Julie Anne Long (8 page)

Rebecca stood awkwardly in the center of the main room watching the back of Janet as she whisked cups and saucers down from a shelf.

“Sit, Rebecca,” Janet commanded, and pulled a chair out from the table. Rebecca, grateful to be given anything at all to do, did as she was told.

“Now, lass,” Janet said kindly and matter-of-factly, “dinna bother to be shy. ’Tis glad I am to be helpin’ ye. I gave my youth to a brute of a man because me family said I should, but every breath I took I was sorry for it. We was married for ten years. He died under the hooves of a mule and dead drunk he was at the time, and it’s been a hard but better life since. He left me wi’ no children, but the house is mine, the mule and the chickens are mine, this little bit of land is mine, and nobody owns me. Life is hard for women, Miss Rebecca, as you’ll learn, and we are rarely free, but if we are offered freedom I say it is worth the price.”

As if to demonstrate the price, Janet stretched her hands out in front of her and smiled upon them; they were gnarled and rough, laced with scars, the nails ground short. They were twenty years older than her face.

Dumbfounded and drunk on the first dose of adult honesty she’d ever heard except from the mouth of Connor Riordan, Rebecca stared, half in envy, half in revulsion, at those hands, hands that could plow and bake and sew and carry and suffer and decide. It was heady. Just as she’d suspected, life was messy and fascinating and had very little to do with everything she’d lived up until today. Suddenly she wanted to know every bit of it, and her fatigue dropped away.

“Edelston said he suspected he might wish to beat me rather frequently. But he
is
writing poetry to me. And he is a baron,” Rebecca began guiltily. For some reason she wanted this woman’s absolution. She wanted to hear Janet’s thoughts on shucking a marriage and an ostensibly very comfortable life for one of near reckless uncertainty.

“Prisons can be made of velvet,” Janet said with a dismissive snort. She was already convinced of Edelston’s lack of worth. “If ye’re lucky, love and respect can grow in a marriage, but a man rarely sees the need in that, ye ken? If he can do what he likes, what need has he to learn to love his wife? He can go about his business, gaming and womanizing and whatnot, pleasing himself. His wife is his property and broodmare.” She stopped to see if Rebecca was blushing and laughed to notice she was not.

“I know what a broodmare is,” Rebecca confirmed firmly.

“I hear tell there
is
such a thing as love, though, Miss Rebecca,” Janet said, “and God willing, love will find ye someday and ye will be able to keep it without too dear a cost.”

Rebecca nodded. She thought of Mama and Papa. Not a grand love story, that one. More a story of tolerance and practicality. Rebecca suspected she was destined for something altogether different, something she was by no means able to define yet.

“And where exactly would Connor be takin’ ye?” Janet asked her.

“I . . . I don’t know yet. He would not tell me.”

Janet’s eyes went troubled for a brief moment. Rebecca blushed, because her answer sounded hopelessly naive even to her own ears. “Away” had seemed a sufficient destination not more than a day ago.

“Rebecca, Connor is a rare man, but no man alive deserves that sort of trust.”

“And are you filling wee Becca’s ears with your usual revolutionary talk, Janet?” Connor said, emerging from her room.

The women gawked at him. Gone were his grimy rolled shirtsleeves and work trousers, the scuffed boots, the uniform of a groom. In their place were close-fitting fawn-colored trousers, a coat of fine dark brown wool open over a waistcoat striped in deep gold and cream, and an almost-new pair of boots, polished to a glow. A conservatively tied silk cravat, whiter than summer clouds, billowed beneath his chin. In one hand he held a pair of brown kid gloves; in the other a round, flat-crowned hat.

“Ye look like a bloody lord, ye do,” Janet drawled, but her eyes had gone soft.

“Thanks to your skill with procurement, Janet,” Connor said, his own eyes soft.

“Ah, but I did it wi’ yer coin. I canna take credit for it all,” Janet replied, and Connor laughed.

Rebecca was flabbergasted by the change in Connor. He looked more at home in the fine clothes than Maharajah did in his own skin, his long elegant body almost insolently regal as he stood holding the hat between both hands. The stripe in his waistcoat picked out the gold flecks in his eyes and set them dancing; the soft folds of the cravat emphasized the bold lines of his jaw and cheekbones. It was faintly disturbing, because although Rebecca knew the clothes were meant to disguise him, in some strange way they seemed to reveal him instead.

“Wee Becca, from this point on I shall be known as Mr. Jonathan Hazelton, Esquire, a solicitor, and you shall be my shy and very,
very
quiet nephew . . . Ned. Aye, I think Ned would suit you.”

“I’m to dress like a boy?” Rebecca’s interest was piqued. Connor had known this portion of the escapade would appeal to her.

“Yes, for the duration of the coach trip, ye shall be a boy. Now be a good lass and follow Janet into her bedchamber to get dressed up.”

In a few minutes, Janet had divested Rebecca of her gown and shift and had helped her into a pair of light-colored trousers (a bit too large, but this worked in their favor as it muffled the unmistakably feminine curve of her hips), and a loose white shirt. Janet clucked worriedly over the healthy size of Rebecca’s bosom, but once Rebecca had slipped into the overlarge coat that had been acquired for her, she decided the whole ensemble provided adequate camouflage.

“But now we must do something wi’ yer hair,” Janet said musingly. “Connor, will ye bring me sewing basket, please?”

Connor, aka Mr. Hazelton, Esq., appeared obligingly in the doorway a moment later with the basket.

Janet fished about until she found her scissors and then seized a hunk of Rebecca’s hair.

Both Connor and Rebecca let out dismayed squeaks.

Janet let the scissors fall to her side. “Oh, fer heaven’s sake, the two of ye, we canna let her out the door like this. The lass has more hair than will fit into a cap. It will tumble out if she so much as sneezes.”

“A little of it, then?” Rebecca said bravely.

“Three inches or so,” Janet said speculatively. “We can stuff most of it up into your cap that way, then club the rest and tuck it in your shirt collar and pray no one looks too close at ye.”

Rebecca nodded stoically and closed her eyes.
Snick, snick, snick.
A soft rain of wavy gold and red and copper fell to the floor at her feet. Janet swept the shorn hair into the corner and then deftly bundled the rest of Rebecca’s hair under the cap.

“Ye’ll do. Now let’s ’ave our tea and then off wi’ ye both.”

She ushered Rebecca out of the room in front of her and followed close behind. Connor lingered a moment in the room. When Janet and Rebecca were safely in the kitchen, he bent to select a copper curl from the small soft heap of swept-up hair and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat.

“My thanks for the offer of tea, Janet, but I think we must be on our way,” Connor said when he was once again in the kitchen.

Janet did not reply; she went very still and stared up into Connor’s face, smiling faintly and sadly. He met her gaze for a moment, then tore his eyes from her.

“Come now,” he said, motioning for Rebecca to precede him out of the door of the cottage. “You’re a young man, wee Ned. I canna be assisting a great lad such as yourself into the cart. You must do it yourself.”

Rebecca made a face at Connor to illustrate how weak a challenge this presented to her. Somewhat reluctantly, she left the warmth of Janet’s kitchen, Connor and Janet close behind her.

“Good-bye and good luck to ye, Miss Rebecca. I hope the future brings ye naught but kindness,” Janet said.

“Good luck to you, too, Janet. I cannot thank you enough for your help and your words of encouragement. I shall never forget it.” Something that felt dangerously like the beginnings of tears began to prick at her eyes.

“Oh, now, boys don’t cry,” Janet scolded. “Into the cart ye go.” Janet gave her a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek and an impertinent pat on the bottom.

Rebecca swung herself into the cart, marveling at the nearly sinful freedom the trousers afforded. No wonder men behaved as though they owned the world.

She turned to watch for Connor. To her astonishment, she saw him take both of Janet’s hands in his own and kiss each one lingeringly, with what looked remarkably like tenderness. Janet put her hands briefly on either side of Connor’s face, then dropped them back to her sides, and Connor took his leave of her.

The militarily efficient Sir Henry had assembled the servants, Lorelei, and Lady Tremaine in the parlor. Edelston’s first impression of the scene was of pale faces taut with a sense of impending tragedy. A movement caught his eye; Lady Tremaine was cruelly twisting a handkerchief between her two plump white hands.

“Ah, Lord Edelston,” Sir Henry began, “please have a seat. We were just discussing . . .” He stopped when he noticed Cordelia standing behind Edelston. Sir Henry regarded her unblinkingly for one rattled moment before arranging his features into something resembling a gracious welcoming expression. “And, Your Grace, what an honor and a pleasure. No doubt you are exhausted from your evening’s travel. Molly will show you to your room and see to your needs.”

Hearing her name, a tiny dark-haired maid snapped to attention in the corner of the room and, at a loss as to what to do next, dropped a curtsy. All the other servants, startled into motion by Molly’s sudden movement, began dipping and bending, too, although not one of them was entirely certain what sort of etiquette a duchess required, never having been in the presence of one.

“Oh, thank you so much, Sir Henry, but I’m not tired at all.” Cordelia remained rooted to the spot.

Sir Henry silently eyed the exquisite creature in front of him. Part of him wanted to bellow, “Begone, woman!” The other part of him, the pragmatic, bred-in-the-bone part, was aware that where there were duchesses, there were bound to be dukes and various other lofty titles, some of whom might be in need of a wife named Lorelei. He glanced at his own wife, who was giving him an imploring look that he was finding difficult to interpret. Did it mean, “Pacify the duchess, for God’s sake?” or did it mean, “Get rid of her while we deal with this mess?”

Meanwhile, Edelston’s nerves were twanging dangerously, and he feared they would snap at any moment if the matter at hand was not addressed promptly. He was quite certain that Cordelia would happily fence Sir Henry into the ground with verbal obtuseness if it took all evening, and he needed to put a stop to it. He cleared his throat. All heads swiveled toward him.

“The duchess is a dear family friend, and as such, my happiness is of great concern to her. Her discretion may be taken for granted.”

The statement rang by itself in the parlor for a moment. The problem of what to do with the duchess solved for him, Sir Henry ignored the lengthy formalities of introductions all around and leaped immediately to the business at hand.

“I would like everyone to tell me when they last saw Rebecca. She did not appear at breakfast, and she was not in her room when Lorelei looked in on her. Furthermore, we have already determined that her horse is in the stable, that she is not in the apple tree, and that she does not appear to be in the house or taking the air anywhere on the grounds. I think Letty may have something to share with us. Letty?”

“Sir, I sleep very soundly, sir,” Letty began hesitantly.

“And snores like a warthog, she does,” muttered Tom the gardener.

“Rebecca was gone when you awoke?” Sir Henry prompted impatiently.

“Y-y-es, sir. I thought she was out riding, see, sir. But then I noticed that some of her . . . well, some of her things are missing, sir. Clothing things.”

Sir Henry pursed his lips. “Gilroy?”

“I did not see Miss Rebecca today, sir, but I saw her twice yesterday. When yourself and Lord Edelston had gone to look at the greenhouse, sir, I took the opportunity to fetch the empty brandy glasses from the library. Miss Rebecca was in the library when I entered it. She exited in rather a hurry, which I thought was a bit odd, seeing as how Miss Rebecca always liked to pass a word or two. And then I saw her when I attended the family at dinner.”

At these words, a roaring started up in Edelston’s ears, and he saw Sir Henry’s lips moving, and Gilroy’s lips moving in response, but he observed the tableau as though he were underwater. The greenhouse. The library. Yesterday. Of course.

Yesterday, Edelston had been intercepted by Sir Henry in the front garden before Gilroy could divest him of his overcoat. Sir Henry had offered him brandy in the library while they concluded their discussions of the marriage settlements and, warmed to gruff cordiality after several glasses, Edelston had finally shucked his overcoat over the back of a chair and went tromping off with Sir Henry to the greenhouse to see more bloody roses. These Tremaines were simply mad for bloody roses.

It was becoming clear that his bride-to-be had robbed him while he was looking at the bloody roses with Sir Henry. Edelston felt as though he’d been run through with a pitchfork.

Cordelia was watching the greening of Edelston’s face with grave fascination.

“Tell me, Sir Henry,” she said suddenly, “does Rebecca have any money of her own?”

Sir Henry glanced from Edelston to Cordelia, and their respective expressions must have been eloquent, for Sir Henry held a hand up, a silent instruction to Cordelia to hold her thought.

“Thank you for your time. You may go,” Sir Henry told his household staff. “If at any point during the next week or so I hear word of this conversation from anyone that was not present in this room, I will dismiss each and every one of you without references.”

Sir Henry, the servants knew, though fair and kind and occasionally vague, did not make idle threats. In fact, he did not make threats at all. They began filing out of the room, silent as ghosts. As an afterthought, Molly curtsied in the general direction of the Duchess of Dunbrooke again, which triggered another epidemic of bobbing and bending and a few collisions among the household staff as they attempted to leave the room.