Two

Penelope was chagrined when the wagon from Frithgerd Hall showed up early the following morning, and three determined women equipped with brooms, mops, buckets, and rags marched into her house, informing her that “my lord” had sent them. She was to have no say in this plan, apparently. But when they spread out and began to clean the place from top to bottom, she had to admit she was overcome with gratitude.

The night had left her exhausted. The dust in Rose Cottage had exacerbated her cough. Her pile of quilts had done little to soften the hard floor, and she’d barely slept. Instead, she’d lain there going over and over the magnitude of the task before her. She knew how to run a household; personally performing the many tasks involved was another matter. Baking the bread, for example. She’d never acquired that skill. Milking a cow—should she acquire a cow? And chickens, those who had roast chicken needed to dispatch the birds. Would Kitty find the idea repulsive or grimly fascinating?

Penelope could—and would—learn, of course. But in the empty night, the long list of things that needed to be done had seemed overwhelming. So, when her offers to help clean were set firmly aside, she’d let herself be herded out to the garden wall to sit for a while in the shade of an apple tree.

Kitty flitted in and out of the open front door, keeping Penelope apprised of their progress. The young maid was delighted with the company and worked harder with the helpers from Frithgerd than she would have on her own. It was clear that she’d soon have fast friends in the neighborhood. Penelope envied her.

Around eleven, the eldest of her benefactors brought Penelope a cup of tea and a ham sandwich. “I would have made that for you,” Penelope said. She had packed the tea—with cups and a pot and a small saucepan—in her food hamper. As if she was going on a picnic, Penelope thought wryly. While she’d forgotten a broom.

“No need, miss,” was the reply. The woman turned away.

“Won’t you get a cup for yourself and sit a moment, Mrs. Darnell?” Penelope had been informed that this lady—clearly the supervisor of the expedition—was the gatekeeper’s wife at Frithgerd.

Ruddy, round-faced Mrs. Darnell hesitated. “I should be getting back to work.” But she couldn’t hide her curiosity.

“I wanted to ask if you might know people who live nearby and are looking for work.” Penelope smiled up at the older woman. “Not to live in. No room for that.” She gestured at the small house. “But to come days. I’d like to find a gardener. And perhaps a part-time cook.”

Mrs. Darnell thought about this. “I expect I might know of someone.”

“And is there a farm where I could buy milk and eggs?” And the occasional chicken, Penelope thought. She’d decided against keeping chickens. Or a pig; she wouldn’t have a pig.

“The Mattisons up the road there.” Mrs. Darnell pointed at the lane. “Young Kitty could walk it easy.”

“Oh, good. I suppose it’s safe for her to do so?”

Her companion stared down at her as if the question was daft. This wasn’t Manchester, Penelope thought. There were no rowdy apprentices roaming the lanes here, shouting their appraisals of lone females. Penelope wished Mrs. Darnell would sit down, but clearly she wasn’t going to.

“And how far is it to the nearest village shop?” she asked. She’d included some staples with her furniture, but they’d soon need more flour and sugar and other supplies.

“A matter of four miles, miss.”

Penelope was assailed by a sudden feeling of isolation. Eight miles was a very long walk, too far to be carrying any but the lightest of burdens. They would need some form of transportation, and she couldn’t afford a carriage. Even a gig would stretch her means. Well, she’d leave this problem to Foyle. He’d have ideas.

“If there wasn’t anything else, miss.”

But there was much more Penelope wanted to know. “Who lived here before I arrived? Do you know?”

“That’d be old Mistress Harner. Past seventy she was, which is why the place is knee deep in dust, I expect.”

“Was?” Penelope quailed. Had the loss of her home killed the old woman?

“Is, I should say. She went to live with her daughter in Ashbourne, as Susan had been trying to get her to do for many a year.”

“Oh, that’s good then.”

“His lordship sent her in a traveling coach,” added Mrs. Darnell. “With a hot brick for her feet and all.”

“Lord Whitfield, you mean?”

The older woman nodded. “The young lord. Who never thought to take the reins so soon, of course. But he’s doing very well.”

“His father died unexpectedly?”

“In a shipwreck. And her ladyship, too. Off on t’other side of the world. India, it was. A terrible thing.” Mrs. Darnell grimaced. “You wouldn’t get me out in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight. Not for any money.”

“How dreadful.” Penelope knew the shock of sudden death. But to lose both your parents in such a way must have been devastating.

One of the younger Frithgerd ladies came out with a question, and Mrs. Darnell went with her to consult. Penelope ate her sandwich, drank her tea, and allowed herself to enjoy the leafy shade over her head. After the trials of recent months, this seemed the height of luxury.

It was only after she’d seen off the cleaners with thanks that Penelope discovered the pile of items they’d smuggled in through the back door while she sat out front. They’d left a full oil lamp, a broom, a whole box of candles, and several bundles of food, as well as two folding cots upstairs. Walking around her now-spotless dwelling, she had to acknowledge the kindness behind this visit. Unless it was all calculation, to soften her up for another round of questions.

With a shiver, Penelope decided it was much more likely that Lord Whitfield had ulterior motives. But she couldn’t really blame him for wanting to know why she’d been left this house. The gift was inexplicable. She’d planned to comb every inch of the place to try to solve the mystery. Penelope ran her fingers over one of the stone lintels. The wood floors and plain plaster walls offered no nooks and crannies to examine. There was no visible discrepancy between the inside and outside dimensions. Still, she would search, on a day when she was less tired out.

Downstairs, she found Kitty by the stone sink with a large slice of chocolate cake in her hand. “This is the best cake I ever et,” the girl declared. She took another big bite, humming with pleasure as she chewed. “You should have some, miss.”

The rich scent of chocolate wafting from the cake that sat on the side of the sink was irresistible. Penelope succumbed, cutting herself a slice. A symphony of flavors melted on her tongue. Was that cinnamon?

“This Frithgerd is the grand house hereabouts,” said Kitty between bites. “Funny old name. They’ve got twenty bedrooms, Betty said. Can you imagine?”

Betty was the youngest of the Frithgerd cleaning party. Penelope had seen the two girls with their heads together as they scrubbed. She had no interest in the viscount’s household, of course. She wouldn’t be moving in his exalted circles.

“The young lord’s only twenty-seven and not married,” Kitty added. She licked crumbs from her lips.

Four years older than Penelope; she’d have put him at thirty at least.

“Betty thinks his lordship’ll be bringing home a wife from London right soon,” said Kitty. “With him being the new master and all. She figures the new vi-viscountess’ll have a grand lady’s maid who knows all the latest styles. Betty’s learning to dress hair and hopes she’ll teach her. She means to better herself.”

A crumb of cake tickled Penelope’s throat, and her cough caught. She fought the impulse, but it took hold of her like a terrier shaking a rat. She coughed and coughed to no purpose. There was nothing to cough up. When the spasm passed, she felt as if she’d been cudgeled from head to toe. “I’m going to lie down for a little while,” she told Kitty.

“Good idea, miss. You look terrible.”

Penelope was well aware of the dark circles under her eyes and looseness of her dresses. Let Kitty endure the trials she’d undergone these last months and see how she looked, she thought wryly. But she said nothing, merely climbed the stairs and lay down on the cot that had been set up in her bedchamber. Though small, it was vastly more comfortable than the floor. She would just rest here for a few minutes. She was so very tired.

Penelope woke to the sound of Kitty moving around in the small back bedroom over the kitchen. From the slant of light, it must be early evening. She’d slept for hours! She breathed carefully. No cough. Thank heaven for small favors. She should get up and…and what?

Penelope lay still, suddenly conscious of a crushing isolation. She’d lost her childhood home, her friends, her anticipated future. She had no occupation except learning the tasks of day-to-day living. Life stretched ahead of her, empty.

“Nonsense,” she said aloud, sitting up. She was far better off than last autumn, when her brother’s recklessness had brought everything down around their ears. And then in the midst of the hardest year of her life, word of this miraculous legacy had reached her. She had a small income from her mother’s estate. No one had been able to touch that despite her brother’s disgrace. It was enough to live comfortably in a house like this, and to have a few luxuries as well. She would find new friends; she would make a life. Penelope shook herself and rose to get on with it.

Foyle arrived the following afternoon with the two large carters’ wagons full of furniture. It was a relief to see the man, gnarled, laconic, and crotchety as he was. He’d been a part of the Pendleton household for as long as Penelope could remember, seeming old the whole time.

The drivers unharnessed the great draft horses, led them to a water trough by the barn, then loosed them in the grassy field behind the house. Foyle waited with a tapping foot until the drivers returned, then set about directing the unloading. The men seemed to find his growling commands funny, though Foyle was half their size. Kitty flitted around them like a butterfly among oxen, carrying small items into the house.

By the end of the day, Penelope had a proper bed in one upper chamber, with a wardrobe, dressing table, and washstand. Kitty had similar furnishings in the small room over the kitchen. One lower room held a settee and armchair before the fireplace, two small tables, and a bookshelf with the volumes Penelope had managed to bring. A larger table and chairs graced the other downstairs room, making it seem like a dining room, though she wondered whether she would ever need such a thing. There was a worktable for the kitchen, two straight chairs, and a tall cupboard for pans and dishes. The last upstairs room was nearly empty, a measure of how little she had left. But Penelope refused to think of that. She could unpack her clothes now. They could alter the draperies she’d brought to fit the new windows. It was a comfort to have familiar possessions around her, an overlay of home on this new location. She would keep her mind on that.

Foyle had discovered a room over the stalls in the barn with a small iron stove. He went off with one of the cots to install his things there, declaring he’d be snug as a bug. He would not be swayed from his determination not to live in the house, which was rather a relief considering the limited space. Penelope suspected that his decision was partly based on propriety and partly a wish for freedom. Foyle liked to roam. Tomorrow, she’d send him off to explore the neighborhood and make inquiries.

* * *

Daniel knew he shouldn’t welcome the knock on his estate office door. He’d vowed to work for at least three hours without interruption. But the columns of numbers in the yearly accounts had begun to blur. The arrival of his mysterious new neighbor had left him even more distracted than usual. He very much feared he was going to have to start at the top, again. How he hated numbers! “Come in!” he said.

His butler entered, expressionless but exuding disapproval. “A visitor has arrived,” he said.

“A caller, you mean? So late in the day?”

“I believe the gentleman has come to stay, my lord. That was the impression I gained, at least.”

“What? I didn’t invite anyone.”

“Indeed. I assumed you would have told me if you had, my lord.”

“Of course I would, Grant.” Daniel stood. “Let’s see about this.”

In the main reception room, Daniel found Lord Macklin awaiting him, as polished and impressive as he’d been in London three months ago. He greeted the older man with raised eyebrows.

“I was passing through Derbyshire,” said the earl. “And I thought I’d stop by to see how you were getting on. Your letters were so interesting.”

He had written Macklin several times after that March dinner. Why had he done so? Daniel didn’t know, exactly. Some echoes of their conversation about grief? A feeling that Macklin embodied elements long missing from his life? The impulse had eventually faded among his piles of lists. “I’m still quite busy,” he replied. Not very hospitable, but he hadn’t invited the man, after all.

His coolness had no effect. “I’m delighted at the opportunity to see Frithgerd,” said Macklin. “I’ve heard a good deal about it. Your father and I entered society in the same season, you know.”

“I didn’t.” Daniel felt a flash of resentment. Could anyone know less of their parents than he did? He pushed the thought aside.

“We thought ourselves top of the trees, complete to a shade.” The tall, dark-haired guest smiled as he looked around the room. “This can’t be the oldest part of the house.”

“No, that’s the east wing.”

“Ah. Have you records of its construction? I wonder how the original building fits with your name.”

“My name?” Daniel had never heard that Lord Macklin specialized in odd conversations. On the contrary, the earl was renowned for social finesse. But this was the second strange encounter they’d had.

“‘Frith’ is an Old English word. It means something like peace or protection, I understand. Or security perhaps.”

“Old English. Like Saxon, you mean?” Daniel had known that his bloodline went back before the Conquest, but no one had mentioned this.

“Or Angle,” said the earl.

“What?”

“As in Anglo-Saxon?”

Perhaps the older man had gone quietly mad, Daniel thought, and no one had noticed yet because he was too much revered.

“I remember being told that ‘Frithgerd’ meant sanctuary or sacred place,” added Macklin. “Any enclosed area given over to the worship of the gods really.”

“Gods? What gods?”

The older man shrugged. “Well, Odin? Thor? I’m no expert.”

“Papa told you all this?” Daniel simply didn’t believe it. His father had never shown the least interest in history, or any knowledge of it, for that matter. They may not have had many significant conversations, but Daniel was certain of that much.

“Now I come to think, it wasn’t John. Your grandfather buttonholed me at some banquet or other and gave me a lecture on the ancients.”

That sounded more likely. Daniel remembered his grandfather as an inveterate talker. Of course, the old fellow had been losing his wits by the time Daniel met him.

“I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but bits stuck with me, obviously,” Lord Macklin continued. “A fascinating tale. I wonder I never talked with John about it. Too much else going on, I suppose. And I didn’t see as much of your father as I would have wished in recent years.”

Daniel felt an unwelcome pang, an unsettling mixture of pain and resentment that was all too familiar. He suppressed it.

“He was always on the move,” added the earl, his tone gentle.

With no time for family connections, Daniel thought. Scarcely even a letter. But he didn’t wish to be reminded of that. Or of anything else, really. If the earl had come to talk more about grief, he’d be disappointed. “We’re in mourning here. I haven’t been entertaining guests.”

The earl waved this aside. “Oh, you needn’t bother entertaining me. I can look after myself. Perhaps I can even be of use to you.” Before Daniel could think of another excuse, he added, “Have you learned any more about the mysterious legacy you wrote me about? It did make me curious.”

“A woman has arrived and moved into Rose Cottage.”

“A woman?”

“A young lady.” When Lord Macklin raised his eyebrows, Daniel added, “Not like that.”

“Like?”

“I had thought…as one would, perhaps a mistress or some such thing. Though Papa never…and how would he have had the time when he was scarcely ever home? Anyway, she isn’t. Not that sort at all. She claims she doesn’t know why the house was left to her.”

“Really? And you believe her?”

“I do.” Miss Pendleton’s bewilderment on that subject had been unmistakable.

“How very strange.”

“Indeed.”

“We must go over and see her tomorrow and look into this matter further.”

“What? No!” It was out of the question. Even if Daniel hadn’t had a thousand other things to do, he didn’t intend to call on Miss Penelope Pendleton again. She’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome. And he would soon forget the touch of her lips brushing across his palms. Of course he would. A man could accomplish anything with decisive action and mental fortitude.