Straw in the Wind (19 page)

Sara believed in love, and she was enjoying the romance enfolding before her eyes. Mr Leighton deserved someone shy and sweet like Celia, especially after the disappointment of his first wife. That reminded her that she'd not told Mr Leighton what Celia Chapman had said yet. He would interrogate her tomorrow after their guests had left, no doubt, and she grinned as she fell asleep with Adam's imaginary arms still about her.

Morning departure. It was not Sara's place to stand outside and farewell the guests as if she'd been their hostess, so she got on with her work.

Celia had said goodbye to her earlier and given her a hug. ‘I do hope we meet again, Serafina. I've enjoyed my stay, and enjoyed meeting you.' She handed over a note. ‘This is for Finch. I'd be obliged if you'd read it to him.'

‘Thank you, Celia, I will,' and she slid it into her apron pocket. ‘I've enjoyed meeting you, too,' she said, and that yearning filled her again . . . one that said she wanted to belong to someone. But she mustn't feel sorry for herself. There were people worse off. At least she was strong and healthy, had food in her stomach, a fine roof over her head and an equally fine employer to match.

She heard Adam in the hall and felt disappointed when he didn't come to say goodbye. Lingering in the drawing room she heard Giles bring the horse and cart around and heard them talking, laughing and exchanging pleasantries.

‘I've forgotten something; I won't be a minute.' Adam's footsteps came swiftly across the hall towards the drawing room she was in, and her heart began to beat so fast she thought the top of her head might fly off.

She pretended to be busy, and was looking under the cushions when he came in. ‘We've lost the meat fork and I'm looking for it,' she said, feeling the need to have an excuse for her actions before he asked.

He came to where she stood, took her hand in his and placed the fork in it. ‘I have it.'

‘What are you doing with it?'

‘You told me that you stabbed the last man who tried to kiss you, with a fork. I wanted you to have something to defend yourself with.'

‘Defend myself . . . whatever do you mean?'

‘This.' Taking her face between his palms he stooped and captured her mouth. His lips were a soft tender caress against hers, and she seemed to lack the will to pull away. She felt growing inside her the very emotional connection with him that she was trying to avoid. She should be fighting against him not encouraging him.

Then it was over, and she wanted more so she kept her eyes shut and couldn't look at him in case he saw it in her eyes.

‘Mr Chapman, you shouldn't have done that,' she whispered, and his name was almost a sigh.

‘Well, don't expect me to apologize. We'll meet again, Serafina, and that's a promise,' he said, and was gone.

She didn't open her eyes again until the sound of the horse and cart had died away. When she did open them it was to find that the fork had dropped to the ground. Her captured breath expelled from her in little puffs and gasps. Truly he'd bewitched her, and she must get a grip on herself.

Mr Leighton came in. ‘Sara?'

She pulled herself together. ‘Yes, I'm here.'

‘Are you all right? Your voice is shaking.'

She sucked in a breath to steady it. ‘I'm fine.'

‘Come into the morning room. I want to speak to you.'

She grinned. ‘Certainly, Mr Leighton. Miss Chapman has left a note with me for you.'

Eagerness filled his voice. ‘What does it say?'

‘It says that if you can be patient and wait until the appropriate time, your housekeeper will open it and read it to you.'

She made a big show of opening it, rustling the paper until he growled, ‘Have you ever felt like strangling someone?'

‘Often . . .' She grinned and cleared her throat.

Dear Finch,

On behalf of my brother and myself, our heartfelt thanks for your hospitality over the past few days. Adam's illness could have become more serious without your intervention and the dedicated care of your staff, especially Miss Serafina, to whom we have both become attached.

I do hope you'll call on us when next you are in London. Please feel at liberty to visit us at the agency, which is not far from your London home, and will be more convenient for you than travelling to Chiswick, I feel.

With best wishes from us both.

Celia Chapman

Sara gazed at her employer, a suspicion growing in her mind. ‘What agency is that, Mr Leighton?'

‘Adam Chapman has his own detecting agency in London. He's becoming well thought of in legal circles, and will no doubt do well for himself in the future. Didn't he mention it to you?'

‘Yes . . . yes, he did . . . he was teasing about it; said I might be a princess he was looking for.' She gave a faint smile. ‘I'd forgotten.'

‘Do you think you
are
Adam's lost princess?'

She stared at him for a moment then chuckled. ‘You know that could never be, but you might be Celia's lost prince.'

‘I hope you are right. Was that all Celia said in her letter?'

‘Yes . . . but she mentioned to me in private that she'd rather you had approached her directly with your request.'

‘I deserve a reprimand. Did she say anything about my lack of sight being a factor.'

‘It was more of a retort really. She snorted and said, Utter nonsense!' Placing the letter in his hand she was about to walk away when she thought to ask him, ‘Did you know that Adam Chapman ran a detecting agency before he came here?'

‘I'd heard of him.'

‘He asked me questions about my past.'

‘He's curious about people, that's his nature. I believe he's very good at what he does, and is both thorough and discreet.'

Sara was satisfied by his answer to a certain extent because she instinctively trusted Finch Leighton. ‘Sometimes I thought there was a definite purpose behind his questions.'

‘Perhaps there was. He seemed attracted to you.'

She was glad he couldn't see her blush as she remembered Adam kissing her – and of her allowing him to. Nevertheless, she dismissed the suggestion with a sharp retort. ‘I'm a servant and he was flirting. Adam Chapman is a handsome man who would attract women – not me of course,' she added hastily. ‘He would have forgotten me before they got to the station.'

‘Perhaps you're right, my dear,' he said with a smile, and slipped the letter into his pocket. ‘Would you fetch my coat, Sara. I'm going out for a walk around the garden. There are certain things I need to think about and later I'd like you to write a letter for me. It's of a private nature.'

‘You know, Mr Leighton, you wouldn't have forgotten how to form your letters, so I'm sure there's a way of writing you could learn if you needed to keep matters private, as long as you don't mind using a pencil . . . well, at first, anyway. Mastering pen and ink might be a bit messy.'

‘How?' And he said it so eagerly that she smiled.

‘If I can find some cardboard I'll show you when you come back.'

While he was out she cut a slot in a piece of cardboard, making it wide enough to fit inside a frame of cardboard and slide up and down.

He was surrounded by an aura of cold when he came back. Impatiently, he said, ‘Have you done it? Explain it to me.'

She waited until he was seated. ‘Feel in front of you.'

His fingers ran around the cardboard. ‘It's a frame?'

‘Yes. It's the same size as your notepaper and will fit over it and form your margins. Your notepaper is in the right-hand drawer.'

When she rustled a piece of his notepaper he took it from her and placed it under the frame. His fingers went around the edges making sure it was lined up. Picking up the small piece of slotted cardboard he frowned. ‘What do I do with this?'

‘You place it inside the frame, write your words inside the slot, then when you reach the end of the row you turn it over and down for the next line. You're going to have to use feel and memory, and make allowances for spaces.' She placed the pencil in his fingers. ‘Try it . . . write your name.'

She could almost experience his concentration as he applied himself to the task and wrote, My name isfinch Leighton.

She told him, ‘You've forgotten the space after is, and the capital letter of your first name, but it doesn't matter. It's readable and you'll get better at it if you practise. I've sharpened a couple of pencils and they're in the holder on your right.'

‘How did you think of this?'

‘I didn't think of it, Elizabeth Pawley did. She used the slotted cardboard to help the children in the workhouse reduce the size of their letters, but it was on a slate and with chalk. I adapted it, that's all. It's better than nothing. I believe she did charity work, visiting the blind at home and teaching children their alphabets. She said there were books with raised letters in for blind people to read.'

‘There are, but they're clumsy and heavy, and take a devil of a long time. Mrs Pawley sounds like a worthy and pious woman; how did she end up in the workhouse?'

‘When her father died he was deeply in debt. He was a church cleric too, which is probably why she was content to marry a man like Reverend Pawley, and grateful that he had motherless children for her to care for. I think you would like her if you met her.'

‘I'm sure I would. You know, you have a good heart, Serafina.'

She smiled, for the name had stuck with her since they'd called her that at the social evening. She might as well make it her own now she was grown up.

‘What does my writing look like?'

‘It's a bit wobbly, but readable, and it will improve with practice as you grow in confidence. Now . . . I'd better get on with my work. I'll check on your progress in a little while.'

Finch hadn't expected to fall in love and wondered if his letter to Celia Chapman was too premature, since he didn't want to frighten her off. He was man enough to know that somebody else might sweep her off of her feet if he left it too long. Only God knew what it looked like, he thought as he sealed it. What he
did
know was that his words were more fluent than they would have been if he'd dictated the letter, and he'd apologized to Celia in advance in case it was hard to read.

The more he learned of Serafina the more he liked her, and she had a sensible head on her shoulders despite her youth. Although he didn't want to lose her he hoped the young woman would turn out to be what Adam wanted her to be. And if she didn't . . . that Adam would accept her for what she was, a hard-working, intelligent and loyal young woman.

C
hristmas and New Year had come and gone quickly. Gifts had been exchanged and Serafina had been the recipient of a warm coat with a shawl collar and a matching bonnet and muff.

‘I heard your teeth chattering in church, and Maggie told me that Frederick's dogs had ruined your cape,' Mr Leighton said by way of explanation for such a handsome gift.

Mr Leighton went to London to attend a wedding in January. He was due to return in April. Then the skies were wreathed in sunshine one minute and weeping all over the landscape the next. The daffodils were a moving ocean of lambent yellow and the trees newly born in tender shades of green. Catkins swung in the breeze like velvety golden tassels buzzing with bees – and in the eaves, house martins were busy with their nests and offspring.

Serafina allowed the spring air to circulate through the windows.

It was to be a month of wedding announcements. First Giles and Jassy. ‘We're getting married next month,' he'd said, and had turned a bright red. ‘Jassy's got a young'un inside her, she reckons. Anyway, I'm going to live at the farm and work for her pa, because the farm will be ours one day and I've got to learn how to run it, like.'

‘You'll have to give Mr Leighton proper notice, mind,' Maggie said. ‘He's been good to you, giving you a job when you was down and out and didn't have a roof over your head.'

‘I'm not daft. I knows that, don't I, Maggie? Now I can write I reckon I'll put it down on paper, so it's legal, and private from the likes of you. I'll give it to him next time he comes down from London and I'll stay until he finds someone else.

‘In the meantime you can mind your own business and stop being so bossy.'

Maggie retorted, ‘You might have learned to write, but you're still a cider sucker if you think he can read it. He'll need someone else to tell him what's in your legal note.'

‘Cider sucker yourself,' he said triumphantly. ‘I'll read it to him mesself, won't I?'

Finch Leighton arrived unannounced at the beginning of May. His face was wreathed with smiles as he gathered the staff together and said, ‘Miss Celia Chapman has accepted my proposal of marriage. We're to be wed in July, and will travel to Italy for a month before returning here to Leighton Manor in August to live.'

After accepting the congratulations he headed off to the morning room. ‘Serafina, I'd like to talk to you. Bring coffee for us both, please.'

Her employer was in his usual chair when she went in. She placed his coffee on the table and took the seat opposite.

He said, ‘What's that perfume? It's making my throat a little husky.'

‘It's blackthorn blossom. Is the fragrance too strong?'

‘It is a little, but it's lovely . . . move it to the mantelpiece if you would.'

She did as she was told and seated herself again. He cleared his throat. ‘Adam Chapman is coming to visit you next week.'

Her heart gave a jolt. ‘Why should he want to see me? I'm nothing to him.'

His forehead creased into a frown. ‘This is business, not personal.'

‘Business . . . what business can he have with me?'