Page 6

She slid her body upright and reached for the proffered meal. Beef. God above, she had missed beef. It had been among the first of her luxuries to go, when shame over her unpaid butcher’s bill began to outweigh her desire for red meat.

Sofia’s shoulders slumped when she saw that the thick stew barely covered the bottom. It shouldn’t have surprised her. Many houses fed their staff just enough and never more. But after the delectable array of choices on their breakfast table, Sofia had hoped this household was different. Clearly, that had been unrealistic.

She must have done a poor job keeping the disappointment from her expression because the maid added, “You can have more o’ course! As much as you want. But Mr Keene, Christopher that is—he’ll be wanting ye to call him Christopher—says every hour, on the hour …” The maid looked away, clearly embarrassed to finish the sentence. “To make sure it settles all right.”

More orders from Mr Keene? Why does a valet command such authority over the members of a duke’s household?

Sofia wanted to slither out the window in humiliation. She tried to convince herself that this girl’s opinion of her didn’t matter, tried to ignore the pitying look as she shovelled spoonful after spoonful into her mouth without chewing. She tried not to care that Mr Keene, with his annoying, charming smile, was likely laying odds on the vomit that would emerge any moment now. The risk of casting up her accounts was not dire enough to limit the size of her bites, however, nor was her comprehensive shame sufficient motivation to slink away from a bottomless bowl of stew. And so she ate in silence until every last drop was gone. Before she could think better of it, she slid her finger across the broth at the bottom and licked it clean. And then she looked to the window and considered her escape.

“Christopher said to have some of the boys bring up a tub and hot water for a bath. If you still feel all right after, Cook’ll send up a second helping. Right nice of Christopher to look after ye. He’s taken a fancy to ye, I think. A sweet man he is, and close as can be to His Grace. They grew up together.”

Any thoughts of fleeing had died with the word “bath,” but Sofia’s dignity was bleeding out in her chest. “This is all very kind, but as I have been employed to instruct the children and have met only one of them, I would very much like to stop lying about in this room and meet Zachariah.” Mentioning the room had caused her to notice its details. It was beautiful, all soft pinks and creams, with vast sparkling windows that welcomed the sunshine.

There were so many windows at Northam Hall that Sofia wondered if the architect had run short on lumber and decided to plug every remaining hole with glass. She pushed the thick counterpane away and slid her feet to the floor.

“Oh no, miss. Her Grace was very clear that you were to take the remainder of the afternoon to rest. Besides, you can see here through the window that Zachariah is quite busy with the family today.” Sofia joined the young housemaid, looking out into the garden where a small group assembled. A lanky boy was sitting beside Lady Nora with a book in his lap, and three adults laboured nearby. The duchess worked beside a handsome, middle-aged gentleman while a man in rolled shirt sleeves sawed away at a plank across the yard.

Sofia turned from the scene. “Then I would like to inventory supplies in the library and schoolroom.” There. That sounds far more dignified than fainting and then licking the bottom of a stew bowl. If there was no immediate escape from her situation, she would at least do a proficient job and refrain from embarrassing herself any further.

The girl busied herself refolding a blanket that was spread across the foot of Sofia’s bed. “You needn’t worry about that today, and His Grace will be all too happy to provide whatever you might find lacking in the schoolroom. But it’s not likely there’s much missing. He’s a good father, sees to everything his babies need, he does.”

The wind knocked from her sails, Sofia walked back to the bed and plopped down. “Well, I can’t just lounge around all day. I’m here to work.”

“Can I call you Sofia?” The girl sat on the edge of the bed. “My name is Polly, by the way. Truly miss, you can relax. You’ll never find more kind-hearted people than Their Graces. I don’t know where you’ve come from, but you’re safe here.”

In the silence that followed, Polly seemed to teeter on the brink of some uncomfortable decision. She moistened her lips, then let out a sigh. “When I first arrived, I was in a bad way.” Polly looked down at her folded hands, then back up to Sofia. “There was a boy back home. I thought he loved me, but when he found out I was in the family way, he joined up with the infantry and left without so much as a note goodbye.” She shook her head with a watery smile. “I was stupid. My family threw me out o’course. I didn't have friends to speak of and I had nowhere to go, but I had a cousin who worked in the stables here. He always had such fine things to say about the duke and his late duchess, so I showed up at the kitchen door. Mrs Simmons—Cook, that is—well, she took one look at me and pulled me inside. Fed me the best meal I ever had, and the next thing I knew, Mrs Janewood offered me a job and the servants here became my family. Even though it was plain to see I was increasing, Her Grace never looked down on me when I’d see her in the halls.”

Polly bit her lower lip and looked away then. “When I lost the babe, His Grace had the doctor fetched right away, even though it was the dead of night. He wouldn’t take so much as a shilling from me. And then after … he and Lady Nora picked flowers. She brought them to my room but I saw him out in the garden with her, picking hollyhocks with his own two hands. You see, they was kind when they really didn’t have to be. They’ll be kind to you too, whatever trouble you’re in. You’ll see.”

Polly stood abruptly, then smoothed the creases from her uniform. “Right then. A nice bath’ll make ye right as rain. I’ll have it fetched.” Before Sofia could respond, Polly was gone.

Several minutes passed as Sofia tried to shake off the languorous jumble of emotions provoked by Polly’s story and her tender care. Naturally, they were the kindest people in the world. And here she was, being served endless bowls of delectable food on the softest bed she had ever slept in, plotting to destroy the very fabric of their being. She could not do this.

Three

After leaving rather more explicit orders than the care of one swooning governess required, Christopher busied himself with trying to lift a wine stain from Gabriel's favourite waistcoat. When that failed to distract him, he set off on a brisk walk. But no matter the direction he took, Christopher found himself circling back to the bench situated directly beneath the intriguing Miss Lioni’s window. He could not banish her from his thoughts.

Each observable detail seemed at odds with the next. She appeared reluctant to accept the position Violet had offered her even after arriving in search of work. When she was afforded an obvious escape, her pride prevented her from taking it, so she’d won their fencing match when she could have pretended to lose. And that pride. How could she maintain it when her starving body should be prioritising sustenance over all else? Her spirit was indomitable, and it piqued his curiosity to the extent that he would rather be sitting out here on an unforgiving bench, pondering the little details of Miss Lioni while his arse fell asleep, than be anywhere else on the vast estate.

A shadow blocked the meagre rays of sunlight on Keene’s back, leaving him abruptly cool. He whirled towards its source. “Good God, Hamish, don’t sneak up on a man like that! You startled me.” Christopher smiled sheepishly, realising too late that the admission revealed more than he’d meant to about his state of mind.

Hamish folded his six feet and four inches of muscular Scottish bulk onto the bench beside Christopher, assessing him with bright blue eyes and a wide smile. “Aye, I see that I did.” He cocked his head to the side, blond brows furrowing. “I called out three times. Where did ye go, Keene?”

Christopher’s gaze flicked to the window overhead. “Violet hired a new governess this morning.”

Hamish chuckled, then followed Christopher's gaze to the window. “And she’s bonnie, is she?”

Even in her severely malnourished state, Miss Lioni was beautiful, with those dark, expressive eyes and a riot of chestnut curls. But her beauty was irrelevant when, upon reflection, her appearance wasn’t at all what he found most compelling. But it would be impossible to explain his attraction, to convey an accurate picture of the resilience and determination he found so enticing, without recounting the details of their introduction … and her subsequent loss of consciousness. Sharing that moment of vulnerability, even with Hamish, felt like a betrayal. Christopher felt certain that Miss Lioni would recoil from any whiff of sympathy.

Realising his silence had gone on far too long, he gave Hamish an awkward smile. “Have you ever met someone and known immediately that they would be important to you? Without knowing why, you liked them beyond what’s rational, and knew their presence would alter the rest of your days?”

For an instant, Hamish froze, as if his body had been ambushed by a question too disturbing to process. Then Christopher watched his expression crumble into one of soul-weary grief. It was like watching a flower slowly wilt, its stem drooping and its petals withering to brown.

“Aye, that I have.”

Recently, Christopher had begun to question if Violet's late husband, Nathan, had been more Hamish’s partner than Violet’s. There was no question of her affection for Nate, but when his name arose in conversation, it was Hamish’s responses that spoke of lost love. If Gabriel knew one way or the other, he hadn’t shared the information with Christopher. Unsurprising given that Gabriel would never break the confidence of a friend, let alone his wife.

Eventually, the pain in Hamish’s expression faded. And when it did, his sorrow transformed into enthusiastic support. “Put yer faith in that feeling, Christopher. Win yer lass.”