Regina Scott (11 page)

But Gwen was certain disappointment was less of a possibility every day. As soon as Ruth and David were on their way, she hurried back to Sir Trevor’s side.

He brightened at the sight of her, and she swore the room brightened, as well. “You are kind to bring me so many diversions,” he said as she gathered up the tea things. “Yet I cannot help but wonder whether I offended the Newtons just now.”

“Doubtful,” she assured him. “I’m sure Mr. Newton is pleased to share what he knows.” She refused to mention how Ruth had a hard time keeping her gaze away from Sir Trevor for very long. Gwen had a feeling he had the same effect on most unmarried ladies.

He sighed. “I feel as if I’m learning things for the first time.”

Gwen perched on the chair Ruth had just vacated. “Isn’t that amazing? You can read the stories and
reread the stories in the Bible, and each time, you learn something new.”

“You see that, too?” He sounded pleased. “It truly is a remarkable book. And you, Miss Allbridge, are a remarkable woman. You see to my every need, before I know the need is even there.”

Gwen grinned at him. “It has been my pleasure, sir, I assure you.”

He eyed her a moment, head tilted as if he was thinking. “I wonder, would you do me the honor of calling you by your first name?”

Pleasure rippled through her, and her heart started beating faster. “I’d be delighted, Sir Trevor.”

“Trevor, please.” He ran his finger over the binding of the Bible as it sat on the table beside him. “And I must thank you for this. It turned out much better than I’d expected.”

She could only hope he felt the same way about the rest of Blackcliff. “I know,” she teased. “I’ve yet to see you use it to prop up your foot.”

But she also knew he’d need more to keep himself busy as his ankle started to heal. Trevor needed something to take his mind off London, to help him become the true master of Blackcliff. And she knew just the thing.

T
revor was making his way through Psalms when Gwen appeared in the doorway of the withdrawing room the next day. She’d handed him an ebony-handled cane and his new boots the previous afternoon and helped him hobble out of the music room for the first time in days. Even the cooler air in the corridor smelled fresher to Trevor, but the walk down it and up the stairs to his bedchamber had set his ankle to throbbing, and he’d had to rest it on an embroidered foot-stool this morning after making the trek back down again.

Now, despite how fetching Gwen looked in her pale sprigged muslin gown, he found himself reluctant to put the Bible down. Gwen had said her mother favored the Psalms because they were happy, but it seemed to him that the psalmist had complained to God about any number of things—sickness, poverty, enemies in pursuit, evildoers tri
umphing. Every psalm ended in praise for God’s mercy, His faithfulness and His love. Did God really listen to the fears and concerns of humans? Would He listen to someone like Trevor?

“Good morning, Sir Trevor,” Gwen announced. She was back to using his title, which alerted him that something was up. He smiled politely and set the Bible aside.

“Good morning, Gwen.” Saying her name felt right, and he knew his smile was broadening. “And what can I do for you this morning?”

She stepped aside to allow his housekeeper to enter the withdrawing room. Mrs. Bentley blinked and took hesitant steps, dark skirts swishing against the carpet. She glanced around as if expecting someone to come leaping over the chairs at her.

“Mrs. Bentley is ready for her interview,” Gwen explained.

He did not like to appear dense, but he could not think what she meant. He’d already questioned his housekeeper about the statue lying across the stairs. Mrs. Bentley had promised she’d seen no one and heard nothing out of the ordinary until Trevor had called for help.

“Interview?” he asked. “What interview?”

“For her position as housekeeper.” Gwen’s smile was overbright. “I know you haven’t had an opportunity to settle on your staff, so I arranged the interviews for today.”

Mrs. Bentley shoved her plump hands into the
pockets of her crisp white apron and stoically regarded the carpet.

Much as Trevor admired Gwen Allbridge’s energy and determination, there were moments when she came dangerously close to overstepping her bounds. He hadn’t settled on a staff because he didn’t want a staff.

While he’d been stuck in the music room, he’d tried to determine how he might take care of the ones who were serving him at the moment. Honor demanded that he not allow them to go unpaid.

If he sold the silver tea service, he might have enough to pay Mrs. Bentley, Rob Winslow and Dorie. He hoped they would find work elsewhere, with a good character recommendation. He might have enough left over to pay Horace Allbridge for his work thus far, but Trevor hadn’t figured out how to keep paying the man for maintaining the estate in Trevor’s absence.

He certainly had no intention of hiring anyone else on a permanent basis. But he had avoided explaining that to the good people of Blackcliff because they seemed to see the master of Blackcliff as some sort of god. After reading the Bible these past few days, he had to own it all seemed a bit blasphemous.

So he stood as a gentleman should do in the presence of a lady, leaning on his cane with one hand and motioning to his housekeeper with the other.
“Certainly, Mrs. Bentley. If you would have a seat, we can discuss your qualifications for this post.”

The woman blanched but ventured closer, pausing to take her hands out of her pockets and adjust a lamp on the side table. She sank onto a nearby chair and bunched her hands in her lap. “Qualifications, sir?”

“I’m sure Sir Trevor already knows what a good cook and housekeeper you are,” Gwen assured her, hovering near the doorway. She cast him a glance that said she hoped he wouldn’t upset the little house keeper.

Trevor nodded to Gwen. “I certainly do. Thank you for bringing her to my attention, Miss Allbridge. We’ll let you know as soon as we’re finished here.”

Gwen stiffened. “Oh, of course. I’ll just be in the library with Father if anyone needs me.” With a last look of puzzlement to Trevor, as if she couldn’t understand his mood, she disappeared down the corridor.

“I am very grateful for this position, sir,” Mrs. Bentley said as soon as Trevor turned his gaze to her. The housekeeper must have tidied up before coming into the room, for every white strand was neatly tucked into her coronet braid and even the collar on her black bombazine gown stood at attention. “If you should see your way clear to hire me permanently, I’ll do my best to give good service.”

Her hands continued to worry in the white apron.
Did this post mean so much to her, then? “Why do you want to be Blackcliff’s housekeeper?” he asked.

Her eyes widened. “It’s a good house, Sir Trevor, a fine house. I’d be honored to serve it.”

He suspected half the village would say the same. “What did you do before you worked at Blackcliff?”

Her round face sagged. “I kept house for my family. But they’re all gone now, sir.”

Her voice had turned hollow. “Have you no other relatives elsewhere?” Trevor asked with a frown. “No one you’d care to stay with?”

“My husband and children are buried in St. Martin’s churchyard. So are my mother and father and all my sisters and brothers and their children. Where else would I go?”

So, like Gwen Allbridge, Margaret Bentley’s world was Blackcliff. Was that one of the reasons he longed to return to London? Was he afraid of the world shrinking to this tiny village? Would that be so very bad?

Once, even a few days ago, he would have answered a resounding yes. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Blackcliff had much to recommend it, just as Gwen had said. Here, he was master of all he surveyed, respected. But would they all be so respectful if they knew he could not afford to keep up this life? He could not maintain Blackcliff if he couldn’t lay his hands on some ready cash and soon.

“Will you stay, Sir Trevor?” she asked, as if read
ing his thoughts. “I know you won’t have need of a housekeeper if you decide to close up the house.”

She was right, of course. He’d already determined she would be one of the people he’d have to let go. Yet how difficult would it be to allow her to stay in her room over the kitchen? They appeared to have plenty of fuel laid up; Gwen Allbridge wouldn’t let her starve. And she clearly had nowhere else to go.

“And what would Blackcliff Hall be without a housekeeper to keep her?” he replied. “And as long as this estate is mine, Mrs. Bentley, you are welcome to stay.”

“Oh!” Tears pooled in her eyes, and her lower lip quivered. “Oh, thank you, sir, and God bless you!”

She looked for a moment as if she’d launch herself at him. Trevor held up a hand. “I should be the one to thank you. Never have I been so well fed and cared for. You are a credit to your position.”

Now her round cheeks were turning pink. “Thank you, sir.” She rose unsteadily to her feet. “Shall I tell Miss Allbridge you’re ready for the next interview?”

Oh, no, there were more? He could only hope the others had less touching stories to tell. “Very well, but I do have one question for you. Why are you moving that shepherd statue?”

It was a gambit. He could see no reason why his housekeeper would move the thing about. She hadn’t the temperament to want to provoke the master.

She clutched her apron to her chest. “As God
is my witness, sir, I have done no more than put it back.” She peered at him. “You haven’t perhaps moved him, as a little joke?”

Trevor would have liked nothing better than to put her mind at ease. “Not I. Perhaps Dorie.”

She visibly swallowed. “No, sir. I asked her especially. And neither have Mr. Allbridge or Miss Allbridge or Rob Winslow. It frightens me.”

“Have you seen anyone else about on the other days?” Trevor pressed. “In the house or on the grounds?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. But then I’m a little isolated in the kitchen. If I hadn’t been in the pantry the night you fell, I might not have found you until daybreak.”

The thought gave him no comfort. If she hadn’t come at his shout, would his mysterious enemy have returned for him? Trevor had seen no sign of further disturbances, but then his vista had been limited.

And why had Mrs. Bentley been in the butler’s pantry so late at night? He’d only called to her initially before heading to bed because he hadn’t seen her. Yet he could not suspect her of anything nefarious. Her face was too open, and she seemed genuinely concerned about that roaming statue. He thanked her again and sent her off to notify Gwen.

The next one to arrive for an interview was Rob Winslow, but Trevor set him talking about horses, and the two parted with no promises made. Dorie followed, but she kept blinking her great big eyes
at him like an owl facing the morning, and the best he could do was send her from the room before she burst into tears.

The final interview was for the position of his valet, or so Gwen announced when she ushered in an elderly man. He had silvery hair pomaded back from a long face; his clothes, though behind the times, were neat and well made. His gray eyes were sharp as steel as he gazed at Sir Trevor, and his pride was evident in the way he walked into the room, head up, pace measured. He looked familiar, but Trevor couldn’t place him.

“Sir Trevor, this is Mr. John Cord,” Gwen said. Though she’d been hanging about the house all afternoon, she still looked as fresh as when Trevor had first seen her earlier. “He was valet to the previous master of Blackcliff.” She smiled at the fellow encouragingly, then grinned at Trevor. “I thought you would appreciate a man of his experience.”

Certainly he would, had he been able to afford one. Only his closest friends knew he employed no valet. They joked that he was too fussy or too determined to keep his privacy, and he encouraged the illusion. Better they thought him high in the instep than to know that his pockets were empty. He’d even had to write to a friend to send Trevor more of his clothes now that he had to stay longer than he’d intended at Blackcliff. The trunk had arrived the other day by the mail coach.

Cord coughed discretely into a handkerchief and
tucked the cloth up his sleeve with a flourish. “A pleasure to meet you, Sir Trevor.”

To Trevor’s surprise, Gwen’s smile faded, and she took the fellow’s elbow and led him to the closest chair.

“I’ll be right back with tea,” she promised. Her look to Trevor over the shoulder of the valet’s gray coat was tight with worry. What had she seen that Trevor had missed?

He started the interview the same way he had the others, by asking Cord why he wanted to be a valet at Blackcliff. But Cord didn’t talk about family or the difficulty in finding other work. He grimaced, glanced toward the doorway as if to make sure Gwen was out of earshot, then leaned forward.

“In truth, Sir Trevor, I came today as a favor to Miss Allbridge. I’ve known her since she was a child. She’s like a daughter to me. I find it hard to resist her entreaties.”

Trevor knew the feeling. “Miss Allbridge’s cheery determination is a welcome part of Blackcliff.”

The valet nodded. “I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I have little interest in taking up my old post.”

Trevor raised a brow. “And why not? You seem to have a few more years in you.”

Cord smiled grimly. “Perhaps not as many as you might think. But I’d work in that damp dark mine of yours before I’d consent to live in this house again.”
He paused to cough into his fist, gaze flickering up to Trevor’s, then down again. He was clearly giving Trevor time to think about that statement.

“I imagine some might not like returning to the house where their last master met his end,” Trevor said, feeling his way.

“Oh, it’s not that, sir,” he said, lowering his hand. “Blackcliff Hall is cursed, has been for generations.”

Cursed? What nonsense was this? His skepticism must have shown on his face, for Cord narrowed his eyes.

“Haven’t you seen it? Strange people appearing and disappearing. Furniture and knickknacks moving about by themselves. This house isn’t healthy.” He shivered and coughed again as if to prove it.

Though Trevor had seen the very things the fellow described, he couldn’t believe they were caused by some curse. Before he could say as much, Gwen hurried back in, carrying a bundle of cloth in her arms.

“The kettle’s on the boil,” she said, moving to their sides. “But it can be chilly in here. I thought you might want this.”

Trevor thought she meant to tuck another blanket around him, and he held up his hand to fend her off. But she went behind the valet instead, shaking out a dark wool cloak the fellow must have brought with him and draping the material around his slender
shoulders. It settled about him like smoke, cloaking even his face for a moment.

Recognition was instant. Trevor knew that cloak, he knew the gloved hand that extended from it. Cord had been the man who’d taken Icarus from him the night he’d arrived.

The only question was what Trevor intended to do about it.