Bridget tossed her thick braid over her shoulder and tied on an apron. It was warm in the orangery, a pleasant change from the rest of the keep. The air hung heavy with the lemony scent of the geraniums she intended to prune, enlivened by the sweeter tang of oranges ripening on sturdy limbs.
As she reached for her gardening gloves, her gaze slid past the stunted citrus trees in their massive tubs to her favorite flower bed. There, jasmine grew thick and fragrant. The rich sultry scent beckoned.
With a smile, she forwent her gloves, instead turning to wend her way toward the far end of the orangery. She passed bright petunias and elegant lilies with scarcely a glance. Reaching the jasmine, she carefully broke off a sprig and raised it to her face. Lids drifting shut, she drank in the scent. It was mysterious, and alluring, with the promise of something wonderful hinted at in every breath.
She sighed and opened her eyes, then shook her head at her foolishness. What more was there than what she had? Nothing, really. Not until Ollie gave up his work and returned home to marry. Then his wife would be mistress of Lomall a 'Chaisteil. Father would no longer need her, for his letters wouldn’t be full of secrets. Any clerk could read and scribe for him.
Then Bridget could go…somewhere. Do something. She didn’t know what. She never permitted thoughts of this something, somewhere, to solidify. They would only taunt her, distract from the work at hand.
Which was trimming the geraniums. She tucked the jasmine behind her ear and returned to the oversized pots. She slipped on her gloves and hefted her favorite shears, studying her intended victims. By the time she finished, not a wilted leaf or fading bloom would remain.
The maid, Fiona, hurried into the orangery. She cut past the bountiful blooms without a glance as she came to stand before Bridget. “Miss, there’s a caller.” Belatedly, she dropped a curtsey.
“A caller?” Bridget repeated, stupefied. There was never a caller.
“Yes, Miss, a gentleman.” Fiona looked as surprised as Bridget felt. “A Mister Alex White, he says. He’s asked to see the master or mistress of the house.” The girl dropped her gaze. “I didn’t want to disturb your father.”
Had Fiona learned that Bridget had, despite the girl’s pleas, informed her father of the letters of reference incident, or was she simply, like everyone else in the household, intimidated by the looming baron? “Yes, best not to.” Bridget could deal with this Mister White well enough. “I’ll find out what he wants.”
She set shears and gloves aside before following Fiona from the orangery. The warmth and sweetness clung to her as they passed through low, vaulted stone halls. Even in the middle of the afternoon, candlelight danced in each alcove. Weapons and shields, many bearing heralds of long-dead vassals, punctuated the dark patches between the light.
They entered the newer part of the keep, the halls squared off but formed of the same gray stone. The ceilings were higher, and narrow windows admitted afternoon light, relieving the need for lit candles. Bridget strode into the small front parlor. Fiona followed her and took up a position to the left of the entrance.
Bridget’s first impression was of height and broad shoulders, but that was quickly replaced when the man turned from the window overlooking the steep, winding roadway leading to Lomall a 'Chaisteil. He was tall, yes, but gawky. If his shoulders had appeared broad, it must have been a trick of the afternoon light, for he hunched them toward his ears. Spectacles rested on the end of his nose. He pushed them up with a gloved finger and peered at her. His nearly-black hair stuck out at odd angles from under a comically crushed hat.
Before Bridget could greet him, he turned to Fiona. “Lass, I asked for the master or mistress of the house, not the housekeeper.” He nodded to Bridget. “Meaning no offense, Missus.”
Bridget halted halfway across the room, piqued. “Missus? I’ll have you know, sir, that I am the mistress of the house, and a miss.”
“You are?” He peered at her again. “I beg your pardon, Miss Sollier. An honest mistake, you know. I mean, given your age and…” He made a flapping gesture toward her.
“My age?” How dare he? Twenty-six wasn’t dead. “And what, sir?”
He repeated the flapping gesture, nearly knocking a vase from a nearby table. “Well, you know. That mess.”
Bridget looked down. She still wore her apron, but it was crisp and white, not a mess. True, her single braid was the opposite of fashionable, as far as she knew, but why spend hours curling her hair when no one ever saw her save the staff and her father? Well, and now this Mister White.
“I thank you not to take it upon yourself to comment on my attire, sir.” She snapped. “Why have you come here?”
“Ah, yes, well, I am Alex White, as you surely know.” He bowed.
This time, his flailing hand swept the vase from its table. Bridget let out a cry, leaping forward. Mister White made a fumbling catch for the vase and managed to knock it toward the rug. The blue and white porcelain landed on the carpet with a dull thud a moment before she dropped to her knees to catch it. She snatched the vase up and turned it round, but found no damage.
“Terribly sorry, again,” Mister White said. “Didn’t mean to, of course. Please, let me help you.”
A hand appeared between her face and the pool of her skirt against the backdrop of hunter green carpet. It was a large hand. Some might say elegant, if they hadn’t seen Mister White in motion.
She tipped her head to glare up at him. “No, thank you.”
“Then, ah, let me take the vase.” His gaze went to her ear.
Bridget touched it, finding the jasmine there. Perhaps he was a touch justified in his confusion over her role in the household, and his observation of her state. Still, a mess or no, he didn’t have the right to call her one.
“No thank you,” she repeated in a firm tone. “Fiona.”
Footsteps approached. Still glaring at Mister White, Bridget held up the vase. Fiona took the ancient porcelain. Ignoring Mister White’s still extended hand, Bridget stood. She shook out her skirts. He dropped his hand.
“Shall I send for tea, Miss?” Fiona asked tentatively.
Bridget shook her head. “We have not yet established if Mister White is remaining long enough for tea.” And they didn’t have a service she wanted to see broken. “I ask you again, sir, what are you doing here? You may dispense with the formalities.”
“Yes, right, formalities, estates and all that,” he said nervously. “That’s why I’ve come.”
He made to push a hand through his hair. His rumpled hat went flying. The black wool slapped against an ancestral oil painting and dropped to the floor with a thud.
“Dash it all,” Mister White muttered. Turning from her, he went to retrieve the abused hat, knocking into the table on which the vase had stood.
Bridget cast an incredulous look toward Fiona. The maid, who fortunately still cradled the vase, watched Mister White, bemused. Bridget turned back in time to see him knock his head against the wall when he bent to pick up his hat. He stumbled back, caught himself, and stepped forward. One large boot further crushed the battered accessory.
She hurried to his side. His seeking fingers found the hat and jammed it onto his head. Bridget took his arm. To her surprise, the muscles under his coat were quite solid. Standing beside him, the scents of shaving soap and sandalwood mingled with the jasmine at her ear. A foreign heat crept up her neck.
Ignoring her inexplicable reaction to the man, she gave his arm a tug. “Please, Mister White, come sit down.” Before you ruin our home or yourself. She tugged again.
“Yes, certainly, of course,” he said, and allowed her to lead him to the nearest chair.
She shoved his long form into the brocade seat, then braced a hand on each hip. “Now, succinctly and without moving, please tell me why you’ve come to Lomall a 'Chaisteil.”
“To learn about husbandry.” He smiled up at her.
Really, his mouth was well formed, she thought, her gaze caught by that smile.
He pushed at his spectacles, peering at her through them.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, as his words filtered through her odd preoccupation. “You’re here to learn about farming?”
He leaned forward in the chair, nodding eagerly. “Yes. You see, I recently inherited an estate.” He reached his hand toward his hair again.
Bridget leaned forward and snatched his hat from his head before he could send it flying a second time. She held the crumpled wool out. Fiona took it. “You inherited an estate,” she repeated, urging him to complete his mystifying explanation.
He wrenched his gaze up to her face.
She flushed, realizing the view she’d offered while securing his hat. Not that she had much there for anyone to view. Still, what she was endowed with, she’d all but shoved in his face. Her cheeks heated.
“Yes,” he said. “An estate. Unexpected and all. Death in the family.” His tone remained light, but the sorrow that flickered deep in his eyes was unmistakable. “So, now I’m to run the place and, don’t you know, I haven’t a clue where to begin.”
Bridget stared down at him. He was terribly forthcoming. He’d spoken more in her presence than any other man she’d met, save Ollie and her father. Yet, she still had no notion what he was speaking about.
“That is all very interesting, Mister White, and my deepest sympathies for your family’s loss, but why are you here? Why have you come to Lomall a 'Chaisteil?”
“Oh, yes, right.” He waved an arm about, encompassing the room. Without being asked, Fiona jumped forward to secure a nearby figurine, adding the little shepherdess to her armful. “I need to learn about managing an estate. A friend of mine, Lord Winston, said your father, the baron, knows all there is to know. Said I should come here for a bit, while my servants settle into the estate. Sent them ahead.” He dropped long fingers to his knees, his gaze falling with them. “He knows I’ll only be in their way.”
“Lord Winston sent you here?” she asked, unable to dull the sharp edge in her voice. What did this Mister White know of a lord who wrote in code to her brother?
He nodded. “I have a letter.”
He fumbled in the pockets of his rumpled coat. Apparently not finding it, he stood and patted all about as if he might have heretofore undiscovered pockets. When he started to crane his neck, looking around him, Bridget pushed him back into the chair.
She yanked her hands back, again surprised by the solidity of the body under his rumpled garments. “Stay there,” she said. “In that chair. Don’t get up. I’ll go speak to my father.” She turned to find Fiona, arms laden with vase, hat and figurine. “Come, Fiona, we can put those in Father’s office and you can fetch tea for Mister White.”
“My hat,” he said.
Hearing the chair creak as he started to stand, Bridget whirled back. “I will return your hat to you, sir.” Once he was ready to depart, to keep the article from assailing any more artwork. “You stay right there.” A quick glance about showed the other breakables in the room were out of his reach, even with his long arms.
“Ah, yes, of course, Miss Sollier.” He lowered back into his seat.
Bridget gave him a firm look before turning to usher Fiona from the room. Together, they went to the baron’s office. Stopping in the hall outside, Bridget took the vase and figurine. “Take Mister White’s hat to father’s valet. Maybe he can do something to restore it. And don’t return it until such time as Mister White is ready to leave.”
“Yes, Miss.” Fiona curtsied.
“After you deliver the hat, please order the tea.”
“Yes, Miss.” With another curtsey, Fiona left.
Bridget knocked and waited for her father to invite her into his office. She didn’t know what it meant that Lord Winston had sent Mister White to them, assuming the man’s claim was true. She did know she couldn’t let her father know how suspicious she found the claim.
She would find a way to gain her father’s permission to let the man remain. It was possible Mister White was who and what he claimed, and nothing more. It was also possible he knew something of Ollie and the dangers he faced. Either way, Bridget was resolved to find out more.