Authors: Amanda Scott
But it was Cathe who entered a few moments later, carrying a tray bearing a pot of hot chocolate and fluffy Scottish scones with honey and marmalade. Mollie sniffed appreciatively, and Cathe grinned at her.
“Good morning, m’lady. ’Tis a fine spring day.”
“What time is it, if you please?”
“Why, ’tis gone nine, m’lady, but the master said we was t’ leave ye be. Said the sleep would do ye good, ’e did.”
“Did he now?” Mollie murmured with a smile as she shifted the tray more comfortably across her lap.
Cathe plumped the pillows behind her. “Aye,” she said, “and ’e said ye wasn’t t’ bother yer ’ead about Mr. Troutbeck, neither.”
“Mr. Troutbeck! Oh, good Lord. I told him I’d meet with him at half-past nine. Get my clothes, Cathe.”
“But the master said—”
“Hang the master! Get my clothes!”
Cathe fled and Mollie shoved the tray away, flinging the coverlet over it in her haste. Without a thought for her nakedness, she hastened to the washstand and splashed cold water on her face, drying herself with the slightly damp towel hanging on a nearby hook. His towel. And his brushes and combs on the dressing table. She snatched up one of the brushes and tried to drag it through her long curls. How could she have forgotten about her meeting with Troutbeck? There were a number of details to be discussed and arrangements to be made before she left for London. For one thing, the road to the valley floor from the lake was a mess after the heavy rains. A party of men must be sent out this very day to begin repairs, or every bone in their bodies would be shaken when they traveled over it by carriage next week. As it was, the men would barely have time to repair the deepest ruts and the worst of the chuckholes.
The oblong brush was too large for her hand and she could not manage it easily enough to bring any order to her tangled hair. If only he had allowed her to prepare properly for bed! Normally, she plaited her hair before retiring, which made it much easier to manage in the morning. His combs weren’t much better. Fine-toothed, they only became enmeshed in the snarls. Flinging them back onto the dressing table, she turned impatiently when Cathe entered.
“My hair is a mess. It will take forever to put it right.”
Cathe grinned at her but said nothing, merely handing her a clean chemise and moving to lay a lilac sprigged round gown across the bedclothes.
“Don’t put it there,” Mollie warned. “The tray’s still there somewhere.”
Obediently Cathe put the dress on the chair back and then pulled the quilt forward. “Oh, m’lady, ye’ve gone and got chocolate and ’oney all over the quilt. And this cover only just washed yesterday.”
Guilty color flooded Mollie’s cheeks, and with a rueful smile she said she was sorry. “I was in a rush and didn’t think, Cathe. You’ll just have to see that the quilt cover’s washed again.”
“Yes, m’lady, and we’ll ’ave to ’ope the chocolate don’t stain it and ’asn’t gone through to the down,” Cathe replied. “But I expect Mrs. Bracegirdle will know ’ow to turn the trick. She be right deedy about such stuff.”
Mollie agreed that the housekeeper was indeed a treasure, then pointed out that she was waiting for her gown, and Cathe, after removing the tray to a safer location, hastened to assist her. The simple gown was quickly fastened up the back, and the narrow muslin sash was tied becomingly under Mollie’s left breast. Her hair took as long as she had feared it would to comb into a braided twist at the nape of her neck, but at last she was ready. Instead of slippers or sandals, she wore a pair of sturdy leather half-boots, so she scarcely noticed the cobblestones underfoot when, having run down the back stairs and through the rear hall, she hastened across the stableyard to the estate office. The little bitch, Mandy, followed her excitedly across the yard, coming to a panting halt on the stoop.
Mollie pushed open the door into the cluttered little office, talking as she hurried inside. “I’m dreadfully sorry to be late, but here I am at last, so—” She broke off as the two men on opposite sides of the paper-strewn desk came hastily to their feet.
“My lady!” exclaimed the round-faced little man behind the desk, straightening his dun-colored jacket over a round little paunch and pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles higher up the bridge of his button nose.
“Good morning, sweetheart. I trust you slept well.”
She glared at Hawk, remembering only as he spoke that Cathe had said he meant to see Troutbeck. She had been too concerned about her own appointment with the bailiff to think much about anything else.
“Good morning, Hawkstone,” she said formally. “I see you have made yourself known to Mr. Troutbeck. I am sure there are a great many questions you will wish to ask him about the estates, but I trust you will not object if we attend to some trifling matters of business first.”
“Not at all,” Hawk replied politely, glancing quickly around the tiny office, then pushing his own chair toward her. “Sit here, my lady. You will not mind if I remain. I should like to know what is taking place here in future. The reports I’ve received have been few and far between to put the matter lightly. The result of the war, no doubt.”
“No, sir,” Mollie answered frankly. “You rarely responded to anything I wrote, except when I informed you of Mr. Brewer’s reluctance to authorize funds for refurbishing Lady Bridget’s rooms. On that occasion you addressed your reply to him, so I assumed thereafter that when you wished to know about something you would correspond directly with your bailiff.”
She saw his jaw tighten, but she was angry herself and didn’t care. When she continued to glare at him, he met the look steadily and with a hint of ice in his gaze. “I should no doubt have been more responsive when you wrote about such things as having the causeway repaired or a new field planted. However, things were a trifle heated at my end at the time, and it sounded as if you had matters well in hand here, so I did not. I did, however, expect you to request my bailiff to send me regular reports.” He glanced at the uncomfortable Mr. Troutbeck.
“Well, don’t blame him,” Mollie retorted. “Very likely I would have requested such a thing had I chanced to think you would be interested, or if you had ever asked for such reports. But you did not, and I, too, was busy, sir, just trying to keep up with what needed doing and trying to keep poor Lady Bridget from going into a decline.” She stopped, warned by his sudden frown that she had gone too far. She ought not to be discussing Lady Bridget in front of Mr. Troutbeck. It occurred to her then that she had no business to be scolding Hawk in front of his bailiff either. “I…there was a great deal to be done,” she ended lamely.
“I don’t doubt it,” Hawk said quietly. He still held the chair for her. “We should not be discussing issues from the past, however. I believe you said there were a number of things you wished to talk over with Troutbeck.”
Feeling a little less confident, Mollie glanced at Hawk searchingly, but she saw nothing in his expression to tell her if he was still angry. He ought to be, she thought. Any man would be whose wife had just ripped up at him like a shrew. Not that he hadn’t had it coming, of course. Still, he hadn’t merited such a dressing in front of a man who until that morning had been a total stranger to him. However, an apology now would only make matters worse. She took the chair he offered her, then glanced at him again over her shoulder.
“Should you not be attending to your guests, sir?”
“They left for London earlier this morning,” he said, boosting himself back onto a side table piled with ledgers, account books, and other such paraphernalia. “My time is yours, my lady.”
She turned pointedly to the expressionless bailiff. “First of all, Mr. Troutbeck, we must make arrangements to repair the road.”
“Yes, my lady,” the round little man agreed, casting a glance at Hawk. “His lordship sent out a work party first thing this morning to attend to the matter. And to examine both causeways for any sign of damage as well,” he added.
Mollie retained her businesslike air with difficulty. “Good,” she said. “No doubt, after traveling that road only yesterday, his lordship would assume it to be our most pressing business. However, the young trees in the north orchard must be checked as well. Their roots are not yet very deep, and what with the heavy winds and all—”
“Indeed, my lady, his lordship…” Mr. Troutbeck’s high-pitched voice trailed off unhappily, and Mollie glanced over her shoulder to find her husband regarding her with a touch of amusement in his eyes.
“I rode across to look at the orchard myself when I saw the others on their way,” he said. “There were two trees at the upper end that looked a bit wobbly at the knees, so I sent a man to stake them when I came back.”
“But we planted that orchard only two years ago,” Mollie said, eyes narrowing. “How did you even know it was there?”
Ramsay mentioned it at supper yesterday. Said he’d meant to have a look at it but had gotten sidetracked by business in Gill’s Green early in the day. Didn’t say what business, of course, but I daresay I could hazard a guess,” he added with a grin. “If it wasn’t a bearbaiting or a cockfight, I’d warrant it was a mill. Seems to me we heard rumors to the effect that there was one hereabouts somewhere.”
Mollie could feel the telltale color creeping into her cheeks, and to cover her confusion, she turned sharply back to the bailiff. “Is there anything you have not already discussed with his lordship?”
More unhappily yet, Mr. Troutbeck shook his head. “Nothing urgent, my lady. There are still a number of details we will want to discuss, of course. Things that have happened, changes that have been made in his absence. But as to storm damage, I think we’ve pretty well attended to that. I might add, ma’am, that I sent a lad yesterday as soon as the rain stopped, to have a look at that young orchard. He said the trees were fine. If his lordship hadn’t checked again today, we might have lost two of them.”
“Not the lad’s fault,” Hawk said. “Takes a while to assess damage like that. The water soaks in and makes the ground like so much mush. But it is the wind that does the real damage. Have someone take a look every day until the ground dries out.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Mr. Troutbeck, there are still a number of arrangements to be made before I leave for London,” Mollie said with a hint of desperation in her voice.
“Indeed, my lady, his lordship and I were just discussing them when you came in. Teams will be taken on ahead, so that you will have your own horses for the entire trip. His lordship means to stable his own cattle on the Croydon and Hastings roads henceforth. Naturally, orders have already been given to open the London house, but his lordship informs me that we have a slight problem in that Bracegirdle and his missus would prefer to remain here at Hawkstone this year.”
She looked again at Hawk, and he nodded. “I asked her at breakfast, and she said if it was all the same to me, they’d just as soon stay. Seems they haven’t had a vacation in a good many years, and Bracegirdle has been feeling his rheumatism. She recommended Mary Perfect, the head chambermaid, to take her place, and she thinks Ned Lofting will do for a butler. He’s been acting as underbutler, she says, and has done well enough that Bracegirdle would not be shamed to entrust us to his care. Or, if you prefer,” he added tactfully, “we can interview for a new housekeeper and butler when we reach London.”
The prospect was an appalling one. “No, no,” Mollie said, “Lofting and Perfect will do very well.” Nevertheless, the wind had gone out of her sails. Not only had he attended to everything she had meant to do herself—and would have done the day before, had she not chosen to play truant with Ramsay instead—but he had learned more about her household than she had known herself. It had never once occurred to her to
ask
the Bracegirdles if they wanted to go to London. She had merely assumed that they would go.
“Is there anything else, my lady?” Mr. Troutbeck asked diffidently, interrupting her thoughts.
She gazed at him blankly for a moment, then gathered her dignity. “I think not at the moment,” she said. “If I should think of anything further, I shall let you know.”
“Good enough,” Hawk said, getting down from his perch on the side table. “In that event, Troutbeck can continue instructing me. I know you have things to attend to in the house, my lady, so I shall bid you adieu for now. I should like a small bite of something at one o’clock. I know I can depend upon you to arrange it.”
“We keep country hours here, my lord, as you ought to remember,” she retorted. “Dinner will be served at two o’clock, which is the time Lady Bridget prefers it to be served.”
He bowed, and a moment later, seething, Molly found herself back in the stableyard. The shaggy little bitch had apparently been waiting for her, curled up on the stoop. She rose now and stretched, and Mollie bent down to pat her.
“Good Mandy. Would you like to go back inside now?” But the little dog stayed where she was when her mistress began to walk back across the yard. Mollie snapped her fingers. “Come, Mandy.” Mandy curled back into a ball on the stoop in front of the office door, tucking her little black nose into her bushy tail. Mollie sighed. “First Troutbeck, now you,” she muttered, turning on her heel.
Ramsay was seated at his ease, reading a newspaper, his booted feet stretched out before the crackling fire in the rear hall. He looked up when she entered.
“I say, Moll, is Hawk still cooped up with old Troutbeck?”
“He is.” Her tone was bitter.
“What’s amiss?” He folded his paper in his lap.
“Oh, nothing,” she replied, moving to warm her hands. “He’s merely taking over everything, that’s all.”
“But it is his duty to do so,” Ramsay protested. “He ought to have done so last year when Father died.”
She sighed. “Perhaps that’s what’s amiss. He ought to have come back, but he did not. Instead, he left it all to me to manage. And now he comes back—not because he wanted to, mind you, but because Lord Wellington ordered it—and he just takes over without so much as a by-your-leave.”
Ramsay opened his mouth and shut it again, giving thought to her words. “He hasn’t behaved very tactfully,” he said a moment later, “but perhaps he does not realize how involved you are with the management of this place. Most men, you know, would assume their bailiff handled everything in their absence. I doubt Hawk even realizes you routed Mr. Brewer last year after he refused to give you the money for Aunt Biddy’s new curtains. But can’t Troutbeck tell him everything he needs to know, Mollie? Seems a most capable fellow to me.”