She probably looked, in the words of one very snippy young thing during her first season—like an overly powdered ghoul. Of course, the girl hadn’t been speaking of her at the time, but of a famous widow who, after discovering that her beauty was enhanced by widow’sweeds, insisted upon dressing all in black even as she rouged her lips and cheeks.
“Just do what you can with it, Florie,” she said of her hair, not caring a whit.
Finally, she glanced at herself in the mirror, only to see a stranger staring back at her.
Her eyes were wide and not red at all. Her cheeks were the palest shade of pink, and her lips, well, they looked well kissed. A little swollen, perhaps, but the effect was charming. Her complexion wasn’t ashen but creamy, and her hair looked glossy and lovely in the way Florie arranged it.
How very odd. Passion had made her beautiful.
She tied on a serviceable apron—Florie delivered a fresh one every morning—grabbed her journal, and began her rounds.
Passing the wing that housed the Duke’s Suite, she turned and glanced down the corridor, but only to ensure that the carpet was in good repair and the candelabra had been recently dusted. If she happened to look toward the double doors, it was only to verify that the brass handles had been polished.
She was not checking to see if Douglas was inside; she knew only too well where he was.
Diamonds captured his attention the way Douglas captured hers.
All the way to the steward’s office, she made little mental notes of things to discuss with Mr. Beecher before realizing that she’d not done so since before her mother’s death.
Awareness came, as slowly as her footsteps at first, then in a rushing flood. Two weeks had passed. Two weeks, and in all that time, Chavensworth had subsisted without her. No servants, anxious for direction, hadcamped at her door. No one whispered to Florie, “When will she awake? We need answers.” No one seemed to know or notice that she’d returned from Scotland, and yet Chavensworth was being tended to, cared for, and seemed to run like a well-maintained clock.
She clutched the journal close to her chest with both arms and walked the rest of the way to the steward’s office, trying to determine whether it was pride she felt or some sort of offense.
As she knocked on Jeremy Beecher’s door, she decided that she would not make up her mind yet, and when he called out, she stepped into the room, a determined smile on her face.
Jeremy stood, extending a large ledger out to her.
“Good morning, Lady Sarah. How was your journey to Scotland?”
“Interesting,” she said, and hoped that would end Scotland as a topic of conversation. She put her book down on the table and took Mr. Beecher’s ledger with both hands.
Mr. Beecher had excellent instincts. He no longer referred to Scotland, but what he did say surprised her.
“I’ve done the quarterly inventory, Lady Sarah. And, as you’ll see from the ledger, so has Mrs. Williams. I’ve received the report on the home farms, and that’s included for your perusal as well.”
“You did all this when I was in Scotland?” she asked, amazed.
“Indeed, Lady Sarah. With the help of my assistant.”
She frowned. “Your assistant?”
He nodded. “I’ve promoted one of the footmen, Lady Sarah. A smart lad with a head on his shoulders. He ciphers well, and can read better than the others.”
As she was digesting this startling information, he continued. “It was Mr. Eston’s decree, Lady Sarah, and I must admit I was doubtful at first. But it’s proven to be a godsend.”
“Has it?”
“Mr. Eston made it very clear that we were responsible for our areas of expertise, and that you were to be consulted only when Chavensworth was in jeopardy.”
“He did?”
He nodded.
“May I tell you, Lady Sarah, that your trust in us has had a remarkable salubrious effect. And the rekindling of the Henley Gift is a magnanimous gesture.”
“It is?”
Dear heavens, was she doomed to ask insipid questions for the whole of this conversation?
