“The baron took various broadsheets and chronicles,” informed Abbott, “and they’ve continued to arrive every month all these years. I’ve stacked them along this wall, organized by date. Seemed like a shame to burn them, and I did not know how to stop their coming.”
“Very clever, Mr. Abbott,” said Miss Allard. “The reason for your special lock, I presume.”
“Can the lamps be lit?” asked Luke, stepping to the nearest shelf. “And the fire?”
“Yes, of course, sir. Shall I bring tea?”
“You’ve the means for tea, Mr. Abbott?” asked Miss Allard.
“It will be a modest spread, but it will warm you until the fire takes.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“Very good, miss. But there will be more room for tea in the salon.” He gestured to an opposite door.
“Through there?” asked Miss Allard. “So the orangery connects to the library, and the library connects to the salon? I see. Do you mind, Captain, if we take tea in the salon? I should like to see it.”
Luke read spine after spine of books. There was an entire shelf devoted solely to philosophy. He barely heard.
“Or would you rather—”
“The salon will do,” he said, not looking at her. “I’ll be along. Can you manage?”
“Take your time,” she said from behind him. “Mr. Abbott will show me the way.”
Chapter 8
Dani trailed behind Mr. Abbott, leaving the shadows of the library for the pale salon. Captain Bannock hadn’t looked up from the bookshelf, and she left him to it. The house itself seemed to make little impression on him, but in the library, he could not pretend. And wasn’t this an intriguing preference? England’s favorite war hero was a book lover and, presumably, an avid reader. The reality of this made her smile.
She moved on, taking in the large, formal salon, its walls faded to the color of an eggshell. Previous residents would have gathered here with their guests before dinner. Or perhaps this was where the family convened for tea or games or letters. The furniture was draped but she could make out couches clustered around fireplaces; desks and chairs where the light would be best. Mr. Abbott was at the first window, wrestling with drapes.
“Let me tie them, Mr. Abbott,” she said, reaching for the nearest rope. “The fire you promised would be most appreciated.”
He floated silently out the door, and Dani chuckled—a bell around his neck, indeed. She moved from window to window, tying back stiff drapes to let in the sun. The windows looked out on flowerbeds, overtaken now by brambles, their thorns pressing against the glass. Everywhere she looked, Dani saw opportunity—for restoration, for improvement, for jobs.
“The furniture has not been checked for vermin,” Abbott intoned behind her. She jumped, startling again. He was at the fireplace with an armload of wood. “But the settee near the fire should not soil your fine clothes,” he said.
Dani looked down at her yellow dress. Could her simple muslin be considered “fine”? She wore it to church, alternating with two other summer frocks. She’d always had more dresses than most of the girls in Ivy Hill—Miriam and Whittle had made her wardrobe a priority—but it was hardly equal to the gowns this salon had seen.
Would anyone believe that she and her three frocks were suited to this great house? Only yesterday, the properties in her purview had been a crumbling parish hall and the Dinwiddie cottage. Restoring a manor house was quite a leap. She’d been named chair of the parish-hall committee because she’d raised the most money for its refurbishment. She’d raised the most money because, for two years, she’d doggedly sought grants from every historical society in England. But what had she done to gain Eastwell Park? Village girls did not simply wake up one day and marry strange men and move into mansions. War heroes did not suddenly marry village girls.
She glanced at the library door—still vacant—and went to the fire to warm her hands. An even larger improbability—if she was being honest—was her growing fondness for the particular war hero in question.If she was being honest, she’d say she was drawn to him. She was hardly skilled in the art of flirtation, but she could identify someone who was paying attention. She could feel him studying her while she explored the house. And he touched her more than strictly necessary. And he listened so intently to everything she said.
The notion of “attraction” between a man and a woman, although new to Dani, was not beyond her realm of comprehension. It had never before occurred to her to feel excitement at the prospect ofsome man, but excitement was perhaps the most accurate way to describe her regard for him. Why else would her heart pound or her stomach flip?
“Tea, miss,” intoned Abbott behind her, causing her to jump. He’d noiselessly rolled a tea trolley to the center of the room.
“How generous, Mr. Abbott,” she said. “Thank you. But can you—? I’ll just take it by the fire, if you please?”
“Very good, miss,” he said, wheeling the refreshments to the settee.
Say what they would about the caretaker, Abbott knew how to lay a perfectly serviceable tea. She examined a delicate teacup. The porcelain was fine, if dull and a bit sticky. Everything in the house had the heft of luxury but the crust of neglect. Her hands itched to scrub and polish; to raise windows and open doors and turn everything inside out.
But of course this house did not belong to her, not yet. She wiped two teacups and poured. The lid to the sugar dish took some effort. When it finally popped off, she discovered a glob of tannish, petrified lumps. Right. No sugar. She eyed the creamer. Nor cream. They would drink it black.
“Is he trying to poison us, you reckon?” came a voice from the doorway. Dani looked up. Captain Bannock ambled from the library.
“I would forgo the sugar, if I were you,” she said.
