Jonathan sat in his favorite chair in his study, his attention claimed by the lively flames dancing in the fireplace. The transfixing display of reds and oranges flashed and crackled before him as though laughing and mocking his fiasco of an evening. As the memories returned, burning like flames inside his head, his jaw clenched, and he threw his half drained glass of brandy at the fire, experiencing a moment of satisfaction as the glass shattered and what remained of the drink roared into flames.
The afternoon had begun most promising. Everyone had arrived in a timely fashion, and once Jonathan proposed his idea of repurposing the northern section of Tanglewood for an agricultural venture, all seemed intrigued and interested. They had entered the dining room in like minds, anxious to continue their discussions and move forward with definitive plans.
That's when everything began to go awry.
Not only was Mr. Thomas nearly suffocated by his allergy, but he returned to his room to find it filled with smoke. He immediately called fire, sending the entire house into upheaval, even though it was not a fire at all, merely inadequate ventilation caused by a closed damper. Still, every item in the man's room smelled of smoke, and he refused to abide another moment in a house that seemed intent on killing him. Not even the charming Mrs. Notley, with her smiles, apologies, and quick wit could convince him to remain.
Soon after, Mr. Kent entered his bedchamber, only to run out again because of a putrid smell. While Mrs. Notley and a few maids searched the room for the cause of it, Mr. Hervey discovered a live snake under his bed covers. His frantic shouts caused another ruckus, and it wasn't long before the two remaining men took their leave as well, informing Jonathan that he must learn to manage an orderly household before they believed him capable of managing a business.
Jonathan let them go without argument because he had no argument to give. Had the situation been reversed, he would have thought the same and likely left as well. But that didn't make it any less maddening. Jonathan had spent months researching and polishing his proposal and had tracked down men with both experience and large enough pocketbooks to invest. And now his efforts had come to naught, all because he'd chosen to hire an honest, beautiful, and inept housekeeper.
He leaned forward and dropped his head to his palms, raking his fingers through his hair and wondering what the devil must be done. Mrs. Notley may have proven that she could keep a cool head and cheerful disposition in the midst of adversity, but her lack of experience was proving to be an obstacle that could not be overcome. Jonathan had been a fool to believe otherwise, and now he was left with the unhappy task of having to explain to a kind and virtuous woman that her talents—or lack thereof—were no longer needed.
He should ring the bell and summon her now, but he could not bring himself to do it. Why? He had never before felt such dread at the prospect of dismissing a servant, and he couldn't account for it. Why did it feel as though he'd be sending away a friend that, oddly enough, he'd greatly miss? For whatever reason, his relationship with Mrs. Notley seemed more personal, somehow, even though it was not and never could be.
That alone should be reason enough to dismiss her, and yet… Jonathan frowned at the bell pull, telling himself that she had left him no choice this time. Mrs. Notley truly must go and he must begin the process of hiring yet another housekeeper. Good gads. Did a woman exist who could do the job properly? Other households didn't seem to have such a difficult time filling positions and retaining servants. Why was he? If only Watts would take a wife. A man with his exacting standards would surely pick a woman who would be capable of working alongside him in the role of housekeeper.
Jonathan looked around for another glass to throw at the fire but a quiet knock interrupted his perusal.
He drew in a deep breath and straightened. "Enter," he called, expecting to see Watts.
To his surprise, Mrs. Caddy walked in, looking as skittish as a newborn kitten. Clutched in her hand was a glass bottle containing some sort of dark substance.
What the deuce is wrong now? Jonathan thought in frustration. He needed a long night of rest before he was ready to deal with anything more.
Mrs. Caddy held the bottle out for his inspection. "The missin' thyme, sir."
He frowned as he studied the contents of the jar, wondering why it had suddenly appeared now and not at a more convenient time. "It's not missing any longer, I see."
"No, sir."
"Where did you find it?"
Mrs. Caddy hesitated, and her hands shook as she clutched the bottle to her abdomen. "Sally's room."
"What?" Jonathan's frown deepened. He had expected her to say the bottom of a drawer or at the back of a cupboard, not in a maid's room—a maid who had served him faithfully since he had come to Tanglewood. How the devil had it come to be in Sally's room, and what had prompted Mrs. Caddy to look for it there?
Tears welled up in the cook's eyes, and Jonathan had to stifle his annoyance. He used to think the woman incapable of dissembling, but now he was beginning to wonder if she had lost her senses and would never return to her former brusque self. He prayed this was a momentary lapse on her part and that tomorrow all would be right once again so that he would not be made to search for a new housekeeper and cook. What a ludicrous joke that would be.
"I know I shouldn't 'ave done it, sir, but she was actin' a might strange when I 'appened upon her in the still room earlier, makin' excuses about bein' there and such. It wasn't till later that I gave the matter some thought and wondered if it was 'er who'd done somethin' with the missin' 'erb. I waited for 'er to go out walkin' like she does every night, and when I searched 'er room, I found this tucked under 'er pillow."
Mrs. Caddy paused, still fidgeting. "The worst bit is, I don't think that's all she's done, neither. Only yesterday, Roddy, the stableboy, was talkin' about findin' a snake in the outbuildin', and Sally asked ter see it. I also saw 'er pickin' purple mums the day Mrs. Notley dyed your best cloth the same color, and I spotted Sally in the still room before Mrs. Notley made 'er first batch of preserves. I can't prove nothin' except the 'erbs, but 'tis no secret Sally don't like Mrs. Notley much."
Jonathan leaned forward in his chair, trying to make sense of the woman's ramblings. "I was under the assumption that you didn't care much for Mrs. Notley either."
This had a humbling effect on Mrs. Caddy, for she bowed her head in shame. "Not at first, I suppose. She don't know nothin' about 'ousekeepin'. But she's a good sort of girl who don't deserve to be dismissed for somethin' she didn't do."
Jonathan clasped his fingers under his chin as he considered all that Mrs. Caddy had revealed. It was mostly conjecture, and he had a difficult time believing Sally was responsible for every misadventure that had happened to Mrs. Notley. But the cook had a jar of herbs that had come from Sally's room. That alone made him angry. Had she been trying to sabotage the housekeeper? If so, it should be Sally who left and not Mrs. Notley.
This thought had a perplexing effect on Jonathan. Most employers would be vexed at the prospect of dismissing a well-trained and hardworking housemaid over an incompetent housekeeper, but it felt as though a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. How odd. Even without Sally about, Mrs. Notley would still be prone to errors, and yet Jonathan found himself more relieved than worried. It was as though he wanted the mayhem to continue.
No. That wasn't it. The truth was far more troubling. Deep down, Jonathan knew what he wanted most was to keep seeing Mrs. Notley around the house. Her smiles, her lovely face, her laughter, her warmth. She made Tanglewood feel like a home, and he wanted that feeling to remain. As loathe as he was to admit it, Jonathan wasn't ready to let her walk out of his home, or his life, just yet.
And now, thanks to Mrs. Caddy's recent revelations, perhaps he wouldn't have to.
The cook was still wringing her hands and swaying anxiously back and forth as though awaiting a trial of some sort. Jonathan could not figure the woman out. She had done nothing wrong. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mrs. Caddy. If you will be kind enough to leave the herbs on that table there, I will handle things from here."
Ever so slowly, she bent to do as he bid, but when she rose, tears again welled in her eyes.
What the deuce? Jonathan would never understand a woman's emotions. A headache began to creep into his forehead, and he began rubbing his temples to keep it at bay.
"Am I ter be dismissed, sir?" she blurted. "Please tell me now, so I don't keep worryin' and wonderin'."
"Why on earth would I dismiss you, Mrs. Caddy?" Jonathan asked, baffled as to why she would be concerned about such an outcome. Indeed, he felt like increasing her wages. If only she'd cease crying, he might offer to do exactly that.
"I almost killed a man!" she exclaimed with a trembling voice that bespoke even more tears—the gushing sort that made him most uncomfortable.
Jonathan increased the pressure on his temples and mustered as much patience as he could. "You did not almost kill a man, Mrs. Caddy, and I am sorry you have been made to bear such a burden tonight. I ought to have told you about the allergy when we discussed the menu, but I did not. So if anyone is to blame, it is I. Please do not trouble yourself further about the incident. Mr. Thomas is alive and well and now happily ensconced at the inn, where he will stay until tomorrow's coach back to London. You are an excellent cook, and I would not dream of replacing you because of something that was not your fault."
Mrs. Caddy's hand flew to her mouth as tears continued to run from her eyes. At least they were happy tears now, which was a slight improvement. "I don't know what ter say except thank you, sir! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
"Goodnight, Mrs. Caddy," said Jonathan, anxious to be done with tears of all kinds.
"G'night, sir." She swept from the room, her mood the antithesis of what it had been only minutes before. And at last, peace was restored in the kitchens.
He hoped.
Jonathan watched her go with a hint of a smile, but when his thoughts drifted to what must be done now, his smile faded. With a deep breath, he rose to ring the bell that would summon Watts.
The butler soon appeared. "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Ludlow?"
"Unfortunately, yes," said Jonathan. "When Sally returns from her walk, would you tell her that I would like a word?"
If Watts was surprised by the request, he hid it well. He bowed politely and said, "Of course, sir. I will notify her right away."
"Thank you."
Jonathan sat back in his chair, mentally preparing himself for another interchange with a servant that would likely not end nearly as well as the last one had. He only prayed that Sally would refrain from weeping.
Cora had only just finished hanging some thyme to dry when an anguished sob sounded from the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped down from the stool before peeking out of the still room to investigate. Sally sat hunched over the table, her shoulders shuddering as sobs wracked her body.
Everyone else had gone to bed, and the haunting sound echoed through the room. The combination of the full moon coming through the window and a small candle casting vague shadows on the walls only added to the eeriness. Cora hesitated on the threshold between the two rooms, not sure what to do. Sally would certainly not appreciate any interference from her, yet Cora could not leave the woman to face such despair alone.
She approached tentatively. "Sally? Are you well?" The question was a silly one considering the housemaid was certainly not well, but Cora could not think of a kinder way to intrude.
Sally's shoulders froze for a moment before her head slowly lifted. Tears had stained her cheeks a bright pink, and her red hair splayed around her face in an untidy mess of tangles. She looked utterly wretched and not at all happy that she had been caught in such a state, especially by Cora.
Her eyes narrowed into a venomous rage. "'Tis all your doin'." She jabbed a finger at Cora. "You've wrecked everythin', and now me and me lad's ter be tossed ter the streets. I wish you'd never come ter Tanglewood!"
Sally flung herself from the stool and ran up the stairs. A few moments later, a door slammed and Cora flinched at the coldness of it. She wrapped her arms to her chest and shivered.
What have I done now? she thought as weariness took a vicious hold on her. She sank down on a stool and combed through her mind for anything she might have said or done to cause Sally harm—or her lad. What had she meant by that, anyway? Could Sally possibly be a mother? If so, where was the child, and why was Sally so worried about being tossed to the streets? If anyone should be concerned with such a fate, it was Cora.
After all that had occurred, she was certain her next meeting with Mr. Ludlow would not go nearly as well as the others. In less than a day, she had spoiled whatever business prospects he might have had with his guests—or rather, former guests. Cora had not thought to check all the dampers, she had not considered looking under the bed sheets for slithering reptiles, and she still had no idea what had caused that dreadful odor. It had begun to dissipate as they searched the room, and they had not been able to locate the source. It seemed to come from everywhere and then nowhere. In the end, the fault for everything lay entirely at Cora's door. Coupled with all the days before, her list of blunders had grown to an overwhelming number—far too many for Mr. Ludlow to forgive any longer.
Cora rested her arms on the table, wishing she could go off to bed and forget this day had ever happened, but sleep would undoubtedly elude her, and the view of the moon was so much nicer from here. So she remained perched on the stool, staring out the large window into the beautiful night. How serene and lovely it looked. If only she could borrow some of that peace and wrap it around her like a quilt. Perhaps then she could fall asleep and feel better equipped to face whatever the morning brought.
Cora wasn't sure how long she sat in the dark. She only knew her eyelids were beginning to droop when a rustling sound stirred her awake once more. Something with tiny, prickly feet scampered over the tops of her slippers, causing the hairs on her arms to rise. With a squeal, she crawled onto the table and stood, stomping her feet while shaking out her dress. Years ago, a mouse ran up her skirts, and she had never been able to forget the awful sensation of it. The memory alone made her shake her skirts with even more vigor.
"What the devil are you doing?" came Mr. Ludlow's deep voice from the doorway.
Cora froze as her face grew very warm. Of all the people to happen by at such a moment, why did it have to be him? Was the dreadfulness of this night doomed to never end?
The candle he held highlighted his handsome face in a mysterious, almost romantic way, and Cora shivered for completely different reasons. His hair appeared more unruly than usual, flying this way and that, and he no longer wore a jacket—merely an untucked shirt, trousers, and stockings. She had never seen him so unkempt, and she realized she probably didn't look much different. Worse actually, for she was standing on top of the table. Mrs. Caddy would undoubtedly swat her with a rolling pin if she caught her there.
Cora cleared her throat and tried to regain some dignity by pointing at the floor. "There was a mouse, I believe. It ran across my foot, and I was afraid it had climbed up my skirts, so I…" He appeared to be fighting back a smile, so she finished her explanation with an annoyed, "Oh, never mind. It's obviously gone now, whatever it was."
"Are you certain it is not hiding in your apron pocket, waiting for the dancing to stop so that it might make its escape?"
Cora frowned at her apron, giving it one final shake just to be sure. When Mr. Ludlow began chuckling, she redirected her frown at him. "I was not dancing and do stop laughing. The creature gave me quite a fright, and it is unkind of you to find the situation humorous."
"How can I not find it humorous when I so clearly witnessed you scuttle onto the table—you, who claims to never scuttle."
"I don't," she defended. "I merely crawled… quickly."
"I'm quite certain that you scuttled."
"Truly, you must stop laughing at once. I have had a trying day, and this is not helping at all."
Mr. Ludlow was good enough to mold his mouth into an obedient line, though his eyes still sparkled with mirth. He set down his candle and walked over to her, extending his hand. "Do you wish to join me on the floor, Mrs. Notley, or would you prefer to finish your dance?"
She glared before taking his hand and stepping down. The moment her feet made contact with the floor, she withdrew her fingers and cast a wary glance around to make sure the mouse was nowhere to be seen. When she lifted her eyes to his and realized how close they stood to each other, she took a step back.
"I, er… was just about to retire for the night." She paused. "That is, if I may have your leave to do so, sir?"
He dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "Chance encounters do not require such formality, but now that I have caught you here, I wonder if I might have a word with you."
Right now? Cora felt suddenly anxious. Why had she not gone to bed with the rest of the staff? Could this conversation not wait until morning, when Cora felt at least a little more rested and prepared? Or would she ever feel prepared? Cora frowned at the thought. Perhaps it would be better to be done with it now, when the darkness of night would help to stifle the awkward embarrassment of it all.
She relaxed her shoulders and sighed, accepting the inevitable. "I know what you wish to say to me, sir, and I will not make you say it aloud. If you will allow me to stay the night, I promise to pack my things and be gone before you arise in the morning. You have put your trust in me, and I…" Her lips lifted into a sad, humorless smile. "Well, I have bungled things completely, haven't I? I do not know how else to make amends other than to tell you how truly sorry I am and show myself the door. I wish I knew of someone who could serve as a proper replacement, but I'm afraid I do not."
He did not look at all saddened at the prospect of saying goodbye. If anything, he appeared entertained. It rankled her. Though she had not expected him to mourn her loss, a little sadness or concern would have been appreciated.
"Where will you go?" he asked.
"Somewhere other than here."
"And where is that?" He brushed something off the front of his shirt as though he was only making polite conversation and did not care about her answer in the least.
"Forgive my impertinence, sir, but I do not see how that information is any business of yours. I am no longer employed by you, after all."
"Are you not?"
Cora scowled at him. "Are you quite awake, sir? I have already explained to you that I will be leaving first thing in the morning. Were you not attending?"
His lips twitched into a grin, and his eyes continued sparkling with mirth. "I find myself ravenous at the moment, so I'm afraid my stomach is claiming much of my attention. If I can scrounge up some bread and cheese, will you not join me for a midnight snack, Mrs. Notley?"
Not waiting for a response, he walked into the larder and began rummaging around, leaving Cora to stare after him in stunned silence. He was acting quite addled.
"My name is Miss Notley now, sir, and I'm afraid I cannot join you. I am going to bed."
He continued with his search, opening a canister to sniff its contents, only to put it back on the counter with a grimace. "Does that particular bed happen to be in the servants' quarters in this house?"
"Er… yes?"
"Then it is still Mrs. Notley. Ah, here we are." He found a loaf of bread under a cloth napkin and a bottle of blackberry preserves on a shelf. "Please say you'll join me. It is bad manners to eat in front of another person and I would rather not have any more accusations thrown at me tonight."
"I have no intention of accusing you of anything, sir, and you will not be eating in front of me if I go to bed."
"I wish you would not." He moved past her and sat on one of the stools, cutting off two slices of bread and slathering preserves over the top of both. He held one out to her. "I have it on good authority that these preserves have been approved for human consumption. Would you care for a taste?"
His hunger was obviously affecting his good sense. It would not be at all wise for her to eat with him, especially at this hour, and so she remained standing, determined to stand her ground even though the snack did tantalize her stomach. It had been hours since she'd partaken of food.
"Mr. Ludlow, you know it would be improper for me to share an informal meal with you. I'm afraid I cannot."
He took a bite of the bread and cocked his head, studying her as he chewed and swallowed. The dark depths of his eyes caused her stomach to rise and fall like waves in an ocean during a storm.
"You are making me behave most ungentlemanly, Mrs. Notley, and I cannot understand it," he finally said. "We are in a public room and you are my servant. I share a drink with Watts on occasion, and I do not see how this is any different. That aside, our conversation is not yet finished. So if you have a care at all for my sensibilities, and I cannot believe you would be so callous as to not, will you do me the honor of taking a seat, eating a slice of bread, and listening to what I have to say?"
Cora put a hand on her stomach to quiet it, but it continued to toss and turn. He had a way of unsettling her in a volatile way, and sitting next to him felt dangerous somehow. Perhaps it was not improper for a housekeeper to share a slice of bread in the kitchen with her employer, but when the housekeeper was young, vulnerable, and fiercely attracted to that particular employer, she'd be a fool to let him sway her.
When she said nothing, he shook his head in capitulation. "If you will not sit, I suppose I must stand as well. How very cruel you are."
Good gracious he was a stubborn man, Cora thought with annoyance.
"Very well, sir, but only for a moment." She glanced around to make sure they were truly alone before taking a seat on the stool beside him and keeping as far to the left as possible. She shot him a glare as she snatched a slice of bread from his hand and popped it into her mouth. With any luck, the food would settle her stomach.
He grinned. "Ah, see? I knew you could not be so cruel as that."
Cora refused to be charmed by his dimple or the way his hair fell across his forehead. She turned her gaze out the window, forced the bread down her throat, and kept her voice as even as she could. "Sir, please tell me what it is you have to say."
"Very well." He shifted towards her and his elbow brushed against her arm, causing it to erupt in gooseflesh. She slid a little more to the left and focused on the moonlit shrubs outside the window.
"I have dismissed Sally," he said.
Shrubs forgotten, Cora gaped at him in astonishment. "I beg your pardon?"
"The missing thyme was found in her room, and once I questioned her further, I also discovered that she switched out the sugar with salt, added purple flowers to your wash basin, closed the damper in Mr. Thomas's bedchamber, and hid a snake under Mr. Hervey's bed sheets. The smell in Mr. Kent's room was a rotten egg that Sally covertly retrieved during your search and tossed out the window."
Cora stared at Mr. Ludlow, disbelieving. Why would Sally do such things? The housemaid had made her dislike of the new housekeeper quite clear, but to go to such great lengths to see her gone? Cora could scarce believe it.
"She wanted the housekeeper position," Mr. Ludlow went on to explain. "She thought that if she found a way to be rid of you, I would be desperate enough to offer her the job instead."
"Oh," was all Cora could think to say. Her mind reeled with all these revelations. She thought of every cruel word Sally had ever said, every look of derision, and every mean prank she had played with the hope of seeing Cora sacked. In the end, it was all for naught. Mr. Ludlow had sacked Sally instead. No wonder she had been sobbing earlier. Her plan had backfired most abominably.
Cora's initial instinct was to be glad of Sally's fate. The woman deserved what she got for being so unkind and manipulative. But the image of Sally crumpled over the table in such a wretched state made Cora pity her and her son, if she indeed had one.
With so much to lose, why had Sally put her job at risk? Was it so detestable to answer to a younger, less experienced woman, or was there more to the equation? Had Sally also been thinking of her child and how a larger salary would ease the burden of providing for him? Or perhaps the "lad" she'd mentioned was a pet dog, and the woman was simply mean-spirited.
Cora's head spun with questions. They poked and pestered, seeking answers and understanding but finding nothing. She peered at Mr. Ludlow. "Did she explain why becoming the housekeeper was so important to her?"
"I did not ask," he answered. "Once she had revealed her actions to me, I informed her that I could not allow such deceit to go unpunished. She was dismissed immediately and will be leaving in the morning."
"Without a reference, I suppose," Cora murmured, more to herself than to him.
"Of course without a reference. She behaved deceitfully, and I could not, in good conscience, recommend her to anyone."
"Of course not." Cora stared at her hands. Despite all that had happened, her heart mourned a little for Sally. If anyone knew what it felt like to face a bleak and uncertain future, it was Cora.
"She readily admitted to everything?" she asked, not quite believing it.
Mr. Ludlow glanced down at the remaining bread on the platter and pushed it away, as though he'd lost his appetite. "Not at first. It wasn't until I pointed out a few gaping holes in her denials that she crumbled and revealed all. But was it the entire truth? I cannot know because she has broken my trust, and a servant I cannot trust is a servant I cannot employ."
It was an understandable sentiment, but it troubled Cora that he had come to that decision without attempting to understand the complexities of Sally's mind or circumstances. Was there a reason he had not involved his housekeeper in his decision? Surely, as the manager of the housemaids and the object of Sally's deceit, Cora ought to have been consulted, or at the very least informed, on what was to be done with Sally before it was done. Was that not the proper way of things?
Cora bit down on her lower lip and chose her next words with caution. "As your housekeeper, is it not my responsibility to manage the housemaids?"
"In most circumstances, yes."
"Is there a reason why you did not discuss the matter with me before you dismissed Sally?" Cora asked, hoping he wouldn't find the question impertinent.
He lifted a brow. "What would have been the point? Involving you would have only complicated matters, and I wanted it finished. A few hours ago, I was informed of Sally's trickery by another servant and took it upon myself to handle the situation, which I have done. And now you have been informed as well." He paused, scrutinizing her. "Your position is now secure and a certain housemaid who has brought you nothing but grief will no longer be employed here. I would have thought such news would be cause for celebration, and yet you do not strike me as relieved or happy by the turn of events tonight."
Cora could understand his confusion. Even she did not comprehend her emotions at the moment. She only knew that something still troubled her, like a nagging, forgotten memory. It prodded and poked, pressing her to understand the situation better.
She turned to face Mr. Ludlow, and in so doing pressed her knee against his. A jolt of something warm and sweet ran through her body, muddling her mind further. She drew back a little but held his gaze as she attempted to gather her loose thoughts and weave them together with a little more clarity.
"I know how much you value honesty, Mr. Ludlow, and I hope you feel as though you can be equally honest with me as well." She paused, searching his face. "Did you not involve me in this decision because you thought me incapable of dealing with Sally on my own?"
His mouth remained straight and his eyes guarded, giving away nothing. "I have had a great deal more experience in these matters, Mrs. Notley. But pray tell, if I had passed the responsibility to you, how would you have handled the situation?"
"I do not know," she answered. "I have never been faced with such a circumstance. But now that you have taken it upon yourself to set things to rights, I suppose I will never know, will I?" Cora's brow furrowed. He spoke so passionately about the importance of trust, and yet he did not trust her—at least not in the way she wanted him to. That knowledge hurt worse than any cruel comment Sally had ever made. Cora could not say why Mr. Ludlow's good opinion meant so much to her, only that it did, and she felt a great desire to prove her worthiness.
As a housekeeper, she quickly amended, knowing she was coming dangerously close to forgetting the reason she should care.
When Mr. Ludlow finally spoke, his voice was quiet and firm. "As your employer, I am not required to ask your permission or seek your advice as to whether or not I should dismiss a deceitful housemaid."
Cora chilled and stiffened, telling herself she should be grateful for the set down. It put her firmly back in her place and reminded her that she had no right to question his decisions or ask anything of him. Would she never learn?
Her gaze dropped to the floor and she nodded. "Pray forgive my impertinence, Mr. Ludlow, and accept my heartfelt gratitude for discovering what Sally was about. It is a great relief to know I am still employed."
He sighed, slid off his stool, and stood, holding out his hand to her. She tentatively placed her fingers in his, and a delightful sensation bubbled up her arm and down her spine as he pulled her to her feet. He kept hold of her hand as he said, "There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Notley. I suppose I should have discussed the matter with you before speaking with Sally, but I cannot turn the clock back now and alter the events of this night no matter how much you or I might wish it. I can, however, attempt to make amends by staying out of matters from this point on and allowing you to choose Sally's replacement. Does that sound like a fair compromise?"
Cora felt a great urgency to put some space between her and the man who was causing her heart to pound in a most alarming way—partly because of his nearness and partly because of the task he'd just given her. She gently pulled her fingers from his grasp so she could give the matter some more thought.
Was he truly trying to make amends or was this his way of ridding himself of a responsibility he'd rather not bear? From the glint of humor in his eyes, it was likely the latter, and Cora had played neatly into his hands. He knew very well that she would have no idea how to go about hiring a replacement for Sally, and yet he'd just placed her in a position where her only response could be gratitude.
"You've played your hand well, sir," Cora finally said with a hint of a smile. "Touché."
His lips quirked into an answering grin. "You did imply that you wanted to prove how capable you are, did you not?"
She laughed. "I believe my tongue gets the better of me at times."
"Only sometimes?"
"Perhaps more often than not."
He chuckled and lifted his hand as if to touch her cheek, thought better of it, and let it fall back to his side. He cleared his throat and withdrew a step. "A few hours ago, I worried that it was you I would have to dismiss. But now… well, let's just say that I am very glad it did not come to that."
The warmth in his gaze set her heart to pounding yet again, and Cora felt an urgent need to lighten the heaviness his words had created.
"I knew the lavender cloth would grow on you in time. Or was it the cayenne in your tea? Or perhaps you've a fondness for the, er… crispy pastries I made yesterday? Yes, I can certainly see why you are glad I shall remain."
He grinned. "Life is certainly not dull with you here, is it?"
"That is a kind way of phrasing it, but I'm certain you wish it would be a little duller at times, such as today with your guests, perhaps?"
Cora wished her words back immediately. She disliked the creases that appeared on his forehead and the firm set in his jaw. Seconds ago, his dimple had made an appearance, only to be scared away by the reminder of a ruined evening.
"The fault for today lay at Sally's door and not yours," he said.
"If it is any consolation," said Cora, "men who flee at the sight of a reptile, a little smoke, and a horrid stench are obviously people who crumple under pressure fairly easily. Are those really the sort of men you wish to do business with? Like it or not, perhaps Sally did you a favor."
Amazingly enough, the creases smoothed from his forehead and the worry cleared from his eyes. Though his dimple did not return, his jaw relaxed, and a hint of a smile tipped the edges of his lips. "You are quite right, Mrs. Notley, though I still cannot forgive Sally."
"I pity her then. To lose your good opinion would be a sorry plight indeed. I certainly would not wish it."
"And why is that?" He peered at her in earnest and moved a smidge closer, making the air feel thicker and harder to breathe.
Cora wanted to move nearer as well, but the knowledge frightened her into retreating a step. She made her voice sound as flippant as possible. "If I lost your good opinion, I would be out of a job, would I not? And likely without a reference, too." The reminder of Sally made her frown, and she found herself thinking once more about the maid.
"Do you pity her?" he asked, his tone curious.
"I do," Cora answered. "It is a dreadful thing to have to endure the consequences of one's own making."
He nodded. "I agree, but I still cannot pity her. Perhaps I lack your kindness and empathy."
"Some would consider it a weakness."
"And others an asset." His eyebrow quirked as though challenging her to refute the praise.
She shifted uncomfortably, wishing she could flee to her room—or even scuttle, for that matter. The late hour, the moonlight glistening across the brown waves of his hair, the way he spoke in dulcet tones—Cora's emotions had never experienced so much upheaval in such a short time. She could only pray that tomorrow would bring a return of normalcy and, with any luck, dullness, so she could go about her duties without the constant need of his intervention. It was the only way she could ever find peace at Tanglewood.
"I can see you are tired," he finally said. "How ill-mannered of me to keep you from your bed. I wish you a good night, Mrs. Notley."
"Thank you, sir." Cora did not hesitate in quitting the room. She stole up the stairs, changed into her nightclothes, and dropped down on her bed. Only then did she allow herself to think about her employer and wonder if she would have been better off if Sally had not been discovered and Mr. Ludlow had dismissed her instead.