Authors: Cecilia Grant
Sheridan sat forward in her chair, bright-eyed at the prospect. “May we strike him as well?”
Certainly someone ought to. She took up pacing again. “I shall leave that decision to you. Just be mindful of your own safety.”
“Men like that don’t give you a chance to strike them,” said a grave-faced lower housemaid. “They pin your arms first thing.”
“Then you must shout for a footman.” She set her palms flat on the linen-covered tabletop and nodded to Mrs. Kearney, sitting at its far end. “Will you apprise Mr. Lawrence of this matter, that he may put the footmen on notice?” Now the men-servants would know too. The whole house would be united against this menace.
“Only I wish I knew how to escape being pinned in the first place.” Sheridan set her troubled gaze on the strip of tablecloth between Martha’s two hands. “If we could learn the best places to strike or poke a man so as to disable him … if we had someone with some knowledge of boxing, for instance, to instruct us …”
“We don’t, however, so we shall rely on what resources we have.” Crisply she spoke over whatever nonsense Sheridan had meant to hint, and the girl sat back, her slightly protruding lower lip the only sign of argument.
She’d known somehow, Sheridan had, that things had ended badly. For all that Martha claimed the bargain had served its purpose and been finished, she frequently caught a pitying look in her maid’s eyes as she dressed her or did up her hair, and occasionally these unsubtle allusions came; these poorly veiled suggestions that she might take some step to bridge their rift. As though that were what either she or Mr. Mirkwood wanted, now.
She’d hurt him. Obviously. He’d offered her his heart and she’d declined it the way she might decline a second helping of turnips. What man would bear that with equanimity?
But he wasn’t the only person disappointed. She’d shown him her best self—the one capable of prodigious sacrifice for a worthy cause—and seen how he did not prize it. Chagrin knifed through her every time she allowed herself to remember. How could he claim to love her, when he did not love what was essential in her?
Not that it mattered. With marriage out of the question, love must be beside the point. “We’ll begin on the locks tomorrow.” She straightened again, and clasped her hands behind her back. “If you have other ideas for how we may brace this household, I shall be glad to hear them.”
I
’M TOLD
we may lose Mrs. Russell. Had you heard?” Granville dropped this remark while sorting through the various dairy implements stored in one of Pencarragh’s outbuildings.
A week now since he’d spoken to her, and as though she didn’t trouble his dreams enough, she must intrude here too. “Was there some complication with the will?” Theo poked at a cheese-press. Cheese-making had lost a deal of its luster. He hadn’t known the bit about the calf-stomach until some recent reading. Poor blameless doomed calves.
“It develops the estate may go to Mr. Russell’s brother. She’s not provided even a dower-house in that case, according to the family solicitor.” The agent paused to make a note. “That’s four good oaken pails. Have you come across a syle dish?”
“That milk-straining thing? I think this may be one. Have a look.” He held up the odd contraption, like a bowl with its bottom cut out, for Granville’s inspection. “How does this fellow come to be discussing Mrs. Russell’s private affairs? I should certainly hope for better discretion from my own solicitor.”
“To be sure. The topic only came up because this brother—the present Mr. Russell—will be at Seton Park within the week. Mr. Keene wanted me to know, particularly as his residency there may eventually be permanent.”
“He’s coming now?” Not his concern. Not his concern. Mrs. Russell could look to her dashed curate if she wanted masculine aid.
“Not the most gracious thing to do, is it? He looks as though he were anticipating his inheritance, and thus anticipating Mrs. Russell’s disappointment. I could see Mr. Keene disapproved. Ah—good. These setting-bowls have a tin coating. I’ve heard the bare iron sort can rust.”
He didn’t owe her anything. She, in fact, owed him five hundred pounds. Four times that sum, if things worked out the way she hoped.
But he’d acquired inconvenient proclivities over the past month, and now his thoughts went to the Seton Park housemaids. He couldn’t stand by and pretend no knowledge of the threat they might face. He must call, at least, and hear what, if anything, Mrs. Russell planned to do.
Bother responsibility. He sighed, and felt for his pocket watch. If he could hurry Granville along with this inventory, then he could perhaps make the visit this afternoon.
M
ARTHA SAT
at the library table, tapping a dry quill on a sheet of paper. She’d addressed the servant-women four days since, and every one of those four days Sheridan had seen fit to make some mention of Mr. Mirkwood. How he must be struggling in his dairy plans without Martha’s sensible advice. How he’d done a respectable job, for a gentleman, of arranging her hair, on those days he’d chosen to undertake that task. All manner of foolishness, transparent in its motive and fit to be ignored.
Still, she sat at the table with paper and pen. She might just send a note. He would perhaps wish to know of Mr. James Russell’s imminent arrival.
Yet why would he? He’d cleaved his cares from hers. Or maybe it was she who’d done that. At all events, she could not expect him to trouble himself over this development that did not affect him. She tossed the pen down and was just rising from her chair when a footman appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Mirkwood asks to see you, madam. I’ve put him in the smaller parlor.”
She stopped where she was, half risen. Her heart dashed and halted like an indecisive squirrel.
I shall not be at home to you on any day I can imagine
. What errand could bring him here in defiance of those words? Perhaps he’d come for his five hundred pounds. “Very good. Thank you. I’ll go to him.” Mechanically she lurched to her feet, and let them carry her, one step after another, from the library down the long hall and to the peony parlor at the front of the house.
He stood at a window, one hand pushing back a curtain to gain the broadest possible view. He would always be that man, wouldn’t he?—drawn to vistas and pleasures and all things light, in absurd contravention of his name. At the sound of her slippers on the oak floor he let the curtain fall and pivoted to face her.
Those eyes had seen all that her gown now concealed. That mouth had done things past description. That chin had sheltered the top of her head, night after night, his pulse and his breath murmuring in soft concerto with her own.
She blushed, even as she went to him, one hand held out. He took the hand and bowed, and let it go as he put both his own hands behind his back. “I’ve heard you’re expecting Mr. Russell’s brother.” His head tilted down, his solemn blue gaze taking the shortest path to her eyes.
“Indeed. By the end of this week. Will you have a seat?” She’d told him not to call. He’d called anyway. Now she was inviting him to stay.
He shook his head. “I’ve only come to ask what you plan to do, and what help you may need.” With a conscious formality he addressed her. “I don’t mean to intrude.”
Stupid squirrel of a heart. He spoke of love, and she answered with stoicism. He dragged himself over here in deference to duty, and her knees went weak. “You’re kind to inquire.” She sidled a step or two to where she could steady herself by gripping the back of a chair. “We’ll manage. We’ve put bolts on all the maids’ bedroom doors, and I’ve instructed them to shout for help if he attempts anything by daylight.”
“Very good, then.” He nodded. Now he would go.
No. He couldn’t. He’d offered help despite their angry words. He’d set aside whatever he felt for her in pursuit of a greater good, and he’d probably had to swallow a deal of pride along the way. Abruptly she let go the chair and took one long step to block his path. “We do need help. The women want to know how to strike a man most effectively. I need someone to teach them.”
A smile of pure boyish pleasure started across his face. He checked it, and bowed again. “Of course, Mrs. Russell. I’m at your service.”
W
HAT IS
a woman’s greatest weakness, as compared to a man?” Like a corporal reviewing troops, Mrs. Russell strode back and forth before the women assembled to hear her. They sat, half eagerness and half apprehension, on straight chairs in Seton Park’s ballroom. Theo stood along one wall, with a handful of footmen and grooms who’d been conscripted to the cause.
“Frailness of body.” That was Mrs. Russell’s maid, the girl who managed all her dressing and undressing now. “Speed as well. Men are stronger and quicker than we are.”
“Indeed they are and yet, for our purposes, that can be overcome.” Crisis only seemed to increase her self-assurance, odd woman that she was. “The weakness we must conquer, ladies, is our propensity for mercy.” She threw him a quick look. They’d spent a good hour just strategizing, and agreed this should be the cornerstone of their approach.
“Has any among you ever struck a man?” She stood still, her index finger sweeping across their ranks as though to count the response. But no woman said she had.
“Has anyone ever borne insult from a man, and later wished you could have struck him?” Now five or six servants nodded, putting up a hand to be counted. Mrs. Russell laced her fingers behind her back and stood taller. “Would anyone want her daughter—if we should all be so blessed—to bear such insult without defending herself?” Triumphant in the force of her argument, she let her eyes roam emphatically over her audience before she spoke again.
“We must protect ourselves with the same ferocity we would wish for our daughters. Our neighbor Mr. Mirkwood has graciously offered to show us how we may best hurt a man. We shall repay his kindness by promising not to shrink from using what he teaches us.” She took a step backward and held out a hand, palm up, ceding the floor to him.
He pushed off the wall and came forward. “Even the smallest lady may disable a man, at least for an interval that allows her to escape, by striking him in one of several vulnerable places. I’ll show you these places, and how to deliver an effective blow.” The widow’s maid, and a few other women, were clearly keen to see that. “But first I’ll show you, with Mrs. Russell’s help, a number of ways to get free of a man who has seized hold of you. If you please, Mrs. Russell.”
They’d rehearsed all yesterday afternoon. In careful civility they’d worked together, the widow insisting she must set the example for ladies who would be wary of practicing such maneuvers with a man. Again and again he’d grasped her wrist or elbow, again and again wrapped his arms about her, first mindful of their perished intimacy, then of the child, tiny and unformed, somewhere in the depths of his embrace.
She’d slipped away from him every time, child and all, by his own tutelage. And so she did now, dropping like a plumb bob and breaking his encircling hold, much to the servants’ delight. Her cheeks flushed with industry and excitement above her somber weeds. Her eyes shone like oiled mahogany. “Now if we may have everyone on their feet, and if the gentlemen will join us, you’ll see how quickly you can master this.” She nodded once to him—her partner in this mission—and they threaded their separate ways into the company.
If he’d ever spent a more useful hour in his life, he could not now bring it to mind. Oh, he’d accomplished a few things with the dairy venture, to be sure, and perhaps he’d made some difference to Mr. Barrow, but only through much grappling and toil. To be of service to these women by doing what came so easily to him was a pleasure beyond reckoning.
Round the room he went, instructing this kitchen maid as to the placement of her feet; that laundress as to the fatality of hesitation. He could see Mrs. Russell, meanwhile, circulating, encouraging, coaxing the more reluctant ladies to take a turn. She stepped in and demonstrated, with a footman, how to wheel one’s arm about and break a grip at the wrist. What a formidable creature she looked, straight and strict as ever even while she allowed manservants to put their hands on her, and urged other women to do the same. A fierce, black-clad warrior for her sex, her un-tender nature finally finding its proper sphere.
At a certain juncture their paths crossed. A bit outside the fray they both stood, catching their breath and considering where they were needed next. “I think it’s gone well so far,” she said in an undertone. Her cap-strings had loosened, and the roots of her hair, uncharacteristically, framed her face. “What do you think?”
That was new. The earnest appeal to his opinion. He nodded, arms folded, eyes on the maid and groom nearest them. “They’re quick learners, the women of Seton Park.”
“And game, for the most part. I count only three maids I cannot persuade to try.”
“You’ll have them by the afternoon’s end.”
“Do you think so?” He could hear how she’d like to believe it herself.
“I haven’t a doubt.” He angled his face a few degrees toward her. “You’re a leader of women, Mrs. Russell. I’ve known that for some time.” With a brief bow he moved off to make himself useful again.
T
HREE DAYS
later he stood in the window of one of Seton Park’s closed-up sitting rooms, watching a coach-and-four pull up the drive. “Didn’t spare any expense on those horses, did he?” he muttered. At his right shoulder Mr. Perry, one of the stablemen, craned for a better look. “Has he got a fortune of his own?”
“I’ve heard he married into money.” That was one of the more senior housemaids, a Miss Morehouse, standing at the next window.
“Married, is he? Contemptible dog. I wonder if his wife knows.”
“Look at Mrs. Russell.” Miss Sheridan, just to his left, went up on her toes. “Don’t she look just like a queen getting set to play host to an enemy.”
“And have him beheaded in his sleep, one hopes.” He felt the familiar small wrench—really, not so bad as it had been—as he watched her slight black figure, erect and resolute on the walkway from doors to drive. The day had dawned cool and she wore a shawl over her shoulders, her hands drawing it round her like a royal mantle.