A Lady Awakened (3 page)

A glance at him caught the change in his face: he was guarded, indeed, but she could see how ready he was to grasp at any bit of hope. “Do you know very much of him?” Caution kept his speech short. “Do you think it likely he would approve?”

“Mr. Russell spoke of him sometimes, enough for me to gather he’s an amiable man, at least.” It might be true, that last bit. Why should he not be amiable?

“If you would undertake to write … If your own interest so compelled you …” The weight of his hope forced her attention down to the hymnals in her lap. The stack needed straightening. “I have the greatest respect for your powers of persuasion. You know I spent months working to convince Mr. Russell of the merits of educating his tenants, but I do not believe he would have agreed to it in the end without your intercession.”

Two books slipped from her lap and went skittering into the aisle. She bent to reach for them and nearly collided with Mr. Atkins, suddenly kneeling there before her. “I’m sorry,” she said, rather stupidly, as there had in fact been no collision.

He looked up. A faint whiff of almond came to her: he must use soap of that scent. A smile—modest, decent, kindly—played round the edges of his mouth. “The apology ought to be mine.” He lifted the books. “You’ve labored to no purpose—I haven’t actually been in the habit of putting these away.”

She took the hymnals and sat up straight. “You ought to.” Her finger traced along one’s failing spine. “Especially in the winter. The damp is bad for paper.”

“Indeed I ought.” He got to his feet, brushing absently at his cassock.

“These need to be replaced, at all events. Perhaps I will ask Mr. James Russell to approve it.” She forced a smile and he smiled back, his eyes lit with a trustful gratitude of which she had long since ceased to be worthy.

T
HERE WAS
a new man in church today,” said her maid that evening while taking down her hair. “Across the aisle from you—did you see him?”

“Mr. Mirkwood, you mean. His family owns Pencarragh, just to the east.” She tipped her head forward as the hairpins were drawn out. Perhaps Sheridan could draw out her stupidity with them. What had she been thinking, to propose a letter to Mr. James Russell?

“Mirkwood, aye.” In her dressing-table mirror the maid’s blond head bobbed once. “Sir Theophilus, as will be, once he’s finished driving his father to an early grave.”

“I see you know more than I. Is this the fruit of below-stairs gossip?” She couldn’t work up any stronger admonition, with her mind so urgently occupied.

There had to be some way to secure the school’s future; some sounder scheme than a mere written plea. Mr. Atkins’s flattering faith to the contrary, she was no persuader. His thanks ought to go to the bottle, for Mr. Russell’s imperfect recall of what he had and had not authorized. She should have accomplished nothing without that.

“You know Sarah, who makes the sauces?” Sheridan’s voice looped and fluttered among her thoughts like a cheerful unreproached bird. “Her sister works in the house there, and she said Mr. Mirkwood had come to stay not by his own choice but by his father’s.”

“As a kind of banishment?” This finally drew her full attention. What sapskulled father, and what sapskulled son, could view the Sussex countryside as a penance?

“Banished, to be sure.” A handful of hairpins dropped musically onto the silver tray at her right. “Put away from the temptations of London, in a place where there’s little chance for deviltry. Cut off from his allowance too, I’ve heard, so no running down to Brighton for the amusements.”

Deviltry. Amusements. This much, she could have guessed. “I am sorry to hear it.” She found her maid’s eyes in the mirror. “However we need not sustain the life of a man’s misdeeds with discussion, or with any notice at all. We will merely hope he may profit by his stay in Sussex.” Not very likely, though, if he continued to sleep through church.

Sheridan picked up a comb and eased it into Martha’s hair, ducking her head in a chastened way, but her smile suggested she was indulging, still, in agreeable thoughts of Mr. Mirkwood and his transgressions.

Undoubtedly one might have done more, in ten months, to curb the maid’s affinity for gossip and plant some foundations of decorum. But to regret that now would be no good use of her time. Indeed, she might perhaps employ the trait to some advantage.

“Do you know anything of Mr. Russell’s brother James?” she said. “Do the older servants ever speak of him?”

“Mr. James Russell.” A muscle twitched in the girl’s cheek; her features otherwise went neutral. “Why do you ask?”

“He stands to inherit Seton Park, and I have certain matters to discuss with him in advance of that.” This time she felt a tiny catch in the comb’s movement, though Sheridan’s face betrayed nothing. “He didn’t come to the wedding or to Mr. Russell’s funeral, so I must rely on others’ impressions.” Three, then four, then five seconds went by in silence. “You’ve heard some reports of him, I think?”

“Sometimes the older servants have said things.” The maid’s eyes flicked up to hers in the mirror, and down again.

“And what have they said? I beg you will be frank with me.” A chill was creeping up her backbone. What could instill this sudden reserve in the same girl who’d chattered so readily of Mr. Mirkwood’s disgrace?

Sheridan’s mouth pursed. She set her head on an angle and watched her hands combing. Finally, she spoke. “They say he ruined two housemaids here when he was a young man.”

“What?” The chill flooded every part of her now. “Who says so?”

“Mrs. Kearney. She was second housemaid then. She says it was only her pockmarked face kept her safe.” Her lips went tight together; her hands divided out a lock of hair.

“Safe from … being lured into a degraded connection, do you mean?” Or safe from something worse?

“Wasn’t much luring in it.” Like huge malign hailstones the words fell, a few at a time, while Sheridan worked the comb through. “He went into their rooms at night and told them they’d be dismissed if they said anything about it. And then the two were dismissed all the same, because of what condition they found themselves in.”

“Was he never brought to justice?” The threadbare whisper exactly suited that woman she saw in the mirror, pale as the white lawn chemise she wore. And the question was a foolish one. Nobody held such men to account. Women could only pray for mercy, and bear what came.

The maid shook her head, not bothering to reply in words. “Not that he’ll ever lay eyes on me,” she said after a moment. “There’ll be no place for me here if you don’t stay.” She set the comb aside and busied herself in plaiting the combed-out hair. “Only I was hoping you would. All the servants were. I suppose things would have come out different if you’d been blessed with a son.”

“Different indeed.” Martha lowered her eyes from her blushing mirror image. “But as we’ve known these few days, all chance of that is …” She stopped. Here came the mutiny again, boiling up from somewhere deep in her belly and confounding all her words.

She raised her chin and met with her reflection as her breaths went quick and shallow. Sheridan’s reflection, too, the sweet springtime face paired with eyes that already knew too much of the world.

Women could only pray for mercy …
That wasn’t true. Women could do more. A desperate woman could do more.

Women could only bear what came
. But a chance had come. A chance had come and looked her in the eye that very morning.

In the mirror her blush was receding, her features settling into the lines of calm resolve. This could end in a dozen different kinds of disaster. There’d be no guarantee of success. And how to get through it without losing all claim to principle, she couldn’t begin to imagine.

So be it. She could wait for Providence to come to these women’s aid, or she could make use of what Providence had already put in her path. “Sheridan.” She twisted to face her maid squarely. “Tell me again about Mr. Mirkwood. Tell me everything you know.”

Chapter Two

W
HO IS
Mrs. Richard Russell, and what business can she have with me?” Theo Mirkwood held the card—the first to appear on his tray, since coming to the country—between two long fingers and turned it critically this way and that. Black lettering engraved on white. No border, no artful script, no little curlicues or flowers; nothing, in short, to betray any hint of its owner beyond her name. Or more precisely, her husband’s name.

“She is your next neighbor,” said Mr. Granville, “the mistress of Seton Park.”

Theo sat back in his chair and bit into a piece of buttered toast, the card still balanced between his first and second fingers. Across the table his land agent—no, his father’s land agent—sorted diligently through the many tedious-looking documents he’d brought along. “She must have left it at some ungodly hour this morning,” he said, flicking at one corner of the card with his thumbnail. Decent paper. Crisp. “Do you know her?”

“A little.” The man barely looked up from his work. “She’s been among us less than a year, and was unhappily widowed a week and some since.”

He stopped chewing. Perhaps it was some other widow? But no, Seton Park, now he recalled, was the name of that property just to the west, where the fieldstone church stood. “A week, you say.” He swallowed. “Why the devil is she calling on anyone, let alone an unmarried gentleman?”

“Mrs. Russell is the properest of women. I’m sure it must be some matter of business, as you said. And I should think a new neighbor would feel flattered by her notice, and overlook any lapse in her adherence to the strictures of mourning.”

“Flattered. So I am.” What else could he say? The length of his term here depended on the reports this man would make to his father. He read the card again. “What happened to Mr. Richard Russell?”

“Thrown from a horse and broke his neck. Most unfortunate. Are you nearly ready to begin?”

“Yes, why not?” He sighed and set the card by his plate. “Instruct away.”
Drag me down with your details into the next circle of this forced rustication
, he might have stylishly added, could he be more flippant and less mindful of making a good impression.

But in a short time he had ceased to attend the agent’s droning. Sunlight filled the breakfast parlor, bringing with it a most agreeable drowsy warmth, and his tea was warm, and the buttered toast was warm and furthermore could be spread with three different kinds of jam. He had only to nod and occasionally raise his eyebrows in an approximation of attention, between bites of toast, while his own thoughts drifted back to yesterday morning in church.

What an odd business that had been; the widow and all of it. Arriving late as he had. Falling asleep. Forgetting himself for the space of a smile.

Like so many things that appeared at first blush to be his fault, these ones were not, really. New habits took time. Sunday services were so infernally early. He’d expected more singing, and a shorter sermon.

“… and here you see what economies we’ve achieved by blocking up the unneeded windows and reducing our tax.” Granville was foisting some document on him.

“Most impressive.” He glanced at the paper and plucked another piece of toast from the rack. Who ever heard of an unneeded window? In his London lodgings he always kept the curtains wide. The light was particularly fine at this time of year, mellowing in preparation for the change to autumn. Some afternoons it lured him back into bed, sweetly as a woman might.

He ought not to have smiled at that widow. Speaking of women and their lures. What man could blame him, though? Such a delightful waking apparition she’d made, so grave and erect in her widow’s weeds, but paging through her prayer book like a child looking for the pictures. Then when she’d swung about to face him, with the eyes of a startled deer, he’d liked her better still. He could imagine teasing her on the topic of her truant attention, and submitting while she scolded him for falling asleep. He could imagine a most enjoyable roundelay of teasing and submission, culminating in a most thoroughly …

Granville had gone silent. For how long? He scrabbled at the paper before him. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “I was working my way through these window-tax calculations and I’m afraid I missed the last of what you said.” He dug hard. “Something about fencing?” Why fencing, though? Surely there was no parlor within miles, and besides it wasn’t quite fashionable. Boxing was a gentleman’s exercise, these days.