Matilda smiled. “I’m surprised Gilbourne waited until he was twenty-one to make decisions.”
Augustin returned her smile. “My lord did not wait. As soon as his year of mourning ended, he appointed me as his personal valet. He was only thirteen. Ten more years would pass before he could take his seat in the House of Lords. But even at that age, his first decree was that any servant employed in any household in the earldom could remain under its protection for as long as he or she desired.”
“That’s sweet,” she murmured. “He’s a good man.”
Augustin straightened his shoulders. “We are all more loyal than you can possibly imagine.”
“Maybe I can,” she said softly, then held out her palms. “Let me have the blanket.”
“It’s not a blanket anymore. These are rags now.”
“Let me have the rags.”
“They cannot be used for—”
“I won’t. Whatever the history is, I’ll be respectful.”
The valet chewed his lips. “I was ordered to burn them.”
“And you don’t want to.”
He winced. “None of us wants to.”
“What if… I offer to burn them, and then ‘accidentally’ forget to do so?”
Augustin looked intrigued. “And when you leave?”
“I will likewise accidentally forget that these scraps were folded and stowed at the bottom of my wardrobe, where they will remain hidden in peace for as long as you wish it.”
A look of abject relief crossed the valet’s weathered face. He started to hand her what was left of the blanket, then paused. “Promise me, out loud, that you will burn these rags to ashes, as my lord has so ordered.”
“Absolutely. I’ll take them to my room right this second and throw them into the fire. They’ll definitely not end up safe and sound in my wardrobe.” She gave a melodramatic wink.
He winked back and handed her the scraps. “Splendid. You have done us all an enormous favor.”
She hurried the rags upstairs to her guest chamber before Gilbourne could emerge from wherever he’d hidden himself and catch her in the act.
Once she was safely in her room with the door shut behind her, Matilda lay the limp pieces atop her bed and arranged them back into a whole. The edges weren’t simply torn, she realized. They were freshly torn. And cleanly so. As if even the tearer had not wished to inflict undue harm.
She folded the pieces up and placed them in the back of her wardrobe as promised—or as not promised, as the case might be.
Curiosity burned inside of her. Whatever the story was, the servants clearly refused to gossip about it. Matilda just as clearly could not ask Gilbourne for clarification. She would have to resign herself to a permanent state of suspense.
Before closing the wardrobe door, she paused to take one last look at the unassuming folded scraps in the back corner.
A baby blanket.
A baby.
She longed for a family of her own one day, and could not imagine the grief she would experience if she lost a child. Losing her parents had been difficult enough. Going through that pain again…
Matilda shut the wardrobe door, blocking the blanket from view. She still felt its presence in the room. She needed to distract herself.
After glancing about, her eyes settled on the journal atop her bedside table. There, she could write in her diary. Not about the torn blanket—its secrets did not belong to her. But if she could dislodge some of the pain and confusion after Gilbourne’s kiss and subsequent dismissal, perhaps she could regain a modicum of peace.
She scooped up the journal and a pencil and exited her guest chamber in search of a sunny parlor. Years ago, she used to cheer herself up by chatting with her parents, but now she had no family to turn to. A beautiful view and the warm light of the morning sun would have to be antidote enough.
Before she could begin her search for a suitable parlor, Matilda nearly collided with Mrs. Harris on the landing of the stairs.
