Hidden Affections (10 page)

The footsteps Annabelle had heard did not come from Harrison after all, but she did not know if she was relieved or disappointed when she realized who was coming through the tunnel.

She recognized the man who approached her as a member of the staff from the city mansion and wondered if Harrison had indeed returned but was waiting for her in the main house.

When he stopped a few deferential feet in front of her, she could see that his ears and nose and cheeks were deep red from the cold he had endured during his journey. “Good morning, ma’am. Mr. Graymoor sent me ahead to deliver your packages, and he asked me to tell you that he expects to return home later today. I carried all the packages to the upstairs hallway, but I was coming to ask Irene if she would see that they were put away properly.”

“Thank you, but I’ll see to that myself. Was there anything else?”

“No, ma’am. Now that I’ve made my delivery and spoken to you, I need to return to the city.”

“Before you leave, you should see Irene and have her fix you something to warm you up again,” she suggested before dismissing him.

Anxious to see what had arrived, she hurried ahead to the main house, but she stopped to hang up her damp cape in the foyer before she mounted the servants’ staircase to reach the second floor. There were so many packages lined up in the upstairs hallway, however, that she decided she had better ask Irene to send Peggy up to help her put everything away.

Judging by the sheer number of packages, she did not have to open any of them to know Harrison had to have ordered some additional things for her. It must have taken a bevy of women working into the night, all night, as well as a handsome sum of money, to create this extensive wardrobe in a matter of days. She wondered if it was a peace offering of some kind or simply another opportunity for her husband to show her his authority over her.

She was more interested in the articles from the list she had given to Mrs. Faye, so she searched for the smallest package she could find and peeked inside to make certain she had found the right one. Grinning, she carried it straight to the room she would be sharing with Harrison if he ever decided to spend the night. Rather than think about how awkward it would be to be sleeping in the same room with him again, she set the package on top of the lady’s writing desk just opposite the window. She untied the string and peeled back the brown wrapping paper to find three items lying inside.

She carefully untied the string around the first item, pulled back the brown paper, and practically squealed with delight. Instead of the one set of knitting needles she had requested, she found two. One set was made of metal, like the ones she had lost during the robbery, and the other was made of bone.

Thrilled, she tore the largest package open to reveal a handsome brocade knitting bag filled with enough skeins of wool to make several ladies’ reticules like the ones she and her mother used to make. After her father died, she had temporarily given up her teaching position to stay at home to care for her elderly mother, and they had spent all of their free time knitting reticules they sold to support themselves.

Precious memories of both her parents, who had given up hope they would ever be blessed with a child before she was born, washed over her, and she blinked back tears while she slipped both sets of the knitting needles into the knitting bag. She reached down to retrieve her knitting stick out of the drawer where she had stored it to keep it safe and added it to the bag before she set it on the floor at her feet.

She opened the smallest package last, expecting to find a simple diary like the one she’d had before—the one she had burned, along with all the letters she had received from her first husband, Eric. Instead, she ran her fingers across an exquisitely pale leather cover before untying the attached leather thong that wrapped around the diary to keep it closed. She was so excited to have a diary again, she did not even care that the cover of the diary had been monogrammed in gold with what appeared to be the Graymoor family crest.

Only time would tell if she would end up burning this diary one day, too, but the one way she had always been able to strengthen her prayer life and to steady her faith was to make an accounting each night of God’s many blessings that day and treasure them for what they were: His gifts to her.

Smiling, she stored away the diary. There was no doubt in her mind that tonight Irene’s name would be the first she would write in her diary . . . which prompted her to think of a way to thank the woman for her many kindnesses.

Annabelle retrieved the Bible she had left behind yesterday in the library after arguing with Harrison. She spent some time in her room reading a few of her favorite passages and reflecting on them to find the peace her faith never failed to provide. Although she had many questions about the family history she had found in the Bible, she decided to wait to ask Harrison about it at some point and spent an hour making something special for Irene.

She waited until she was certain that the kitchen had been cleaned up and that Alan and Peggy were both working in the main house, however, before venturing back out to the cottage to see Irene. Armed with the gift she had made, she entered the kitchen to find Irene busy at the table rolling out the crust for one of the apple pies she was making for supper.

“You can’t be hungry again already. Not after what you just ate for dinner.”

“No, not quite yet,” she replied, then walked over to a bowl of sliced apples Irene had already filled and snatched a slice for herself. “I thought maybe we could visit for a spell.”

Irene nodded, but she never lost her rhythm as she continued to stretch the dough thin. “Sit yourself down. Just don’t get too close to all this flour dusting the table. Otherwise, you’ll end up spoiling that pretty new gown you’re wearing.”

“I’ll be careful,” Annabelle promised, took a seat across from Irene, and urged the chair a little closer to the table to protect more of her pale lavender skirts. She had never owned a gown this color before, simply because she had never had the luxury of not doing anything that might soil it. “I’ve brought you a gift,” she said and placed it on the table, close enough for Irene to see it, but far enough away to keep the papers she had placed there from being dusted with flour.

Irene glanced at the papers, abruptly lost her rhythm, and fumbled for a moment before she found it again. “What’s all that?”

“Recipes,” Annabelle replied. “I wrote down some of the recipes for things my mother taught me to bake.”

Irene’s cheeks flushed pink. “If you’re not happy with the meals I make for you, which seems mighty odd, since you never finish a meal without taking a second helping of something, I’ll try to make—”

“Not make. Bake,” Annabelle gushed, appalled that she had hurt Irene’s feelings again, even unintentionally. “Yesterday you said the only dessert you knew how to bake well was apple pie. I thought perhaps, if you had recipes to follow, you’d see how easy it was to bake some molasses cookies or a strudel. Once you’re good at baking those, I can write out some more dessert recipes for you.”

Irene’s cheeks deepened to scarlet, she set down the rolling pin, and reached over to retrieve a tin pie plate sitting on the table just within her reach. “I thank you for your gifts, but . . . but I can’t accept them.”

Annabelle’s heart dropped. “Why not? Is there some rule Harrison didn’t tell me about that makes it inappropriate for me to give you a gift as simple as a few recipes? And even if there is, I thought you’d appreciate the fact that I’m pulling my own strings and doing something I want to do for someone else.”

Irene set the tin plate down on top of the pie crust and gazed at her. “I doubt Harrison would care one way or the other that you gave me those recipes. Even if he did, I’ve got my own reasons for not accepting them.”

When Annabelle cocked a brow, Irene moistened her lips and rested her hands on the table. “I can’t read.”

“You can’t read?”

“Not a word. Never learned. Never needed to learn, although I’ve often wished I could read the Good Book for myself when bad weather makes it impossible to attend services on Sunday, like it does today.”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. “Today is Sunday?” she asked and wondered if she would ever again be settled enough in one place to keep track of the days.

Irene chuckled. “All day. At the rate this winter is going, I doubt there will be more than a few Sundays we’ll actually be able to get to the church.”

Disappointed to think she would not be able to attend services regularly each week, Annabelle tried to make the best of a situation she could not control and focused on one she could. “I can teach you to read.”

Irene waved away her offer and chuckled. “At my age? I’m sixty-seven years old. I doubt I have enough years left in me to learn how to read, and I sincerely doubt that Harrison would be very happy when he finds out you’ve turned this kitchen into a schoolroom. Not that I’m worried about what he thinks of me, mind you, because he can’t fire me even if he wants to. I’m more concerned about what he’ll say to you.”

Annabelle furrowed her brow. “Why can’t he fire you?”

Irene grabbed the pie plate, set it before her, and started lifting the crust to set it within. “His late father, Thomas, rest his soul, gave me the right to stay at Graymoor Gardens for the rest of my life. At least that’s what the lawyer said who read part of the will to me.”

Annabelle recognized the name she had seen in the Bible, but rather than ask Irene the reasons he had had to give her that right, she pressed the woman to focus on accepting her offer. “Please. At least consider my idea.”

“Even if I wanted to learn how to read, I don’t have the time. I have more than enough work to do all day to keep my hands busy.”

Annabelle refused to accept the woman’s excuse. “Then we’ll work together at night. After supper’s been cleared away. You’re finished with your chores by then, aren’t you?”

Chuckling, Irene shook her head. “By the time the sun is well set, I’m so tired I take to my bed. Otherwise, I’d never have the energy to get up in the morning.”

“You’re up early enough to take a walk before breakfast and spend time with Jonah. If you can make time for that, you can make time to learn to read in the morning, too. Since I prefer to get up before the sun like you do, I can meet you here in the kitchen. We’ll take a walk together first, then start on your lessons. And in case you’re still too stubborn to say yes, then consider this a formal request from the mistress of the house, who very much wants her new friend to learn how to read.” She looked around the kitchen. “Is there a clean apron I can use?”

“Whatever for?”

Pleased that the housekeeper had given up arguing, she grinned. “I’m going to show you how to take that crust and use those apples, plus a few other goodies, to bake a strudel that will make you want to cry because it’s just that scrumptious. All I need for you to find for me are some walnuts, raisins, and any berries you might have dried from last summer’s bounty.”

This time Irene did not offer a word in protest, but instead handed Annabelle a clean apron she retrieved from a corner cupboard. She gathered up the requested ingredients, which included some dried plums, and once she had set them onto the table, she cocked a brow. “If I can really make all this into something that tastes as good as you say it is, I have a mind to make another one for Christmas dinner. I’ve only got three weeks to practice, though.”

Annabelle eased her hold on the apron strings she was tying into place. “Christmas. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten all about it.”

Irene smiled. “It will be a blessed Christmas indeed to have you and Harrison here this year. Now show me what to do.”

They spent the next few hours laughing and chatting together, and before long, the kitchen was filled with the aroma of the strudel baking in the oven. Peggy returned to the kitchen, but Annabelle held a finger to her lips to encourage Irene to keep the new dessert a secret.

Peggy, however, had news of her own. “I came to tell you that Mr. Philip has come to call. He’s waiting for you in the parlor, Miss Annabelle.”