Carola Dunn (7 page)

“I wouldn’t trust any of them,” declared Mr Courtenay. “They’d deliberately lead you astray to ruin your chances with the neighbouring gentry. I’ll help you choose.”

“But you are accustomed to consorting with actresses,” Nerissa pointed out, grateful but skeptical. “I am already thoroughly familiar with their notions of appropriate dress.”

“My dear Miss Wingate, I don’t spend all my time consorting with actresses. I not only consort with the Polite World in Town, I am not infrequently invited to house-parties, so I believe myself qualified to advise you.”

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t know. Pray don’t be offended, sir. Will you really help me?”

“Of course. It will be my pleasure. We’ll steal a march on those tabbies.”

Sir Barnabas noted the effect on Miles of the dazzling smile Nerissa turned on him. Maybe his intervention wouldn’t be needed after all, he decided smugly.

Chapter 5

“Miss? Miss! You said to wake you at four.” The soft, slow voice had vowels as broad as Yorkshire’s yet quite different.

Nerissa drifted gently out of sleep. Who...?Where...? This wasn’t her narrow bed in the tiny back chamber in York. She sat up, bewildered, and rubbed her eyes.

“I brung you tea, miss, and a good bit o’ lardy-cake, still warm fro’ the oven it is, seeing as you missed your luncheon.”

“Thank you.” She blinked at the chubby maid in her grey dress and white apron and cap. “You’re Maud.”

“That’s right, miss. Mrs Hibbert said I’m to wait on you, long as I give satisfaction, miss.” Maud gave her an anxious look as she set her tray on the bedside table and poured tea.

“Mrs...? Oh yes, the housekeeper. I’m at Addlescombe!” The morning’s events flooded back into her mind.

“Please, miss.” The maid’s fingers twisted a corner of her apron. “If I does summat wrong, will you tell me how to do it right? I’d like fine to be your abigail.”

“Heavens, Maud, I’ve never had an abigail in my life. I shan’t know if you do something wrong. We shall just have to work it out together.”

“Oh yes, miss!” said the girl with a joyful smile on her rosy face. “And I ‘spect her ladyship’s abigail’ll tell me how to go on. I’ll just unpack now, shall I miss?”

“But I left my box at the inn in Riddlebourne.”

“Mr Harwood sent a groom for it, miss. ‘Tis just outside the door.”

She bustled around, opening curtains to admit a flood of pale gold afternoon sunshine, and fetching in Nerissa’s battered box from the passage. Nerissa lounged luxuriously. As she sipped the tea and nibbled on the lardy-cake, a rich concoction studded with currants and glazed with sugar, she examined her chamber.

Some twelve feet square, the room was light and airy, with white walls and ceiling and two large sash windows on adjacent walls. The curtains were of pale green calico patterned with ox-eye daisies, matching the coverlet of the tester bed. Above the plain, white-painted wood mantelpiece hung a watercolour of a meadow where a rusty-red cow munched on still more daisies. Nerissa smiled at the contented beast.

Maud put away her few garments in the clothes press and set her brush and comb on the small dressing table. Polished wood gleamed in the slanting sunshine. Everything was simple but spotless, unpretentious but in excellent condition.

As Maud shook out and hung the last of her three dresses, Nerissa became aware of a low rumble of voices coming through the wall behind her bed. A clank and a swoosh followed.

“What on earth is that noise?”

“Mr Courtenay ordered a bath, miss.”

“He has the next chamber?” she asked, suppressing an idiotic urge to turn and look at the wall. Naturally the presence of an unclad gentleman on the other side of it had nothing to do with the strange sensation in her middle. She put the twinge down to the excessively large slice of fresh-baked lardy-cake she had just consumed to the last crumb.

“Yes, miss. These two rooms on the side passage was the only chambers left in this wing,” Maud informed her. “‘Tother bedroom wing’s all shut up, like, all under holland covers.”

There was no sense in opening an entire wing just for Mr Courtenay, she had to agree. Besides, it was nothing to her if he had the next room, nor if he chose to take a bath. In fact, that sounded like an excellent notion, after three days on the road.

“I don’t suppose I could have a bath, too, Maud?”

“O’ course, miss. I’ll go see to it this minute.”

As she hurried out, the strains of “Cherry Ripe,” slightly off key, echoed through the wall.

Nerissa had heard the song often enough and knew perfectly well that the cherries referred to were not fruit but a woman’s lips. The
double entendre
had never disturbed her before. If she now couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be kissed by Mr Courtenay, it was entirely Sir Barnabas’s fault for putting such notions into her head.

Glancing once more around the room in search of distraction, she noticed for the first time a door in the wall behind her bed --a connecting door, to Mr Courtenay’s chamber. Painted white, it was almost invisible.

She slipped out of bed, glad of the green and brown rag rug on the chilly floorboards, and made quite sure the bolts at top and bottom were firmly shot on her side.

* * * *

Miles was dressing when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a bath being prepared next door. Miss Wingate was following his example. How fortunate that she was too tall and slender--and far too respectable--to attract him, otherwise he might have been tempted to weave a fantasy about those sounds.

His gaze wandered involuntarily to the connecting door. He tore it away sternly and concentrated on his neckcloth.

“Admirable, sir, if I may be so bold.” The cadaverous face of his godfather’s valet brightened until it was merely mournful, instead of lugubrious. “It must be confessed that the late Sir Barnabas took little interest in his attire and continued to wear the styles of the past century until the end. I anticipate with pleasure serving a gentleman conversant with the London fashions.”

“I don’t aspire to alamodality, Simpkins, merely to making a presentable figure in Society. I trust you’re not expecting a dandy for a master.”

“Oh no, sir,” said Simpkins, shocked. “We already have one dandy in the house. False calves, sir,” he whispered, “dyed hair, and no doubt you heard his Cumberland corset?”

“Ah, Simpkins, but Mr Aubrey was a beautiful young man. You and I cannot know what pressures are felt by an aging beauty.” Miles ran a brush over his thick black hair and stood up to allow the valet to help him into his coat.

“Very true, sir, though I venture to say, sir, that you will never need false calves nor padded shoulders.” He bestowed twin pats of approval on Miles’s robust shoulders. “We shall aim for a neat propriety of dress.”

“The neatest and most proper Porchester can supply,” Miles promised him, amused by the man’s assumption of their common goal.

He noticed that Simpkins did not blink at the mention of Porchester rather than London as the source of his clothes. No doubt the servants were acquainted with every detail of the Will by now. He wondered how many would side with himself and Miss Wingate, how many with the family they knew. Sir Barnabas’s Will had suggested that Mrs Chidwell, at least, was less than popular with his staff.

On the other hand, while servants resented the sort of Turkish treatment they received from Euphemia Chidwell, equally they despised a weak master--or mistress. Miss Wingate, with no experience of ruling a large household, had actually dreaded meeting the butler.

She also suffered the handicap of the shocking reputation given her by her grandfather. A young man might sow his wild oats and be looked upon with indulgence; a young woman received none of the same tolerance.

With a last glance at the mirror, Miles went down to the housekeeper’s room.

When he visited Addlescombe as a child, Mrs Hibbert had been an unfailing source of barleysugar. A brisk, imperturbable woman in her fifties, dressed in black as befit her station, she greeted him with delight.

“‘Tis that good to see you again, Master Miles, or Mr Courtenay, I should say.”

“Master Miles will do very well, if I may still call you Hibby.”

“That you may, sir. Now sit you down and take a dish of tea for you missed drawing-room tea if I’m not mistaken. Or will a glass of wine be more to your liking?”

“A glass of the home-brewed, if that’s a jug of it I spy on your table.”

“Nay, ‘tis new cider.”

“Excellent.” He poured himself a glass of the crystal-clear, pale-gold liquid from the earthenware jug. “If there’s anything as good as Addlescombe ale, it’s Addlescombe cider.”

“Sir Barnabas had his standards, Master Miles, as well you know.”

“None better,” he said ruefully. “I’m astounded that he considered me fit to take over the estate.”

“Fitter nor some. ‘Tis a pity you’ve to share with another,” said Mrs Hibbert with severe disapproval.

“Miss Wingate has more right to be here than I,” Miles pointed out. “She’s the old man’s own granddaughter.”

“That’s as may be. Fond as I was of Miss Anthea, I never thought the day’d come I’d be taking orders from an actress.”

“What makes you think she’s an actress?”

“There’s precious little Lady Philpott don’t tell her abigail.”

“I suspected the servants knew all.”

“Only the upper servants,” she said with a sniff. “The under servants are better off unaware of such scandalous doings.”

“But it’s your Miss Anthea who’s the actress, Hibby. By the way, you’ll be glad to hear she’s happy in her marriage.”

Looking as much surprised as glad, the housekeeper said sceptically, “And how would you be knowing that, Master Miles?”

“Miss Wingate told me her parents are devoted to each other. They live most respectably together despite the notoriety of the theatrical world, from which they have shielded Miss Wingate. She is not upon the stage.” He hesitated. Wardrobe mistress sounded too closely connected with the theatre. “She’s been employed as a seamstress.”

“Then why did she turn up bold as brass in your carriage, sir, without never a chaperon, and you known to have a soft spot for the acting profession?”

“She came by the public coach, and I met her walking from Riddlebourne. You must know she left her box there. You’d not have had me leave her to struggle on afoot and arrive late?”

“You had ever a kind heart, Master Miles.”

“And she had no chaperon because her mama works for her living and they could not afford a maid to accompany her. Come, Hibby, I know you too have a kind heart. Give the poor girl the benefit of the doubt.”

“Sewing’s a respectable trade,” Mrs Hibbert allowed dubiously. “All the same, it don’t fit a female to take charge of a place like the Manor.”

“So she’ll need your help until she learns how to go about it.”

The housekeeper sighed. “You’ve not lost a mite of your cozening ways. Well, we’ll see.”

“The alternative is for Mrs Chidwell to remain in charge for the next six months, unless you believe Lady Philpott will summon up the courage to defy her.”

Her response was an eloquent snort.

Satisfied that he had done his best to smooth Miss Wingate’s path, Miles finished up his cider and was about to leave when there came a timid tapping at the door.

“Come in,” called Mrs Hibbert.

Miss Wingate came in. Her anxious gaze fixed on the housekeeper, she did not notice Miles. “Mrs Hibbert?” she said. “Maud said you wished to speak to me?”

“No, no, no!” Miles seized her by the arm and bustled her out. “All wrong. Mrs Hibbert,” he said over his shoulder, “Miss Wingate will see you in the library in five minutes.”

As he closed the door behind them, he saw the housekeeper shake her head, but she was smiling.

“What do you mean, all wrong?” Miss Wingate wrested her arm from his grip and came to a standstill. “The footman said that was Mrs Hibbert’s room, and my maid said she wanted to see me.”

“My dear girl, you are Miss Wingate of Addlescombe. If your housekeeper requests a word with you, you send for her at your convenience. You don’t rush to her room.”

“You were there.”

“I’ve known Mrs Hibbert since I was a child. When you are equally familiar with her, you may drop in now and then for a friendly chat.”

“Oh.” Her lips trembling, Miss Wingate started back along the passage. “I’ve made a bad start, haven’t I? She’ll guess I’ve never dealt with servants before.”

“I have a feeling she already suspected as much. Have you no servants at all in York?”

“Just Tessa, who’s been with Mama since before she was married. Otherwise only a cleaning woman who comes in to do the heavy work.”

“That’s more than I have had as often as not. But now I seem to have inherited my godfather’s valet.”

“And I have an abigail all to myself,” she said in awe. “At least, she’s really a housemaid, but she means to learn to be a proper lady’s maid.”

“I’m sure she’s delighted to have the chance.” He pushed open the door from the servants’ wing. In the brighter light of the front hall, he saw that she had changed into a droopy brown silk gown with modest strips of narrow lace at neck and cuffs. “Your Sunday best?”

“Yes, it’s the dress I wear for church. I thought I’d best put it on for dinner, though I know it’s not nearly grand enough.”

“Fustian! For a family dinner in the country it’s... Good gad, girl, your hair is soaking wet!”

She put a self-conscious hand to her head, neatly coiled and pinned up but far too dark and sleek. “I washed it before Maud told me about Mrs Hibbert,” she said defensively.

“Mrs Hibbert can wait. You’ll take a galloping consumption, drop dead, and leave me to face your relatives on my own. Go up at once and dry it by the fire.”

“No.” She raised her chin in defiance. “I’m perfectly warm.”

“But my dear girl...”

“I wish you will stop calling me your dear girl! If you cannot recall my surname, Nerissa will do, since we are almost related and must reside in the same house for several months.”

“My dear Nerissa...”

She frowned at him, but she was biting back a laugh.