A Countess by Christmas (3 page)

If Lord Bridgemere could employ staff who would so casually ignore a guest who was far from well, it did not bode well for her aunt’s future. Not at all. What if, in spite of her assurance that he would not permit a female relative to suffer penury, Lord Bridgemere decided he could not be bothered with her? What would she do? Helen wished with all her heart she was in a position to
look after her aunt. But the reality was that there were precious few jobs available to young ladies educated at home—especially educated with the rather eccentric methods her aunt had employed.

Aunt Bella had decried all the received wisdom regarding which subjects were appropriate for a girl to learn. Instead, if Helen had shown an interest in any particular topic she had bought her the relevant books or equipment, and hired people who could help her pursue her interest. So she could not teach pupils watercolour painting, or the use of the globe. And the post she
had
been able to obtain was so poorly paid she would not be able to survive herself were her meals and board not included.

Not that she minded for herself. She was young and strong and fit. But her aunt’s collapse today had shocked her. She had never thought of Aunt Bella as old and infirm, but the truth was that these last few months had taken their toll. And in a few more years she might well fall foul of some condition which would mean she needed constant care.

If her cousin’s nephew proved as cold-hearted as Aunt Bella had led her to believe, and as the treatment she had received since arriving appeared to confirm…

She rolled over and wrapped her arms about her waist.

Her aunt’s future did not bear thinking about.

S
he woke with a jolt the next morning, feeling as though she had not slept for more than a few minutes.

But she must have done, because the fire had gone out and the insides of the lead paned windows were thick with frost feathers.

She got up, wrapped herself in her warmest shawl, raked out the grate and, discovering a few embers still glowing gently, coaxed them into life with some fresh kindling. Then she looked around for the means to wash the soot and ash from her fingers. There was no dressing room adjoining their tiny room, but there was a screen behind which stood a washstand containing a pitcher of ice-cold water and a basin.

Washing in that water certainly woke her up completely!

She did not want her aunt to suffer the same early-morning shock, though, so, having made sure the coals were beginning to burn nicely, she put the fire guard in
place and nipped down to the kitchens to fetch a can of hot water.

By the time she returned she was pleased to find that the little room had reached a temperature at which her aunt might get out of bed.

‘You had better make the most of this while the water is still warm,’ she told her sleepy aunt. ‘And then I shall go and forage for some breakfast.’

‘My word, Helen,’ her aunt observed sleepily, ‘nothing daunts you, does it?’

Helen smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Aunt Bella. I try not to let it.’

She had discovered within herself a well of ingenuity over these past months, which she might never have known she possessed had they not been so dramatically plunged from affluence to poverty. Seeing her aunt so upset by their losses, she had vowed to do all she could to shield the older woman from the more beastly aspects of losing their wealth. She had been the one to visit the pawnbrokers, and to haggle with tradespeople for the bread to go on their table. Not that they had been in any immediate danger of starving. So many of the towns-people had banked with the Middleton and Shropshire that a brisk system of bartering had soon come into being, which had done away with the immediate need for cash amongst its former clients. The silver apostle spoons, for instance, had gone to settle an outstanding grocer’s bill, and the best table linen had turned out to be worth a dozen eggs and half a pound of sausages.

Once her aunt had finished her toilet, Helen tipped the wastewater into the enamel jug provided for the purpose and set out for the kitchens once more.

At least this morning there was an orderly queue of maids who had come down to fetch a breakfast tray. She took her place at the back of it, completely content to wait her turn. In fact she thoroughly approved of the way they all got attention on the basis of first come, first served. Regardless of whom they were fetching and carrying for. It was much more fair.

What a pity, she thought, her lips pursing, the same egalitarian system had not prevailed the evening before.

The kitchen maid scowled when it came to her turn.

‘I don’t suppose there are any eggs to be had?’ Helen asked politely.

‘You don’t suppose correct!’ her nemesis answered. ‘You can have a pot of chocolate and hot rolls for your lady. Eggs is only served in the dining room.’

Really, the hospitality in this place was…
niggardly
, she fumed, bumping open the kitchen door with her hip. But then what had she expected? From the sound of it the Earl of Bridgemere thoroughly disliked having his home invaded by indigent relatives. And his attitude had trickled down to infect his staff, she reflected, setting out once more on the by now familiar route back up to the tower, because their master was a recluse. What kind of man would only open his doors—and that reluctantly—to his family over the Christmas season? An elusive recluse. She smiled to herself, enjoying the play on words and half wondering if there was a rhyme to be made about the crusty old bachelor upon whose whim her aunt’s future depended.

Although what would rhyme with Bridgemere? Nothing.

Earl, though… There was curl, and churl, and…

She had just reached the second set of stairs when round the corner came the broad-shouldered footman who had carried her aunt so effortlessly up to her room the night before.

Instead of stepping to one side, to allow her room to pass, he took up position in the very centre of the corridor, his fisted hands on his hips.

‘I hear you have been setting the kitchen in a bustle,’ he said. ‘I hope you have permission to take that tray, and have not snatched it from its rightful recipient as you did last night?’

‘What business is it of yours?’ she snapped, thoroughly fed up with the attitude of the staff in Alvanley Hall. She knew they were not used to entertaining visitors, but really! ‘And how dare you speak to me like that?’

His light coffee-coloured eyes briefly widened, as though her retort had shocked him. But then he said icily, ‘Mrs Dent is most put out by your behaviour, miss. And I must say that I can quite see why. I do not appreciate servants from other houses coming here and thinking they know how to run things better…’

‘Well, first of all, I am nobody’s servant!’ she snapped. At least not yet, she corrected herself guiltily. ‘And if this place was run better, then I dare say visiting servants would abide by Mrs Dent’s regime. As it is, I deplore the way rank was placed above my aunt’s very real need last night.’

She had really got the bit between her teeth now. She
advanced on the footman until she was almost prodding him in the stomach with her tray.

‘If I had not gone down to the kitchens myself, I dare say she would still be lying there, waiting for somebody to notice her! And as for situating a lady of her age up so many stairs—well, the least said about that the better! Whoever arranged to put her up in that room ought to be—’ She could not think of a suitable punishment for anyone who treated her beloved aunt with such lack of consideration. So she had to content herself with taking her temper out on the unfortunate footman, since he was the only member of His Lordship’s staff actually in range.

‘She is supposed to be a family member, yet Lord Bridgemere has had her stashed away up there as though he is ashamed of her! No wonder she has stayed away all these years! Now, get out of my way—before I…before I…’ She barely refrained from stamping her foot.

‘Do you mean to tell me you are a
guest
?’

Helen could not tell what it was about him that irritated her the most. The fact that he had ignored all her very real complaints to hone in on the one point she considered least relevant, or the way he was running his eyes insolently over her rather shabby attire, his mouth flattened in derision. If she had been less angry she might have admitted that the gown she was wearing was one she had kept precisely because it
did
make her look more like a servant than a lady of leisure. Her wardrobe would now have to reflect the position she was about to take up. Nobody would take a governess seriously if she went about in fashionable, frivolous clothes. She had ruthlessly culled her wardrobe of such items, knowing,
too, that the more fashionable they were, the more money she would get for them from the secondhand clothing dealers. For, although the bartering system had worked up to a point, cash had been absolutely necessary to purchase tickets from their hometown to Alvanley Hall, and to pay for their overnight stops
en route
.

This morning Helen had also wrapped her thickest shawl round her shoulders, to keep her warm as she scuttled along the chilly corridors. She’d knotted it round her waist just before she’d left the kitchen, to leave her hands free to deal with the tray, and now she noticed that it was blotched with ash from when she had made up the fire.

But it was not this man’s place to judge or criticise her! Helen drew herself to her full height. Which was not easy to do when weighed down by a tray brimming with food, drink and crockery.

‘I mean to tell you nothing! You are an impertinent fellow, and—’

He raised one eyebrow in a way that was so supercilious that if she’d had a hand free she might have been tempted to slap him.

‘And my aunt is waiting for her breakfast! So stand aside!’

For a moment she thought he might refuse. But then something like amusement glinted in his eyes. His mouth tilted up at one corner in a smile full of mockery and he stepped to one side of the corridor, sweeping her an elaborate bow as she strode past with a toss of her head.

Well, really! What an abominable rogue he was! So full of himself!

And she could not believe he had goaded her into almost stamping her foot and actually tossing her head. Tossing her head! Like those village girls who loitered around the smithy in the hopes of glimpsing young Jeb Simpkins stripping off his shirt to duck his head under the pump. Who flounced off with a toss of their artfully arranged curls when he shot them a few pithy comments that left them in no doubt as to what he thought of their morals.

Not that she had been thinking about what the footman would look like with his shirt off!

Although he probably would have an impressive set of muscles, given the way he had so effortlessly carried her aunt up all these stairs last night…

She gave herself a mental shake. His physique had nothing to do with anything! He was a…a rogue! Yes, he was probably the type who snatched kisses from the kitchen maids and had stormy affairs with visiting ladies’ maids, she reflected darkly. Oh, she could well understand why they would elbow each other aside for the privilege of kissing that hard, arrogant mouth, and ruffling that neat light brown hair with their fingers. For he had that air about him she noticed foolish women often fell for. That air of arrogant disdain which drew silly girls like moths to a candle flame. An air she had observed more than once in men who thought themselves irresistible to women, and who therefore mocked the entire female sex for their gullibility.

Well, she was not silly or gullible! And she had never been the type to find a man exciting merely because he had a reputation as a ladies’ man. If she were ever to seriously consider marriage, she would want someone
kind and dependable. Not a man who looked down his nose at women! And who was probably planning his next conquest before he had even buttoned up his breeches.

She drew herself up outside the door to her aunt’s chamber, out of breath and more than a little shocked at herself. She could not believe the way her mind had been wandering since that encounter with the footman. Picturing him with his shirt off, for heaven’s sake! Kissing kitchen maids and…and worse! Why, she could actually
see
the smug expression on his face as he buttoned up his breeches with those long, deft fingers…

It was just as well she was going to be a governess and not a ladies’ maid. She did not know how any girl was expected to cope with encounters with handsome, arrogant footmen as they nipped up and down the backstairs.

A rueful smile tugged at her lips as she turned round and bumped open the door with her hip.

She rather thought that any girl who was the least bit susceptible would start to look forward to running into
that
particular footman. It had been quite exhilarating to give him a sharp set-down. To knock him off his arrogant perch and make him look at her twice. And if all she had to look forward to was the dreary grind of service, then…

She shook her head.

She was going to work as a governess, for heaven’s sake! Flirting with the footmen on the backstairs was sure to result in instant dismissal.

Besides, the rogue worked
here
. It was unlikely there would be a man of such mettle working for a family like the Harcourts. Footmen of that calibre would not deign
to work for anything less than a noble house. It would be very far beneath such a man’s dignity to serve a family from
trade
.

Which was a jolly good thing.

She did not set foot outside the drum room for the rest of the day. Her aunt dozed on and off, declaring every time she woke that she felt much better, though to Helen’s eye it did not look as though her spirits were reviving all that much.

Whenever Aunt Bella went back to sleep Helen sat by the window, making use of what pale winter sunlight filtered in through the tiny diamond-shaped panes to do some embroidery. There was little money to spare for Christmas gifts this year, and so she had decided to make her aunt a little keepsake, to remind her of their life together in Middleton whenever she used it. Fortunately needlework had been one of the subjects Helen had wanted to pursue. Largely because her mother had begun to teach her to sew, and her sampler had been one of the very few possessions she had managed to salvage from her childhood home.

She tucked her work hastily out of sight every time Aunt Bella began to stir, and occasionally broke off to watch the comings and goings of the other house guests. From up here in the tower she had an excellent view over the rear of the house, and the acres of grounds in which it was set. A party of gentlemen of varying ages went off in the direction of the woods with guns over their arms. A little later a bevy of females sauntered off towards the formal gardens which surrounded the house.

At one point she saw a group of children bundled up
in hats and scarves, loaded up into a cart, and driven off in a different direction entirely from the way their parents had gone, their shouts and laughter inaudible from up here, but made visible by the little puffs of vapour that escaped from their mouths.

It looked as though the house party was now in full swing. She pursed her lips and bent her head over her embroidery. She had to admit that if, as her aunt surmised, all the guests
had
arrived on the same day, the servants might have some excuse for their attitude. They must have been rushed off their feet yesterday. Yet she could not quite rid herself of a simmering sense of injustice. She had only to look out of the window to see that His Lordship had organised entertainment for all the rest of his guests. Only she and Aunt Bella had been completely overlooked. Stuck up in a cold room in the tower and left to their own devices, she fumed, cutting off her thread with a vicious little snip.