Kate had a lot of respect for her young employer, who provided work for impoverished women. She nodded greeting and waited to see what had the irrepressible lady bubbling with excitement.
Blonde, blue-eyed as the rest of the earl’s family, Lavender was a vision of wealthy aristocracy in a lace-bedecked, periwinkle blue frock of her own creation. In contrast to her frivolous appearance, she waved a page full of very business-like numbers. “Mr. Walker says we have earned enough creating and refurbishing bonnets and holiday gowns over Christmas that we now have enough to start looking for a shop in town!”
Kate wasn’t entirely certain of the wisdom of paying rent when they had the manor’s unused ballroom and tower workshop for free. But attracting outsiders had been a long-time goal, and she understood the excitement. “Start small?” she suggested cautiously. “Selling ribbons and lace?”
“And my hats!” Vivien Jameson added in loud delight. She hadn’t been the only one refurbishing hats, but she’d recently learned to create simple bonnets from scratch.
Lavender perched on one of the worktables. “I’d love to have that empty shop next to the new hardware, so women coming to market would see our wares. But it’s large, and Walker says the bank is asking too much. It’s just, we really need that shop window.”
The estate’s American steward was a brilliant businessman. Ignoring his advice was never wise.
“My brother-in-law is moving out of his office at the inn. The space was once a ladies’ parlor and has a lovely bay window—although the inn isn’t exactly an area where women shop.” Kate puckered her nose as she offered her suggestion.
“But the inn pub is open to all now, even ladies!” Lavender bounced in excitement. “We could have signs directing people to look. Although that mud field of a yard. . .”
She frowned and stood. “Let’s all think on it. Kate, bring your basket. My grandmother and Lady Spalding have finally consented to refurbishing some of their ancient gowns. They like you and think I’m a featherhead, so come talk sense to them for me.”
“I can talk sense,” Miss Jameson said, looking insulted. “I have excellent ideas. Mrs. Morgan just sews a fine seam.”
Vivien, unfortunately, lacked the patience to sew fine seams. She preferred playing with lace and silk. Kate accepted her own limitations—her needlework was superior, yes, but she wasn’t as inventive as the newcomer.
Except Lavender didn’t require Vivien’s creativity. She already possessed more imagination than the dowagers needed, and she loved showing off for her grandmother. Kate simply accompanied her as the sensible older woman to convince them they would look beautiful in a young girl’s designs.
Rather than assert her authority, Kate let Lavender decide.
“Vivien, I need you to take those infant clothes up to Mrs. Lavigne.” Lavender pointed at a stack of newly-sewn infant gowns. “She’ll want to ask about the fabric. You can reassure her that it’s sturdy enough for many washings.”
A descendant of the third earl of Wycliffe, Patience Lavigne was the first of the family to give birth in the manor for nearly a century. The entire household hovered.
Picking up her own sewing basket, Lavender gestured for Kate to follow her to the hall. “I’m relying on your sensible head for the new shop,” she confided once they were out of hearing.
“I will be delighted to help in whatever way I can,” Kate admitted. “Perhaps older workers who can no longer see well and for whom the hill up to the manor is difficult might work there as clerks.” She started toward the back service stairs that Ana Marie had taken earlier.
Lavender grasped her elbow and turned her around. “Main stairs. Quit pretending you are a servant. You are a squire’s daughter and gentry, which is why you’ll be perfect for the shop. It will require showing fashion plates and taking appointments for fittings, and you know the locals better than anyone. Both the manor ladies and shop women will listen to you. You can sew there as well as here, so I won’t be losing your fine needlework.”
Kate wondered if highhandedness was an inherited trait and if that was how people became earls. She didn’t speak her thoughts, but once they reached the gaslit, imposing, wide marble stairs at the front of the manor, she hesitated, regretting taking the family’s route.
The white stone stairs were littered with blackened, filthy cogs. On the landing, at the center of the pigsty, stood Sgt. Major Fletcher Ferguson, his wrinkled neckcloth undone to reveal a strong brown throat. Having discarded his form-fitting coat, his straining shoulders garbed only in waistcoat and worn shirt sleeves, he heaved the heavy floor clock to one side.
He was much too large and hairy to be a pig, but he was covered in grime and grunting at the weight of his burden.
At least the timepiece had stopped its infernal bonging. Apparently, the man had finally killed the family’s priceless antique.
Two
Fletch
Fletch did his best not to acknowledge the glorious examples of female pulchritude wafting up the stairs like a summer breeze. They even smelled of summer. The young blond almost resembled a flower in all the lace and finery, but it was the sturdy, fire-haired widow who always caught his attention. Intuition said that plain, prim exterior hid a dormant volcano in danger of erupting at any moment. He had the reprehensible urge to be there when it happened.
But then, everyone knew he wasn’t right in the head. At war’s end, he’d arrived in Gravesyde at his lieutenant’s request and stayed as his sergeant’s partner in his inn, but he didn’t socialize.
The enormous floor clock he’d pulled out at an angle on the landing half hid him. The young aristocrat sailed by as if Fletch were part of the mahogany case. The other lady knew him better. She kicked his worn boot where it protruded onto the stair.
“Good morning, Major. You will let us know if the earl hid his jewels in there?”
“I’m sure diamonds and rubies make it tick, Mrs. Morgan.” They’d called each other less proper names when arguing over. . . just about everything. He hated small talk but apparently he had a penchant for irritating women.
“I am looking forward to it.” She sailed up the stairs after the royal blond.
