Escaping Notice (21 page)

Helen nodded, well aware that she was due for a scolding if she
erred. Nonetheless, making tea was one of the few things she did
well, and if Miss Leigh liked it strong, then strong it would
be.

Examining the tray, Helen darted through the kitchen door to the
herb garden just outside. She swiftly plucked blue-gray sage, a
spring of deep green rosemary and a single deep-red bloom from the
Apothecary's rose. A delicate bone china bud vase stood on the
stone sill of the kitchen window, just to the right of the door.
She grabbed that as well and filled it with water before arranging
the fragrant sprigs as a final, healing touch. It looked fresh and
lively, but she could not quite convince herself that Miss Leigh
would be pleased —
o
r even notice the
vase.

Her dismal reflection proved accurate. Miss Leigh ate her
breakfast without comment. However, when she finally placed her
empty tea cup on the tray, she picked up the vase and sniffed at
the rose, although she did not say a word.

Miss Leigh held the tray up. When Helen took it, Miss Leigh
turned on her side and pulled the covers up over her shoulder.
Helen watched her, her concern growing. She had never known Miss
Leigh to be so agreeably silent.

It was a frightening change.

Intent on watching over her, Helen finished mending the lace
she’d washed, ironed it, and straightened Miss Leigh's room. By
mid-afternoon, she had run out of chores. Miss Leigh continued to
sleep, sporadic snores issuing from the depths of her bed. Helen
almost nodded off in boredom before she suddenly stood up, deciding
to clean out the wardrobe.

While conscious, Miss Leigh had resisted — even resented — any
attempt on Helen's part to sort through the musty repository. Helen
was determined to get rid of the worst garments and air out the
wardrobe to eliminate the staleness. The smell was probably due to
mould growing on some damp item, and it needed to be cleaned.

Removing stack upon stack of clothing, Helen reached the bottom
shelf when a further burst of musty odor made her sneeze. She had
found the source. A wrinkled pile of material was stuffed into the
back corner. She reached inside and gingerly used her thumb and
forefinger to pull out a dark blue garment. The material was rough
and crumpled into a stiff ball.

Another whiff of the thick, musty odor made her sneeze again.
Her eyes watered. She threw the offending wad onto the floor and
picked up a rag and a small jar of lavender oil, beeswax and
turpentine. Scooping out a small amount of the wax with the tip of
her rag, she rubbed down the inside of the wardrobe until the musty
scent vanished.

Sitting back on her heels, she wiped a few droplets of sweat
from her brow and sniffed. The scent of lavender-laced turpentine
was not much of an improvement. However, after flapping the
wardrobe doors for a few minutes, the scent dissipated enough for
it to smell almost pleasant.

One by one, she picked up the stacks of clothes and refolded
them neatly, returning them to their shelves. When she finished,
she eyed the dark blue ball with disfavor.

Miss Leigh turned over in bed, letting out a long sigh. Helen
held her breath and watched, but she did not stir again. Wishing
she did not have to touch the crumpled fabric, Helen picked up the
wadded clothing and left. If she could salvage anything by washing
it, she would do her best.

In the workroom next to the kitchen, Helen shook out the mess
over the table. To her surprise, a gray, knitted cap fell from the
folds of the garment, which turned out to be a rough jacket of the
sort a farmer might wear.

Why would Miss Leigh have such a disreputable jacket
stuffed into her wardrobe?

Miss Leigh wore outlandish clothing, but she tended towards the
excessively feminine type, absolutely drenched in ribbons and
lace.

Holding it up, Helen eyed the long sleeves. Even if for some
reason Miss Leigh wanted to wear it, it simply would not fit her.
The shoulders would droop and the sleeves would cover her hands
completely. It was clearly a man’s jacket.

She sighed. A real lady's maid would never question, she would
just accept. So Helen mixed a small amount of bullock’s gall, a cup
of stale urine and some boiling water and picked up a hard brush to
try to remove the stains. After doing the best she could, she
dipped the coat into a bucket of icy spring water. It was not up to
her to question Miss Leigh's choice of clothing, even if Helen did
wish she could offer a few words of advice. Miss Leigh would never
be a beauty, but she could be quite pleasant in appearance if she
would give up some of her laces, ribbons and dreadful colors.

And this absolutely horrible jacket.

Whispering a few well-chosen insults to the jacket, Helen
squeezed out the water and spread the garment out on the table in
front of her. When it was almost dry, she worked a drop of oil of
olives into a brush that she then rubbed over the jacket. It did
not look much better.

Perhaps ironing might improve its appearance. It certainly could
not make it worse. She nearly jumped out of her dress when a heavy,
warm hand grasped her shoulder.

“Helen?” Hugh's deep voice startled her.

Heart beating wildly, Helen glanced over her shoulder. The table
trembled against her waist in reaction to her abrupt movement.
“What are you doing here?”

“Cook said you were here with some washing.” His blue eyes
twinkled. “I could not believe it, so I came to find out for
myself.”

“I am perfectly capable of washing a jacket!” A heated flush
blossomed over her cheeks. Her damp hand reached out and pressed
against his chest to push him away. When she realized it, her blush
deepened. She tried to pull her hand away, only to have him catch
it under his warm fingers.

He pressed her palm against his chest as his gaze intensified.
Her breathing grew shallow as she gazed up, taking in his tanned
skin and the faint white lines around his eyes. He seemed the
epitome of a Norseman come to ravage the English countryside,
although the deep humor sparkling in his eyes was sure to grant him
everything he desired without force.

Her heart fluttered as he glanced briefly at her lips. “I see
you are,” he said.

She looked down at the jacket lying stretched out on the table.
“It was full of mould. The pernicious air would make Miss Leigh ill
if it remained in her wardrobe.”

He looked at the table. The smile curving his mouth disappeared.
He reached out and snatched the jacket off the table. He held it
up. “Where did you get this?”

“From Miss Leigh's wardrobe. As I said.”

“My God,” he muttered. “It can't be.”

“Can't be what?” She tried to wrest the jacket from his grip.
“What is wrong with you? Give it to me, please. You are wrinkling
it.”

He studied Helen, his face expressionless. Something in his
demeanor shifted from teasing lightness to tension. She wiped her
icy hands on her apron. The room suddenly felt airless and much too
small.

In slow, deliberate movements, he folded the jacket as if he
meant to take it away with him. Thinking of Miss Leigh's anger if
she discovered that Helen had not only taken the jacket, but lost
it to Hugh, Helen caught hold of the jacket’s hem.

His grip tightened. He moved slightly, angling his body towards
the door, blocking her with his broad shoulder. She edged around
him and tried to grab it again. He pushed her away.

“What are you doing? I must return it to Miss Leigh at once!”
she said.

“You cannot. It's important, Helen, otherwise I would not take
it.”

“But you can't — and you mustn't fold it up while it is damp or
it will grow musty again.” She placed a hand on his forearm.
“Please just let me iron it and put it back where it belongs.”

“No. And you must tell me precisely how you found this.”

“It was crumpled, along with a knitted cap, in the corner of
Miss Leigh's wardrobe. There is not much else to say about it.” The
words had barely escaped her lips when he caught up the cap with
one long finger. “What are you doing?” She tried unsuccessfully to
obtain control of at least the cap but again, he held it
frustratingly out of reach.

Miss Leigh would punish her and perhaps turn her off when she
learned what had happened. And Helen would have to admit who she
was. All her efforts would come to naught. Her family would berate
her for her carelessness. She would have to live with the pitying
glances and shame of losing a valuable heirloom, not to mention
having masqueraded as a lady’s maid.

“Mr. Gaunt is investigating my …. He’s assisting me with an
investigation into the death of Mr. Lionel Castle.” He held up the
jacket and cap. “Someone wearing clothing precisely like this was
seen.”

“Seen? Where?”

He hesitated, reluctance written on his face. He did not trust
her enough to confide in her. The thought burned.

Nonetheless, she could not help a brief, light touch on his
strong forearm.

“Seen in the boatyard before Lionel — Mr. Castle — took his boat
out,” he said at last.

“I don't understand. Surely, you are not suggesting someone
tampered with the earl's boat?”

He gripped her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. She could
feel the warmth of his fingers through the thin material of her
dreary gown. Self-conscious, she brushed a limp strand of hair back
from her forehead, aware of her unflattering hairstyle and
clothing. There was not even a bit of embroidery to distract him
from her plain face.

And yet he did not turn away. He pulled her closer. She held her
breath when he bent and pressed his warm lips against hers. She
leaned closer, suddenly wishing she truly was a lady's maid. A maid
could laugh and flirt and even marry a working man like Hugh
without crossing the invisible boundary between the classes.

How she hated that boundary which divided her from
happiness.

When he gently released her, she stepped back. Her hands rose to
rub her arms, chilled for no reason.

“I apologize.” He glanced round ruefully. “We might have
presented a rather unusual picture if anyone had caught us.
Considering you are my sister.”

She laughed because he seemed to expect it. “This is a terrible
situation.”

“Damnable,” he agreed. His gaze dropped again to the garments in
his hand. His face grew somber. “Was there anything else? Anything
you thought was unusual?”

“Unusual? In what way?”

Some might consider everything about Miss Leigh unusual.
Helen just thought she was sad and unhappy with her life at
Ormsby.

“Anything you would not expect. Like this jacket.”

“You don't — you don't think Miss Leigh would deliberately hurt
the earl, do you? I cannot believe that.” This time, Hugh's
concentration made him inattentive. She took advantage of this and
snatched the cap away.

Stretching the cap open, she peered inside, searching for
anything to exonerate Miss Leigh. In her heart, she could not
believe Miss Leigh would do anything to hurt the earl or his
brother. Certainly her employer had a temper, but she did not seem
the type to cold-bloodedly kill her nephews, even if she apparently
did not like the eldest one, the Earl of Monnow.

Her fingers picked through the coarse, gray folds, turning the
cap to catch the afternoon sunshine streaming in through the single
window set high in the wall. A brief, golden glint flashed, just
under the curled lip of the hat. She carefully unfurled the edge to
find a single, pale gold hair.

She plucked it out and held it triumphantly in front of Hugh's
face.

“You see? A blonde hair! Miss Leigh has brown hair.”

“Brown and gray,” He delicately grasped the hair between the
broad tips of his fingers. “This could easily be gray.”

“It's blonde,” she insisted, although as he held it up in the
sunlight, she was not so sure.

“It could be,” he said at last, placing the hair in his
handkerchief and folding it carefully before putting it in his
pocket. “Or, it could be gray. I will examine it to be sure. Do not
concern yourself overmuch. I would not accuse anyone without more
proof than a single hair of an indeterminate shade.”

“
An upright and trustworthy Steward will discharge his duty
with zeal and impartiality ….” —
The Complete
Servant

Hugh watched Helen leave the small workroom. He had to admire
her defense of his aunt, even after Eloise had hit her.

While Helen might be kind enough to forget and forgive, Hugh
could not help wondering about the extent of his aunt's dislike of
him. Perhaps it was deeper than he had imagined. His decision to
remove her from Ormsby and the close proximity to Lionel might have
been too much for her to bear.

Nonetheless, he had to remain impartial. The evidence collected
so far was simply too inconclusive.

And he did not want to believe it.

Hugh headed back to his office and was relieved to see that Mr.
Gaunt was still there, making notes in a brown, leather-bound
notebook. Throwing the jacket and cap onto the desk, Hugh took
possession of the only other chair in the small room.

Gaunt picked up the garments and examined them briefly. After
less than a minute, he threw them both back onto the desk and
sniffed his fingers with an expression of distaste. He pulled out a
large white handkerchief and rubbed his fingertips.

“Mould,” he said, before meticulously folding up the square of
linen and placing it back into his pocket. “Where did you find the
jacket?”

Hugh sighed and ran his fingers through his beard. The bristly
hair itched like an inconvenient conscience. He felt as if he were
about to betray his aunt.

“Helen — Miss Archer — found it in my aunt's closet. It was
balled up with the cap in the corner.”