Straw in the Wind (3 page)

‘How did she die?'

‘There was an accident in the rig, a deer came out of the hedge, the horse reared and Mrs Leighton was thrown. She banged her head on a log. Mr Leighton had the reins. He blamed himself, even though he was badly injured himself. I don't like coming in here. It makes me shudder just thinking about it. She died on that bed, her skull cracked open like an egg. It was a blessing really because the fall addled her wits. When she was conscious she didn't know anyone. She just lay there dribbling and couldn't do anything for herself. That was several years ago.'

A sad tale, Sara thought, but it was in the past and self-pity was not a trait to be either encouraged or admired, Reverend Pawley had often told her. There were plenty of jobs to be done that would keep her busy, like the unoccupied rooms. Once the house was clean it would be easier to keep it clean.

She went into the garden to pick a bunch of roses. Rounding a corner she came across a weathered-looking man sitting on a log. He touched his cap. ‘Miss Finn, is it then?'

‘It is. You must be Joseph, or would you prefer Mr Tunney?'

‘Joseph will do. You're making the dust fly, I hear. I can't say it's not about time.'

‘It certainly is. I've never seen such a dirty house, but I like to keep busy.'

‘It's a sad place that needs to feel cared for again. If those roses are for the house they needs their thorns clipping off. Give them over here.' Taking a knife from his pocket he nipped the thorns off. ‘There, now they can't be the cause of an accident. You've got to be careful with roses, sometimes a scratch can cause a body a lot of damage.'

‘Thank you. Where's Giles?'

‘Can't rightly say, Miss. Gone out on the cart, I reckon.'

She hoped Giles would remember to collect her trunk.

Back in the house she arranged the roses in a glowing copper bowl, set them on a table in the small sitting room then went into the study with her dusters and a bucket of water. It was going to take her longer than she expected. All the books were covered in dust and the ashes from the last fire were still in the grate. She was soon busy, and an hour later everything was to her liking.

The clock struck midday and she made her way to the kitchen. Maggie gazed at her. ‘Mrs Cornwell used to have her meals served in her rooms. She kept herself to herself, she did.'

‘I'd rather eat in the kitchen with the rest of the staff, if you don't mind.'

‘It's a bit more friendly-like, so I don't mind, seeing as you ask. Mrs Cornwell thought she was a cut above us, especially when she got herself engaged.' Maggie sniffed. ‘She answered a notice in the newspaper from a man wanting a mother for his brats.'

There was some chicken soup and freshly made bread to revive them. Sara was relieved to see Giles come in, and asked him, ‘Did you remember to fetch my trunk, Giles?'

‘Yes, Miss.'

‘Good.' She supposed he'd put it in her rooms. ‘Have you finished the ironing, Fanny?'

‘Yes, Miss.'

‘Then you can help me with the drawing room after we've had a break. That was a delicious soup, Maggie.'

‘There's nothing more tasty than a nice bit of chicken,' the woman said, ‘except a nice bit of beef or pork, of course. Then there's lamb. The master is partial to it. He likes it roasted with potatoes and parsnips. And he likes apple pie. He's very easy to please, really.'

The drawing room caught the morning sun. Like the rest of the house it was dirty. She pulled the dustsheet off the piano and smiled. Elizabeth Pawley had made piano lessons part of her education, and although she wasn't an expert, she had picked it up easily. She ran her fingers up and down the scales to warm her fingers and make them more flexible, as she'd been taught. The piano needed tuning, but it wasn't too bad, and she played a couple of short Bach pieces before moving on to a lively Chopin waltz.

A crash interrupted her short concert. Her heart thumped against her chest when somebody uttered a solid curse, followed by, ‘What in hell's name is this I've tripped over, Oscar?'

‘I
t appears to be a travelling trunk, Mr Leighton.'

Her employer!

What a stupid place to leave a trunk. Help me up please, Oscar.'

Sara flew through the drawing-room door, across the hall and to the porch, where a man was being helped up by another. ‘I'm so sorry . . . it's my trunk . . . are you all right, sir?'

‘Apart from a bruise or two, though I dare say I'll survive it. Where's Mrs Cornwell? Go and fetch her.'

‘Mrs Cornwell has left.'

‘Damn it to hell, I was hoping to get here before she departed.' He turned her way, the brim of his hat shading his eyes. ‘Has the new housekeeper arrived?'

‘I'm the new housekeeper, Sara Finn.' When she held out a hand he ignored it, so she brought it down to her side. Perhaps employers didn't lower themselves to shake hands with servants.

‘You sound too young to be a housekeeper.'

‘As you see, sir . . . but I'm competent.'

‘Not if you leave travelling trunks in my path.'

Finch Leighton was younger than she'd expected him to be, in his early thirties. ‘Actually, I didn't leave it there. I didn't
know
it was there.'

His mouth twitched. ‘Ah . . . that explains everything satisfactorily, Miss Finn. It's your trunk, but you didn't leave it there and didn't know it was there.'

‘That's right, sir.'

‘Am I to think it grew legs and trotted there all by itself?'

She wanted to laugh at the scene that conjured up, but didn't dare. ‘It's not up to me to tell you what to think, sir, but that action would be highly improbable unless the leather it's made from is still attached to the animal it came from.'

Mr Leighton looked disgruntled. ‘Do you have an answer for everything? No . . . for God's sake don't answer that.'

She shrugged, and didn't, just murmured, ‘Sorry.'

Oscar picked up Mr Leighton's walking stick and put it in his employer's hand with a cheerful, ‘Here you are, sir.'

‘Thank you, Oscar. Take the luggage and unpack then make sure my room is ready for occupancy. I'll be in the sitting room.'

Fanny had come into the hall and was gazing at them with her mouth open.

‘Can I get you anything, sir?' Sara asked him.

‘I dare say you could, but I'm not satisfied with the explanation you've given me with regards to the trunk being left for people to trip over, and I'm not going to allow you to wriggle out of it that easily. Also, I need to know more about you if I'm to trust you with my family home.'

She smiled at Fanny. ‘Fanny, go and tell Maggie that Mr Leighton has arrived. Perhaps you'd like some refreshment, sir?'

‘Hello, Fanny,' he said without looking at the maid. ‘Tell cook I'm ravenous and we want tea, and whatever she has handy in the way of cake. After you, Miss Finn.'

Fanny smiled and scurried off as Sara headed for the sitting room. There was something odd about her employer. Apart from the slight limp, there was the way his fingers trailed lightly along the furniture. Well, he wouldn't find any dust left from
her
cleaning that was certain. In her last position she'd been kept at it from dawn to dusk, and work had become an ingrained habit. Closing the door she watched him head for the couch. He removed his hat, set it beside him then turned towards the bowl of roses. Gently he cupped his hands around them and inhaled their perfume.

‘Lovely,' he murmured and turned to gaze at the chair on the other side of the table. He was a handsome man with a fine-boned, but taut-looking face. His eyes were a soft brown. ‘Where are you, Miss Finn?'

She became aware with a sudden, pitying jolt of shock. ‘I'm here, near the door. I didn't realize you couldn't see.'

His head moved her way. ‘Nobody told you?'

‘No.' And she hadn't picked up the clues. No wonder he'd cursed. ‘I'm sorry the trunk was left there. I walked from the station and couldn't carry it by myself, so I left it with the stationmaster to be picked up.'

‘And it was picked up by Giles and left on the doorstep while he unhitched the cart, then stabled the horse. No doubt he was lured into the kitchen by the smell of Maggie's cooking and forgot about it. It's Thursday . . . chicken broth, yes?'

She nodded, and then remembering he couldn't see her, she cleared her throat. ‘Yes.'

‘The house smells different, of polish and fresh air. The trouble with not having anyone living here is that the staff don't bother. Except for my room, it usually smells of dust. Come and sit opposite me.'

When she'd settled herself, she told him, ‘Be assured, I will bother and so will the rest of your house staff from now on.'

‘You are how old?'

‘Eighteen.'

‘Good Lord, am I employing babies now? Was that you I heard playing the piano?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘How do you look . . . no don't tell me. You have a quick, light step so will be fairly small. Your voice is low, but you have laughter in it, so at least you won't screech.'

When she laughed, he smiled. ‘You don't giggle, you chuckle. Musically, you're competent, but the piano is not. It hasn't been played since . . . well, for quite some time, really. I must get it tuned so you can provide me with entertainment occasionally. Can you sing?'

‘Like a crow at Christmas.'

He laughed.

‘Do you play the piano yourself, sir?'

‘Sometimes.'

‘You should practise.'

‘You think so? Perhaps I will. Ah, here comes Maggie.'

A few seconds later a knock came at the door and Maggie entered carrying the tea tray. She had a beaming smile on her face. ‘You'll never guess, sir.'

He sniffed the air. ‘Almond cake.'

‘No, sir . . . it's apple and cinnamon. You never could tell the difference.'

‘Leave the tray please, Maggie. Sara will see to me. I can see I'm going to have to train her into doing things my way.'

‘If you say so, sir.' Maggie offered her a smug look.

After Maggie had left, she said, ‘How did you lose your sight, Mr Leighton?'

‘It happened five years ago, when I killed my wife in an accident . . . it was a blow to the head. I survived, but my sight did not.'

She refused to give in to the shock she felt at his words. ‘How do you like your tea?'

‘Is that all you've got to say?'

‘What do you want me to say? I can't argue with you because I wasn't there. You were lucky.'

‘You were twelve then, and probably still in your nursery.'

‘No, sir . . . I was in the workhouse then. We slept three to a bed. How did you say you wanted your tea?'

‘I didn't.' He gave a small huff of annoyance. ‘Milk in first, and the liquid one inch from the top. There's a small groove on the surface of the table. Place the cup and saucer there with the handle facing towards the door. The plate with the cake goes to the left of it.'

She did as she was asked and watched as he reached for the cup then lifted it to his lips. ‘Stop watching me and tell me what you look like, Sara. What colour are your eyes?'

She chuckled. ‘Almost the same colour as yours.'

‘What are mine like? I forget.'

She doubted it as she gazed at them. They were lighter than hers and they looked like normal eyes, though the dark centre didn't seem to react. ‘They're the colour of toffee . . . or dark amber.'

‘Ah, you're a poet. I would call them brown.'

‘Are you sure you can't see?'

‘Quite sure, though sometimes I think I can see light. The doctor tells me I might be imagining it, and I probably am. My father had brown eyes too. Which parent did you inherit your eye colour from?'

‘I couldn't say . . . I never knew either of them.'

He sucked in a breath. ‘I'm sorry, that was insensitive of me.'

‘Oh, I don't think about it much. Besides, it's best to ask if you want to know something.'

‘You're pragmatic for one so young.' When she didn't answer he said, ‘You do know what that means, don't you?'

She smiled. ‘I've always had to take a practical approach. I learned to read and write and I have a good memory.'

‘So you're educated and can play the piano, despite being in a workhouse? Why did you say I was lucky?'

‘Because you could see before the accident and know about colours, shapes and objects. If you'd been born without sight it would have been much harder.'

‘I haven't thought about the accident from that angle.'

‘Then perhaps you should. It will encourage you to appreciate what you have.'

He laughed. ‘You're disconcerting, and I don't know whether I like you, Sara Finn. I'm sorry I cursed. I hope I didn't shock you.'

‘I've heard worse curses . . . or should that be better curses? And may I make one thing clear, Mr Leighton? I find you disconcerting too, and haven't decided whether I like you, either.'

‘Then we'll get on famously, I'm sure. You're not going to allow me to feel sorry for myself, are you? I warn you, I do on occasion.'

She grinned. He was an unusual man and she was warming to him. ‘I shouldn't think so. Will you mind if I go now? I was about to clean the drawing room when the piano practice interrupted.'

‘Yes, I will mind. Eat your cake, drink your tea and make polite conversation . . . if you can. You're my housekeeper, and we have things to discuss, since I don't want any more unpleasant surprises, like obstacles left in my path.'

The gentle reprimand reminded her that this man was her employer, and her straightforwardness could be mistaken for familiarity. Her face heated. Thank goodness he couldn't see her embarrassment. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. I've never run a household before and thought I'd been hired as a maid, not the housekeeper.'