He moved toward the bedchamber door and motioned for Mrs. Baillie to go elsewhere. Standing where the housekeeper had stood, he saw Juliet doing just as he’d suspected, on her knees before the cold hearth, which had been covered by a sheet from mantel to marble tile to protect the chamber.
In a trice, a cascade of coal came whooshing down the chimney, followed by the thud of an iron ball as it pushed the brush down. The sheet ballooned but held, catching the storm of soot. A fascinated if dismayed Juliet waited, her back to Leith and still unaware of him. In time the small sweep emerged, his beleaguered blue eyes huge in his coal-blackened face, the tools of his trade in hand.
“Enough climbing for now, Arthur,” Juliet said in that soft, deferential way she had. “Are you well? What is that growling I hear?”
The lad darted a look at Leith, then returned his gaze to her. “My belly’s empty, ma’am.”
“Then please put aside your brushes and tools.” Taking him by the hand, she turned and drew up short when she saw Leith standing in the doorway. Flushing scarlet, she seemed almost alarmed. Had he that effect on her? Or was it just the shock of seeing him home in broad daylight?
“There’s plenty to be had in the larder,” he said as if to reassure her. His eyes fell to her soot-smeared hand as it clasped the lad’s grimy fingers.
Some strong, unidentifiable emotion reared up in him again. He looked at the sweep anew, seeing him through Juliet’s eyes and realizing the soul of the matter. Swallowing, he stepped back and let them pass, breathing in coal dust and rosewater in their wake.
Juliet didn’t take the servants’ stair but led Arthur down the central staircase, unmindful of his black footprints and Mrs. Baillie’s potential displeasure. Still startled by Leith’s appearing, she kept on toward the kitchen, sure her husband would slip out again as stealthily as he’d come in. Seeing him during daylight hours turned her more than a wee bit tapsalteerie.
“Madame Buchanan.” The French cook gave a little bow when she appeared.
“What do you have ready to eat, monsieur?” she asked. Her gaze roamed the cavernous kitchen, which was nothing like Royal Vale’s save the pots and pans and hearth.
“Ah, a small feast for a small boy? Chicken pie, a delicate white soup, wheaten bread, Stilton cheese, potatoes, potted pigs’ cheeks, even a steamed pudding with custard.”
“Everything but the potted pigs’ cheeks,” she said, afraid too much rich fare might turn his stomach. “And please pack him some things to take away, including nuts and several oranges.”
She asked a kitchen maid to bring water and a towel for washing, then pulled out a chair for Arthur. The lad sat, surveying the leaping fire and mutton turning on a spit, its fat sizzling, with a kind of famished bewilderment.
“Can I take a bite o’ bread for Sadie?” he asked, a hopeful cast to his lean face.
“Sadie? Such a pretty name.” Juliet took a chair next to him. “Is she your sister? She shall have more than bread.”
He nodded, plunging his hands into the water to wash. An uncut pineapple sat upon the table, and at his curiosity, Juliet asked another maid for a knife. The fragrance as she cut into it reminded her of home. Father had ordered pineapples from the Caribbean, but for some reason she’d not thought to see one here.
The maid whisked the washbasin and blackened towel away, then returned with a cup of cider, her face showing shock as she looked toward the kitchen door. Leith stood there, stoic, arms crossed.
Juliet excused herself to let Arthur eat in privacy. “Are you needing anything, Mr. Buchanan?”
He gave a half smile. “My wife.”
With a little sigh, she followed him away from the servants’ wing to his study. He shut the door, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and took one of her hands. With a few gentle motions he began removing the soot from her skin—or tried to. His face was so earnest, so intent, the years fell away and she saw the boy he might have been in a strangely loveless household, trying to do his best.
For now, she wanted to smooth away the faint purple bruise riding his left cheekbone and the split lower lip that nearly made her wince. Had Cochrane done that? All on account of Leith’s defense of her?
“Have you come to chastise me?” she whispered.
“Nae more than you do me my late hours and incessant trading and eccentric clock collection.”
“I’m ruining your handkerchief,” she lamented. The monogrammedBwas hidden now in a swirl of black against white linen that would never come clean.
“Soiled handkerchiefs are of little consequence when astarving lad is in my kitchen.” He turned her hand over, his callused fingers gentle, and wiped the soot from her palm.
“Then we are of one mind.”
He let go of her hand. “Which reminds me...” He reached into his weskit and withdrew a small velvet box. “The bauble I promised you aboard ship.”
Bauble? She’d nearly forgotten the signet ring she’d returned. She took the box and opened it, stifling a gasp at the contents. When she hesitated to remove the jewelry, he did so for her.
“For my American bride,” he said, his voice more gruff than usual.
He slid the gift onto her finger, as snug as the other aboard ship had been loose. A gold signet ring, the intaglio a rich, deep blue and carved with an indigo blossom. The pairing of blue and gold was especially beautiful, but all that paled beside the thought behind it.
