"I have been presumptuous," Elizabeth surprised him by saying.
"How is this?"
"I evoked your name only to remind Lady Sees that I am your 'unusual' guest. And I used a wafer rather than your wax and seal, please note, but all the same I will understand if you wish me not to send this letter. I should have thought to consult with you first, my lord."
He stared at her blush, fascinated by her chagrin and wondering what she had done. "Call me Gideon. And how can I object," he said, "if I do not know the contents of the letter?"
"True." Her mouth turned up at one corner. "You know Simons, the footman who is missing several fingers?"
"Of course."
"He told me yesterday afternoon that he has a sister. She has been unable to find work, because she was released from her last employment without references. It was not her fault, Simons assured me, because the young master of the house was, well, he did not act appropriately, let us say. I agreed to recommend Simons's sister to Lady Sees, in hopes that there was a need for a new maid in her household, or if she knew of one nearby."
"Curious that Simons did not speak to me," Gideon said, even though he did not really find it curious at all. Elizabeth was . . . approachable, and in a way that the master of Greyleigh Manor presumably could not be. It was one thing for Gideon to offer benevolence, and another for a servant to come to him and request it.
"I suppose he considered it a matter among females," Elizabeth offered. "Do you mind too much?"
"That you sought to obtain work for the girl? Not at all. Shall I add my signature to this letter, to lend it my approval?"
"Would you?" Elizabeth said, her brown eyes lighting with pleasure. "I told Simons I would have little or no influence with Lady Sees, but I thought it better than not trying at all."
"I will gladly sign it," he said, slipping the letter in his pocket until he could obtain pen and ink. "Simons is a good man, and I have to think his sister must be, too."
"Thank you."
Gideon inclined his head, acknowledging her thanks. "I have come with news for you."
"News?" The light left her eyes, and her features took on a wary cast, startling him. What did she have to fear?
"Only that I thought about it last night and realized that we must not leave the retrieval of your jewels to happenstance. I have instructed all the servants to actively search for your jewels. Under mattresses, in flowerpots, that manner of thing."
"Oh," she said, the wariness slowly receding. "Thank you, very much."
"Were they your mother's jewels?" he asked, because that was not a question that invaded her privacy too deeply.
"Yes," she said, but as he had expected, she did not elaborate.
"I understand that you will be seeing the modiste at noon today."
"That is what the maid told me when she brought my tray."
"Good. Well, then." He stood. "I suppose I must get back to matters of the estate. I will see that your missive is delivered today."
'Thank you, my lord. Gideon" she corrected herself, and there was that smile again, the one that made his heart take a double beat.
He bowed and let himself out, and when he pulled a quill and ink from the drawer of the table where Frick kept the salver, Gideon noticed his hands shook ever so slightly. Just from being near her. Just from having her smile at him.
He did not break the wafer, instead signing "I concur" and his name on the folded exterior of the missive, which he then placed next to the salver.
He stood upright and stared without quite seeing the letter Elizabeth had written. It was presumptuous of her to write to Lady Sees from the sanctuary of his home, in effect using his name, but that was not what bothered him. She had been doing someone a favor and had meant absolutely no harm.
What bothered him was the fact that he had not been approached by Simons. He, Gideon, the granter of kindnesses, the master of noblesse oblige, had been ignored in favor of a nobody, a nameless waif of a girl who would be gone in a week or so, who had no authority whatsoever.
And he was glad. Delighted, even, that someone else had been asked to sit and pen a letter, to grant a favor, to seek a boon. When had that last happened? Even when his father had been alive, it had been to Gideon that the servants had brought their concerns, because he might be expected to do something about them, whereas his father seldom could be bothered with the petty issues of running a household, except to roar and rampage.
Yet Elizabeth, in the space of a week, had somehow taken on the authority of one who could help, who brought order instead of more chaos. And this from the woman who had been put in an asylum because of a nervous disposition! Although, Gideon had to admit, short of odd shifts of emotion—such as the wariness that had come over her during their conversation five minutes ago—she was solid and sane enough in her manners that even Gideon sometimes forgot to coddle her nervous nature.
That is when it struck him, a brilliant idea. Elizabeth clearly had nowhere to go. These jewels she craved to have returned to her obviously were meant to pay her way alone in this world, now that presumably a lover had left her to fend for herself. If she had no particular place to be, why not be here?
Why not become his housekeeper? Heaven knew the house could use a woman's touch, and Elizabeth clearly possessed a way with servants. The idea of shifting the everyday, common concerns onto someone else's shoulders beckoned enticingly, and Elizabeth would have a roof over her head and meals to eat for her trouble. Pay, too—of course he would pay her a stipend.
And she would be here, stay here, be near me whispered a thought in his brain.
But what of her infirmity? came another whisper. What if, as months or years passed, her mind weakened?
Gideon frowned, knowing he could never send her, nor anyone, to an asylum. Which meant she would be yet another burden to the household. Perhaps the idea was not so suitable after all... it had been selfishness speaking, wanting to keep this newly found friend near him.
No, he could not have the responsibility for another madwoman on his hands, he simply could not. It would drive him over the edge into madness himself, once and in truth, to see Elizabeth become like his mama. God help him, he could not bear to see that, not with Elizabeth. This idea of making Elizabeth into his housekeeper was one best forgot.
Like all such ideas, however, it was much easier to say nay than to forget it, as Gideon discovered. All day long, he could not turn off his mind, could not find a resolution that would save both Elizabeth and his own soul.
Chapter 16
For the rest of the afternoon, Elizabeth watched out the window as clouds piled in the sky, creating a gloom that only deepened with nightfall. When at dusk rain began to fall and the shutters were closed against the wet breezes, even the usual branches of candles at the dining table did not penetrate the shadows. Elizabeth found herself squinting down the table, wondering if that dim silver lump might be the salt salver. Not that she particularly wanted to salt her meal, even though everything tasted bland for some reason tonight. A depressing effect of the weather, which was blustery and rainy, no doubt. Gideon must feel the effect, too, for he was unusually quiet at the head of the table, just to the right of where Elizabeth sat pushing her meal about her plate with her fork.
Perhaps the weather also explained why she felt disheartened tonight as well. Although, to be truthful, she knew the real reason. It was not that she'd had to stand too long on one leg as the modiste had taken her measurements and agreed to make up three gowns, one in grey and two in lavender. It was not that the gowns were to be made up in these shades of half mourning to suit Elizabeth's new life at pretending to be a widow. The real reason was that Elizabeth knew her heel was mending.
She could leave now, she realized. Even though it was a week shy of the healing time the doctor had allowed, Elizabeth knew that she could travel if she wished to.
Only she did not wish to.
She supposed she was a coward. Part of her did not want to face the future that awaited her, lonely and isolated from everyone and everything she had ever known. She knew she would spend her days waiting for the most recent news sheets, scouring the social page for the announcement of her sister's wedding. Only then could she hope to go home, or at least start anew.
Although, even when that happy day arrived, her future did not necessarily shine brightly. Radford Barnes would have no way of hurting her, not really, not once Lorraine was safely married. Yet, if so little as a whisper grew around Elizabeth's return to Society, so equally would Elizabeth's chances for a proper marriage plummet.
She supposed she must marry a Cit, a wealthy man of no social standing. It would be a comedown for a knight's daughter, but one Elizabeth would embrace so long as the fellow was a kindly man.
There were few other options open to a woman other than marriage: she could become a companion, or a governess, or perhaps she might qualify to teach at a school for girls. Papa would make sure Elizabeth did not starve or truly want despite a humble income, and a life of service might actually be a good way to keep her days from feeling stagnant and useless.
Elizabeth did not know how she would cope with being a spinster, but she feared her carnal nature would make it a long and miserable existence. Marriage to a Cit seemed more in keeping with her character, and then she would at least have the joy of children, God willing. Perhaps she could love this husband of hers ... perhaps she would come to crave running her fingers through his hair, and want to kiss the weighty concerns of the day from his brow, and perhaps rejoice to see her children had their father's eyes....
Elizabeth looked to the man at her right elbow, quietly eating his meal, and saw his pale eyes and knew with a heavy heart that she had to leave Lord Greyleigh's home.
She ought to speak to him this very moment. She ought to inform him she was well enough to travel, to remove herself as a burden from his household, to get on with living the life that was to be hers. But she wanted to stay. She longed to stay just a few days more, or perhaps so long as a week ... ?
She had only one good excuse as to why she should stay, and that was the recovery of her jewelry. Curious then, that the very thing she had been praying for, that her jewels would all be promptly found and returned to her, she now prayed would take
a while and give her a reason to linger. Already today two more pieces had been found: her other hair comb and one of her ear-bobs set with golden topaz stones.
The comb had been affixed into the bristles of a broom, and the earbob had dangled from the delicate frame of a miniature in the portrait gallery. Since Elizabeth herself had gazed at those portraits but a few days past, the earbob had obviously been recently added. Counting the earbob's twin and another set of earbobs, there were only nine pieces yet missing.
Elizabeth glanced at Lord Greyleigh—Gideon, he'd bid her call him—and knew with a heart that grew even heavier that it was not her future she feared to face, but a future that would never bring her again in contact with Gideon.
Could she bear never to see him again? What manner of fool was she, to have attached such importance to a connection that now existed only half as long as her ill-fated "marriage" ever had?
Despite her inner remonstrances, she knew she would not tell him she could leave, not yet. She convinced herself more of her jewels needed to be found first.
The real question at the moment was, would she tell him not to carry her in his arms back up to her room, as he had carried her down to supper? The embrace had proved too intimate, too troubling to any peace of mind Elizabeth strove to find when she thought of leaving this house. Her fingers had itched to play with his hair, with the nape of his neck, and she'd had to bite her lip to keep the impulse at bay.
"You do not eat," Gideon observed now, the right side of his face half lost in the night's gloom. She shook her head, and he pushed his own plate away. 'The meal is not very good tonight. I think Cook has difficulty with drafts in his oven on these stormy nights."
"I am sure he is not to blame. I believe my appetite is at fault," Elizabeth said, also pushing her plate away. Servants moved in at once to retrieve the unwanted plates and utensils.
Gideon leaned forward, his crossed arms resting on the table, a little more of the candlelight now illuminating his features. Candlelight was kind to him, softening his startling coloring, picking out the handsome lines of his face, making his eyes appear more silver than blue.
"When I mentioned I play chess by mail with my brothers, you indicated you know how to play," he said. "Shall we indulge in a game?"
"That would be lovely," Elizabeth said on a sigh, relieved not to have to return to her room, where she had already spent too much time in too much thought about the future. With the wind pushing at the windows and rain dashing down the chimneys to hiss as it struck the fire on the grate, the storms, both internal and external, could make for a long, fretful night. Better to spend an hour or two in the simple contemplation of a game.
One of the footmen was sent to fetch a chessboard, bringing it back to the dining table. "Will this suit?" Gideon asked Elizabeth. Since the table sat before a massive fireplace and its cheerily hissing and popping fire, and Elizabeth had borrowed a shawl to match the dress she also borrowed, she agreed the corner of the dining table would suit quite well. Gideon stood to half turn her chair for her, then did the same to his own, and they faced one another over the board.
"I hope we did not disturb one of the games you play with your brothers," she said as she helped set up the pieces.
"I keep their letters to study the flow of the play, so I can easily reconstruct the game," he assured her.
"Ah, good. I would not wish to disrupt something that two brothers had between them."
He nodded, and even in the dim light Elizabeth could not miss the faint upturning of his lips, as though at some fond memory.