Barbara Metzger (12 page)

Carissa wiped it away and tried to smile for him. “You mustn't worry about us, Sir Gilliam. You've been so generous I've been able to put some money by. And you said yourself, I am an excellent housekeeper."

"No. You weren't meant to keep another woman's house. I've seen to it. Rather take care of you than that nodcock nevvy of mine. You and the lass are more like family than the coxcomb could ever be."

"That's the nicest thing you could say, dear sir.” She leaned over and kissed his pale cheek and brushed the silvered hair off his forehead. “I am going to miss you more than I can ever express."

He squeezed her hand feebly, but a squeeze nevertheless. “You'll be fine, my dear. I've seen to it."

Mason sent for the rector of the nearby church, and for the nephew. While the clergyman was praying for Sir Gilliam's soul. Mason was closeted with Mr. Broderick Parkhurst, a would-be dandy, a ne'er-do-well who'd gone through his five-and-twenty years at his uncle's expense, and was going to the devil on his own. He'd refused Sir Gilliam's offers of a university education, a position at the bank, an army commission, or an introduction at the East India Company. He'd refused everything but an allowance, which he spent on clothes that did not flatter his spindly frame and horses that he could not stay aboard. Broderick's sole ambition in life, Sir Gilliam had often despaired, was to become a gentleman of leisure. No matter that his birth was only respectable and his fortune negligible, Broderick Parkhurst was not going to work for a living.

Especially not while his wealthy uncle lay dying.

Broderick moved into the house, demanding constant service, keeping irregular hours, creating havoc in the kitchens. If he visited Sir Gilliam's bedside once, it was more than the exhausted Carissa noticed.

"Good,” Cook announced. “Let the poor man die in peace."

Carissa prayed he had.

She had no time for grieving, for Broderick filled the house with his rowdy friends for the funeral observances. She was run off her feet changing linens, changing menus every time another young man arrived. More foodstuffs had to be ordered, and more wine. A lot more wine. She hired more maids, which were her domain, and insisted Mason hire more footmen, to haul bathwater and coal and the occasional castaway guest off to a bedchamber. They suddenly needed grooms to manage the horses and a boy to polish the riders’ boots, after they'd tracked mud throughout the house.

The new servants needed quarters and uniforms and meals. They were not all what Carissa considered fit company for Pippa, especially the footmen Mason hired. The guests, with their foul mouths and reckless ways, certainly were not. Pippa spent more time with Maisie than with her mother.

Lord Hartleigh came to call, to pay his respects to those who truly cared about Sir Gilliam. That time he came in the back door.

"I will have Byrd here in two shakes,” he offered, “to carry your things across the street. There is no reason for you to stay on here when a perfectly suitable position is going begging. Can you believe the last woman that agency sent over was cloth-headed enough to feed Glad beans?” He shook his head. “Parkhurst and his peep-o'-day boys will turn the place into a gaming hell before they are done. Come away before I am forced to do something they will regret."

Carissa smiled but had to refuse. “I owe Sir Gilliam more loyalty than that. At least until the will is read, when things shall be more settled. Then I will decide what's best for me and Pippa.” She had no idea what Sir Gilliam intended for them, so she could not make plans. She did know how dangerous residing under the same roof with this handsome rake could be. She'd take her chances with the louts upstairs.

"So long as you don't mind that Pippa is underfoot at your place?” she asked.

"Of course not. She is no trouble at all, I assure you.” And she was keeping the tongues wagging when he took the little moppet to the park, perched in front of him on the saddle. “Besides, she is the only one Gladiator listens to."

"She is the only one with gingerbread in her pocket, most likely."

"You are sure you can manage these young sots? Some of them fancy themselves hellrakers."

She'd managed
him
so far, hadn't she? But now that she thought of it, Carissa hadn't seen his lordship disguised since Sue arrived, hadn't seen him come home at daybreak, and hadn't seen any birds of paradise fluttering about. She'd think about that later, after she made sure there was ample hot water for those of the houseguests who deigned to bathe before dinner, or ever.

Lesley left, reluctantly.

Carissa let him, reluctantly.

The day the will was read, Sir Gilliam's nephew wore a black stock, a gray coat with black armbands, and a smug expression. Broderick was already seated in the library when Carissa and the rest of the servants filed in to stand toward the rear, there being no chairs set out for them. They all shared the same sorrow to find the new solicitor sitting at Sir Gilliam's desk instead of their beloved employer. Nigel Gordon had a glass of wine at one elbow and Mason hovering at the other with the decanter. Nothing was offered to the staff, of course. Bonnie, the maid, started sniffling, until Cook pinched her.

Carissa barely listened to the legal terms and the long explanations Mr. Gordon seemed determined to make, ensuring the validity of the will. Then he got to bequests for the servants. Mason was to get a pension. Cook was to have a year's salary. The others were to have a quarter's wages. Carissa's name was not mentioned.

Next came donations to charities. Sir Gilliam was generous, but Carissa's name was not mentioned.

The remainder of Sir Gilliam's estate, the lawyer was reading, including this house and the balance of his financial assets, was herewith bequeathed to his nephew, Broderick Parkhurst. Carissa's name was not mentioned.

Stunned, she leaned against the wall as the other servants left the library, looking at her and shaking their heads. She did not understand, could not understand. How could that kind man, that gentleman who'd offered to marry her so she and her daughter would be provided for, how could he not have remembered her in his will? Worse, how could he have lied to her? Carissa could not believe it of him. On trembling legs she approached the desk where Broderick and the solicitor were shaking hands while Mason poured them each another glass of Sir Gilliam's finest sherry.

"Excuse me, sirs, but I think there must have been some mistake."

Nigel Gordon looked up—he did not stand up—and then looked through his papers and notes. “Ah, yes, the housekeeper, Mrs. Kane. We wondered why there was no mention of you, until Mr. Mason pointed out that you had not been in Sir Gilliam's employ when this testament was created."

"Not in his employ? I have been here nearly four years."

"And this will is five years old. You would have heard the date, had you been listening.” He turned back to Broderick and his glass.

"Pardon me,” Carissa persisted, “but Sir Gilliam made a new will when he took ill. You yourself came to call."

Nigel swallowed his wine before bothering to answer: “I was called to his bedside, indeed, but the man was nearly comatose."

"That was due to the laudanum. He was not so stuporous all the time!"

"The twice I called he was not lucid, I am sorry to say."

"He was clear enough in his head to assure me that provision had been made for me and my daughter."

"Ma'am, his mind was wandering at the end. Surely you saw that he was delirious.” He looked toward Mason, who confirmed his assessment with a nod. Broderick was cleaning his fingernails with the penknife on the desk.

"No, he knew me. He mentioned my daughter by name. We talked about the neighbors! He was not rambling or vague, and he did say that he'd left me a bequest."

"I am sure he meant to, Mrs. Kane. Sir Gilliam was generous. However, even if he had managed to express his desires, the will could have been overturned. No court of law would have believed Sir Gilliam was in sound mind at the time."

Not with Mason and that worm Broderick to say otherwise, she saw now. They'd kept him drugged, kept poor Sir Gilliam nearly unconscious, so that he could not change his will in her favor. Broderick's motives were obvious, and Mason had always hated her. Perhaps he was even getting a bonus for his part in the scheme to rob a dying man of his last wishes, and her of dying hopes. Carissa had to steady herself, but she would not swoon, not in front of these ... these criminals.

"I say, it's a rum go, Mrs. Kane.” Broderick was swinging his fob watch—no, it was Sir Gilliam's fob watch, Carissa saw now; the carrion-eater had not even waited for the will to be read. “But I mean to do the right thing. Respect for m'uncle, don't you know. The other servants got a quarter's wages, eh? Well, you shall have a half year's, ma'am.” He beamed at the solicitor. “And the opportunity to stay on, of course. La, couldn't put m'uncle's loyal helpers out in the cold, now could I?"

"You are too generous,” she said, and Broderick was too stupid to hear the irony in her voice.

He polished the watch on one of Sir Gilliam's handkerchiefs, one that Carissa had embroidered an ornate
P
on, for Christmas. “Think nothing of it, m'dear."

She didn't.

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What was she going to do? By all that was holy, what was she going to do? How long could she live on the crumbs Broderick had tossed her? London rents were high, but there were more positions here than in the country. Carissa had some savings put aside, but they would not go far, either. They were supposed to be for Pippa's dowry, not her daily bread.

Carissa did not know if she could bear to stay on in Sir Gilliam's house and watch Sir Gilliam's nephew destroy the peace and quiet the old gentleman had cherished. She knew she could not remain here if Mason did. The man had been difficult under Sir Gilliam; he'd be impossible under a weakling like Broderick. Carissa would not be under his thumb. Mason had been left a pension, though, a pension she thought she'd been promised, along with the house. Perhaps he'd leave.

Cook was already packing, instead of making dinner. “They can go out to supper, for all I care, onct they're done celebrating, and the master not even in the ground two days.” She folded her aprons and stuffed them into a small trunk, slamming the lid. “I won't stay here with that young bugger, I won't. It ain't what a body is used to, that's for sure. Taking food out of my larder in the middle of the night so a body doesn't know what's left to cook come morning. Not telling a soul how many are coming to dinner. Strutting into my kitchen like a gamecock, ‘n’ leaving it a shambles. No, I'd rather go to my sister's house and cook for her brood than feed the likes of him."

Pippa's cat was twining itself around her legs, so Mrs. Kane picked it up and collapsed onto a kitchen chair with Cleo on her lap, stroking the soft fur and getting some small comfort from the purring. “But you don't like your sister's husband. You said he curses at her."

Slamming a knife into a drawer, Cook said, “Not with me there, he won't. You can count on that."

Carissa nodded. Cook was a formidable woman. Her brother-in-law's days of intimidating his wife and children were over, unless Carissa missed her guess.

"'Sides,” Cook was saying as she reached for a bottle of Sir Gilliam's finest wine, “that man-milliner Broderick will go through Sir Gilliam's blunt in a month, you mark my words. Let loose on London with all that brass in his pockets, the ninnyhammer will be plucked by every Captain Sharp in town. Look at the way he already lets those bosom bows of his barracks themselves here. No, it won't be long afore he goes through what should have been yours, dearie, and has none left for my salary, much less my pension."

"Can he do that?” Carissa wanted to know, accepting a glass for herself. She deserved that, at least. “I thought the monies Sir Gilliam bequeathed had to be set aside, held in trust or some such."

Cook clucked her tongue at the housekeeper's naïveté. “And who's to make sure he does, then? That no-account solicitor? Why, if he isn't getting a share of Sir Gilliam's groats, then I'll eat my Sunday bonnet. And you know how much I like my new hat."

It had fruit on it, and a little stuffed bird. Carissa hated the thing, but she'd miss seeing it every Sunday. “Now you can have two new bonnets,” she said in a quavering voice.

Cook blew her nose into a spotted kerchief. “I'll miss you too, dearie. What are you going to do?"

Carissa shook her head. “I haven't decided. Mr. Broderick says I can stay on as housekeeper."

"Faugh. Why work for that popinjay when you can work for his lordship acrost the street? You know he's always asking, and you practically run the place for him now. Did you know that dog of his bit that scurvy solicitor this morning? The flat tried to pat your little one on the head, he did, when she were out walking with Maisie and the babe. Trying to turn Maisie up sweet, I'd wager."

"I could almost grow to like the mutt.” The cat turned big green eyes up at Carissa in reproach, whether for the compliment to the dog or for the tear that fell on her fur. Carissa scratched under her chin. “But not enough to take the position. It would be too ... difficult."

"You mean it would be too easy to fall for the nonesuch, like every other female alive. Why, was I twenty years younger and a few stones lighter, I'd be batting my eyelashes at him too."

"I never did!"

"No, I didn't mean you, dearie. You're too much the lady for a quick tumble, and don't I know it.” She downed her glass, poured another, and shook her head again. “Still and all, it ain't right what they done to you. It ain't right at all. Could you go home to your da? A gentle-born lady like you hadn't ought to be working no ways, and Sir Gilliam was the first to recognize that fact."

The cat rolled to her back, to get her stomach rubbed. “No, my father washed his hands of me when I wed. I tried to seek his help when Phillip left us, but he was as adamant as ever. I would work for the worm who stole Sir Gilliam's money, rather than go begging of my father."