Silver dew clung to bushes and branches, glinting off the tangled growth. There was a strange beauty to the park, a sense of unreality. Was this all a dream, some nightmarish incantation to lure and confuse? Childishly, Elizabeth pressed her face up to the glass. The cold touch sent her shivering back a step, though her eyes never left the peace she perceived in the tangled growth below.
Rounding the corner of a wild overgrown hedge came St. Ryne, sending a shimmer of water droplets flying as he brushed past. Instinctively Elizabeth drew away from the window, not wanting to be seen yet by her husband. She didn’t understand the events of the previous day. Her dreams had been fraught with confusion and anguish. She needed time to sort through her myriad emotions and experiences. Curious, she stood to theside of the curtain and watched. He appeared to be talking to someone. A rotund gentleman followed from behind the bush. He wore brown buckskin breeches and a brown homespun coat and vest. The top of his head was bald and shiny in the morning sun, while his fringe of hair at the sides was thick and unfashionably long. He held his hat obsequiously in his hands before him. She saw St. Ryne glance up to her windows while absently nodding to something the gentleman said. The man continued to speak, gesturing in the direction of the stables. Finally St. Ryne rounded on him, his expression full of exasperation. Then, with an arrogant wave of his hand, indicating the fellow should follow, he led with quick strides toward the stables.
Elizabeth watched until they were out of sight, not realizing how hard she had clenched the edge of the curtain until she slowly uncurled her fingers, and an agony of tensed muscles released brought her to her senses. Sighing, Elizabeth turned away from the window to face the room, the sun at her back illuminating its woebegone appearance.
A simmering anger swept her. Now fully awake, she took in all the details around her while replaying the events of the previous evening in her mind. She looked toward her dressing room, a delicate eyebrow raised. “All right,” she muttered wrathfully. “If it’s a housekeeper you want, it’s a housekeeper you’ll get. No more, no less.” She stalked over to the bell pull, giving it an imperious yank, then entered the dressing room to contemplate her choice of attire.
Mrs. Atheridge arrived as she was struggling with the hooks of a dun-colored gown. Elizabeth heaved a sigh of relief. Though the gowns St. Ryne provided were in color and basic styling all demure, some, she discovered to her dismay, did need assistance from an outside source.
“Mrs. Atheridge, would you get these hooks, please?”
“I ain’t no lady’s maid.”
Shocked, Elizabeth rounded on her. “Believe me, Mrs. Atheridge, there are a number of things I am aware you are not.” She paused, drawing her dignity about her. “The question of a lady’s maid shall be remedied immediately. Nonetheless, until such time as this household is properly staffed, you shall provide any services I deem needing to be completed by your person.” Her voice was low, almost pleasant; however, the gold metal glint in her eye told another tale and caused Mrs. Atheridge unconsciously to back up a step.
“Of course, my lady,” she returned sweetly.
Elizabeth squelched a rising desire to throttle her.
The swish of the housekeeper’s skirts as she approached reminded Elizabeth of the silk petticoats hiding beneath. A twinkle brightened her eye. It was time this black beetle crawled.
“Our want of proper staffing will, I am afraid, increase our burdens. This house is an insult to my husband’s rank, and of course we cannot let it remain in such a condition. We shall begin work following breakfast—that is, if you have anything decent to serve.”
“Bread and a mite of cheese, is all.” Her deletion of a title of respect was quite obvious.
“That will do. I shall request Atheridge. to go down to the village to see if there are any people available for day labor.” She rooted through her portmanteau for a kerchief. “Some women, and perhaps some young men for the heavy work, I think, if they can be spared from their normal labors. You will gather as many buckets, mops, rags, and assorted cleaning paraphernalia as may be had,” she said, draping the kerchief over her hair and tying it behind her head. “If necessary, we will also send Atheridge to buy or borrow additional supplies.”
Mrs. Atheridge nodded sourly and turned to leave.
“Mrs. Atheridge!”
“Yes, my lady,” she said sullenly, turning back to Elizabeth.
“I suggest you remove the silk petticoats.”
Affronted, the housekeeper stood up straighter, clasping her hands crisply before her. “My lady?” she asked in feinted bewilderment.
Elizabeth noted her eyes shifting slightly. “With all I have planned, they will become quite ruined, you know. That will be all.”
“Oh,do be careful, Thom—It is Thomas, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, do be careful.” Elizabeth anxiously watched the young man up on the tall ladder unhook the glass pendants from the chandelier. “Though it is a fright now, I daresay it will be lovely when properly cleaned. Can you get it down?”
“I think so, ma’am, if we removes these bobbles first.”
"My Lady,to you, young man,” screeched Atheridge, entering the dining room with more rags in hand.
Elizabeth frowned, though she ignored Atheridge’s words. He dumped the rags at the foot of the ladder, scowled up at Thomas, and turned to shuffle out of the room. She and Thomas exchanged speaking glances. Throughout the morning, her doubts and concerns about the butler and housekeeper had magnified. She found them trying to hinder everything she desired to do. Atheridge only went to secure the help she needed to clean the manor after she threatened to go herself. Mrs. Atheridge tried to claim a lack of proper buckets and cleaning utensils until Elizabeth suggested she go to the stables, collect the unused buckets there, and proceed to scrub then until they were fit to carry clean water. Miraculously four buckets werefound within the house. Though her blood boiled at the obvious duplicity, Elizabeth pretended a delighted surprise which she was far from feeling. What puzzled Elizabeth was the reason for their obstructive actions. Despite the lack of cooperation from the Atheridges, the work commenced.
The shadows were lengthening, and it was near teatime. By this hour, Elizabeth knew the shelves and cupboards in the kitchen and the fitted stone floor had been scrubbed, and all cobwebs swept away from dark corners. Fresh, simple foods had been fetched from the village, and filled clean pantry shelves. The dining room, though not completely clean as yet, no longer revolted her appetite. The rotted drapes had been removed, revealing beautiful mullioned windows. The furniture, while unfashionably heavy and dark, took on a rich warm hue when cleaned and oiled. Elizabeth was convinced that once cleaned, the chandelier above would sparkle and cast rainbow lights into the room. If the restoration of the master bedroom and the library were going half as well, she would be pleased. She should check on the workers’ progress since it was time to send them on their way. She hoped they would return on the morrow.
Elizabeth drew the back of her hand across her forehead, brushing an escaping lock of dark hair out of her eyes. She was bone-tired, yet strangely it felt good. She had worked beside the village help, pulling down musty curtains and wall hangings, shifting furniture about, attacking cobwebs. She had been too busy to think about her marriage and St. Ryne’s actions, which suited her perfectly. A brief frown creased her brow. He would most likely be returning soon, if he hadn’t run from his mockery of a marriage as he had from their conjugal bed—a circumstance, she admitted, not without favor. Her stomach rumbled. She clamped a hand to her middle as if to still the vulgar sound while she watched Thomas carefully take apart the chandelier.
St. Ryne stood quietly in the doorway of the dining room. The manor was a veritable beehive of activity. It would appear half the village had come to help clean Larchside, undoubtedly out of curiosity more than any other reason. Were they sated? What stories would be passed over a mug of ale, in the shops, and on the road? He watched Elizabeth directing the efforts of a strapping young man removing the chandelier. She was concentrating intensely and a small frown played across her features. The hem of her gown was black, the large cook’s apron she’d tied on over her dress was streaked with gray, and a smudge graced her cheekbone. A hideous kerchief covered her glorious dark hair, though a few stubborn wisps escaped to curl and cling to her damp brow. Shadows were lengthening, and it would soon be too dark to work. St. Ryne felt a curious tightening in his chest as he watched her. Was this his shrew? His Katharine?
He saw her press her hand to her middle. Was she not well?
