The wood floor was cold, but there were no mice or spiders or other horrible insects. At least, not nearby. Abigail took a breath and slid fully from the bed. Her night rail caught and hiked up, baring her legs to the cold. Above, Jamie mumbled and rolled toward Mama.
She stood and shook down her night rail, then crouched and pulled the commode out from under the bed. She scooped up her skirts and squatted over the commode. The sound of her water hitting the commode was loud in the room, drowning out the dripping footsteps from the eaves.
She sighed in relief.
Something creaked outside the bedroom door. Abigail froze, her stream still trickling into the tin commode. Flickering light crept under the door. Someone stood in the hallway. She remembered Sir Alistair’s horribly scarred face. He’d been so tall—taller, even, than the duke. What if he’d decided to toss them from his castle?
Or worse?
Abigail held her breath, waiting, her thighs burning from crouching over the commode, her bottom growing cold in the night air. Outside the door, someone hawked—a long, scratching, liquid gurgle that turned Abigail’s stomach—and spat. Then boots scraped against the floor as he moved away.
She waited until she could no longer hear the footsteps, and then she leapt up from the commode. She shoved it away and scrambled into the bed, yanking the covers over her and Jamie’s head.
“Wassit?” Jamie muttered, slumping against her again.
“Shh!” Abigail hissed.
She held her breath, but all she heard was the sucking sounds Jamie made as he jammed his thumb into his mouth. He wasn’t supposed to do that anymore, but Miss Cummings wasn’t here to scold him. Abigail wrapped her arms tightly around her little brother.
Mama had said that they’d had to leave London. That they could no longer stay in their tall town house with Miss Cummings and the other servants she’d known all her life. That they had to leave pretty dresses and picture books and lovely sponge cake with lemon curd behind. Leave everything Abigail knew, in fact. But surely Mama hadn’t realized how awful this castle would be? How dark and dirty the halls or how scary the master? And if the duke knew how terrible this place was, wouldn’t he let them come home?
Wouldn’t he?
Abigail lay in the dark listening to the little man climbing the walls and wished she were safe at home in London.
HELEN WOKE THE next morning to the sun shining dimly through the window. She’d made sure to pull the curtains the night before so they wouldn’t sleep past first light. If one could call a single feeble ray struggling through a grimy windowpane first light. Helen sighed and scrubbed at the pane with a corner of the curtain, but she only managed to make the dust swirl greasily on the glass.
“This is the dirtiest place I’ve ever seen,” Abigail observed critically as she watched her brother.
There were several stuffed chairs crowded into the far end of the room, as if a long-ago chatelaine had stored them there and then forgotten them. Jamie was leaping from chair to chair. Each time he landed, a small cloud of dust puffed from the cushion. Already a film of dirt covered his little face.
Oh, God, how was she to do this? The castle was filthy, its master a nasty, rude beast of a man, and she hadn’t a clue what to do first.
But then, it wasn’t as if she had any choice. Helen had known what kind of man the Duke of Lister was when she left him. The kind who didn’t let go of anything that belonged to him. He may not have lain with her for years, and he may’ve taken other mistresses in that time, but Lister still considered her his mistress. His possession. And the children were his possessions as well. He had fathered them. Never mind that he’d hardly said two words to the children over the years or that he’d never formally acknowledged them.
Lister kept what was his. Had he any suspicion that she was going to flee with Abigail and Jamie, he would’ve taken them from her; she had no doubt at all. Once, nearly eight years ago, when Abigail was only an infant, Helen had talked about leaving him. She’d returned to her town house from an afternoon’s shopping expedition to find Abigail gone and the nursemaid in tears. Lister had kept the baby until the next morning—a night that still haunted Helen in her dreams. By the time he’d come to her door in the morning, Helen had been nearly ill with worry. And Lister? He’d sauntered in, the baby on his arm, and explained quite clearly that if she hoped to keep her daughter by her side, she must resign herself to their relationship. She was his, and nothing and no one could alter that.
So when she had made the decision to leave Lister, she’d known that she would be burning her bridges behind her. Lister must never find her if the children were to be kept safe. With the help of Lady Vale, she’d escaped London in a borrowed carriage. She’d changed that carriage at the first inn on the road north and had continued renting different carriages as often as possible. She’d kept to the less traveled roads and tried to attract as little attention as possible.
It’d been Lady Vale’s idea for Helen to present herself as Sir Alistair’s new housekeeper. Castle Greaves was well away from society, and Lady Vale had been sure Lister would never think to look for her here. In that respect, Sir Alistair’s domain was the perfect hideaway. But Helen wondered if Lady Vale had any notion of just how wretched the castle was.
Or how stubborn its master.
One step at a time. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go. This was the path she’d decided on, and she must make it work. The consequences of failure were simply too unthinkable to contemplate.
Jamie landed awkwardly and slid off a chair in an avalanche of dust.
“Stop that, please,” Helen snapped.
Both children looked at her. She didn’t often raise her voice. But then, until a week or so ago, she’d had a nursemaid to take care of the children. She’d seen them when she’d wanted to—at bedtime, for tea in the afternoon, and for walks in the park. Times when both she and they had been in pleasant frames of mind. If Abigail or Jamie became tired or angry or out of sorts, she’d always had the option of sending them back to Miss Cummings. Unfortunately, Miss Cummings had been left behind in London.
Helen inhaled, trying to calm himself. “It’s time we were at our work.”
“What work?” Jamie asked. He got up and started kicking a cushion that had slid to the floor with him.
“Sir Alistair said we were to go away again this morning,” Abigail stated.
“Yes, but we’ll convince him otherwise, won’t we?”
“I want to go home.”
“We can’t, darling. I’ve already told you so.” Helen smiled persuasively. She hadn’t told them what Lister would do if he caught them. She hadn’t wanted to frighten the children. “Sir Alistair does need someone to clean his castle and put it back in order, don’t you think?”
“Ye-es,” Abigail said. “But he said he liked his castle all dirty.”
“Nonsense. I think he’s just too retiring to ask for help. Besides, it’s our Christian duty to help those in need, and it seems to me that Sir Alistair has a very large need indeed.”
Abigail looked doubtful.
Helen clapped her hands together before her too-perceptive daughter could make any more objections. “Let’s go down and order a splendid breakfast for Sir Alistair and something for ourselves. After that, I’ll consult with the cook and maids on how best to set about cleaning and managing the castle.”
Even Jamie perked up at the thought of breakfast. Helen opened the door, and they crowded into the narrow corridor outside.
“I think we came this way last night,” Helen said, and set off to the right.
As it turned out, that wasn’t the direction Sir Alistair had led them, but after a few more wrong turns, they found themselves on the ground floor of the castle. Helen noticed Abigail dragging her heels as they tramped to the back of the castle and the presumed direction of the kitchens.
Abigail suddenly halted. “Do I have to greet him?”
“Who, dear?” Helen asked, although she knew perfectly w
ell.
“Sir Alistair.”
“Abigail’s afraid of Sir Alistair!” Jamie sang.
“Am not,” Abigail said fiercely. “At least, not very. It’s just…”
“He startled you and you screamed,” Helen said. She looked about the dingy walls of the hallway, searching for how to reply to her daughter. Abigail could be so sensitive. The slightest criticism sent her brooding for days. “I know you feel awkward, sweetheart, but you must think of Sir Alistair’s feelings as well. It can’t be very nice to have a young lady scream at the sight of you.”
“He must hate me,” Abigail whispered.
And Helen’s heart squeezed painfully. It was so difficult being a mother sometimes. Wanting to shield one’s children from the world and their own weaknesses, and at the same time needing to instill honor and proper behavior.
“I doubt he feels anything as harsh as hate,” Helen said gently. “But I think you shall have to apologize to him, don’t you?”
Abigail didn’t say anything, but she gave a single jerky nod, her thin face looking pale and worried.
Helen sighed and continued in the direction of the kitchens. Breakfast, in her opinion, generally made things better.
But as it turned out, there was very little to eat in Castle Greaves. The kitchen was a vast, terribly ancient room. The plastered walls and groined ceiling had once been whitewashed, but the color was a dingy gray now. A cavernous fireplace, much in need of sweeping out, took up one whole wall. Judging from the dust on the pots piled in the cupboards, not much actual cooking was done here.
Helen looked about the room in dismay. A single dirty plate lay on one of the tables, evidence that someone had eaten a meal here recently. Surely there must be a pantry with food somewhere? She began opening cupboards and drawers in a state of near panic. Fifteen minutes later, she examined her booty: a single sack of mealy flour, some oats, tea, sugar, and a handful of salt. She’d also found a small dried up piece of streaky bacon hanging in the larder. Helen was staring at the supplies, wondering what could possibly be made for breakfast out of them, when the full horror of her situation finally dawned on her.
There was no cook.
Indeed, she hadn’t seen any servants this morning. Not a scullery maid or footman. Not a bootblack boy or a parlor maid. Had Sir Alistair any servants at all?
“I’m hungry, Mama,” Jamie moaned.
Helen gazed blindly at him a moment, still dazed by the magnitude of the job ahead of her. A small voice was screaming at the back of her mind, I can’t do this! I can’t do this!
But she had no choice. She must do this.
She swallowed, threw a blanket over the screaming voice in her mind, and rolled up her sleeves. “We’d better set to work, then, hadn’t we?”
ALISTAIR PICKED UP an old kitchen knife and broke the seal on a thick letter that had arrived just this morning. His name was scrawled on the outside in a large, looping, nearly illegible hand that he recognized immediately. Vale was probably writing to exhort him once again to come to London or some other such nonsense. The viscount was a persistent man, even when shown no encouragement at all.
Alistair sat in the largest of the castle towers. Four tall windows spaced evenly around the curved outside walls let in a wonderful amount of light, making the tower perfect for his study. Three wide tables took up most of the room. Their surfaces were covered with open books, maps, animal and insect specimens, magnifying glasses, paintbrushes, presses for preserving leaves and flowers, various interesting rocks, bark, bird nests, and his pencil sketches. Against the outer walls, between the windows, were glass cases and shelves holding more books, maps, and various journals and scientific papers.
Beside the door was a small fireplace, lit even though the day was warm. Lady Grey was getting on in years, and she enjoyed warming herself on the little rug in front of the fire. She sprawled there, taking her morning nap as Alistair worked behind the largest table, which also served as his desk. Earlier they’d gone on their morning ramble. They no longer walked as far as they used to, and Alistair had been forced to slow his stride in the last couple of weeks to let Lady Grey keep pace. Soon he’d have to leave the old girl behind.
But he’d worry about that another day. Alistair unfolded the letter and perused it as the fire gently crackled. It was early in the morning, and he had no doubt that his unexpected guests of the night before were still sleeping. Despite her claim to be a housekeeper, Mrs. Halifax struck him as more of a society lady. Perhaps she was here on a wager, some other aristocratic lady daring her to beard the revoltingly scarred Sir Alistair in his castle den. The thought was a terrible one, making him ashamed and angry at the same time. But then he remembered that she’d been genuinely shocked by his appearance. That at least wasn’t part of some game. And in any case, Lady Vale was not the type of frivolous woman to play such tricks.
Alistair sighed and tossed the letter on the table before him. No mention of Vale’s wife’s scheme to send him a supposed housekeeper. Instead, the letter was full of Vale’s news about the Spinner’s Falls traitor and the death of Matthew Horn—a false trail abruptly cut short.
He lightly traced the border of his eye patch as he gazed out the tower window. Six years ago in the American Colonies, Spinner’s Falls was the place where the 28th Regiment of Foot had fallen in an ambush. Nearly the entire regiment had been massacred by Wyandot Indians, allies of the French. The few survivors—including Alistair—had been captured and marched through the woods of New England. And when they’d made the Indian camp . . .
He dropped his hand to touch a corner of the letter. He’d not even been a member of the 28th. His was a civilian position. Charged with discovering and describing the flora and fauna of New England, Alistair had been three months from returning to England when he’d had the misfortune of walking into Spinner’s Falls. Three months. Had he stayed behind with the rest of the British army in Quebec as originally planned, he wouldn’t even have been at Spinner’s Falls.
Alistair carefully refolded the letter. Now Vale and another survivor, a Colonial named Samuel Hartley, had evidence that the 28th had been betrayed at Spinner’s Falls. That a traitor had given the French and their Wyandot Indian allies the day when they’d pass by Spinner’s Falls. Vale and Hartley were convinced that they could find this traitor and eventually expose and punish him. Alistair tapped the letter gently against his desk. Ever since Vale’s visit, the thought of a traitor had begun to fester in his mind. That such a man was still free—still alive—while so many good men were dead was unbearable.
Three weeks ago, he’d finally taken action. If there was a traitor, he’d almost certainly dealt with the French. Who better to ask about the traitor than a Frenchman? He had a colleague in France, a man named Etienne LeFabvre, who he’d written and asked if he had heard any rumors about Spinner’s Falls. Since then, he’d been waiting impatiently for a reply from Etienne. He frowned. Relations with France were terrible, as usual, but surely—
His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the tower door. Mrs. Halifax entered carrying a tray.
“What the hell’re you doing?” he rasped, surprise making his words harsher than he’d intended.
She stopped, her wide, pretty mouth turning down with displeasure. “I’ve brought you your breakfast, Sir Alistair.”
He refrained with effort from asking what she could’ve possibly brought him for breakfast. Unless she’d caught the castle mice and fried them up, there wasn’t much of anything to eat. He’d dined on the last of the sausages the night before.
She glided forward and made to set the tray on a rather valuable Italian tome on insects.
“Not there.”
At his command, she froze, half-bent.
“Ah, just a moment.” He hastily cleared a space, stacking papers on the floor beside his chair. “Here will do.”
She set the tray down and uncovered a dish. On it reposed two ragged slices of bacon, crisped within an inch of their l
ives, and three small, hard biscuits. Beside the plate was a large bowl of porridge and a cup of inky black tea.
“I would’ve brought up a pot of tea,” Mrs. Halifax was saying as she busied herself arranging the dishes on his desk, “but you don’t seem to have one. A teapot, that is. As it was, I was forced to boil the tea in a cooking pot.”
“Broke last month,” Alistair muttered. What scheme was this? And was he expected to consume this dreck in front of her?
She looked up, all rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, damn her. “What did?”
“The teapot.” Thank God he’d put on his eye patch this morning. “This is most, ah, kind of you, Mrs. Halifax, but you needn’t have bothered.”
“No bother at all,” she blatantly lied. He knew full well the state of his kitchen.
He narrowed his eye. “I expect that you’ll want to leave this morning—”
“I shall just have to get another, shan’t I? A teapot, I mean,” she said as if she’d suddenly gone deaf. “The tea just doesn’t taste the same boiled in a cooking pot. I think ceramic teapots are the best.”
“I shall order a carriage—”
“There are people who prefer metal—”
“From the village—”
“Silver’s quite dear, of course, but a nice little tin teapot—”
“So you can leave me in peace!”
His last words emerged as a bellow. Lady Grey raised her head from the hearth. For a moment, Mrs. Halifax stared at him with large, harebell-blue eyes.
Then she opened her lush mouth and said, “You can afford a tin teapot, can’t you?”
Lady Grey sighed and turned back to the warmth of the fire.
“Aye, I can afford a tin teapot!” He closed his eye a moment, irritated that he’d let her draw him into her babble. Then he looked at her and took a breath. “But you’ll be leaving just as soon as I can—”
“Nonsense.”
“What did you say?” he rasped very gently.
She raised her impertinent chin. “I said nonsense. You obviously need me. Did you know that you have hardly any food in the castle? Well, of course you know, but really it will not do. It will not do at all. I shall do some shopping as well when I go to the village for the teapot.”