Chapter 1
Harriet Anderson had long ago realized she would never light up a room with her bubbly personality, would never make a man’s head turn with her beauty, would never provoke anyone’s interest. She was a dimmer version of her sister, Clara, a shadow in the moonlight, not quite seen.
What a glorious thing that was.
Harriet knew that her friends felt sorry for her. Poor Harriet, so shy, so reserved. So free.
Just that afternoon, her parents and sister had climbed aboard a carriage for a three-hour drive to visit some distant relative who’d mentioned they were hosting Baron Such-and-Such, a widower with seven children. Harriet had been excused, much to her delight. They would be staying overnight at least, which meant Harriet had twenty-four hours of doing whatever she liked. Clara, ever cheerful, scrambled aboard the carriage and waved good-bye, completely oblivious to the unfairness of leaving Harriet behind. Harriet never complained, for the times her parents were gone were perhaps the most wonderful days of the year. Being dragged around whilst they showed off their elder daughter was something Harriet didn’t miss in the least.
Truth be told, it was embarrassing the way her mother pushed Clara in front of every titled man in her vicinity. Her parents and their ancestors had come from strong Cornish stock, working men and women, the sort who never would dream of being more than they were. But her father, through grit and hard work and a great deal of luck, had managed to accumulate enough money to buy one of the many tin mines in Cornwall. The mine had been abandoned years before and thought tapped out, but her father had a sixth sense about such things and purchased it for a pittance. And now they were rich, so rich that an impoverished lord just might be persuaded to marry a woman far below his station. Or so her mother hoped. Clara was beautiful and her dowry was impressive, and for those reasons she had garnered quite a bit of attention over the years, though her heart had never been engaged. At twenty-four years old, Clara was still lovely and youthful and had stirred the heart of many a man.
Harriet, on the other hand, counted herself lucky if anyone asked her to dance at the limited balls she attended. On those rare occasions when she was asked, her mother would critique her the way a director critiques an actor’s performance. You laughed too loudly. You smiled too much. Why didn’t you smile? Did he ask about Clara? You really mustn’t dance the reel—you’re much too clumsy. And so, she was rather relieved when no one did ask her, for her mother would always make her feel stupid and silly. It used to hurt far more than it did now, but it did still hurt a bit, to be that unwanted child who never could match her mother’s great expectations. She couldn’t change her sex; nor could she become another Clara. And that was enough for her parents to dismiss her as a being who lived in their house but had nothing at all to do with their life.
Any time that hurt made her stomach clench, Harriet would push it down and remember that she had the afternoon free to do as she pleased. She could walk to the shore, work on her needlepoint, sing badly in her room, read a book. This time, she’d had quite a bit of notice of their little trip, so Harriet had enthusiastically arranged a luncheon with her friends, something she was very much looking forward to.
Her closest friend, Alice, was recently married and just beginning to show her pregnancy. Such an odd thing to think about, that a little being was growing inside Alice, the same girl she used to make paper dolls with.
Looking in the mirror, Harriet stuck out her tongue at her reflection and laughed. Sometimes she would look at Clara, then into her mirror, and find it startling how much plainer she was than her sister. It was not self-pity, not every time at any rate, but rather a pragmatism that had made her realize long ago she would never be a beauty like Clara. Perhaps it would have bothered her if Clara had been mean or vain, but her sister was kind and sweet and Harriet loved her dearly. Two years ago, Harriet stopped trying to be lovely, to wear the latest fashions, to ask her mother to buy new gowns each year. Perhaps the worst of it was that no one even noticed.
Harriet smiled at her reflection, then tilted her jaw. She wasn’t ugly. In fact, if she turned her head just so, she was actually pretty. Narrowing her eyes, Harriet studied herself objectively and came away moderately pleased with her appearance. Her dress was a dark gray, which complemented her light blue eyes, and her hair, usually a frizzy mess, held a few soft curls. Those curls were thanks to the light oil the girls’ maid had given her, and Harriet made a mental note to thank Jeanine for her hair tonic. If she were going out, Jeanine would usually iron Harriet’s hair, then take the stiff, coarse results and apply an iron to curl a few select locks. But with Jeanine completely occupied by Clara, Harriet had simply brushed out her hair, applied the tonic, and pulled it back into a tight knot, allowing a few tendrils to spring loose.
As Harriet left the house, she kept an eye out for their housekeeper, whom she suspected reported to her mother any transgression. It was easy enough to thwart the woman; Harriet had long ago realized no one, including her mother, could fault her for “going for a walk.” And if Harriet happened to walk to St. Ives village and meet her friends, who was to be the wiser? Sometimes she wished she had something more adventurous to do, something slightly dangerous, so she could really feel victorious.
Today, a walk into St. Ives was enough adventure for her. It was a lovely morning, with a brisk wind blowing off the Atlantic, making her cheeks pink. She huddled into her old woolen coat and adjusted the soft wool scarf around her neck. It was October, and though it never got too cold in St. Ives, it was a day that called for a thick coat and a soft scarf.
When she reached the cobbled streets of the village, her boots tapped loudly, a sound that made her smile, for it meant she would soon see her friends. Teague’s Tea House was a favorite of the villagers, and on this day it was fairly crowded with patrons. Harriet liked going there because she always felt so sophisticated, taking tea in a shop rather than at home. The store held a half-dozen small tables with smooth white linen table cloths, and the soft clink of silverware and china, as well as the soft murmur of voices, always made Harriet feel a small rush of warmth. When the Teagues had first opened the tea house, the locals thought it a bit grand, but over the years it had become a popular place for both visitors and natives.
“Hello, Miss Anderson,” Mrs. Teague called out. Harriet often wondered if the Teagues truly liked having a tea shop or if they felt it was necessary to take advantage of their last name, but she was too shy to ask.
In the far corner, she saw her friends—Alice, Eliza, and Rebecca. Eliza and Rebecca were staring rapt at Alice’s tummy, slightly rounded, as if it were some sort of oddity. The first of them to marry, the first to have a child, Alice was a bit of a celebrity amongst them. When they spied Harriet coming toward their small group, they stood, smiling widely, happy she was able to come that day. When her mother was home, she was not allowed to go into the village without a chaperone—and one was rarely available, as her mother was always too busy to accompany her.
“I don’t mean to be terrible, but I’m awfully glad your mother is traveling,” Alice said, giving her friend a hug. Her belly got in the way a bit, and Harriet laughed at the feeling.
“You’re so round,” she said. It had been a few weeks since Harriet had seen Alice, who had recently been in London.
“I know. My mother is already admonishing me to not go out. ‘No one wants to see that,’ she says.” Alice laughed. “If Queen Victoria could go out in public en famile, then I can too. That’s what I told her anyway.”
“And how did your mother respond?”
Alice wrinkled her nose, her green eyes bright. “She said Queen Victoria set a bad example for all women.” This she said in a whisper, as if she were committing some sort of treasonous act.
Once they were all seated, they caught up on each other’s news. Alice, of course, had the most to relay, having been recently to London and being newly married. For the first time in her life, Harriet was jealous of a married woman. Perhaps it was because Alice seemed so completely happy, as if a new and brilliant light shined from within her. Or perhaps Harriet was, for the first time, aware that she might never find what Alice had. Any awkwardness she’d felt over Alice marrying Henderson Southwell had long since dissipated. When Harriet was a girl, she’d had a terrible crush on Henderson. She’d treated it as a lark, but she’d truly liked him, had dreamed that perhaps one day he would return to St. Ives and realize he liked her too. Instead, he’d returned and realized he was in love with Alice. Harriet hadn’t been devastated by any means, but it had served as a reminder to her that she might not find love.
When conversation lulled, Rebecca pulled out a silk scarf and said, “Let’s play the game. Harriet, will you?”
Harriet groaned, even as her friends expressed their support of Rebecca’s suggestion. Despite her groan, Harriet was secretly pleased; her memory was the only singular thing about her. She would never be the most beautiful or talented or lively, but no one could recall details the way she did. As a girl, she hadn’t realized she held any special talent for memorization. It was little things, like her sister misplacing a book or a maid unable to find a particular hair piece, that tipped her off. Harriet always knew where everything was, because the minute someone would mention a missing article, a picture appeared in her head of its exact location. Recognizing her ability one day, Clara blindfolded Harriet and started quizzing her. What color tie does the man in the painting wear? Is the blue vase to the left or the right of the statue on the mantel? It didn’t matter how small the detail, Harriet knew it. And so was born the game.
Rebecca jumped up and placed the blindfold across Harriet’s eyes, and the three other women started peppering her with questions. Around them, the other patrons grew quiet as they watched the game unfold.
“What color flowers are in the vase on the counter?” someone called out.
Harriet started, realizing others were listening, but she smiled. “Come, now, that’s hardly a challenge. Yellow.”
More patrons called out their questions, and Harriet laughed. For a girl who did not like to be in crowds, this was somehow wonderful. Perhaps it was because she was blindfolded and could not see them gawking at her. Or perhaps it was because she was among her friends. Normally painfully shy, she felt almost not herself.
“On the shelf, there are three containers, each with a different picture. Tell me, in order from left to right, what pictures are on those containers.”
Harriet straightened, and beneath the blindfold, she furrowed her brows. That deep baritone, commanding yet somehow tinged with something close to…fear? She knew that voice. Her memory for sounds wasn’t quite like her memory for sights, but somewhere in her mind, trying to get out, was a name…
“Lord Berkley,” she said, slightly louder than a whisper. They had met once, at the John Knill ball. Alice’s husband had introduced them, and he’d muttered a proper greeting, thoroughly distracted by the sight of Clara, who had been especially pretty that night. It had been a small moment, a snippet in time, but Harriet still remembered feeling suddenly more alive than she ever had in her life because he was just that beautiful. And then he’d walked away, without even really looking at her.
She could almost see his mouth lift in a slight smile as she said his name before he replied simply, “Yes.”
“Three containers.” She looked through the pictures in her mind. She’d been in this tea shop on numerous occasions, and she waded through the images until, finally, she found the right one. Tucked up high, so high she couldn’t imagine there was anything stored in them that was used on a regular basis, were three small white ceramic containers with red lids and small rounded filials on top.
“On the left is a picture of a man on a horse.” She stopped, looking at that image. “And there’s a dog, running beside the horse.”
“Go on,” Berkley said, and Harriet couldn’t help thinking that he wasn’t nearly as calm as he sounded, though she couldn’t have said why she felt so.
“In the middle is a small cottage, with a tree on the…right. A woman is standing in the door. And on the right is a horse and carriage, with a man wearing a top hat.”
* * * *
Augustus stared at the small containers as this woman, this ordinary woman, perfectly described the containers. She sat with Alice Southwell, his good friend’s wife, and two other women he vaguely recalled seeing before. The blindfolded one sat straight, her head tilted to one side as if she could see through the blindfold, though he was quite certain she could not. She was facing away from the containers at any rate.
When he’d walked into the tea shop, as he did nearly every day about this time, he sat by himself with his copy of the Times and ignored everyone else around him. Once in a great while, someone would acknowledge his presence, but these occasions were rare enough to make the shop pleasant. He’d seen Mrs. Southwell enter, but chose to pretend he didn’t, and lifted up the newspaper, hiding his face from view.
Two other women entered, and Augustus took the time to note how pretty they were. One with deep auburn hair, the other with hair thick and black and curling, and both with fine figures. He was tempted for just a moment to make his presence known to Mrs. Southwell, who would certainly have introduced him to her two pretty friends. While they looked familiar, he was quite certain he’d never met them formally; he would have remembered both of their lovely faces.
Shortly after the women arrived, a fourth entered, smiling a greeting at her friends. She was exceptionally ordinary, wearing an ill-fitting gown that was too loose and too ugly to even contemplate. If she had a figure, it was certainly hidden by that gown. Her hair was neither blond nor brown, the color and texture of straw, and the hat she wore was something his dear grandmamma might have worn. He dismissed her immediately. Life was too short to waste any thought on such a creature.
Picking his newspaper up again, he continued reading, only to be interrupted a short time later by raucous laughter of a type never heard in Teague’s Tea Shop. Lowering the paper, he glared in the direction of the noise, only to be surprised by the subject of everyone’s attention. The fourth woman was wearing a blindfold, facing him, and, oddly enough, he was fascinated by her mouth. He hadn’t noticed it when she’d first come in, but her mouth was the sort that drew a man’s attention—soft and pink and plush. He could stare at that pink flesh all day, he decided.
It didn’t take long to get the gist of what game they were playing, and at first Augustus thought it was some sort of trick the girl was playing. No one could recall with such uncanny accuracy the details she did. The questions, he realized, were easy enough. Even he was able to get one or two without looking. But as her audience became more demanding, more particular, more obscure with their questions, Augustus realized he was witnessing something extraordinary.
That was when a painful idea bloomed in his chest. A woman who could recall such detail would be invaluable to a man who was trying to restore his ruined house. Costille’s public rooms, the ones that held the most historical value, had been obliterated by his late wife and he had no idea how to go about restoring them. Tapestries, coats of arms, mosaics, paintings, furniture, chandeliers, centuries of collections, all ripped from their foundations and thrown haphazardly into a large barn on the property. He’d stood there amidst the ruin and wanted to weep, for he had no idea where anything went, and it had become critical that everything be restored to its rightful place. If this woman had toured his house as so many had over the years, she could be his savior. It almost unmanned him, the hope that bloomed in his heart.
She pulled off the blindfold and looked up at him, and he realized with a start that this plain woman had yet another remarkable feature—pale blue eyes, the irises rimmed with a blue so deep it was nearly black.
“I have one more question for you,” he said, his heart pounding in his chest even as he silently chastised himself for his hope. “Have you ever toured Costille House?”
Her beautiful lips turned up in a smile. “Indeed, I have, my lord. Twice, as a matter of fact.”
Augustus took a step back, her words too perfect even to contemplate. “Allow me to introduce myself—”
“We have met, my lord. At the John Knill ball.” She looked down at the table, annoyingly shy or coy, and Augustus wondered what he could have said or done at the ball to create such a reaction to his presence. “Mr. Southwell introduced us.” She looked over at Alice Southwell and let out a small laugh. “It was at that very moment you saw my sister, Clara Anderson.”
He hadn’t the first idea what she was talking about. Oh, he remembered Clara Anderson; she was not the type of woman easily forgotten. But he had no recollection of being introduced to anyone at the John Knill… Then he remembered Henderson making some sort of introduction to something in a dress, but he’d already been looking at Clara, and once a man did that, nothing else mattered.
“Yes, Miss Anderson. I do recall now,” he said. He stopped and greeted the other women at the table, who were watching their exchange with interest.
“Would you like to join us, Lord Berkley?” Alice asked. It would hardly be comfortable, five around a table that was better suited for three, and Augustus had no desire to make idle chit-chat with the women. Besides, he didn’t miss the look of pure panic on Miss Anderson’s face when Mrs. Southwell issued that invitation.
“Thank you, no,” he said. What he needed to ask Miss Anderson required privacy and no doubt his most persuasive arguments. He had no idea what he would do if she said no to his proposition. Kidnapping might be one solution. But, no, it was bad enough he’d once been a murder suspect; he didn’t need kidnapping on his list of transgressions.
Augustus’s late father kept a book of secrets on nearly every man of importance in England, and he wondered if his sire had bothered to create a file on Mr. Anderson. Likely not, since the man was not involved in politics, but it was worth searching for if Miss Anderson decided not to help him. He wasn’t opposed to blackmail, even if the subject was a woman with lush, pink lips.
He waited for her outside a small distance away, pretending to enjoy the scenery of the place. As a boy, he’d spent most of his time in St. Ives; it was the home of his heart. These streets were familiar, like friends he hadn’t seen in decades—changed but somehow very much the same. When he was seven, his father had sent him away to school, and he returned only in the summer, angry and sullen but secretly exultant to be back home. He’d always feared that if he’d shown how very happy he was to be home, his father would not have allowed it. Now, with his father dead, Costille House was his, at least what was left of it.
Finally, the four women emerged, three with their brightly colored dresses: blue, yellow, burnished red. And then Miss Anderson in gray. They embraced, laughed at something Alice Southwell said, then split apart—two going north, Mrs. Southwell south, and Miss Anderson west. He waited for her to take a few steps before following behind, puzzled by the sudden change in her. She’d been lively in the little tea shop, eyes sparkling, joyful, at least until he’d inserted himself into their game. Now as he watched, it seemed as if before his eyes she’d turned into another woman altogether. She walked quickly, head down, body tense, as if she were waiting for something to bound out and attack her. Her hands were fisted in her skirts, and he wondered if she were late and worried about being in some sort of trouble. Then she stopped abruptly outside a small shop and stared into the window, a small smile on her lips. Then, she hurried on, as if she’d reminded herself she was late for something.
It mattered naught if that were the case; Augustus needed to speak to her, needed to persuade her to help him.
“Miss Anderson,” he shouted, and she stopped still, the way a mouse does when a cat is about to pounce. Slowly she turned around and looked at him, eyes wide, rather horrified, he thought, that someone had dared call out to her in the middle of St. Ives.
“My lord,” she said, and gave him an awkward little curtsy, her cheeks flushed, her eyes not quite meeting his. Where had the girl from the tea shop gone?
* * * *
Harriet watched Lord Berkley walk toward her, slightly bothered that he took a moment to peer through the store window at what she’d been looking at. It was a silly thing, a porcelain figurine of a fairy sitting on a rock, but she’d secretly coveted it for a few weeks now, and always checked to be certain it was still there. As he approached her, she was unsure what she should do, and even whether he’d meant for her to stop. Perhaps, she thought, he was simply calling a hello. She hesitated as he approached, suddenly horrified by the thought he was going in the same direction as she and wanted company. She created a mental picture of Costille House and her house and realized he very likely was going in the same direction. What would possess him to call out to her like that? Anyone passing by would see her and him and report back to her mother. On that thought, she spun around and continued her hasty retreat home, only to have him call out to her again, laughter clear in his voice.
“Are we racing, then?” he asked, trotting up beside her.
She gave him a quick look, her feet moving even faster on the cobblestones. “I’m returning home, my lord.”
“Please, I have a question for you.”
Without slowing down, she said, “You may ask it.”
“I need your help, miss. I am restoring Costille House, you see, and I am having difficulties recalling precisely what it looked like prior to my wife’s renovations. I thought, with your proclivity for memorization, that perhaps...” He let his voice trail off.
Harriet stopped and stared ahead at the well-worn path that led to her family’s home. It was a gloriously sunny day, cold despite the sun, and the leaves on the trees created a colorful canopy overhead. She’d always loved walking this path in the fall, kicking up the leaves beneath her feet, gold, red and brilliant orange. After giving the path a look of longing, she turned to Lord Berkley.
He frightened her. It wasn’t that he was an earl—though that was a large part of it—but rather that he was so large, so powerful, so beautiful. In the tea shop, it had been easy to have a pleasant conversation with a stranger. Her friends had been nearby, laughing and having a grand time. She was always able to be comfortable when she was with Alice, Eliza, and Rebecca. They were as close to her as Clara was, and far more understanding.
Now, standing alone with him, his intense dark-blue eyes assessing her, his mouth set, stern and hard, she found it difficult to speak. Inside, her stomach tightened sickeningly, and for a moment, her mind went terribly blank.
“I…Are you quite all right, Miss Anderson?”
She lifted her head, blinking rapidly, wishing with all her being that he would go away. “What did you want, my lord?”
He let out a low chuckle. “I don’t plan torture or murder, miss.”
Harriet shot him a look, angry suddenly, that he should be so rude as to point out her very real fear of him. Oh, she didn’t believe he would harm her, but simply talking to him made her heart feel as though it was about to leap from her chest. “If you could more clearly state what you want, my lord.”
He narrowed his eyes, not liking her impertinence, but Harriet didn’t care. She wanted this interview over so that she might escape down the path and go home to her wonderfully empty house. “With your remarkable memory,” he said with what sounded like forced patience, “I thought that perhaps you could assist me in restoring my home to the way it was. I am at a loss and it is vital that Costille House be returned to her former state.”
“Her,” Harriet whispered, finding that a charming way to think of a house. She closed her eyes briefly, seeing in her mind the great hall, the massive fireplace, so large she could stand upright in it. An entire cow could have been cooked in that fireplace, and probably had. Both tours had been delightful, like stepping back to a time when knights were real, when ladies gave their lovers tokens before a joust. When she opened her eyes, she was almost startled to see Lord Berkley staring at her, impatient, almost angry.
“I will help you, Lord Berkley.”
His face was transformed by a sudden, brilliant smile. “Marvelous,” he said, clapping his hands together loudly and making Harriet flinch slightly. “Can you come with me now to take a look? I fear I may have understated the extent to which my wife changed Costille. It looks nothing like it did.”
“Now?” Harriet asked, slightly bewildered by this turn of events. “I must…” You must do nothing, she realized. No one expected her home; no one even knew where she was. “It happens I do have some time today, my lord.”
Her maid, Jeanine, had gone with Clara so that her sister might look her best when meeting the baron, so not even she would note her absence. Harriet rarely used her services, except when straightening her hair on infrequent occasions. Mostly, she combed out her thick curls, then forced them into a neat bun as she had done today. Any strands that escaped looked a bit like kinky, dead grass—at least that’s what Clara had said one day in jest. Clara had been blessed with burnished gold hair, thick and shining. More than once Jeanine had sighed with the pleasure of styling her sister’s hair. “It’s your glory, it is,” she’d say.
“Excellent. It’s only the public rooms, but they are the most historically important and most likely the ones you toured. They’d remained unchanged for three hundred years.” His mouth tightened. “Until recently, that is.”
As they walked, Harriet was profoundly aware of Lord Berkley next to her. They walked a distance apart, he slightly ahead for he hadn’t thought to shorten his stride to accommodate her smaller stature. Harriet found herself walking rather quickly in an effort to keep up with his seemingly casual stride.
“How much of the house do you remember? Anything is better than what I have now. When I think…” He slowed as if suddenly aware of how quickly she’d been walking in an attempt to keep up. “My pardon, Miss Anderson.” He slowed his gait, giving her a small, wry smile. “We had a small fire at Costille when I was a boy, and my father, realizing how close he’d come to losing the house, commissioned an artist to make careful drawings of every room. Each corner, each wall, each inch of that house was recorded and stored in my father’s library. My wife burned the drawings.”
Harriet gasped, stunned by the cruelty of such an act. What kind of hatred could have produced such animosity? And how much anger would such destruction incite in a man who loved his home? Harriet’s love of the macabre and her remarkable memory meant she was much aware of the mystery surrounding Lady Greenwich’s death, including the quick inquiry conducted by St. Ives’ sole constable. It had been reported in St. Ives’ newspaper, and she easily recalled the salient points: Found dead in the courtyard. Heard nothing. Saw nothing. I believe she had been drinking.
“My father, thank God, never saw Costille in her current form. So you see, Miss Anderson, you truly are my only hope of restoring her to her former glory. Do you truly think you can help? It must be years since you saw the place.”
Could she help? Certainly, she would not be able to help restore areas she had not seen, but she would be able to recall a great deal. She stopped walking and closed her eyes. “The entrance to the house is off a courtyard. The door is heavy, a dark wood, mahogany I think, carved with oak leaves and in one corner, the top right, is a clever little squirrel. The door opens to a large foyer. It’s lovely in the afternoon, for the sun streams through the high windows and I recall a large suit of armor, a very fierce-looking fellow. His suit had been engraved with little figures and there was a symbol, much like a figure eight.” She opened her eyes to find Lord Berkley staring at her as if she were some sort of apparition. “Do you know what those symbols were?”
His laughter took her off guard. “You are a miracle, Miss Anderson. I have no idea what that symbol meant, but that you recall it at all is remarkable. Come, let us not dawdle, there is much that needs to be done.” With a determined step, he began walking, again making Harriet hurry to keep up.
“All today?” Harriet asked breathlessly, getting caught up in his enthusiasm and forgetting for a moment that she was uncomfortable around strangers.
He looked back at her briefly. “I am anxious to get started, yes. Though today I will show you only the barn where the workers who destroyed my home threw nearly everything. They hadn’t any idea, I imagine, that they were destroying a piece of England’s history.”
A half hour later, the two stood outside a large, stone barn so distant from the house Harriet could see only the very top of the largest tower. She felt a small stab of disappointment that she would not be able to see the house today. Though it had been years since she’d toured it, when she’d walked its halls, seen the grandeur, the sheer size of the rooms, the thickness of the walls, it seemed almost enchanted. She’d been just twelve years old when she’d toured the house the first time and had gotten lost in the idea of ladies and the chivalrous knights who loved them. The romance of Costille House had stayed with her, drawing her in a way she couldn’t explain—which was why she’d toured the house again when she was sixteen when it finally reopened to tours. She would have gone a third time, to be honest, had the house been opened again.
Even the barn, a utilitarian building, was beautiful, with golden stones and mullioned windows that were kept meticulously clean. The door, as thick as her thigh, slid easily open, an engineering feat that was a marvel to see. Berkley grinned at her, obviously pleased with the mechanics. “There is nothing about this property that I do not love, Miss Anderson. I think you will better understand my urgency when you see the house, but for now, this should give you an idea of the task ahead of us.”
He stepped into the barn, and Harriet was struck by the enormity of the building, its strong beams crisscrossing the ceiling, dark with age. The roof soared above them, the windows letting in sharp streams of light through the dust in the air, stirred by the opened door. While Harriet was looking up, her breath caught in her throat at the beauty of the place, Berkley was looking down at the mess spread out on the floor. Finally, Harriet realized Berkley was silent and stiff beside her, and her eyes were drawn to a jumble of metal, wood, and furniture, strewn upon the floor by the uncaring workmen. The massive pile peaked in the center, its contents unrecognizable, though when Harriet looked further she was able to make out certain items—a heavy wooden chair, thick rugs, various frames which no doubt held ruined paintings.
“Oh,” she said.
Beside her, Berkley spun about and strode from the barn as if seeing the wreckage before him was too painful to bear.
At her feet was a small vase, perfect but for a tiny chip on the lip. She bent and picked it up, examining it more closely and running her thumb over the sharp edge of the chip. “This,” she said, walking toward him and holding the vase up, “was in a little alcove in the morning room.”
He gave her another one of his long stares. “You are hired.”
* * * *
“Hired?”
She looked at him as if he’d just asked her to help him rob a bank. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might be insulting her; she wasn’t a member of the aristocracy, after all, so being offered a position should not offend her sensibilities. At least he didn’t think so. “I’ve insulted you. I apologize.”
“No, no.” She scrunched up her forehead a bit, ostensibly thinking about his proposal. “I might not be able to come every day. Most days, yes. And of course never on Sunday.”
“Of course.” He found himself amused by her careful consideration.
“I hadn’t expected to be paid,” she said hesitantly. Most women did not work, did not earn money, unless they were of the lower classes. Her mother would be horrified, for she espoused the notion that women should not work and if they did, only for charitable institutions on a volunteer basis. She neatly forgot that she, herself, as a young woman worked as a seamstress before marrying her father, who had been nothing more than a foreman at a local tin mine.
“I certainly cannot ask you to spend your time working at Costille without some kind of compensation. Of course, I will have to speak with your father and ask his permission but—”
Her lovely eyes narrowed, and he realized he truly had insulted her this time. “That is entirely unnecessary. I am of age to make my own decisions.” Then she smiled, almost impishly. “Besides, he might forbid it.”
“Ah. I will pay you ten thousand pounds with a bonus if the final result of your labors meets my expectations. Does that sound fair?”
Her mouth opened slightly, and his eyes were drawn to those pink, plush lips. He immediately looked away, mildly curious why he was noticing them at all. Harriet Anderson was as plain as a little wren with her ugly, ill-fitting clothes and wiry, straw-like hair. She hardly had a bosom to speak of, and Augustus had always preferred curvaceous women. She was reed thin, pale, and forgettable—which likely explained why he really couldn’t recall meeting her at the John Knill ball, even though he’d said he did. Still, those lips were enticing and he might as well look at them as at any other part of her.
“Ten thousand,” she whispered. “Pounds?”
He chuckled. “Yes. Pounds. I do realize that is a great sum of money, but your worth to me is far greater than a few thousand pounds. You have given me back hope that I might restore my home to its grandeur, that its destruction will not rest upon my shoulders. For centuries, the Lawton family has guarded her, kept her safe, and she was nearly destroyed by my wife. I am to blame and I must rectify what has been done.” The Andersons were noveau riche, that gauche class peculiar to modern times. Though he was far less snobbish than many of his set, it still irked him, the way some of these newly rich put on elaborate shows of wealth, which Augustus thought spoke more of insecurity than anything else. Miss Anderson’s parents, sadly, were such examples, pushing their lovely daughter Clara toward anyone with a position or a title. How could someone like this girl even begin to understand the heavy mantle of a title and the burden it carried? “I would pay ten times that amount if it meant fully restoring the family legacy.”
She looked stunned. “Do you realize…No, you cannot. You cannot realize what such a sum could mean to me. My very own money, to do with as I please.” Her face was suddenly lit by a brilliant smile, and Augustus was taken aback at how it transformed her. This girl should smile more often, he thought, for if she did, she might even be considered pretty. “Yes, Lord Berkley, I agree to your terms. Of course, I do. I’d be mad not to. Oh, yes.” Beneath her dull, gray skirts, she gave a small hop of what could only be described as pure joy.
“We shall begin in two days. Tomorrow, I want you to tour the house in your mind, writing down every detail you can remember. On Wednesday, I shall show you Costille, the rooms that have been altered, and we can begin to bring her back.”
As they walked to his stables so he could order a carriage to bring her home, Augustus was lost in thought, mostly about the slim girl next to him. What would a girl such as she do with that money? Buy new dresses? Jewels? Perhaps set some aside for her wedding trousseau? His curiosity got the better of him and he finally asked.
“I shall purchase my own house,” she said with quiet fierceness.
“And what will this house look like?”
A small blush tinged her cheeks. “Small and with a view of the sea. And it will have the most lovely little garden in back, one for the kitchen and one for just me, full of flowers that bloom all year long. I shall have a cook and a housekeeper, and perhaps a maid, so the house will have to be large enough to accommodate them. And a library to fit dozens of books.”
Such a simple thing, that little house of hers, and yet Augustus found himself smiling at the image she presented. “And where will this little cottage be located?”
“I haven’t thought that part out yet.”
He realized this little house of hers had been something she’d been dreaming of for quite some time. “Not St. Ives?”
She shook her head, her brows furrowed. “Not St. Ives.”
After Miss Anderson was securely placed in his carriage, Augustus stood in his drive and watched the conveyance take away his little miracle, feeling happier than he’d felt since he’d left America behind. Since his return to England, it seemed as if a dark cloud of gloom had followed him wherever he’d gone, and he’d contemplated more than once returning to the American West and taking up his anonymous life. No one knew who he was there, no one cared. He was just another man seeking his fortune or freedom in a place where one’s past was just that—the past. His father had never understood his need to escape, and he’d died before Augustus could explain it to him.
All his life, his father had been a large figure, untouchable and certainly unapproachable. With his mother dead, he’d been raised by nannies, then packed off to school at seven years old, as soon as it was possible for him to be sent. Summers had been spent at St. Ives, and he might see his father once or twice, but more often, he was home with a house of servants to care for him. Indeed, he could hardly count on one hand the number of conversations he’d had with his father before he reached his majority. Then, he was expected to take his role of being a viscount seriously, slide into his father’s footsteps, get married, have an heir, and continue the cycle.
Augustus hadn’t done what was expected of him; he’d gone adventuring. But while he was away from England, guilt nagged at him. It was not a constant companion, but it reared up frequently enough that it had become a nuisance. After three years in America, he returned home. His father had been pleased and immediately began working behind the scenes to find Augustus a wife. Too bad the old earl forgot to ask his son’s opinion.
The fight over whom he should marry was the first time Augustus realized what a force his father was and how helpless he was against him. Unbeknownst to him, Lenore had loathed Augustus before she’d even met him, which wasn’t a particularly good foundation for a marriage. His father didn’t care.
Theirs was a marriage built on his father’s ambition, and Augustus had never had the illusion that it was otherwise, though he hadn’t realized the depths of his father’s perfidy until after their vows were spoken. Lord Berkley wielded his power like a poisoned sword, and his power over nearly everyone—friends and enemies alike—was nearly absolute.
Augustus had thought to marry Lady Josephine Wyatt for no other reason than that she was from a high-ranking family, seemed biddable, and was acceptably pretty. But his father’s political aspirations would not be satisfied with such a match and he set about making other arrangements for Lady Josephine. The old earl’s political ally had a son who was, to put it politely, madder than a hen. The son was deemed unmarriageable, until Lord Berkley got enough ammunition against poor Josephine’s father. Josephine would marry the madman or her father would face complete ruin. Augustus, hardly heartbroken, almost admired her choice; she was a sacrificial lamb on the altar of Lord Berkley’s need for power.
Even now, all these years later, Augustus wasn’t completely certain whether his father had arranged the marriage to help his friend or to gain revenge on his only son for having had the audacity to spend those years in America. Like Josephine’s father, Lenore’s parent was another quiet victim of the Earl of Berkley. Augustus sympathized. He, too, knew what it meant to be outmaneuvered by Lord Berkley.