“Please, Sarah. Stand up.”
She did, gripping her nightgown with her left hand, the brush in her right. She kept her gaze on the far wall, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see how close he was.
Slowly, as if giving her time to acquaint herself with the idea of it, he reached out and gripped her hand, gently forcing her fingers to loosen their grip on her nightgown.
“Do you want me naked, Mr. Eston?” she asked, frantically reaching for the falling garment.
“Most assuredly,” he said.
She stopped in the act of bending over. “You do?”
“What sort of idiot do you take me for, Lady Sarah? It is my earnest desire to have you naked before me, second only to having you naked beneath me.”
She was naked in front of a man. She’d never been naked in front of anyone. A screen always remained between her and Florie when she bathed or removed her underclothes. Now, she was standing naked in front of Douglas Eston, and he was smiling. Smiling.
“Turn around,” he said.
“No.”
His smile was crooked as his gaze traveled to her face. “No?”
“No,” she repeated, bending to grab her nightgown. This must stop right this minute. She had allowed herself to go beyond the boundaries of proper behavior, and it really must cease this moment.
Besides, if he continued, he would want to bed her, and she wasn’t the least bit prepared forthat.
“You have a magnificent derriere, Lady Sarah.”
Sarah held the nightgown in front of her, well aware that it was a specious covering at best. Still, she kept her back stiff and straight as she walked to the cot and settled herself beneath the sheet.
Only when the light was extinguished did she allow herself to imagine what bedding Douglas would be like.
Chapter 11
Sarah met with the home steward the next day. Since it was an even year, the crops had been rotated according to the schedule put into effect by her grandfather. The eleventh Duke of Herridge had made Chavensworth famous for more than its lavender fields. Thanks to him, the farms that had begun as an experiment were now successful. If it could be grown in England, it was grown at Chavensworth.
Jeremy Beecher was her home steward, a post he’d held since she was a little girl. His face was long and narrow, his nose thin. His eyes looked too close together, and when she looked at him straight on, it always seemed that he was slightly cross-eyed. For that reason, she always sat at his side at the table in his office. He was a man of advancing years, and frail for his age, if the stooped shoulders beneath the loose-fitting jacket were any indication. Wispy white hair ringed a bald head mottled with freckles and liver spots. Loose skin hung from his jowls, as if he’d once weighed considerably more.
She never pointed out that his shirt cuffs were frayed and ink-stained or that his hair needed trimming. Suchpersonal details did not detract from Mr. Beecher’s abilities or his loyalty to Chavensworth.
Today, he presented the monthly budget to her. She reviewed the columns of figures, her eyes widening at the cost of the livery.
According to custom, the estate paid for everything a footman wore—his work clothes for morning chores, as well as the more expensive livery and party jackets. After six months, if a footman left their employ, he must surrender his livery; but he was free to take all the other clothing with him. All that a footman must provide were his shoes and underclothes.
“Have we had that much turnover?” she asked, distressed by the figures. The amounts were a full fifteen percent higher than last year’s.
“No, Lady Sarah. Actually, you haven’t had any turnover at all. Young Thomas was elevated to the position of underbutler, so we took one of the stable lads and moved him to footman. In addition, there are three footmen who seem to be growing out of everything. I attribute it to Cook’s meals. Perhaps we shouldn’t hire them so young.”
He knew very well that if she didn’t employ some of the young men from the neighboring village, they might well starve. Chavensworth was the only true source of employment for miles around. Either the able-bodied men worked on the farms, or within the house itself.
More than one young man had left Chavensworth and gone on to more profitable employment in London, but some of the people who worked at the estate had done so for a lifetime. More than one family had two or three members employed here, and it was a common occurrence for a father or a mother to come to her and ask if she could find room for a child to go into service.
“It’s also time for the Gift, Lady Sarah,” Mr. Beecher said.
Sarah bit back a sigh. The sinking feeling was harder to prevent.
Once a year, all the servants were evaluated, not only for the state of their uniforms and whether they needed to be replaced, but personally as well. Which tasks had they not mastered? Which new tasks should be given to them to learn? Another reason to judge their performances was to measure each employee against the greater whole. Had their performances for the prior year been superlative? Should any or all be rewarded with the Henley Gift, a small stipend named after her great-grandfather who began the tradition.
For the last three years, there hadn’t been any money for the Henley Gift. Sarah had done what she could to compensate by giving the best employees a full extra day off in each of the twelve following months. She knew, only too well, however, that the staff would much rather have had the money.
