The Lodestone (15 page)

Garnett often wished he could be as sophisticated and worldly as Paolo but one thing was sure. He had no intention of introducing Paolo to Cleome, who was even more innocent than his dear mother. He couldn’t bear it if either of them ever learned why he’d been expelled. He wondered if it was Cleome’s purity that so attracted him to her. If he were capable of such debauchery, then perhaps she would be his salvation. Recalling it now made him long to see her all the more. If only she would give him a chance.

Drake Stoneham had returned from the north a few days previous, but Garnett had not yet called on him; and that was as good excuse as any to stop by the inn. Stoneham was a handsome devil—even
Garnett’s very proper mamma reluctantly admitted it. He hoped the gambler had no interest in Cleome. But even if he did, Garnett knew she was not the kind of woman who would fall prey to a man’s base desires. So, he puzzled
,
what in blazes did he want with her? He could never marry her; that was quite out of the question. And he wouldn’t want to hurt her.

If it turned out he was in love with the illegitimate daughter of a tinsmith and a madwoman, he would be sorely vexed indeed, for he could never go against his father’s wishes to that extreme. A minor skirmish in the hay with a milkmaid, or an hour with a brothel whore, was one thing. Marrying the bastard grandchild of an innkeeper who was forced to earn her own way in the world as a gambler’s servant was quite another.

Chapter Seven

Cleome was exhausted and her patience nearly spent. She was determined to run the Eagle’s Head as efficiently as she imagined the best London hotels were managed, and it was no easy task. In the weeks that followed the contract she had struck with Mr. Stoneham, she completed her duties as competently as always, but she hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to keep out of the new master’s way. He seemed to be everywhere, going over every inch of the property; and for some reason she couldn’t name, his quiet courtesy to her was infuriating.

Most of the servants accepted the new situation and avoided discussing him with Cleome, but she knew they liked him. She didn’t mind that they all decided to stay on and serve him, for they needed the work; and she couldn’t have done without each and every one of them, save Fanny.

One would have thought the death of William Desmond might initiate a truce between the scrawny English serving maid and the French woman, or at least minimize the bickering; but it was not to be so. Although Jacqueline assured Mr. Stoneham that she didn’t consider her lover’s death his fault, he always seemed to come upon her when she was weeping or drying her eyes. That the new master was kindly disposed towards Jacqueline was a thorn in Fanny’s side. Twice, Cleome had found it necessary to speak to her about the way she baited Jacqueline. And this morning, when Cleome asked Fanny to come to the study so they might have a word, Fanny’s sullen attitude had prompted a warning.

“I assign the duties here, not you or Jacqueline,” Cleome told her. “If they are not to your liking, Fanny, you must look for another post.”

“Another post, is it?” Fanny’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “We’ll see what the master has to say about that. Did ye stop to think there’s a
reason
I don’t want that French whore in me way here?” Her words as well as her impudence stunned Cleome.

“Fanny, I will not allow this,” she said at last.

“
You
will not allow!” Fanny crowed with laughter. “You be no better off than me now—than any of us—are you, me girl?” She rose to her full height and placed a fist on each bony hip. “Go on about me to the master and we’ll see who takes another post, for he likes me, you see. Ye’d be surprised how
much
he likes me.” Without waiting to be dismissed, she headed for the door.

“Fanny,” Cleome said sternly. “Come back here at once.” Fanny turned around, a sneer on her thin face, and waited for her to go on. “Whatever your relationship with our employer, he has hired
me
to supervise the running of this establishment. And whatever your problems with Jacqueline, keep them to yourself and attend to your duties. In the new master’s behalf, I will tolerate no less. Is that understood?”

With a smirk, Fanny replied, “As you say, miss.”

“Then you may go.” Cleome was shaken but she waited until Fanny was out of the room before she took a deep, steadying breath. She couldn’t imagine what Fanny’s lewd insinuation meant. But if Mr. Stoneham chose to dally with one of the serving maids, it was none of her affair. Why, then, did the thought of it make her ill?

The remainder of the morning, Cleome spent in an impotent anger that led to a raging headache. By afternoon, she was grateful for the pile of mending awaiting her next to the sewing basket in the small sitting room. This room had always been kept separate from the inn for the family’s use, and it was her refuge, for Mr. Stoneham hardly ever went there, preferring to check on repairs about the place in the morning and ride out into the countryside on his chestnut stallion in the afternoons.

It was difficult to conjure up a vision of the homely serving wench locked in Mr. Stoneham’s embrace, but if Fanny had indeed found favor in his eyes, there was nothing to be done. Cleome knew she had to keep a tight rein on Fanny or the maid would become completely useless, but it now appeared she would have to be careful how she did it, for she couldn’t take the chance of offending her employer.

She had toyed with the idea of seeking out Grandmamma Adelaide’s relatives and writing to them about her situation. Perhaps, if she could find them, they would have enough charity in their hearts to help, and Cleome would ask nothing for herself. If she could find a safe, quiet place for Ramona, she could get work nearby and visit her mother often. But after Adelaide’s death, Granda had thrown away all the letters from her friends and family. Cleome wouldn’t know how to begin looking for them in a big city like London.

As she mended a tear in Drake Stoneham’s breeches, she told herself she should be grateful if Fanny had managed to seduce him. Then he would not require Cleome’s services for . . .
anything
. A slight irritation surfaced, leaving her to wonder why she should mind so much, for with Fanny happily meeting the new master’s baser needs, it stood to reason that he would leave Cleome in peace. Holding his trousers up to see if her stitches allowed the garment to fall properly, she was again amazed at his length of limb. That was when she caught sight of Garnett Easton standing in the doorway, his hat in his hand.

“My dear,” he ventured, smiling at her shyly. “May I speak with you?”

Calmly, she folded the breeches and stood up to greet him, her face a careful mask of deference. “May I be of some assistance, milord?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, stepping further into the room. “But perhaps I can. ’Pon my word, Cleome, I do wish you’d sit down. You must not stand or hang your head when you speak to me. You certainly didn’t the day I threw mud at you and there’s no reason to start now.” She smiled at him before she could stop herself. “That’s much better,” he said, holding the chair for her.

In spite of her better judgment, she found she could relax in Garnett’s presence. He had not leaned close to her and whispered about . . .
anything
. . . as Mr. Stoneham had; and she had to admit she was glad to see him. He did nothing to intimidate her and always tried to put her at ease. She was desperately lonely and she missed her grandfather. Laughter was a balm she hadn’t sampled for weeks. Still, while Garnett was not nearly as terrifying as Drake Stoneham, she knew she must be careful with him, for she didn’t wish to give him any encouragement. Her grandmother’s long-ago warning about what happened to girls of her sort must be remembered at all costs. But, she told herself reasonably, she could at least have a friend.

“How are you, Cleome?” Garnett asked.

“Quite well, milord. I trust you do not mind if I continue with my sewing?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ve something important to tell you.” He settled himself beside her. “Now look here, Cleome. I’ve had your predicament on my mind constantly since . . . since that unfortunate evening.”

“I thank you for your concern, milord, but you must not trouble yourself.”

“Of course I must. I want to. Our grandmothers were friends. Based on their high regard for each other—and mine for you—I’ve decided to do something about this reprehensible situation.”

Worried that he would expect something in return, she put up a hand in protest. “There’s no need, milord. Eventually, I will find a way out of this difficulty.”

“I may have done exactly that. Well, perhaps I am a bit premature but hang it all! I cannot abide the idea that you’re locked away here, working like some galley slave.”

“Mr. Stoneham has been very kind.”

“But he’s a stranger to you, Cleome,” he replied. “Now look, I’ve taken the liberty of posting a letter to a barrister in London, a man who looked after your great-grandfather Houghton’s legal affairs.”

“Oh, Lord Henry wants nothing to do with any of us.”

“Things have a way of changing over the years,” he said cheerfully. “There must be some charitable relative who would be willing to forgive your grandmother the
dreadful
sin of marrying out of her class.”

“What about my mother,” she ventured doubtfully. “And her sin?”

“We’ll worry about that later.” He reached out and patted her hand. “Perhaps we shan’t have to mention it at all. First, let us see what the solicitor has to say.”

“I must not get my hopes up only to be disappointed, milord.”

“My dear Cleome, couldn’t you possibly call me Garnett?” he asked tenderly. “You haven’t, you know, since that night we laughed together in the kitchen. I do not wish to be addressed by you as your lord. I wish to be—”

“Very well, Garnett,” she broke in solemnly, deciding to put the matter straight before he got any foolish notions into his head. “But you must remember my place, for I might forget if allowed such liberty.”

“Nonsense.”

“Please listen,” she continued. “I truly believe you’ve taken an interest in helping me because of your kind nature and I’m so grateful to know that I have at least one friend in the world. For that is what we must be—friends. Nothing more. And I would wish for nothing less.”

“I want to help you because I’ve found I care very much what happens to you,” he said, and he sounded sincere. “You are quite the loveliest, sweetest girl I have ever been privileged to know.”

“This is exactly what I wish to avoid,” she said firmly. “This turn of conversation must not be allowed, Garnett. My future—and likely my
only
future—is caring for my mother the best way I can. I do not intend to become some lady of leisure for a member of the landed gentry.”

“Cleome! I am shocked you’d think that I would consider such a thing! I have nothing but admiration for you. Please believe that I hold you in the greatest esteem!”

She went to the table where her grandfather had traded her security for the thrill of chance and searched through a stack of correspondence until she came upon a small envelope of crisp, expensive parchment. It was open and Mr. Stoneham had carelessly thrust the invitation, turned sideways, back into it. She held it up and he recognized his mother’s delicate script.

“This came from Easton Place this morning,” she told him. “You will notice the invitation is extended to the new master of the Eagle’s Head Inn, not to his housekeeper. My grandfather—though many’s the time he sat at cards with your father—was never invited to a ball in your home, nor do I expect to be. And all the admiration you hold for me cannot change that one particle. If we are to be friends, Garnett, we must be honest with each other, and we must view the situation realistically.”

“All right, then. I’ll abide by your wishes, Cleome, and keep my distance . . . for the present.” He handed the invitation back to her. She replaced it among the stack of papers on the table before she returned to her chair and again took up her mending. “But,” he added hopefully, “if you want to come to the ball, I’ll try to arrange it.”

“No,” she said. “I do not.” Actually, she loved to dance and would be thrilled at the chance to try out the steps Jacqueline had taught her, but certainly not with Lord Easton, his wife and all their society friends whispering about her—although it would serve them right, for all their years of snubbing her.

“Mamma doesn’t waste a moment,” Garnett mused. “She’s determined to introduce Drake into our circle. I wager she has a bride picked out for him already.”

A movement in the doorway drew their attention. “I believe there’s an old saying,” Drake Stoneham commented dryly, amused, as he watched them. “Something to the effect of ‘he who hesitates is lost,’ eh, Easton? I suppose ’tis true of the ladies as well.”

“Hullo, Drake!” Garnett replied, getting hastily to his feet. “I heard you’d returned from Newcastle. Thought I’d stop in and welcome you back.”

“Very kind of you,” Drake said, still leaning against the doorsill. “Will you stay to tea?” He spoke to Garnett, but his eyes were on Cleome. Although she tried to force her gaze to meet his own piercing one, it shifted away uneasily; and the helpless fury she felt whenever he was near was renewed. How dare he make her feel guilty for entertaining a childhood friend in her own parlor.
But it was not her parlor
, she reminded herself
; it was his, and she was his servant
. Servants did not entertain in the master’s sitting room.

When Drake spoke again, he turned his eyes at last upon Garnett. “If my housekeeper will convey my wishes to the kitchen, we’ll have our tea in here.”

Cleome saw Garnett’s jaw tighten in anger at Drake’s words, but there was nothing he could say to alter the situation. As she bent her knee to the new master and hurried out, she tried to find comfort in the friendship Garnett was offering. She had little hope that he would find even a distant relation who would give her and her mother a home, but it was nice that someone cared what happened to them. She sensed Garnett could be easily controlled, if his interest should become more than platonic. And she liked him—it was as simple as that.