My Dearest Enemy (3 page)

Evelyn flushed and her lashes fluttered. "I—we'll vacate the premises of course. As soon as you wish."

"No!" Lily said in shock. "Please. Even if I were inclined to accept the will's terms, I could never do so knowing that my windfall had resulted in your eviction."

"Oh, we can take up residence at the town house. It's very… fashionable. Quite grand."

"But it isn't your
home
," Lily insisted.

"Well, I could no longer live at Mill House knowing that in doing so we'd kept you from accepting it." There was a stubborn smoothness to Evelyn's clear brow. "I suppose…" Evelyn flashed her an anxious glance. "That is perhaps, if we helped with the expenses, we might…"

"Yes?" Lily prodded.

"We might
all
live there?"

Lily stared.

"At home," Evelyn clarified.

Home
. The word swept through Lily with a tidal wave of longing. She'd never had a home, just rented garrets, lofts in the city, and borrowed cottages.

She considered her options. She could receive a princely stipend for as many years as she could keep silent on a subject about which she had decidedly strong opinions or she could take a chance.

"Yes," she said faintly. "I believe we could. But first I have some affairs to settle. I will come to Mill House by week's end."

She would never have been able to keep quiet anyway.

@

Devon, England September 1887

"Almost there, Miss Bede," the driver said with a wink before turning his attention back to his horse.

Lily told herself not to gape. After all, she'd been in manor houses before. Several of her father's friends maintained fabulous estates. But, she thought with a wide grin, she'd never seen a manor that could someday be hers.

The hack came round the cypress alley into the drive and she forgot her self-admonition. She gaped.

Mill House was lovely. Only a hundred years old, it had been built of a locally quarried buff stone. The hand-hewn blocks glowed the color of clover honey in the warm mid-morning light. Tall windows were set in the south-facing front facade, their regimented symmetry flanking a simple, raised entry, their gleaming glass throwing back a rare reflection of flawless blue sky.

True to its rural origins, no trees or gardens crowded the house. Only a single ancient cypress tow-ered behind one corner. Lacing through a green field dotted with lady's mantle and cowslip, a small, lively river flowed beneath steep, mossy banks. Beyond that, Lily could make out a plowman harrowing a field. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The rich odor of the freshly turned loam scented the air. Exquisite.

The driver drew the carriage to a halt, sprang from his seat, and came round to hand her down. As if on cue, the door opened and a severely dressed middle-aged man appeared at the top of the stairs. His face was country homely, the features bunched closely together in the center of his face, his gray hair a thicket of wiry brush.

In the dim hall behind him a seemingly endless row of people assembled: young, old, mostly women, a few young lads, some in aprons, others in rough garb. Servants.

Her parents had never employed more than a daily.

Lily mounted the exterior steps and the older man hastened forward. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Jacob Flowers, Miss Bede."

"And what is your position, Mr. Flowers?"

"I am the butler. I oversee the indoor staff, miss," he said. He waved his hand toward the line of people. "This staff. May I present them?"

Aware of countless eyes fastened on her, Lily could only nod. Mr. Flowers ushered her ahead of him. He fired off names as they passed servants who fell into bows and curtsies like tin rabbits being hit by pellets at a country fair shooting gallery.

By the time they'd reached the last kitchen girl—an apple-cheeked lass with a suspiciously taut apron— Lily's head was spinning.

"How many?" she asked.

"Twenty-nine, Miss Bede," Mr. Flowers announced proudly, "and that don't count the outdoor staff."

" 'Course"—his eye fell like a scepter on the pregnant maid—"we'll soon be twenty-eight."

"So many people to care for one building?" she asked. "What do they all do?" Rough hands, daubs of charcoal, and the smell of strong lye told the tale of the women's employment easily enough, but Lily wondered about the six tall, immaculately groomed young men in white gloves. "What do
they
do?"

"Carry silver trays and fetch packages from town." At Lily's still puzzled expression, Mr. Flowers added, "Serve at dinner parties, hold carriage horses, lower the hall chandelier. And raise it, of course."

"Of course," she murmured. She looked back down the line. Every face was turned toward her, some shuttered, some curious, a few with that daunting look of familiarity, the one that so clearly stated, "You aren't my better, gypsy get, you aren't even my equal."

Her heartbeat began a frightened race. She scoured her mind for something to say.

"In the weeks to come," she began, her voice quavering, "things shall change at Mill House. Those whose work I consider superfluous will be let go, of course, with letters of recommendation."

"What you mean 'superfluous?' " a voice asked.

"I mean those whose skills are unnecessary in the simple day-to-day running of this estate."

"Don't worry, Peg. There'll always be a call for your particular skills, lass," a male voice called out followed by a spat of laughter. Lily's gaze settled on a brash-looking lad.

"Leave," she said.

"What? You can't—"

"I can. You are no longer in my employ."

For a long minute she and he stared each other into the ground. Thank God, her skirts hid the shaking of her legs. Finally, with a choked oath, the lad broke line and stomped through the still-open front door. The rest regarded his departing back with open-mouthed incredulity.

"Henceforth in this house,
my
house, every woman's work shall be valued and a tweenie will be treated as respectfully as a chef."

"Here now, let's not get carried away," the small white-haired cook with the unlikely name of Mrs. Kettle muttered.

"I want Mill House to be a success, not only for my sake, but for the sake of all women. For if a woman like me, without name, station or birth, can through her own perseverance and hard work win an estate the likes of Mill House, what is within your grasp?

"I tell you plainly, I need your help. I cannot do this alone. If you are not up to the task, if you cannot give me your unswerving loyalty, there is no place for you here."

"I'll stand by you, miss!" the pregnant maid said in a quavering voice.

"Good!" said Lily. "The rest of you, think of what I've said. Consider your future and by week's end we will see where we stand. You're all dismissed."

As one the ranks broke. The servants milled past, disappearing down halls, through doors, and up stairways, leaving Lily alone with Mr. Flowers.

"I don't approve, miss," he said, scowling fiercely. "I feel obligated to tell you I don't approve them communist tactics in my household."

Lily met the man's eye squarely. She drew a deep breath. "It isn't your household, Mr. Flowers, it's mine. But seeing how you disapprove of me and my… tactics, I feel sure you will be only too happy to know that I will not be requiring the services of a butler."

"Wha—?"

"You're dismissed, Mr. Flowers."

For a second she thought he would argue, but he only sputtered, turned, and stomped away.

She closed her eyes, stunned by her audacity. Her knees felt watery with relief.

"I say, you'd have my vote," a throaty female voice spoke close beside her. "That is, if I had one."

Heat consumed Lily. She opened her eyes to find Horatio's middle-aged spinster daughter, Francesca, standing beside her.

No one could have looked less like a spinster. Her ash blond hair curled above her pale, drowsy eyes and teased the corners of lips too uniformly rose pink to be natural. She didn't dress like a spinster, either. Her peacock blue taffeta gown whispered sensuously as she moved closer.

"I'm Francesca Thorne," she said. "I'm sorry Evie isn't here to greet you. She was called down to Eton yesterday. Bernard is unwell—no need for concern, he has bad lungs and occasionally is taken with these attacks. He'll be fine as long as he stays calm. Evie, in case you hadn't noticed, is excessively calming."

Lily nodded.

"She asked me to give you a proper greeting," Francesca said. "Greetings, Miss Bede." Her three-point smile tipped mockingly.

"Miss Thorne, I'm sorry if I appear precipitate—"

"Call me Francesca," she said. "I admit I was all set to go off to Paris but after that performance—" Again that mysterious smile. "Well, I think I'll just stay on a while. That's allowable, isn't it?"

"Of course." Lily cast a troubled look at Francesca's elaborate coiffure and expensive gown.

"You mustn't worry about me and my little staff, Miss Bede," Francesca said, catching the direction of her glance. "Father would have liked to think I was entirely dependent on him for my income. Suffice to say that Father was wrong." She shrugged. "Evelyn is another matter. After her husband's death, Evelyn packed up Bernard and a few belongings and decamped. She landed here and here she's since lived. Of course, you can always send her packing."

Lily, genuinely shocked, pulled away from the older woman. "I wouldn't do that!"

"Why not?" Francesca asked. "Men do it all the time."

"Just another reason in a fistful of reasons why women are better off without them."

"Pray, dear God, remember," Francesca's hand flew to her chest as her eyes rose heavenward, "
she
said it, not
I
! Any celestial reckoning should exclude me. Come, Miss Bede, I've ordered tea in my room upstairs. This way, please."

Lily trailed behind Francesca, her avid gaze taking in the house's lovely accoutrements: an oriental runner, a malachite inlaid table, a priceless Sevres vase overflowing with shaggy bronze chrysanthemums. In spite of Francesca's provocations, things were going better than she'd anticipated. She'd met nearly everyone affected by Horatio Thorne's will and none of them seemed likely to cause trouble except—