“Then surely you know the verse, ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy’—”
“You are quite right, Miss Billings,” the housekeeper interrupted hastily, apparently sensing that a sermon was approaching. “I'll have one of the maids bring up bed linens and fresh water right away.”
Tasia smiled. “Thank you, ma'am. There's one more thing…Do you happen to know if Lord Stokehurst will be returning tonight?”
“He'll be in London for the evening.” Mrs. Knaggs looked at her meaningfully. “You understand.”
“Yes, I do.” The irony was not lost on Tasia. A man's philandering was winked at, accepted, even encouraged. Lord Stokehurst was free to have his pleasure. Even Johnny the footman wasn't being held responsible for the baby. Only Nan was paying the price.
Mrs. Knaggs stared at her speculatively. “Is there something you wish to speak to the master about, Miss Billings?”
“It can wait until morning.”
“I'm certain you can't mean to speak to him about Nan's situation. The master has already made his decision on how it should be handled. No one ever questions his orders. Surely you wouldn't be foolish enough to displease him by bringing up the subject.”
“Of course not,” Tasia said. “Thank you, Mrs. Knaggs.”
Returning too late to go on his usual morning ride with Emma, Luke closed himself in the library to attend to some work. Managing his three estates and other properties required an endless stream of correspondence with land agents, stewards, and lawyers. Between writing letters, he pored over account books and piles of receipts. The tedious atmosphere was underscored by the ticking of the mantel clock. In his concentration he hardly noticed the knock at the door. It came again, louder this time.
“Come in.” Luke kept writing as someone entered the room. “I'm busy,” he muttered. “Unless it's important, I don't want to be dist—” He broke off as he glanced at the intruder. It was Miss Billings.
So far their encounters had been brief and impersonal; chance meetings in the hall, a few words here and there about Emma. Luke had noticed that the governess avoided him whenever possible. She didn't seem to like being in the same room with him. No woman had ever been so cold to him, so unaware of him in every way.
As always, her face was pale and tense. Her figure was fragile, her waist so slender that he could have easily wrapped his hands around it. When she moved her head, the light slid over her ebony hair, making it gleam. She stared at him with those exotic eyes, looking like an underfed cat. After waking up next to Lady Harcourt's voluptuous cream-and-peaches warmth, Luke found the sight of the governess jarring.
He had no idea why Emma liked her so much. Yet Emma seemed happier than she had been in months. Luke was afraid his daughter was becoming attached to the governess. A pity, since Miss Billings would be leaving soon. The month was already half-over. Emma would just have to get used to someone else. It didn't matter how much good the governess did for his daughter, she still wasn't going to stay. Luke didn't trust her. She was sly, mysterious, haughty…all the qualities of a cat. He hated cats.
“What do you want?” he asked curtly.
“Sir, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you. It concerns one of the housemaids, Nan Pitfield.”
Luke's eyes narrowed. This was something he hadn't expected. “The one who's been dismissed.”
“Yes, my lord.” Rosy color swept up her face, softening the parchment-white skin. “Everyone is aware of why she's being forced to leave. The young man who fathered the baby—one of your footmen, as I understand it—has abandoned all responsibility. I've come to ask you to give Nan a little money, to help her survive until she's able to work again. She comes from a poor family. It will be difficult for her to find employment anywhere, certainly nothing above five pounds a year—”
“Miss Billings,” he interrupted, “Nan should have considered all of that before she decided to indulge herself in a backstairs romance.”
“It wouldn't take very much to help her,” the governess persisted. “A few pounds would make no difference to you—”
“I'm not going to reward a servant who hasn't done her job adequately.”
“Nan works very hard, my lord—”
“I've made my decision. I suggest you turn your attention to what I'm paying you for, Miss Billings, and that's to give lessons to my daughter.”
“And what kind of lesson are you teaching her, sir? What is Emma to think of your behavior? You're acting without a shred of compassion or mercy. Why must your servants be punished for having ordinary human needs? I don't approve of what Nan did, but neither can I blame her for trying to find some happiness. Nan was lonely, and she succumbed to a young man who said he loved her. Must she be made to suffer for it the rest of her life?”
“That's enough.” His voice was unnaturally gentle.
“You care nothing about your servants,” she continued recklessly. “Oh, you're willing to give them butter and candles—it's a small price to pay for having everyone think of you as the benevolent lord of the manor. But when it comes to really helping your servants, really caring for them, you can't be bothered. You'll just cast Nan out and forget all about her, while she'll starve, or become a prostitute—”
“Get out.” As Luke shot to his feet, the tip of his hook slashed into the glossy surface of the desk, ruining the antique wood.
The governess didn't move. “Do you conduct your life so chastely that you are fit to judge her? If I'm not mistaken, you've just returned from a liaison of your own!”
“You're about to be dismissed with Nan.”
“I don't care,” she said passionately. “I would prefer to walk the streets myself than live under the same roof with such a heartless man—a hypocrite!”
All at once his temper exploded. Luke strode around his desk with a snarl, catching the front of her bodice in his large hand. She gave a whimper of fear. Luke shook her briefly, like a dog with a rat. His knuckles pressed hard against her sharp collarbone. “I don't know who the hell you were before you came here,” he growled, “but you're a servant now. My servant. You obey me without question. My word is the last in all things. If you defy me again—” Suddenly Luke stopped. He didn't trust himself to speak further.
She refused to look away, though terror filled her eyes. Her breath fluttered against his chin, and her small hands came over his, plucking helplessly. The word “no” came to her lips, soft shape without sound.
Luke breathed in uneven gushes of air. The urge to conquer, to dominate, was overwhelming. His blood sang with primitive masculine urges. She was very small, her weight dangling from his grip on her dress. He kept her off-balance, forcing her to lean into his hold. He could smell her skin: soap, salt, a trace of roses. He couldn't stop himself from lowering his head, drinking in the scent. There was a responsive ache in his groin, his flesh filling with hot blood and sensation. All at once he wanted to shove her down to the desk and lift her skirts, and take her right there. He wanted to feel her stretched beneath him, her nails digging into his back, her body arching to take him deeper. He thought of her slim legs clamped around his waist…and he closed his eyes hard against the image.
“Please,” she whispered. The ripple of her swallow touched his knuckles.
Blindly Luke turned away, letting go of her with a shove. He kept his back to her, embarrassed by the swelling of his body, the flush on his face. “Get out,” he said thickly.
He heard the swish of her skirts as she fled the room, the way she fumbled with the door handle. The door closed behind her with a forceful thump. Jerking the chair away from the desk, Luke sat down heavily and swiped at his face with his sleeve. “Christ.” he muttered. One moment everything was normal, and the next the world had blown apart.
The tip of his forefinger rubbed over the deep scratch on the desk as he thought. Why had she bothered to plead for a disgraced housemaid? Why had she challenged him at the risk of losing her own position? Puzzled, he leaned back in his chair
. It bothered him that he wanted to understand her. “Who are you?” he muttered. “Damn you, I'm going to find out.”
Hurtling into her room, Tasia closed the door and threw her back against it. She panted hard, dizzy from running up the stairs so fast. There was no doubt she would be dismissed. She had been foolish. She deserved whatever happened. What right did she have to give the lord of the manor a dressing-down for his behavior? It was unreasonable, especially when she had never bothered to champion the causes of her own servants. She felt like the hypocrite she had accused him of being.
“Everything looks so different from below-stairs,” she said aloud, and smiled grimly. She went to her little mirror, pulling the hairpins from her chignon and jabbing them back in more tightly. She had to calm herself. Soon it would be time to begin the daily lessons with Emma…if Lord Stokehurst didn't fire her the moment she reappeared.
There was something she had to do first. Searching in the armoire, she delved past her folded linens and closed her hand around a knotted handkerchief. She felt the hard lump of her father's gold ring. “Thank you, Papa,” she whispered. “I'm going to put this to good use.”
As Tasia appeared in the doorway of Nan's room, she saw that the girl was fully dressed and looking much better than she had the night before.
Surprise crossed Nan's face as she saw Tasia. “Miss Billings!”
“How do you feel today?”
Nan shrugged. “Fair. Though I can't hold anything in my belly ‘cept a drop of tea. And my legs are weak.” She gestured to a frayed hamper. “I'm almost finished with my packing.”
“And the babe?”
Nan lowered her eyes. “It seems all right.”
Tasia smiled slightly. “I came to say goodbye before you left.”
“It's very kind of you, miss.” Self-consciously Nan reached beneath her mattress and pulled out a small object. It was the icon. “Here she is.” Reverently Nan traced the Madonna's face with her finger. “She belongs with you. I'm sorry I took her, Miss Billings. You were kindness itself, when you should've hated me.”
Tasia received the icon without expression, though her heart gave an extra thump of gladness at having it back. “There is something I want to give you,” she said, and handed Nan the knotted handkerchief. “You must sell it and keep the money it brings.”
Frowning curiously, Nan untied the cloth. Her eyes widened as she saw the gold ring. “Oh, Miss Billings, you couldn't mean to give this to me!” She tried to hand it back, but Tasia refused.
“You'll need it for yourself and the baby.”
Nan hesitated, staring down at the ring. “Where did you get it?”
A smile curved Tasia's lips. “Don't worry, I didn't steal it. The ring belonged to my father. I know he would approve. Please take it.”
Nan closed her fingers over the object and began to sniffle. “Miss Billings, why are you doing this?”
There wasn't an easy answer to that. Tasia couldn't afford to be generous, not when her own resources were scarce. But it felt good to help Nan. For a few minutes at least, someone was staring at her with gratitude…It made her feel strong and useful. And there was the baby. Tasia hated the thought of a tender new life being given such a cold welcome to the world: no father, no food, no home. A little extra money wouldn't solve anything, but it might give Nan some hope.
She realized Nan was waiting for a reply. “I know what it's like to be alone and in trouble.”
Nan's gaze flitted down to her stomach. “You mean you—”
“Not that kind of trouble.” Tasia laughed wryly. “But in a way it was just as serious.”
Clutching the ring, Nan stepped forward and hugged her impulsively. “If it's a boy, I'll name him Billings!”
“Oh, my.” Tasia's eyes sparkled with amusement. “You'd better shorten it to Billy.”
“And if it's a girl, Karen. That's your first name, aye?”
Tasia smiled. “Call her Anna,” she said gently. “I think that would be nice.”
Emma seemed distracted during their morning lessons, only half-answering Tasia's questions. Samson was stretched out at their feet, turning up his furry stomach invitingly. He was quiet, seeming to understand the importance of remaining undetected by hostile housekeepers and irritable fathers. Occasionally Emma nudged his ribs with her toes, and he swiveled his big head around with a happy dog-grin, his tongue drooping down the side of his jaw.
“Miss Billings?” Emma asked, pausing in the middle of a paragraph about Roman military strategy. “Nan is going to have a baby, isn't she?”
Taken aback, Tasia wondered how the girl had found out so soon. “That isn't a proper subject for discussion, Emma.”
“Why won't anyone explain it to me? Isn't it more important for me to know about real life than a lot of moldy history?”
“Perhaps when you're older someone will explain things to you, but in the meantime—”
“It happens when a man and a woman sleep in the same bed, doesn't it?” Emma's gaze was bright and perceptive. “That's what happened—Nan and Johnny slept together. And now a baby is coming. Miss Billings, why would Nan take a man into her bed if she knew a baby would happen afterward?”
“Emma,” Tasia said softly, “you mustn't ask such questions of me. It's not my place to answer. I don't have your father's permission—”
“How will I ever find out? Is it some terrible secret that only grown-ups can understand?”
“No, it's not terrible.” Tasia frowned and rubbed her temples. “It's only that…it's very personal. There must be a woman that you trust and care for—your grandmother, perhaps—who will answer your questions.”
“I trust you, Miss Billings. And it makes me very anxious to think about the things I don't know. When I was eight, my aunt saw me kissing one of the village boys, and she was very angry. She told me you can get a baby that way. Is that true?”
Tasia hesitated. “No, Emma.”
“Why would she tell me something false? Was it wrong of me to kiss that boy?”
“I'm certain she thought you were too young to understand the truth. And no, it wasn't wrong. You were merely curious. There was no harm done.”
“What if I want to kiss a boy now? Would that be wrong?”
“Well, not exactly, but…” Tasia smiled uncomfortably. “Emma, perhaps you should tell your father that you would like to talk to a woman about…certain matters. He'll find someone appropriate. I doubt he would approve of me being the one to answer your questions.”
“Because you argued with him this morning about Nan.” Emma began to coil a lock of blazing red hair around her finger, avoiding Tasia's gaze.
“Did you eavesdrop, Emma?” Tasia asked, her tone reproving.
“Everyone has been talking. No one ever argues with Papa. All the servants are surprised. They think you're very brave and foolish. They say you'll probably be dismissed. But don't worry about that, Miss Billings. I won't let Papa send you away.”
Tasia smiled, touched by Emma's artless reassurance. She was an endearing child. It would be very easy to love her. “Thank you, Emma. But you and I must abide by your father's decisions, whatever they are. I made a mistake this morning by forcing my opinions on him. I was rude and ungrateful. If Lord Stokehurst chooses to dismiss me, it would be no more than what I deserve.”
Emma scowled, suddenly looking like her father. She tapped her long foot against Samson's snout. Gently he opened his jaws and chewed her heel. “Papa will keep you here if I want you to stay. He feels guilty because I don't have a mother. Grandmama says that's why he has always spoiled me. She wants him to marry Lady Harcourt, but I hope he doesn't.”
“Why?” Tasia asked softly.
“Lady Harcourt wants to take Papa away from me, and have him all to herself.”
Tasia made a noncommittal sound. She was beginning to understand the fierce attachment between the Stokehursts, forged by the death of the woman they had both loved. The loss of Mary Stokehurst was an open wou
nd for both of them. It seemed as if father and daughter used each other as an excuse to keep from reaching out to other people, and risk having their hearts broken again. It might be best for Emma to go to a place where she could make friends with girls her own age and find new outlets for her energy. Far better than to spend her time prowling around a country estate, spying on the servants.
Tasia gave Emma an enigmatic smile. “Perhaps we should finish this chapter and go for a walk. Some fresh air might clear the cobwebs away.”
“You're not going to explain anything to me about Nan,” Emma said with a resigned sigh, and dutifully returned her attention to the book.
There was no word from Lord Stokehurst all day. He remained in the library, conducting meetings with a parade of tenants and men from the village. “Farming practices,” came Seymour's reply, when Tasia asked what the visitors had come to talk about. “The master is making improvements on the estate, to ensure that the tenants are working the land as productively as possible. Some of them are nearly medieval in their practices. The master is advising them about modern methods and giving them the opportunity to make complaints against the estate manager.”
“That is very kind of him,” Tasia murmured. In Russia, landowners were far removed from the business of the estate. They hired stewards to insulate them from concerns that were beneath their notice. Certainly she had never heard of peasants being given advice or help directly from the master's household.
“It is a practical policy,” Seymour remarked. “The more His Lordship invests in his own estate, the more profitable it becomes for all concerned.”
Tasia thought it very astute reasoning. “It is a good thing that His Lordship is not too proud to talk directly with the peasants. Where I come from, a man of his position would communicate with them only through a steward.”
Suddenly there was a glint of amusement in Seymour's eyes. “In England they don't usually like to be called peasants. Better to say tenants.”
“Tenants,” she repeated obediently. “Thank you, Mr. Seymour.”