Manor of Secrets (24 page)

C
harlotte stood in the open door of her bedroom, waiting for Andrew Broadhurst to say something. Anything.

She imagined him telling her that none of it mattered, then stealing her away into the back of a well-appointed car and taking her to Paris, where they could elope and live happily ever after on the Left Bank.

She imagined him taking her in his arms and kissing her.

But he didn’t do any of those things.

So she imagined he was wracking his brain for a good excuse to walk away. To leave her there in her room with her cup of tea. Going back to his own life, without the complications of gossip.

She imagined she had no choice but to sit and wait for her fate to be decided by others.

And then a thought struck her. Like lightning. So quick and vibrant that she jerked her head up and looked at Andrew with wild, elated eyes. His own eyes widened in surprise.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m more than all right,” she said fervently. “I’m here.”

Andrew looked confused, but added an encouraging smile. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“Janie was right. This isn’t some Gothic novel. It’s real life. I’m always living inside my own head, imagining how things could be, how they
might
turn out.”

Charlotte blinked and shook her head at her own folly. “I was standing here, imagining what you must be thinking. That you’re trying to think of a polite way to extricate yourself from this predicament.”

“I wasn’t —”

“That’s exactly it!” Charlotte cried, taking his hands in hers. “I don’t know what you’re thinking. I don’t know what happens next. The only thing I have any control over is what
I
do next. I can’t sit around and let someone else decide for me. All these adults who haven’t even been able to figure out their own lives, much less mine. I can’t live adventure inside my head. I have to go out and find it for myself.”

Andrew stayed silent, his hands warm in hers. She was
completely unsure of what he would say next. She couldn’t even imagine it. And she liked that.

“I don’t want you to think —” She choked and stopped.

Words bottled up in Charlotte’s throat, and she couldn’t form them on her tongue. She didn’t know how she felt about Lawrence. About how he had let her go. How he called her by someone else’s name.

Andrew waited, looking at her expectantly. Not the sort of person who only listened because he was waiting to get a chance to speak. The sort of person who wanted to hear what she had to say.

Charlotte realized that how she felt — or didn’t — about Lawrence didn’t matter. Because what she felt about Andrew felt
true.

“I like you,” she blurted, surprising herself by saying —
and believing —
it.

Andrew smiled. “You don’t want me to think you like me?”

“No!” Charlotte cried, terror seizing her, but then Andrew laughed and she found she could, too.

“I
like
you,” she said again. “No matter what society says I should or shouldn’t do.”

“That’s good,” Andrew replied almost casually.

She looked up at him. At the wicked golden gleam in his dependable brown eyes. He was laughing at her.

No, he was laughing
with
her.

Andrew’s gaze traveled to her lips, and Charlotte realized with a shiver that he was going to kiss her. And as the shiver descended to her feet, she realized how much she wanted him to.

His lips had almost reached hers when he murmured, “That’s very good.”

A movement at the end of the hall caught Charlotte’s eye and propriety drew her away from him.

“You certainly work fast.” Fran Caldwell still wore her beaded evening gown, but she no longer strode purposefully and her hands hung limply at her sides.

Lawrence trailed behind her, his gaze never wavering from the thick hall carpet.

Charlotte felt a flash of guilt. Her lips burned from the memory of kissing him, and her cheeks burned because Andrew had seen it.

Andrew stepped back, suddenly cool and diffident. “Miss Caldwell.”

“How many more men are you going to kiss tonight, Charlotte?” Fran asked, ignoring him. “It’s a good thing you’ve got me here to catch you. And your errant boyfriends.”

Fran turned and seized Lawrence by the elbow. He didn’t look up.

“See?” Fran said gleefully. “It wasn’t that hard to find him. He was already packing his bags.”

Lawrence finally met Charlotte’s eye. “I knew I’d be sacked.”

“And here I thought you’d planned to whisk her away,” Fran said. “Isn’t that what you imagined, Charlotte? In your stories? Heading off to the Côte d’Azur?”

“I didn’t —” Lawrence looked panicked, his gaze darting from Fran to Charlotte to Andrew. “I’d never —” He seemed to have trouble drawing breath.

His eyes finally came to rest on Charlotte and didn’t waver. “It was just a bit of fun.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw Andrew tense. And she felt her own anger squeezing inside her.

Lawrence had kissed her. Twice.

He had put her reputation and her status and her relationships with her family at risk.

The fist inside her clenched and flexed and expanded.

And escaped in a giggle. Lawrence blinked. Fran stared.

“Just a bit of fun,” Charlotte repeated, nodding. Andrew’s hands relaxed.

So Charlotte screwed hers up into a ball and punched Lawrence right in his bright blue eye. He didn’t even have time to blink.

Lawrence stumbled back, his hands up to his face.

“What the bloody letter!” he yelped, his words muffled.

“Just a bit of
fun
?” Charlotte asked. She held her hand tight against her stomach. It hurt like the dickens, but she wasn’t about to let anyone know. She took a step forward.

“Like it was with Sarah?”

Lawrence’s hands lowered enough for her to see the shock in his eyes.

“Like it was with
Janie
?” Charlotte stood directly in front of Lawrence and his hands fell to his sides in a helpless shrug.

Charlotte felt a surge of guilt. He had let her think she loved him.

But she hadn’t.

“I deserved that,” Lawrence said.

Charlotte couldn’t agree with him. But the apology stuck in her throat.

“I didn’t love you,” she blurted.

The corner of Lawrence’s mouth raised a little. “I know,” he said, and cast a flickering glance at Andrew. “You deserve better.”

He stepped back and straightened his waistcoat. He arranged his features into a bland footman’s mask. The effect was marred by the bruise starting to bloom on his cheekbone. “Will that be all, Lady Charlotte?”

Charlotte looked at him sadly. “Yes,” she said. And added, “Thank you, Lawrence.”

He turned and walked away, the nipped-in waist of his tailcoat no longer enticing.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Andrew murmured.

And Charlotte burst into tears.

F
or the first time in her life, Janie didn’t want to enter the kitchen. She could hear her mother rattling saucepans, clanking cutlery, and turning the taps on and off. It was late — long past the time Mrs. Seward usually went to bed — and yet she was up. Baking.

Janie closed her eyes. She breathed in the scents of cinnamon and vanilla. Cardamom and raisins.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, resting one hand on her shoulder.

“When I go in there, everything will be different. She’ll tell me what happened. And what part she played in it. Maybe she’ll tell me what he was like. Or make excuses for him. Or that she didn’t love him.”

Janie gulped a deep breath. “Or that he didn’t love me.”

Harry squeezed her shoulder and whispered in her ear. “When you go in there, everything will be the same. Your mother will be baking scones.” He lifted his head and sniffed once, like a pointer, and then put his lips next to her ear again. “No. Sultana cake.”

Janie smiled. Sultana cake was her favorite. Somehow, her mother had gotten one to her on her birthday every year. No matter what.

Harry angled his whisper to kiss the corner of her mouth.

“Everything will be the same because she still loves you.”

He squeezed her shoulder, and she stepped through the door. Mrs. Seward looked up. Her cap was slightly askew. She had flour on the end of her nose, and her eyes were rimmed with red. But she was still the same.

“Ma?”

Mrs. Seward looked up and a smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.

“Just the person I wanted to see.” Her voice sounded thin.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mrs. Seward laid her palms flat on the table and leaned into them, hanging her head between her arms. Her shoulders rose and fell, and when she looked up again, the creases around her mouth and the circles under her eyes seemed more visible.

“They made me promise,” she said. “If I wanted to come back to work here, I had to promise never to say a word.”

“Why did you come back?” Janie asked. “Why would you ever come back here?”

“Because I could bring you with me.”

Janie took a deep breath. Drawing in the comforting scents of baking. Of the kitchen. Of home.

“I knew you would be leaving school, Janie,” Mrs. Seward went on. “And I knew things weren’t easy at the farm. I couldn’t let you stay there. And it was next to impossible to find a job for a cook
and
a kitchen maid.”

“But I started as a scullery maid.”

Mrs. Seward nodded. “This was what opened up.” She reached out a hand to tuck a strand of hair back into Janie’s braid. “I figured it was worth it.”

Janie wrapped her arms around her mother and laid her head on Mrs. Seward’s shoulder.

“And what about him?” she asked, quietly enough that her mother could pretend she didn’t hear.

“I think he loved her.”

Janie wanted to cry. No wonder her mother wanted to leave The Manor.
Too many memories,
she’d said.

“He died because he left here,” Janie said, trying to conjure
up some justifiable anger. “I don’t have a father because of what she did.”

“Because of what they both did.”

Janie’s father had always been just a story. The tale of a coachman who went into the Army to save his family.

Or to forget his past.

It seemed so long ago. It was part of Janie’s life that had shaped her. The story a sequence of events that took her through poverty and drudgery and finally into the kitchen. To this very moment.

The past had shaped her, but she wanted the present to define her.

“So what happens next?” she asked.

“Why, Janie Mae,” Mrs. Seward said, releasing her and brushing her hands on her apron, “we do what we do best.” She swept a regal hand over the table. “We bake cakes.”

“But I don’t work here anymore.” Janie still struggled to get the words out.

“I won’t tell,” Mrs. Seward said, kissing her forehead. “It will be our little secret.”

“Janie,” Harry said, sounding unsure.

Janie looked up at him and he nodded to the doorway, where Lord Broadhurst stood, nervously tugging on the lobe of one ear.

“How is she?” Janie asked.

“Janie Mae, you forget yourself,” Mrs. Seward said, straightening her cap. “Lord Broadhurst, can we help you?”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Seward. After what Janie and I have been through tonight, I think we have earned the right to dispense with formalities.” Andrew turned to Janie. “Charlotte is still a trifle upset, I’m afraid. I wondered if I could trouble you for more tea.” He looked at the pans and flour spread across the table. “And perhaps some more cake.”

“Ma — Mrs. Seward just put a sultana cake in the oven,” Janie said, taking the kettle to the cold water tap. “She makes the best in three counties.”

“Her cakes are certainly the best I’ve ever tasted,” Andrew agreed. “It’s why I hope she’ll be able to come to London.”

Janie turned slowly. “My mother? In London?”

“I’m opening a restaurant. One that specializes in afternoon teas. I want to call it the Manor House. Let Londoners experience life in the country, right in the middle of the West End.”

“She’s going to work for
you
?” Janie asked.
Not Lady Beatrice
.

“I’ve always wanted to run my own business,” Andrew said. “Combine my passions. I was going to ask Charlotte’s father tomorrow.” He glanced at the clock high on the kitchen
wall and coughed. “Well, today. I’d hoped he’d help with an investment. And apparently Lady Diane has been planning on hiring a French chef to cook here.”

“That’s what you were going to ask him?” Janie asked. Not for Charlotte’s hand in marriage. She wondered if Charlotte would be disappointed now. She put the kettle back down on the stove and turned to her mother. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because Lord Broadhurst didn’t have the investment yet. I didn’t want to say until it was a sure thing.”

Andrew turned a little pink. “I do apologize. I seem to have let the cat out of the bag.”

“Well, you’re not the first person to do that tonight,” Mrs. Seward said.

Her mother sounded so nonchalant. So unconcerned. As if moving to London to start a new job — a new career — didn’t matter. As if Janie didn’t matter. Janie didn’t have a home. She didn’t have a job. She had nothing.