“Merely a childhood trinket.” She tucked the parcel behind her, out of Sutcliffe’s sight. “Nothing important.”
After deflecting Sutcliffe’s attention from the letters and thencarefully placing her jewelry in the hiding place beneath the floor, she returned to the task of writing the letter to Mr. Greenwood. Time was of the essence, and instead of being distracted by the past, she needed to keep a firm eye on the future.
***
Anthony was not surprised the new staff was late. The carriage ride from Leeds to Hollythorne, while not a great distance, was difficult, and the slightest bit of rain or fog could make the roads treacherous.
But he was growing impatient.
It was not unusual for Mr.Walstead to hire staff for a client, especially in a protection situation. When danger could come from anyone, having control—and trust in those who were assisting—was key.
Anthony’s responsibilities in every case varied greatly, but they all usually had one thing in common: the clients were always strangers. Never had he had a past with any of his clients, especially not a client he had loved.
There had been very few people in his life whom he had loved and who loved him in return. His mother died at his birth, and his father died when he was only seven years of age, leaving him to be raised by his uncle, Robert Welbourne, a confirmed and surly bachelor. Their housekeeper had been the closest thing to a mother figure, and even that was a lukewarm relationship. He’d spent the bulk of his childhood and adolescence counting the years and months until the day he could follow in his father’sfootsteps. Purchasing a commission and becoming an officer had been the one instruction his father had given him on his deathbed, and nothing would keep him from it, despite his uncle’s insistence that Anthony should oversee the mill.
But now he hardly knew what to think about these expectations. Since leaving Blight Moor, he’d formed no real attachments with anyone apart from Timmons, whose friendship had seen him through some of the darkest points of his life. But even that friendship was shifting, and only one thing was certain: in Anthony’s line of work, affection for anyone, let alone romantic affection, would interfere with his reactions.
A distant rustling caught his attention, and he turned to see a carriage approaching. A strange relief suffused him. More people, even servants, traipsing about would lower the probability of another uncomfortable interaction with Charlotte. He might desire time with her, but every signal she’d given him clearly communicated that their relationship was in the past.
He glanced up at the carriage. Both Charlotte and her maid were watching the carriage approach as well. He did not like this effect she had on him—the sense that he’d lost something precious that could not be recovered stabbed a hardened part of his heart.
Yes, the sooner this assignment was concluded, the better he—and his heart—would be.
Chapter14
It was hard to hand Henry to a stranger, even one who seemed kind and genuine. Yet a knot tightened in Charlotte’s stomach and refused to loosen as she watched their new nursemaid, Rebecca, cradle her son.
The servants’ arrival should have brought a measure of peace, but instead, uncertainly roiled within her.
Charlotte eyed Rebecca with her plaited nut-brown hair; wide, expressionless brown eyes; and firmly set thin lips, silently studying her every move. After months of fighting for any small moment of peace and solitude with her son, entrusting him to a new nursemaid seemed to go against everything she wanted.
But this was how a household was run.
Mrs.Hargrave, the temporary housekeeper, was a plump woman with faded auburn hair, weathered cheeks, and deep-set blue eyes, who, at the moment, was scurrying about the kitchen, evaluating the kettles and pots, the hearth, and the storage. Her husband, Tom Hargrave, the manservant, had just delivered a crate of vegetables and food supplies and already he was in the courtyard talking with Mr.Timmons.
Charlotte shifted her attention back to Rebecca. She appeared quite young, and it seemed that interacting with Henry was the most natural thing in the world to her—as if she had been taking care of children since she was a child herself.
Still, the truth pricked her. Charlotte had never been fully in charge of servants before. Now her words would rule the daily activities.
And that realization overwhelmed her.
Rebecca bounced Henry playfully as they were seated next to the broad fire, and he giggled. Charlotte’s chest tightened, squeezing at her heart. She’d been endeavoring to forge a bond with Henry since their arrival at Hollythorne House, and she was failing miserably.
Charlotte drew a deep breath, determining that the best way to feel comfortable with the arrangement was to learn as much about the new nursemaid as she could. “You appear quite young, Rebecca. How old are you?”
Rebecca shifted cautiously and cast a glance toward Mrs.Hargrave. “Nineteen last month, ma’am.”
The number surprised Charlotte, for she would have guessed by her ruddy cheeks and small build that she was much younger.
Rebecca reached for the sucking bottle she’d prepared with pap, offered it to Henry, and he took it eagerly.
Charlotte observed the interaction, still acutely aware of how pitifully she had failed that task. “You seem quite adept.”
Rebecca shrugged a slight shoulder, not taking her eyes off Henry. “I’ve ’ad aplenty practice.”
“Do you have children of your own?”
“Me? La. No. But I’ve ’elped rear many a babe. Me mother was a wet nurse, and we always ’ad other folks’ babies ’round our ’ouse. Then soon as I was old enough, I went with her to t’ big ’ouses t’ work as nursemaid.”
