Page 20
Late November 1817
Fawtonbrooke Hall, Essex England
Willow adjusted the lace cap atop her head as she followed Mrs. Bloomfield to Fawtonbrooke Hall’s kitchens.
The housekeeper trundled forward, her barrel-shaped body practically creaking and groaning with her labored movements. Though rheumatic and suffering from dropsy and gout, her cheerful mien never wavered.
Glancing over her shoulder, she sent Willow an encouraging smile. “I’ve already written my daughter and told her to expect me Wednesday.”
She’d wasted no time, had she?
Her faded brown eyes alight with kindness, and her plump shoulders shaking with humor, she chuckled. “I honestly wondered if the day would come that I felt I could leave the master. But since he toted you home six weeks ago, I’ve come to realize he couldn’t have picked anyone better to replace me. I am confident he’s in capable hands, and I needn’t fret.”
Willow returned the old dear’s smile, having become very fond of her in the short while they’d been acquainted. “You flatter me, Mrs. Bloomfield. I fear I’ll disappoint his lordship or not meet the other staffs’ expectations. It shall take me years to reach your degree of efficiency.”
Years, which she did not have.
Nor, in truth, did she hold a great desire to be a housekeeper at all, though she was grateful for the job, and the other staff treated her with cautious acceptance. She’d far prefer to make use of her education.
Ansley—when had she begun to think of him thusly?—knew full well she’d only taken the position until she’d saved enough funds to return to America. She’d told him as much when she’d accepted his offer. Thanks to vile Mrs. Smitherman, she hadn’t had any other alternatives.
Mrs. Bloomfield, however, was not privy to that information. Nor would she ever be. For the devoted housekeeper would insist on staying, and that simply wouldn’t do. The woman’s elderly body proclaimed it time for her to retire and take her ease.
The aged housekeeper with her fluff of curly, white hair poking from beneath her lace cap, loved Ansley as if he were her own son. She’d revealed to Willow that she’d made it her quest since he’d become earl to see that nothing upset him. In fact, notwithstanding his peculiar routines and often terse responses, his household was wholly devoted to him.
Despite Willow’s determination to leave England, traitorous doubts troubled her.
Would she be welcome in Connecticut after so long an absence? Had she changed too much to fit in her former homeland? Would she be naively hopping from the pan into the fire?
Was she too American to live in England and too English to live in America contentedly?
Where did that leave her, then?
None of those qualms had troubled her until she’d met the vexingly handsome, perplexingly enigmatic Earl of Scarborough.
She couldn’t help but fret a mite as her mind mulled over those very real possibilities. No small amount of guilt also plagued her. She didn’t exaggerate when she’d said it would be years before she reached Mrs. Bloomfield’s level of efficiency.
Not that Willow was totally inept and blundering about. In fact, she’d taken to the position with remarkable finesse. She experienced only a small degree of panic that, as of next week, the running of Ansley’s expansive and ostentatious homes would be her responsibility.
Her shoes clicking a steady rhythm on the spotless floor, she crinkled her nose and gave a tiny shake of her head as she made her way along the immaculate, sunny corridor. Not precisely in charge. For a housekeeper had very specific duties separate from those of the majordomo.
In this case, a Mister Arabi Reeves. Austere, proficient, and uncompromising in his high expectations from Fawntonbrooke Hall’s staff. He directed the lower orders and all that went on below stairs, with the aplomb and bearing of a general.
Most of what went on above stairs as well, truth to tell.
Nothing escaped his detailed perusal.
He’d been utterly flabbergasted when Ansley had unceremoniously presented Willow as Mrs. Bloomfield’s replacement. For a very real, infinitely uncomfortable moment, she’d believed he’d voice his undisputable objection.
His starchy gaze irrefutably critical, Reeves had taken her measure from head to toe—twice. He’d opened and closed his mouth thrice, inhaling severely each time. As if struggling to check the words on the tip of his tongue, demanding to be said.
Honestly, his restraint and self-control had been quite admirable.
“Reeves, are you having an apoplexy?” Ansley had asked with genuine sincerity and alarm. “Should I send for the physician? Smelling salts? Do you need to lie down?”
Pulling his waistcoat over his slight paunch with a haughty jerk, Reeves had collected himself. He wrestled his beetle eyebrows, which had scampered high onto his forehead, into their normal position. The process had proved quite entertaining, much like corralling caterpillars. If caterpillars could be corralled, that was.
“Not at all, sir.” He’d deemed to incline his impervious bald-as-a-cue-ball head and turned his jaundiced regard upon her. “I am simply astonished someone Miss Harwood’s age has the necessary experience—”
