Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls - Book 3) (8 page)

“Mrs. Turner, before Leopold returned I had convinced myself that I was perfectly happy with my life. I was alone and completely in control, or at least as much as I could be under the circumstances. Do you know the one thing I missed most when I became a widow? The lack of contact. Touching another person and having them touch me in return, for whatever reason, I’ve found is essential to my happiness.”

Astonished by the candid confession, Beth strove to keep her expression neutral. “I have George for affection. He has not grown so large that he shuns my embraces.”

“I was not talking about a mother’s love for her child, but a man’s ardent return of affection. There is nothing quite like it.” The duchess grinned again. “I don’t expect you to hide an attachment or affection should romance develop. A little dishonor can be very soothing to one’s nerves.”

Beth shrugged to hide her discomfort. “I do not agree with you.”

The duchess’s expression grew thoughtful, her stare quite similar to Oliver’s wordless study. “Then I fear you never really loved or were loved in return. How sad. I think there is much to admire about you, Beth. You deserve to be adored and have a man make a fool of himself on your behalf. I believe Oliver has the beginnings of real feelings for you.”

Beth glanced down at her hands and squeezed her fingers until her knuckles turned white. She willed them apart and strove to appear unaffected by the duchess’s words. There was much truth in the first part. She had never loved her husband enough. It was a constant pain in her heart that she’d cared for him but never fully loved him. She had tried with all her will but when he had died, a little part of her had been relieved because she wouldn’t have to pretend any longer.

But to hint that Oliver could be a man in love enough to be foolish showed how little the Duchess of Romsey understood him. Oliver Randall was oblivious to anything of an affectionate or even romantic nature. He didn’t require anything from anyone in order to be content.

“Have I made you uncomfortable?” The duchess’s soft question forced her out of her introspection.

Beth rubbed her brow. “No, of course not. But there is really nothing to say. I have no feelings, one way or the other, for him or anyone. If I may be candid, Your Grace, I would prefer it if you did not turn your matchmaking inclinations in my direction.”

The duchess scowled. “I was successful with my sister and Tobias. What makes you think I cannot do it again?”

Beth might be in danger of overstepping on her first day in her new position, but she had to stop the duchess from pursing this line of foolishness any further. “I respect Lady Venables more than words can say, but two more opposite creatures you could never hope to match again. The difference, and why your success was assured, is that both she and Tobias were willing to change to make each other happier.”

The duchess’s brow rose. “And you resist change. You do not believe in love?”

“Far from it, Your Grace.” Beth shook her head. “I have never backed away from a challenge presented by new circumstances. My life has been full and quite uncertain at times. A woman must learn and adapt if she is to survive and thrive again.”

The duchess wrung her hands. “Then you believe Oliver incapable of change, even for love?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed to continue speaking. “There is no room for love in his life. Once he decides on a path he will stick to it until the bitter end. I have no doubt of that. You are wasting your energy and will only be disappointed by him.”

Chapter Seven

THE PROFOUND SILENCE of the east wing of Romsey Abbey soothed Oliver in a way he couldn’t understand. This wasn’t his first visit to the derelict chambers and likely not the last. He left the door ajar and glanced around the bright rooms that had once been his paternal grandmother’s private apartment. He could easily imagine her outrage at their sorry state. The old woman had been meticulously neat.

He stepped farther into the room, brushed his fingers over a small gilt-edged tabletop, and then rubbed the dust from them. When he looked across the space, he noticed tracks crossing the dusty floor from the door to the center of the room. One man-sized. One smaller.

Beside him, George Turner crowded closer. “Are you sure this room is safe?”

“Of course.” To prove his point, he jumped up and down a few times. “Romsey may be dusty but she is quite sound. All she needs is attention.”

The boy shrugged. “I suppose.”

Curtains had rotted and fallen into suspicious heaps on the floor by the windows, giving the room breathtaking views as far as the eye could see. “Can you not see the potential of the room? The space, the light, the aspect.”

“All I see is work.” George shrugged. “The duchess and Mama were talking this morning. Many rooms have to be prepared for the wedding.”

Oliver frowned. “Not these ones.”

“Why not?” The boy picked up a cushion with two fingers and when he dropped it a cloud of dust erupted around him. He backed away, coughing. “It’s big enough for a whole family.”

George wandered off to peer into the adjoining chambers. Oliver’s grandmother’s apartment was dirty but spacious, neglected but opulent, and would be fit for even the king to sleep in. Given a few days of care and attention it would be quite comfortable. Yet the idea filled him with unease.

“George?”

George’s reply was muffled, as if from a long distance away. Oliver followed the sound and found him seated on the floor in one of the smaller bedchambers before a tall replica model of the abbey. George had opened the front face, revealing the interior rooms and was carefully examining the contents.

Oliver knelt down at his side and peered in. After a moment, he grunted. “It’s remarkably accurate.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” George set a tiny chair back in place. “I can almost see my mother taking tea in the drawing room with the duchess, but she says she will never do that again.”

Oliver frowned. In his opinion, Elizabeth had made a mistake in becoming the housekeeper. A life of leisure and comfort had been assured if only she’d taken advantage of the opportunities afforded her. She might have traveled in the duchess’s company to places far away from here. She may have danced and dined in elegance and discovered more wonders than she’d ever dreamed possible. Accepting the housekeeper’s role, although a well-respected position, offered nothing but hard work and long hours away from her son.

He glanced at the dark head beside him, noticing how the dust had dulled the shine. On impulse, he brushed his hand over the boy’s head to remove it. “You’ll look as old as I if you are not careful.”

George scrubbed at his head but immediately returned his attention to the model-sized abbey. “May I ask your age, sir?”

“Eight and twenty last January.”

“Mama is almost the same age.” George pulled on a cord hanging down a wall and a small bell tinkled inside the model. He wriggled around until he was flat on his stomach and peered into the lower levels. “There’s the housekeeper’s sitting room door.”

“Yes.”

The boy turned over and looked up at him. “They say you knew my mother when she was younger. What was she like?”

Oliver climbed to his feet. “I knew her, but not well.”

The boy frowned. “Oh.”

“She was on good terms with my mother and sister.”

George scowled. “That’s all you remember? I thought you’d have funny stories to share like Tobias does.”

“I should warn you that my younger brother does occasionally add fiction to his retelling.” Oliver cast his mind back, picturing Elizabeth on one of her many visits to Harrowdale. “Your mother laughed quite often. I could always tell when she was at Harrowdale because my mother became merry too and my sister, Rosemary, ceased her scowls and complaints.”

“So she was happy then?”

The boy’s questions puzzled him. Elizabeth was almost always happy as far as he could tell. “Yes. I do not believe her to have been at odds with anyone in the district.”

“And you knew my father.” George pulled his knees to his chest. “What was the wedding like?”

Oliver stilled. There were certain moments in his life that he worked to forget, although some were hard to cast aside. He had not particularly cared for that day. He had not attended the wedding ceremony at her home, but his mother and sister had attended with Leopold as their escort. When they’d returned, Rosemary had been theatrically cross about the affair. She’d prattled on about love and marriage until his ears had ached. He shook his head. “It was a long time ago. I don’t recall the exact details. You should speak to Leopold. He may remember.”

George nodded and then continued his study of the model.

There was so much of Elizabeth in George that he could easily overlook the influence of the father. But George was a boy William Turner should have been proud to call his son. If Turner had been capable of pride in a son as bookish as George Turner appeared to be. What Oliver most clearly remembered was that William Turner had imagined other uses for books and none of them was for study.

“Mama cries at night sometimes,” George said suddenly. “She thinks me asleep but I’ve crept to her doorway and I’ve seen her miserable. She pretends nothing is the matter and won’t tell me why. Do all mothers do that?”

“Some.” The idea that Elizabeth had been unhappy enough to cry irritated him. “I imagine she misses your father a good deal. In time she will be happy again.”

“I suppose.” George shrugged. “May I stay here to examine the model?”

Oliver nodded, although George could likely not see. “Do not remain too long. The air is still very thick with dust. It will be better once the room has been attended to. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be all right on my own now.”

Oliver hesitated to leave. By rights he should see that the boy returned to his mother’s care before he resumed his preparations for travel. Yet, for whatever reason, he felt compelled to stay and answer the boy’s next question. George had an agile mind that drew in knowledge quicker than Oliver could supply. There was still plenty of time for his plans.

He glanced around the chamber uneasily. There was a great deal to do in this room to bring it to a livable condition for wedding guests, but he did not like the idea of others living in this space. He surprised himself with the idea that
he
could be comfortable here. He could wake up each day in pleasant isolation, admire the view, and study until hunger called to him. He could claim the space before he departed and then he could return to it once he’d seen enough of the world.

But not before the rooms were made presentable.

“I’ll return shortly,” Oliver advised.

The boy appeared surprised, but he smiled as if the idea of his company was pleasant. Oliver hurried out, keen to venture to the lower levels and secure a footman and maid to do his bidding. If there were none to be had, he’s make a start himself. It would be nice to get away from the duchess’s incessant chatter.

On the stairs he passed a servant, arms full of books and papers. He slowed when two more passed him, carrying the large globe that should be in the library. “What’s going on here?”

The servants’ gazes lowered. “Just doing as we’re told, sir.”

Another servant appeared, arms full of rolled maps. Oliver’s maps. “On whose order are you doing this?”

“Mrs. Turner’s, sir. She said we’re to clear the library.”

Oliver hurried down the stairs and burst into the library in time to see the final stack of books lifted from the floor and removed via another doorway. He followed the footman, furious with this interference. He took the servants’ stairs and Oliver remained close on his heels, determined not to lose sight of his research material.

When he gained the upper floor the man headed for an open doorway. The footman disappeared inside and Oliver stopped on the threshold to survey the room. Two tall windows, fireplace already blazing with heat, and a long, wide chaise lounge positioned opposite a sturdy desk. Every comfort he could possibly want.

Elizabeth directed the man to the far side of the desk and had him place his pile of books on the floor. She stared at her handiwork, a pleased smile gracing her lips.

“Proud of yourself?” Oliver asked.

She turned, her face flushing a deep shade of red. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I’ve followed Her Grace’s instructions to the letter and brought everything here exactly as it was below.”

“That remains to be seen.” He glanced at the footman lingering at Elizabeth’s elbow. “You can go,” he told him.

The servant glanced at Elizabeth for confirmation and when she nodded, he hurried out.

She set her hands to her hips. “There is no need to be surly.”

Oliver slammed the door shut. “Haven’t I a right to be?” He scowled. “I distinctly recall mentioning that you should not be housekeeper of Romsey. I do not meddle with your possessions and do not wish you to meddle with mine.”

Elizabeth rubbed her arms, a sure sign he’d made her nervous. Good. She deserved it after this act of treachery. “On the contrary, you’ve done specifically what I asked you not to do.”

He knew what she meant, but teaching the boy the history contained in the house and improving his grasp of Latin could hardly be termed meddling. The boy was gaining something of value, after all. “George?”