An Earl Like No Other (3 page)

All three were silent for several moments. Then Mrs. Phillips spoke again.

“Husband, you
can
help her, can you not?”

“I shall do my utmost,” he said.

He rested one elbow in the palm of the other hand and stroked his chin thoughtfully, frowning in concentration. “Hmm.” He paced some more, lost in thought. “Perhaps—” He turned to Kate. “Can you manage a large household?”

“Well . . . I—I don't know. I managed—or helped to manage—my father's household when I was growing up. There were only ten or twelve servants, but I had six brothers and sisters—I mean six who survived.”

“That should do. Kenrick is a desperate man.”

“Kenrick? Desperate?” Kate felt she was floundering in a great bowl of jelly.

“Do stop pacing and explain yourself, my dear,” his wife demanded, but her tone was indulgent.

He resumed his seat. “The Earl of Kenrick. He too is one of my clients. He needs someone to bring order to his household. In Yorkshire. Which is quite some distance from Wynstan Castle in Devon.”

“Has he no wife to do so?” Mrs. Phillips asked.

“She died,” he said abruptly. “Five years ago or more. There's a young child—a girl, I believe.”

“He has no housekeeper, either?” Kate asked.

“Not any more. She was elderly and went off to live with her sister or cousin or some such. The dowager countess lives in Bath. There is an elderly aunt at Kenrick, but she is crippled with arthritis and somewhat blind. Of course, it would not be a
permanent
solution, but it could buy you some time in which to come up with a better plan.”

“Possibly . . .” Kate said slowly.

“An earl? He surely would not entertain the idea of the mother of a future duke as his
housekeeper
!” Mrs. Phillips was clearly scandalized.

“
No-o-o,”
Kate said, turning the idea over in her mind. “But he might welcome plain Mrs. Gardiner and her son Ned.”

“Well, he should know what—or whom—he is getting involved with,” Phillips said.

“No!” Kate said sharply. “Please. No one but you—and Major Lawrence—should know where we have gone. This Lord Kenrick might not want us if he thinks we are not just ordinary people.”

Phillips agreed reluctantly. “Perhaps you are right. The fewer who know, the better. However, first you must get past the hurdle of an interview with Kenrick. Then—if he hires you—you can decide yourself how much to tell him and when.”

They were all silent for a moment, then Kate had a thought. “No. Not
Mrs. Gardiner.
That is Wynstan's family name. I shall be Mrs.
Arthur
. Just plain Mrs. Arthur. And her son Ned. Wynstan and his servants never referred to Ned as anything but ‘Master Edward.' The duke hated calling Arthur's son ‘Marquis of Spenland.' Spenland had been his precious Frederick's title.”

Phillips took a deep breath. “As you wish, my lady. ‘Mrs. Arthur' it shall be. I will send word around to Kenrick tomorrow morning—I think he is still in town.”

“Meanwhile, you and your Ned can stay here until all is decided,” his wife said, patting Kate's hand again.

“That is very generous of you, Mrs. Phillips. Frankly, I don't know what I would have done had you not offered such hospitality.” Kate hated being in such a vulnerable position, but lately she had had to swallow much of her customary pride.

Later that night, tucked into a spare room with a now sleeping Ned, Kate had thought with no small degree of apprehension about the coming interview. She found herself in a familiar, if one-sided, discussion with her dead husband.

“Oh, Arthur, this just has to work for us!”

She hoped the Earl of Kenrick would not prove crotchety and difficult to please. She gave an inward shrug. What did it matter? Yorkshire was far enough from Devon and Wynstan Castle to ensure safety for Ned. For that,
she
could endure almost anything. This was a temporary solution.

She supposed she
could
have sent Ned away to school—there were children as young as he in boarding schools—but she was sure that Wynstan would have found some way to foil that plan. And besides, she could not face the idea of giving up her son so soon. Eventually, she would have to make a decision about Ned's education—about a proper education for a future duke. For now, though, she could continue to teach him, but bright, eager Ned would—all too soon—grow beyond what his mother could give him.

She sighed. That bridge would be crossed in due time.

W
ishing himself on the road back to Yorkshire, Jeremy Michael Chilton, Earl of Kenrick—seventh of that line—paced about his suite in Grillon's Hotel, awaiting the arrival of his solicitor. He fervently hoped this delay would prove to be worth the wait. The note from Phillips said he had found a housekeeper for Kenrick Hall. Would that it could be so!

In recent months Jeremy had become acutely conscious of the fact that he himself was most inept at managing his own household—nor was his frail Aunt Elinor up to the task, even though his financial affairs had forced him to close off one whole wing of the house. The consequent reduction in staff meant fewer people to direct, but managing menus and housekeeping schedules was simply too much on top of acting as his own steward and supervising farmworkers. After all, the farms and mills had to be productive—or there would soon enough be no house to keep. Saving Kenrick was proving every bit as difficult as he had anticipated. And tiring, for Jeremy worked long hours, side-by-side with his workers.

A visit from his sister Margaret had served as the catalyst to rouse him to action regarding the household. One evening, long after Aunt Elinor had retired, Margaret had upbraided him.

“Jeremy!” She sounded exactly like their old nurse. “This will not do!” She ran a handkerchief across a table in the library. “Look at this!” She held up the dust-besmeared bit of linen and lace as she took a seat next to her husband William on a sofa. “Poor Aunt Elinor cannot see it, but surely you can see the filth you are living in!”

Jeremy gave her a quizzical glance and set aside a pamphlet on farm management he and William had been discussing. He was vaguely aware that housekeeping matters were not quite what they should be. Now that he had guests, he noticed the shortcomings—and he was aware of the inadequacies of his kitchen.

Margaret seemed to read his mind. “And your table! Are you aware that we have had the exact same lunch and the exact same dinner three days running?”

“Three days?” He did not explain that a man who fell into bed exhausted every night hardly tasted his food.

“Three days. I will not eat another bite of roast lamb!”

Jeremy was saved from responding to this mild outburst when his brother-in-law chided her. “Now, now, my love. I am sure you were taught better manners in the schoolroom. Remember—we are guests.”

“In the house in which I was reared!” she retorted. “If I cannot speak my mind here, where might I do so?”

Jeremy, feeling rather mischievous and appreciating a diversion from talk of crop rotations and breeding sheep, said lightly, “Mags has always been one to speak her mind.”

She glared at him. “You know I
hate
being called Mags!”

“Why?” her husband asked.

“
He
knows why,” she said.

Jeremy explained. “Nurse used to refer to her as ‘Lady Maggie.' Robert twisted that to ‘maggot' from which came Mags.”

“And I never did achieve a proper revenge upon our dear little brother,” she said. “I do hope his fellow soldiers have come up with some equally offensive sobriquet for
him
.”

Her husband patted her hand and affected a tone of exaggerated sympathy, which his grin belied. “I understand why you hate it, my dear. I promise never to use such a demeaning term. What was it again? Ah, yes. Mags.”

She slapped at him playfully. “You both stray from the subject at hand.” Margaret turned to her brother. “Jeremy, since you don't have a wife, and Aunt Elinor is unable to help, you must have someone to supervise your staff, plan menus, and so on. What happened to Mrs. Preston? One of the maids told me she left. So you've no housekeeper at all? I found Sally Jenkins in the kitchen. Sally Jenkins! A dairy maid for a cook? Mrs. Jenkins is able enough, but lacks imagination.”

Jeremy sighed. “I'm lucky she took on the task. Mrs. Preston gave up housekeeping duties here three months ago after she took a nasty fall. She went to live with her daughter in Nottingham.”

“And Cook?”

“She received a better offer.”

“A better offer?”

“Mortimer offered her twice what I was paying her.”

“Who is Mortimer?” she asked.

“The man who bought the Barkley estate—and rebuilt it virtually from scratch. You must know of him. He and Father were apparently very close. Mortimer owned a mill in Lancashire and made a fortune during the wars with Napoleon.”

“Oh, yes. I vaguely recall meeting him once. Mortimer stole your cook?”

“He did,” Jeremy admitted. “He has also hired away one of my grooms and offered better terms to two Kenrick tenant farmers.”

“Who?” she demanded.

“Thompson and Banks.”

“Alfred Thompson? He left Kenrick lands? I cannot believe that! Why, his grandfather worked this land for our grandfather!”

Jeremy shrugged. “I know. But there have been few improvements to the land or the cottages and barns on Kenrick since Grandfather's day. Thirty years of neglect takes its toll—on people and places.”

“We were just discussing land improvements, my dear,” her husband put in.

“I know Father spent a great deal of his time in London,” she said, “but what about the steward—Stevens?”

“I couldn't afford to keep him on,” Jeremy admitted. “In truth, he didn't perform well. Father liked him because the two often played cards and drank together—along with Mortimer. So—I am handling everything myself.”

“Except the household,” Margaret said.

“I try.” He thought he sounded defensive. “The truth is—as long as Cassie is properly cared for—the household is the least of my worries. And Cranstan seems to handle matters in the nursery well enough.”

“Perhaps. . . .” Margaret appeared to have reservations. “Nurse Cranstan does see to your daughter's physical needs adequately.”

“As she is supposed to do,” Jeremy said. “Of course, in another year or so I expect I shall have to hire a governess to provide lessons for Cassie. Meanwhile, Cranstan keeps her fed and dressed properly.”

“Like a little doll,” Margaret said.

Jeremy frowned at the hint of disapproval he detected in her tone. “Yes. Cassandra Margaret is a very pretty child and, since coming to England, she exhibits none of the tomboy proclivities of her namesake aunt.” His grin softened this taunt.

She sniffed. “Hmph.
I
had fun as a child. And it would appear that carefree fun is decidedly missing in Cassie's life.”

“You may have a point,” he conceded, “but bear in mind that Cassie is surrounded by adults now. You always had Robert.”

“Yes, I did. I am sorry William and I have not visited more often since your return—though I am sure Cranstan thinks the nursery has been contaminated by our three wild ones.”

The conversation then drifted to other matters, but Jeremy had absorbed Margaret's points. As he bade his guests good-bye a week later, he gave his sister two promises: he would spend more time with his daughter and he would find a housekeeper.

Both tasks were harder to fulfill than he had anticipated.

Lately, the Earl of Kenrick found his daughter somewhat bewildering. She had changed profoundly since leaving North America. He had foreseen a period of adjustment, but she seemed to have lost her spirit. The giggling, prattling child of the frontier had turned into a withdrawn, but very proper young member of the
ton
, always respectful and subdued—almost wooden—in her behavior.

Jeremy had tried to break through the wall that had arisen, but to no avail. As Margaret had pointed out, Cassie was like a doll. A porcelain doll that might break if handled too roughly. He doubted either her Indian family or her white grandmother would see anything of the vivacious, fun-loving Little Willow in this very prim English child. Yes, he wanted her properly prepared for a role in English life, but he had not considered that her personality might be so altered with a change in geography. He had purchased a pony for her, thinking that might help. And it did, but still he worried.

“Give her time, my lord,” Nurse Cranstan had assured him. “She is learning our ways rather well, I think. She will be a proper English child. You'll see.”

Nor had he been able to find a suitable housekeeper in his own village or other parts of Yorkshire. Since arriving in London a week before, he had interviewed several women sent by an agency, but hired none. One had thought the pay inadequate, but that was a matter on which he could not budge. Two refused to remove to the “wilds of Yorkshire.” Another seemed altogether too slovenly—he suspected an affinity for the gin bottle with her. Yet another seemed too eager to work in the house of a virile man who conveniently had no wife. Jeremy quickly shied away from that one. Unlike his predecessor, the new—seventh—Earl of Kenrick was not one to trifle with women in his employ.

He had mentioned the problem in passing when he consulted Walter Phillips on other matters. Though Phillips was the Kenrick solicitor and Chilton now the earl, the two men had quickly dispensed with formalities and regained their schoolboy friendship. They were Wally and Jeremy again. Beyond the friendship, the two had become partners in a business venture involving cargo ships from the Orient. Both knew it was a risky proposition. Jeremy had put nearly all his savings into it, but the returns would be—could be—sufficient to take the pressure off the Kenrick holdings. Do or die, he had told himself.

But now there was this matter of a housekeeper, and Phillips had promised help there too.

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of a hotel attendant presenting a plate with a calling card. “You have visitors in the lobby, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

Jeremy followed the man down to the main reception area where he found Phillips sitting with a woman much younger than Jeremy had expected. Mid-twenties, he guessed. As Phillips introduced Mrs. Katherine Arthur, Jeremy noted dark blond hair under a modest straw bonnet. She wore a none-too-fashionable forest green cloak that emphasized hazel eyes framed with dark brows and lashes. He decided immediately that she would not do. Altogether too young to be a housekeeper. And too pretty. Still, he
had
to have someone....

Suddenly, he became aware that she was subjecting him to as keen a scrutiny as his was of her. He glanced into her eyes and grimaced ruefully, sharing the discomfort of being “caught out,” as it were.

Phillips indicated a table with chairs set near a window that looked out onto the street. “Perhaps the two of you would like to hold your discussion over there. I shall just wait here for you, La—uh—Mrs. Arthur.” He picked up a newspaper lying on a sofa.

When she had been seated, Jeremy took the opposite chair. He stared at her, and was disconcerted to find her holding his gaze rather than lowering her lashes demurely. Her demeanor was honest and open, rather than bold.

“You seem rather young for a housekeeper,” he said bluntly. Privately, he also thought she was far too attractive to be hired by most ladies of society who would not want their men distracted by a charming servant. Housekeepers were regularly middle-aged frumps—not women who would spur a man's mind toward the bedroom.

“I am nine and twenty,” she said.

“
Mrs
. Arthur. You're a widow?”

“Yes. My husband died on the Peninsula. I have a son who must accompany me.”

He liked the fact that she was so forthright. “A son? Phillips said nothing of a child. How old is he?”

“He is just short of his eighth year.”

“I see.” He drummed his fingers absentmindedly against the arm of his chair. “Hmm. Well, that should not prove to be an insurmountable problem. In fact, perhaps not a problem at all. Might be better if he were a girl, though.”

“I beg your pardon?” Her voice held a hint of umbrage.

“Oh. Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking aloud. My daughter is nearly six and my sister is convinced she needs more association with other children.”

“Oh.”

“I assume you are experienced at managing a rather large household?”

“Uh . . . how large?” she asked nervously.

“Thirty or thereabouts. Could you manage such a staff?”

“I
think
I can, but I feel I must be quite honest with you. I have not supervised so many on a regular basis.”

“I appreciate your candor. Honesty is a quality I value rather highly.” He thought he sounded insufferably pompous.

She glanced up at him, then quickly away. “I more or less managed my family's household of over a dozen people when I was just a girl. My father has a small holding in the south of England.”

“More or less?” He raised a brow in skepticism.

She went on as though she had not noted the implied question. “And I often helped to set up portable hospitals and helped direct disposition of wounded when my husband served in the Peninsula.”

“Good heavens. You followed the drum?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

“A hard life for an English woman.”

“A hard life for anyone,” she replied.

He nodded and then surprised himself. “Well, Mrs. Arthur, as Phillips probably told you, I desperately need someone to take over my house so that I can devote my time to other matters. And frankly, I have been unable to find a suitable party. But if you are willing to remove to Yorkshire, I am willing to hire you on a trial basis.”

“Yorkshire?” She sounded a bit breathless.

“Yorkshire. I don't see why so many Londoners consider Yorkshire the end of the earth.”

“I'm not a Londoner. Yorkshire would be perfect, my lord.” She smiled fleetingly. “The end of the earth is a campaign trail in the Pyrenees.”

He noted how even the wisp of a smile animated her features, but there was also a haunted look in her eyes. He sensed vulnerability and was startled by his own regret at seeing such. Only much later did it occur to him that she had not said where she was from. Nor had he thought to ask.