon.” She glanced back at me. “I presume you arrived this afternoon.”
“Indeed.” I nodded. “Some time after tea, or so I was told.”
Miss Hutchens looked up and said crisply. “Then, I take it you heard or, perhaps, witnessed the boys’ disturbance in the courtyard.”
“Miss Hutchens is our governess,” Hannah said softly to me as she sat back down.
“What happened to our little boys?” inquired the old lady, her warbled tone shrill. I noted one gnarled hand still gripping the knob atop her cane, whilst the other clutched a wadded up handkerchief.
Miss Hutchens leaned forward. “Nothing to concern yourself with, Miss Martha.” She reached to extricate the cane from the older woman’s grasp, but the old lady would have none of it and instead, lifted it from the floor as if to swat the impertinent governess away.
“If I wish to take a turn about the room and my cane ain’t nearby, how will I manage?”
“I will be on hand to help you, Aunt Martha,” Cecil Ruston interjected from his position behind her chair.
“Such a dear boy,” murmured the old lady, reaching to pat his arm.
Miss Hutchens pasted a small smile upon her face. “You will alert me if you become overtired tonight, Miss Martha. I will be glad to summon a footman to assist you to return to your room.”
“I will be glad to help my aunt to her room, Miss Hutchens.”
“Aunt Martha shouldn’t have come down tonight,” Isabella whispered to Hannah. To me she added, “These days she can scarcely see a thing. She generally takes her dinner in her room, with her little dog for company, but she especially wanted to meet you.”
“Oh.” I was a trifle taken aback. “I am most honored. I must make a point to speak to your aunt before she retires for the night.”
“She will like that,” Hannah said, her smile sweet. “And, Isabella and I would like you to tell us all about France.”
At that instant, the Medley Park butler appeared in the doorway to declare that the dinner hour was upon us and we should all make haste to adjourn to the dining hall before the soup got cold.
Everyone rose, although we all waited patiently as Cecil Ruston helped his elderly aunt to rise and make her way into the corridor and on into the dining hall. However, I noted that as soon as his aunt was seated, the handsome young man turned and hastily left the room.
Once we five ladies had taken seats, but before the soup was served, Miss Hutchens indicated with a look and a nod that we must all bow our heads. To my astonishment, she reached to snatch hold of my hand, and launched into what, had it been delivered from a pulpit, could only be termed a sermon! At one point, I peeked up and noted that everyone’s hands were clasped with the person seated next to her; every head bowed and every eye closed. Miss Hutchens’s lengthy prayer finally concluded by invoking the Lord’s blessing upon our food and its nourishment to our bodies. She ended with, “In all things, give thanks, for this be the will of God in Christ Jesus. Amen.”
Following her final pronouncement, Miss Hutchens gave my fingertips such a firm squeeze that I very nearly cried out in pain. The unexpected action did cause my eyes to pop open and my head to jerk up as I aimed an alarmed look her way. Her eyes, however, were still closed and the smile upon her lips, while serene, told me that, in her mind, there was nothing the least bit untoward in her actions.
However, the split second everyone else opened their eyes, her smile vanished as we all sat back to await as half a dozen servants, far more than was truly necessary, began to dish up the now quite cold soup. I felt certain that not only the soup, but the entire meal would be served cold. It was then that Mr. Cecil Ruston quietly returned to the dining chamber and without a word, lowered his frame onto a chair. I surmised that he had vacated the room merely because he wished to avoid hearing Miss Hutchens’ lengthy invocation.
As the green and gold clad footmen silently paused at each and every shoulder by turn, I idly wondered if they had also joined hands during the prayer? Perhaps at the next meal, I would endeavor to note what, if anything, the servants did whilst the supplication ensued, if, indeed, it was a common occurrence before every meal.
(Please, dear reader, do not conclude that I harbor an aversion to prayer. I do not. My dear Aunt Jane and Uncle Abbott, in whose home I stayed a full sen’night before taking up my post at Morland Manor, always made a point of offering up a prayer of gratitude before every meal. It’s just that, generally speaking, a simple prayer of thanksgiving is not preceded by a lengthy sermon, which, in my limited experience, I do not believe is something the upper reaches of society often engage in.)
At any rate, once my wonderment over the oddity subsided, I turned my full attention to the variety of foodstuffs being served up tonight. Since I had consumed next to nothing all day, save the dry crusty sandwiches prepared by my housekeeper to sustain us whilst traveling, the roast mutton tasted especially good to me, as did the half dozen vegetable compotes drenched in rich sauces, and the breads and desserts, all of which were, unfortunately, set before us in quite a tepid state.
Before the meal concluded, I ascertained that both Hannah and Isabella, were neither one enamored by their overzealous governess, Miss Hutchens, who, as well, did not seem the least bit warm, or even cordial, toward the girls.
“Hannah, do sit up straight. You are hunching over your plate.”
“Yes, Miss Hutchens.”
“Isabella, we do not eat creamed spinach with that fork. Use the other one.” The governess’s lips firmed. “This is not the first time I have pointed out such lapses in decorum to you girls.”
“No, Miss Hutchens,” both girls murmured in unison.
Miss Martha ate her meal in silence, as, for the most part, did Mr. Ruston, although seated beside his aunt, he continued to be solicitous of her. Thankfully, Lord Medley’s youngest sons were not at the table, for I do not doubt that by now, handfuls of food would have been flying about the room, most quite possibly aimed at Miss Hutchens, whose well-meant disciplinary remarks I expected would have had little to no effect upon the younger boys. However, she seemed to take great delight in correcting both Hannah and Isabella’s speech and their manners; with the effect that any conversation they attempted to initiate with me, or even with one another, was cut off at the knees.
Despite being seated so very near Miss Hutchens, she never once initiated a conversation with me, although a passing remark I made to Hannah regarding the lovely flower arrangements gracing the center of the table in this room, and the sideboard, and also the low tables in the drawing room, did garner the young woman’s notice.
“I am enamored by all manner of blossoms, Miss Abbott. You may have noticed upon arrival that the grounds of Medley Park are covered with a vast assortment. We’ve roses aplenty and in every color, red, pink, yellow, peach and white. My given name is Violet, which, I daresay, is the reason I feel drawn to such splendid examples of our Lord’s artistry.”
“Ah.” I raised my napkin to my lips before venturing a reply, a part of me fearful that I, too, might be opening myself up to censure should any sort of lapse in decorum occur. “Upon arriving today, I did, notice a good many gardeners about the grounds. I also spotted a good many footmen carrying in armloads of freshly-cut blossoms.”
“Miss Hutchens insists that fresh flowers be placed in every room of the house,” Hannah said, “including my parent’s suite, whether or not they are at home.” She flung a guarded look at the governess, whose thin lips were primly pressed together.
Then she spoke. “As I have stated on many occasions, Hannah, God has provided us with sweet-smelling blossoms to remind us of His bountiful love for us. I find the sight of such loveliness quite reassuring, do you not agree, Miss Abbott?”
“Indeed.” I smiled, not at Miss Hutchens, but at Hannah, who gratefully returned the kind look before once again ducking her head. Long before the meal concluded my heart ached for both Hannah and her cousin over the lack of freedom granted them to freely express their thoughts.
Immediately following the overlong meal, I jockeyed to walk near the elderly Miss Martha as a footman slowly escorted the feeble old lady back to the drawing room.
“I quite enjoyed meeting you this evening, Miss Martha,” I said. “The girls tell me that Lord Medley is your younger brother. Has the family always resided here at Medley Park?”
“Do come and sit beside me, Miss Abbott, and I shall tell you everything you wish to know about the estate.”
I walked slowly alongside the old lady as the footman, who had hold of her other elbow, led her back to her chair and drew another up for me before the fire. I had already ascertained that after the sun went down, the large house quickly became a good bit drafty. Although, something told me that the draft I now felt wafting about the room had nothing whatever to do with ill-fitting windows.
In less than a half hour following dinner, I grew so very tired of the profusion of cold stares coming from Miss Hutchens, although she aimed everybit as many at Hannah and Isabella, that I longed to retreat to the warmth of my bedchamber for the night. Seated before me, Miss Martha had already nodded off. The poor woman’s mind seemed to drift in and out. And she truly could not see. At one point, I believe she took me for a niece, or someone’s granddaughter, come for a visit. At any rate, when I noted that the young Miss Rustons had their heads together as young girls are often wont to do and that Cecil Ruston had already vacated the room, I did, indeed, bid the remaining members of the Medley Park household a good night and fled from the drawing room, intent on making my way above stairs to the comfort of my bed.
I could not help wondering if Miss Hutchens did not approve of either my being here at Medley Park, or of perhaps having been invited to dine with the family. Despite her constant references to the good Lord above, Miss Hutchens’ heart did not seem full to overflowing with brotherly love towards any one of us.
At any rate, as I neared the stairwell on the ground floor, I heard a disturbance emanating from an inside chamber where the windows would have opened onto the courtyard. I paused but because I did not see a light beneath the door, I did not venture to investigate, although, given what I know now, I am convinced I very well should have.