Chapter 3
No. 14
An Everton lady must be in control of her emotions at all times.
—The Everton Companion
Rules of Conduct
Overstepping boundaries was a condition Phoebe was all too familiar with. People had been telling her all her life that she’d gone too far. Perhaps this time she had. Tugging the next dress out of her trunk, she could have kicked herself for being so harsh with Markus. She should have been gentler, but his neglect was so blatant.
“Why are you frowning so?” Arwen, her maid, asked, in a thick Scottish accent.
It reminded Phoebe of how much she missed the countryside of her mother’s people.
Arwen took the dress from her, shook it out, and hung it in the wardrobe.
Phoebe had helped the under-maid, Katy, dust the room and ready it for guests. Honoria and her maid, Margery, banged around in a similar room next door.
“I think I was too unkind to his lordship. He’s suffered so much.”
“Ach! Someone had to tell him true.” Arwen continued to pull dresses from the trunk, shake them, inspect them, and put them away.
Sitting on the bed, Phoebe traced the lace pattern in the coverlet. “I know, but if you could have seen his eyes and the pain in them, you could not have gone on as I did. Maybe I am as heartless as they say.”
As much friend as servant, Arwen dropped a pale blue gown back into the trunk and sat next to her. She took Phoebe’s hand in both of hers. “You are here because you have the kindest heart I know. You mustn’t let what a foolish group of men said ruin you for the rest. Gavin Durnst is no one and he’s hundreds of miles behind you now.”
Gavin and his friends in Scotland had spread rumors saying Phoebe was cold as Loch Ness and not half as interesting. He had been brutal, and those terrible words echoed inside her head as she shivered with regret over her treatment of Markus.
“He said I was only marrying him to keep order and peace. Maybe it is that warped sense of right and wrong that drives me to put Rosefield back together. Maybe it is why I joined the Everton Domestic Society and disappointed my family.” The set down flooded back to her as if her engagement had ended yesterday rather than a year earlier.
“A fool is what he was and you are much better off not married to a fool. In time, you would have come to know it and by then it might have been too late.” Arwen shook her head, stood and brushed out her skirts. “Now, you go get something to eat. You never eat enough and are far too skinny for good health. I’m sure there’s a bit of bread in the kitchen. Margery would thank you if you took her ladyship with you.”
“You are right as usual, Arwen. Thank you for being so good to me.” Having a friend through the last five years had been more blessing than Phoebe deserved.
Arwen dismissed the thanks while shooing her out the door.
Phoebe knocked on Honoria’s door.
“Enter,” Honoria called from within.
Pushing the door open revealed Honoria wearing three hats and at least forty pieces of jewelry. She had wrapped herself in three capes, which she favored as part of her evening ensembles. Grinning, Honoria pranced around the room as if playing to an audience.
“What on earth are you doing?” It was impossible for Phoebe to hide her amusement.
“I am enjoying the fruits of my labor.”
Sweat plastered Margery’s graying curls to her forehead and neck as she rolled her eyes.
“What labor is that?” Phoebe closed the door and plucked one hat from Honoria’s head.
Stopping her parade of one, Honoria stood, arms akimbo. “I married three useless but wealthy men so that I might have all of these lovely things. Why should I not enjoy them?”
“I thought you said you loved William Wharton.”
A weepy smile came over Honoria’s face at the mention of her first husband. “William was handsome, charming and of a good family. I love him still.” She sighed. “He also left me quite a lot of money, which I live very well from. The other two were kind enough to leave this earth before me and supplement my finances. I even managed to gain a title from the last one, making it possible for me to do as I please.”
“You sound quite mercenary. Why do you work if you have the fruits of your labor, as you call it?” Stomach rumbling, Phoebe plopped down in a chair by the empty hearth.
Honoria chuckled. “Do I? I like the sound of me being mercenary. I work for Lady Jane because I like to keep busy. There is no fun sitting home alone, waiting for invitations. When you are old, no one is interested in having you at their ball or house party. With Everton’s I get to travel with lovely young women who all have interesting stories and assignments.” She flung a hat across the room and it landed on the bedpost. Delight lit her face. She tried the same with the last feathered confection. This one missed flying out the window by an inch before landing on the floor.
“Madam,” Margery scolded. “Miss, please take her for a walk or something.”
Laughing, Phoebe stood. “I came to see if you wanted to go with me to the kitchen to beg a bit of bread before dinner. I am half-starved.”
“Oh yes, you are skin and bones. Let’s get you fed.” Honoria pulled off the capes, dropped them on a chair and removed several rings and bracelets. It took a few minutes, but she pared it down to just a matching sapphire set.
“That is still too much for a kitchen raid, I think.”
Crinkling her nose, Honoria frowned. “I suppose so. When we get this house in order, you and I will go to London, where we shall attend every ball and party and wear every piece of my jewelry.”
“A fine idea.” When the last of Honoria’s trinkets lay on the writing desk, they left Margery to her work and took the main stairs down.
Downstairs, on the main floor, they walked through the empty dining room. The windows stood seven feet tall and muted sun shone through the dust and grime. The gardens were more wilderness than most English estates could bear, a reminder that the gardener had been sacked as well. She made a mental note to add it to her list.
“Phoebe, I think I will explore the garden. I could do with some air and I am not very hungry.” Already headed to the French doors at the far end of the room, she drifted out of sight.
Through the archway at the other end of the room, Phoebe entered a butler’s pantry and discovered the steps leading down to the servant level, hidden behind a door made to blend with the woodwork. She admired the clever construct. The warm aroma of coffee drifted up from the kitchen and Phoebe followed it. Large and clean, the kitchen was a huge contrast to the rest of the unkempt house. A loaf of fresh bread cooled on the counter near the oven. Yeasty and familiar, it made her stomach growl.
“If you are willing to risk Becca’s wrath, I will take a piece as well,” Markus said.
Phoebe spun toward his voice.
Markus sat alone at the long farm table. Coffee cup cradled between both his hands, he watched her. “Sorry. I did not mean to startle you.”
“What are you doing here?” The question snapped out more from her initial surprise than anger. Still, she cringed at how peevish she sounded.
“I live here. Why are you angry with me, or are you always so quick to annoyance, Miss Hallsmith?”
The fight went out of her. It was a flaw in her character. Father had said her red hair made her fiery. Mother blamed Father’s indulgence. Phoebe had only herself to blame. A lady should be in control at all times. “I suppose that is one of my failings, my lord. I am short tempered, though I am working to improve myself.”
There was no joy in his laugh, but it was better than no laugh at all. “Emma was always even tempered, but I often could get her riled up. It was one of my great joys.” His eyes widened and he took his hands away from the cup. “I think that is the first happy thought I have had since…”
There was no need to tell her when his last happy moment had been. Phoebe sat across from him. “I hope you will remember many more to overshadow the one horrible memory.”
This time his smile brightened his eyes. “There are a thousand wonderful ones.”
“Perhaps you might focus on those and be thankful you had someone who gave you such joy, even if it was only for a short time.”
He stared into his coffee before he took a sip. “Some things are easier said than done, Miss Hallsmith. I am sorry to hear about your grandmother. Emma thought you a saint for going and taking care of her.”
Emma might have been the only one with that sentiment. Her mother had made her disappointment clear, saying Scotland was a waste of time and demanding Phoebe go to London and find a husband before it was too late. “No one else in the family was equipped to nurse, and I was the only unmarried female of an age. I loved my Grand very much. It was an honor to make her last years comfortable.”
He cocked his head. “How old were you?”
“Eighteen.” She blurted it out before she realized it was an impertinent question. The solitude of the kitchens made their conversation more intimate. She should leave.
“You gave up a lot then. I’m surprised your family allowed you to go and stay for so long.” He sipped his coffee and his chest rose and fell in a deep breath.
A change of subject was in order. “Did Becca brew you that coffee?”
“Yes. Then she ran off complaining about all the work she had yet to do today.”
“Do you know if the larder is kept locked?” She breathed in the warm bread scent and her mouth watered.
The light returned to his face. “I do not believe so.”
“If you will find us some butter, I will take my chances and cut that scrumptious smelling bread before Becca can stop me.”
He was up and moving down a narrow hall before she’d finished spelling out the plan.
Her stomach made another complaint about the lack of food she’d consumed that day. She rubbed away the grumbling and had to admit her clothes were ill fitted since Grand’s death and joining Everton’s a year earlier. Placing two plates on the table, she pushed aside her sorrow, cut two thick slices and placed them on plates. The soft center was still warm enough to steam, and Phoebe placed one in front of Markus and sat behind the other.
He offered a butter knife to her.
“Are you being a gentleman or are you afraid of your own servant?” She scooped out a good amount of the sweet churned cream and smeared it from end to end of her bread before handing the knife back.
With a wipe of his index finger he tasted the butter before spreading it on his own bread. “Both.”
The bread was crisp on the outside and warm and soft on the inside. Yeast, flour, butter in perfect proportions until Phoebe’s toes curled with delight. “It will be worth a scolding. This is scrumptious.”
Nodding, he took another bite. “I know we are in need of a proper cook, but perhaps keeping Becca in the kitchen would be advantageous.”
“Mmm.” Phoebe tasted the warm richness of honey in the mix. Her senses overflowed with each bite.
“I hope the two of you are enjoying that bread, as you’ll have none with your dinner now.” Becca narrowed her gaze from the doorway.
Before the maid-turned-cook could give them a scolding, Phoebe spoke around a mouthful. “We were just discussing whether or not you might prefer to stay in the kitchen after I hire on more help, Becca.”
She uncrossed her arms and took a step toward the table. Her cheeks pinked and she stared, wide-eyed. “You mean become a proper cook and not clean and wash?”
“If that would interest you. I have only had this wondrous bread, but I hear you have been doing a fine job in the kitchen. Is that something you might like to do permanently?” Phoebe popped the last crumb in her mouth.
“Is that possible, my lord?” Becca’s voice filled with wonder and she bounced in place.
He, too, ate every last crumb on his plate. “You have a knack for cooking. If you would like the promotion I see no reason to hold you back, unless you have other aspirations.”
“I’m just an under-maid.” Her voice shook.
Phoebe loved how excited Becca was. “Now you are the cook to a viscount, Becca. I will find a few more maids tomorrow. After you have completed your duties for today, you may consider this your last day as an under-maid. See me tomorrow and we will speak of the increase in your wages.”
Markus got up and held his hand out toward Becca.
She took it and they shook on the matter.
“I wish you good luck, Becca. Well done.” He left and his heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs until the upper door closed.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Miss,” Becca said.
Getting up, Phoebe felt better than she had in years. At least she’d made a difference in one person’s life. She stacked her plate on top of Markus’s. “No need to thank me. You have weathered the worst of the storm and earned your promotion. If the bread is any indication, this household is in for a treat with you as cook.”
Becca took the plates and knife from Phoebe. “I’ll take care of this, Miss. You should rest awhile. You look a bit pale.”
Touching her cheek, she stalled a wave of weariness. “It has been a busy week with leaving one assignment and starting another. I think I will lie down for a while. Thank you, Becca.”
* * * *
Her second day at Rosefield was filled with cleaning, polishing, and making lists of what needed to be done. She’d barely spent a moment where she didn’t see something out of order or misused. It would take time to put it all back together.
At dinner Phoebe had difficulty working up an appetite for the lovely fish Becca had prepared. If Honoria’s oohs and aahs were to be believed, it was all exceptional.
Unable to sleep, Phoebe threw off her covers and opened the window. Cool night air relieved the stifling heat from the fire in the hearth. She would ask the maid to refrain from making such a large fire for her. She hated sleeping in a hot room.
It had been foolish to come here and try to fix Emma’s husband and daughter. Perhaps the policy Lady Jane had about not sending ladies who were familiar with the family was a good one. The state of Rosefield and the family broke her heart. She saw how familiarity could be distracting from the task at hand.
Toads croaked out their song in the distance and crickets sang their last refrains before the night grew cold and all would be quiet. England seemed tamer than Scotland. The wilderness of her grandmother’s lands and farm were twice as loud in the night. Sighing, she pulled her wrap from the chair and stepped into her slippers. Perhaps some warm milk would help her sleep.
Rosefield creaked and groaned as she padded down the steps and through dark halls. Her nerves were on edge, and all the unexplained noises didn’t help. Expecting a ghost to jump out at her, she clutched her wrap and rushed down the servants’ stairs.
A lit candle in the kitchen flooded her with relief.
Markus turned toward her from the other end of the kitchen.
Shock and interest gripped her middle. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here, Miss Hallsmith.” He made a courtly bow. “And I have it on good authority there are chocolate biscuits in this room.”
The words chocolate and biscuits were enough to stop her heart. “Becca puts chocolate in the biscuits?”
“Watson told me it was an experiment that went very well.” He opened a jar and closed it again, frowning.
Lining the back counter were a dozen jars of various sizes and colors. The faded blue with an oversized round handle said sweets to Phoebe. She pointed, excitement making her mouth water. “Try that one.”
He lifted the lid and held his candlestick over the top. A wide grin spread across his face. Jar in one hand and candle in the other, he turned and put both in the middle of the table. “How did you know?” He went to the hamper, kept at the bottom of the pantry, and retrieved a bottle of milk. Brushing sawdust from the outside of the bottle, Markus brought the milk to the table.
Pulling two glasses from the shelf, Phoebe said, “It looks exactly like the jar in my grand’s kitchen. I could always find a biscuit or two in that jar when I could not sleep.”
He poured them each a glass of cool milk and waited for her to sit.
It wasn’t ladylike to rush into sticking her hand in the jar, but the idea of a chocolate confection exceeded any embarrassment. Chocolate and butter, along with the dark brown richness…She couldn’t wait an instant. The combination of sweet and bitter melted in her mouth. Perfection. She closed her eyes and let the flavors envelop her. Her senses came alive with the new and wonderful discovery.
“I think I could spend a good deal of time watching you eat, Miss Hallsmith.”
Dear God, she’d forgotten he was there. “It is quite good, my lord.”
“I hardly want to taste it myself for fear it cannot live up to the expression on your face.” He sniffed the cookie.
A bout of giggles welled up from her center. The chocolate might have been spirits for how silly she felt. “You should see for yourself. It is delicious.”
He took a bite. “Mmm.” Closing his eyes, he chewed and smiled. “You were right. This is delicious. Perhaps these could replace my drinking habit.”
“Then you would grow fat, my lord.”
Raising a brow, he sighed and ate the rest. “Perhaps, but I would be sober.”
She took a drink of milk. “I am pleased that you have not had a drink tonight. It cannot be easy.”
“I could not sleep.”
“Nor I, but with not so good a reason.” She pulled another biscuit from the jar and ate.
Rounding the table, he took his handkerchief from his pocket. “You have as much reason as anyone.”
“Have I?” she asked.
His eyes glimmered like a deep lake in the candlelight. The spark of something lit them in a way she had not noticed earlier in the day. He closed the gap between them.
Her heart pounded against her chest.
Leaning down, he said, “You have milk on your lip, Miss Hallsmith.” Hesitating with his handkerchief raised, he handed it to her.
She dabbed away the mustache and wondered at how close he’d come to doing it himself. Embarrassment and the energy of his closeness merged until she didn’t know which was more acute. “If you like, you may call me Phoebe.”
He eased back and met her gaze looking at her as if he was seeing her for the first time and seeing more than the girl who’d come to visit Emma. “Indeed?”
“We will be living in the same house for a few weeks, perhaps months. It seems silly to continue with so much formality.” She was making a fool of herself, not to mention breaking another companion rule, though she forgot which one. He would think she had no manners or sense of propriety. “In Scotland, it was less formal. I suppose I preferred that to how it is here in England. I apologize if I have offended you, my lord.” She stood, grabbed a third sweet and backed toward the door.
“You are running away.” He sat.
“I am just going to bed. We should have warmed the milk. It would have helped our sleep.”
Staring at his handkerchief, he shook his head. “I would be honored to call you Phoebe in private if you will call me Markus.”
A boulder settled in her throat. She was losing her mind. This was Emma’s husband, and she was the disowned daughter of the viscount of Thornbury and had three brothers to boot. She was no one and would never be anyone but the disappointing old maid and daughter of a wealthy gentleman. Whatever admiration she had seen in his eyes was only a trick of candlelight. Her heart beating like a hell-bound carriage was due to the late hour and lack of food and sleep. Chocolate was like coffee. It had been a mistake to eat it so late. She drew a long breath. “We have made progress, my lord.”
He cocked his head.
“Markus. I apologize. We are on speaking terms. It will be no time at all that your house and daughter are taken care of and you will be rid of me.”
Sorrow eased back into his eyes. “Good night, Phoebe.”
She ran up the steps, down the hall, and into her bedroom as fast as her feet could take her. The biscuit crumbled in her fist by the time she pressed her back to the inside of the door. Tossing it in the trash bin, she lamented the waste of such a treat, but she’d gone downstairs to ease her insomnia and found only things that would keep her awake.
Maybe she should have stayed in London.