But unlike William, it didn’t make her sad.
‘Are you lost, Mr Masters?’
Tillman almost tripped over his feet as he descended the stairs to land beside the butler.‘Just making sure she’s made it up the stairs.’Without pausing to meet Cecil’s disapproving glare, he moved along the hall and descended the stairs to the kitchens, two at a time.
Toast.She didn’t need memories.She needed toast.
Chapter five
Washed,inafreshskirt and bodice and with her hair tidied and gloves exchanged, Lorelei descended the stairs into the basement.She shouldn’t be here, but she also had no desire to sit and wait to be served upstairs.The sooner she ate, the sooner they could go searching.A lightwell filled the hallway with muted sun, and as she slipped off the bottom step, she paused, blinking to allow her vision to adjust.In the subdued light, her gaze hunted about aimlessly until it landed inside the cavity of a room to one side.Wood panels and scuffed carpet solidified, before firmer shapes emerged from amidst the dark wood and dust.Tillman’s coat was hanging over the back of a chair in front of a washbasin and discarded towel, but the rest of the space stood empty.The scent of lemon soap lingered in the air, the same type that had been sent to the washroom for her.Lorelei raised her wrist to her nose and inhaled.His skin would smell like hers, and the thought of such a small shared intimacy sent a shiver along her spine.
Unlike the rest of the staff, Tillman didn’t live in the main building on the estate, nor with family in the village.He had the privilege of his own cottage, placed between the fields and the gardens that surrounded the manor.He reported to her almost daily.In those meetings, he spoke at length about fields left to fallow, crops shooting, cows birthing, and come autumn, the harvest.In the early days after William had died, when she could barely focus on a number in a ledger, let alone decide on markets or which flour mill to send the grain to, he had taken his time.She’d learnt to follow his measured explanations, but until yesterday, their exchanges had been solely about the estate.He’d never discussed anything more with her and had never referred to her as his worry.Not a bother, but aworry.At a time when she was so wracked with the same feeling, the word felt like a compliment.
Lorelei passed the door.He was simply tired, just like she was, and he’d muddled his words.That was all.
The clink of porcelain against a wooden benchtop carried down the hallway.Lorelei chased the noise through the dim quiet, past more narrow doorways, the butler’s rooms, and the larder.She stopped at the edge of the stone-floored kitchen.
Tillman was facing away from her.An oil lantern dangled above the stove, and yellow light spilled over him.He’d removed the ribbon that normally restrained his hair, and the chestnut waves, scattered with silver, flowed free, their tips resting on his shoulders.Little drips of water spotted his white collar.He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves to just below his elbow, as was his habit—one she’d learnt to ignore over time.He tapped a distracted rhythm against the benchtop, then cut a slice of butter from a pat beside the stove and dropped it into the griddle where it sizzled, lacing the air with its rich scent.
Of course he could cook.He was a man who straddled worlds, and even here, he was adapting to the change in an instant.
‘Mr Masters?’she called from the door.
He spun, only betraying a moment of shock before his mouth settled into a smile.‘Duchess,’ he said, then leant back against the benchtop.‘I was going to bring all this upstairs.Mr and Mrs Jones are generous, but the bread is a day old, so I was frying it off first.I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I’m too impatient to wait upstairs,’ she confessed.‘I am sure it will be fine.I…’ She wrung her hands, and he observed the movement, his brow creasing.‘I was hoping to speak with you in a place where we might not be overheard.Do you think we are alone down here?’
The kettle bubbled into the low notes of a whistle.Tillman lifted it from the stove, and water glugged as he poured it into the teapot before clipping the lid.‘Everyone is in a flurry upstairs.And I’d never break your confidence.You know that.’
Lorelei came into the room and slid into a seat at the small, round table.He set a mug before her, then returned to the stove.His gaze stayed on the pan, but he angled himself towards her, listening.
‘You know the world of the estate and the lives of men like William better than me.In light of that, do you think I’m capable of raising Arley on my own?Raising him the rest of the way, that is.He’s already so old.Did you know he’s shaving?’A strange mix of love and pride combined inside her over the small discovery, before doubt swallowed it whole.She tapped her gloved fingers against each other.‘What I’m asking is, will I do him harm if I don’t send him back to the academy?’
Tillman flipped the toast onto a plate.He spun the teapot and lifted it, pouring a steady stream of thick tea into the mug then set it before her.He placed a pot of honey on the table.
‘You know the estate,’ he said, as he slid into the chair opposite and poured tea into his own mug.
‘It’s not my estate,’ she replied.
‘It’s not mine, either,’ he shot back.‘What’s planted in the westernmost field?’
‘Barley.’
‘And when can we expect the first calves?’
‘Usually February, but this year, March.The rains held things up for some weeks.’
‘See?You’ve been doing it all for years.You can teach him everything he needs to know.’
‘It’s only with your help that I know.’She wrapped her hands around the mug.‘I couldn’t manage on my own.Not like William used to.Or like my father does on his estate.’
Tillman barked a laugh.‘No one does any of it on their own, and William definitely didn’t.’
The space between them hardened.Tillman picked up his mug and gulped a mouthful, then another.He set it back on the table with a lopsided clunk.‘I shouldn’t have made such a bold criticism.’
Lorelei spun the plate of toast.‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say anything bad about William before.He’s always been so… so…’
‘Respected?’
