To Have and to Hold (30 page)

She was the "something important"—he'd galloped halfway to Wyckerley to save her from drowning in the downpour. She was so happy and so moved, she couldn't speak. He'd pulled her onto the stallion's back and surrounded her with his wet arms. Before they'd gone twenty yards, the rain stopped. They'd laughed all the way home.

She thought of the lightheartedness of that damp, bumpy ride, the pure joy in her heart while he'd teased her and held her close, stealing kisses and making jokes about her ruined hat. How could she not love him? He was everything to her—as perfect a lover now as he'd been a perfect tormenter, before Sully and the others had come and changed everything. But for how long? She was a housekeeper; Sebastian was a viscount. She was a felon; he would be an earl. How long would he want her for a mistress? How long before she needed more?

It was useless to wonder. She was living in the unprincipled moment, she reminded herself. And the quiet night was lovely. She wasn't hungry, thirsty, or cold, and she could see the moon. She had a dog. Really, how much more did one woman deserve?

A soothing thought. She kept it as she turned away from the river and went along the path that led to the park. Watching Dandy, she didn't see the figure on the path ahead of her until the dog stopped suddenly, ears and tail lifting to attention. She knew a second of fright before she recognized the tall, broad-shouldered form of William Holyoake. He raised his hand as soon as he saw her, and said her name in a quiet voice so she would know who he was and not be startled.

"Good evening, Mr. Holyoake."

"Good evening to you, Mrs. Wade."

"You're up and about late tonight."

"And you."

"I found it too hot to sleep."

"Aye." He stooped to pet Dandy, who was butting at his knees. "He's growing fast. Looks like 'e means to be a big un. You can always tell by the feet."

His enormous hands touched the puppy with great gentleness, and she remembered what Susan had told her—that William's own dog, a black and tan sheepdog called Bob, had died a few months ago.

He straightened and touched his forehead, as if he meant to leave her. "Will you walk with me for a little, Mr. Holyoake?" she asked. "Or perhaps you're tired now. It's late, I was just—"

"Aye, I'll take a turn wi' you. Thank you," he-said solemnly, and something in his heavy, courteous manner told her she had done exactly the right thing. That William might be a lonely man was a possibility that had simply never occurred to her. Tonight, maybe because of her own pensive mood, it seemed self-evident.

They went down the sandy walk that skirted the slope of terraced gardens behind the house. The fragrance of moss roses and eglantine was a subtle cologne in the heavy, humid air. For a while they walked along in easy silence, and it occurred to her that she and William had many things in common, one of which was their reserve. That must be why she always felt comfortable with him. Eventually he broke the stillness to inquire, "The girl Sidony, how is she getting along wi' her work in the kitchen, Mrs, Wade?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid, William."

"Aye, I heard sommat o' that." He sighed heavily.

"She's a sweet-natured girl, and bright, I believe. And it isn't that she's unwilling to work."

"Mayhap the Frenchman is too hard on 'er?" he guessed hopefully. Monsieur Judelet was known below-stairs as "the Frenchman" only when one was being polite; at all other times, the names he was called would blister the ears of a sailor.

"No, I don't think it's that. She says not, anyway. And Mary Barry tells me Judelet has been surprisingly gentle with her." Mary Barry was the scullery maid. "I don't know what the matter is," Rachel admitted, "but I'm afraid she's not working out. She's never where she's supposed to be, never finishes the tasks she's assigned. Mary says she spends most of the day in the kitchen garden, whether she's been sent there for something or not. And she looks a fright most of the time, as if she sleeps in her clothes."

William grunted and stuck his hands in his pockets, shaking his head. '"Twould be a shame to send 'er away. She's only a girl, wi' no family but 'er father, and I wouldn't wish the likes o' him on a dog."

"No."

They fell silent for a time, then began to speak of other things, exchanging the daily news of their respective bailiwicks, house and farm. The moon was sinking; it was very late. Dandy had run ahead, and they were passing below the pavilion, a small, derelict, stone building that had once been used as a summer house, when the dog suddenly broke into a frenzy of barking. They halted, gazing up the slight, grassy rise. "Shush, Dandy!" Rachel called softly. "Lord, he'll wake the whole house." At that moment something small and dark darted out the door, halted against the white stone facade for a second, then dashed back inside.

William immediately reached for Rachel's arm and put her behind him. "A prowler, and he's trapped now. Stay right here."

She felt grateful for his solicitousness, but she wasn't afraid; she thought it more likely that Dandy had surprised a pair of trysting lovers than a prowler. She stood obediently still and watched the bailiff stride up the mount to the pavilion, his manner cautious and fearless at the same time. Dandy had stopped barking; in fact, he was whining a welcome. Either he really was the world's worst watchdog or the intruder in the pavilion was a friend. She heard William call out, "Who goes there?" exactly like a Roman sentry in a play. A low voice said something in reply. A woman's voice. Unable to stand the suspense, Rachel gathered her skirts and started up the hill.

William stood in the low, arched doorway, his broad frame obscuring the view, having a soft, one-sided conversation. Rachel stood on her toes to peer over his shoulder. At first she couldn't see anything but shadows in the damp, musty, not very clean enclosure, but as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she made out a slight figure at the back, pressed against the wall. It was Sidony Timms.

"You did ought to come out now," William was saying in a soothing voice. "Nobody means to harm you. Come out, it's all right. Mrs. Wade is wi' me; we was out havin' a walk. Why'nt you come out so we can talk? That's it, that's a girl."

He stepped back, and Rachel backed up behind him, making way for Sidony. She crept out of the archway, darting glances at them through the curtain of her long, rather wild black hair. She was barefooted; her shoes were lined up neatly on the doorstep, and beside them were a tattered shawl and a pillow.

"What are you doing here, Sidony?" Rachel asked, taking Holyoake's cue and speaking gently. "Were you sleeping?"

She stared down at her feet and said, "Yes, ma'am.

I wasn't hurting anything, I promise. I was just sleeping."

"But why? Because of the heat?"

She didn't answer; she glanced up at William, who towered over her like a giant, and then at Rachel. After a long, odd moment, she finally murmured, "No," and looked back down at the ground.

Perplexed, Rachel said, "What, then? Why would you want to sleep here, Sidony? Is there something wrong with your room?" Tess was Sidony's third-floor roommate, a mild, good-tempered girl—surely Tess couldn't be the problem.

"Oh, no, ma'am, my room's lovely, I never stayed anywhere so nice."

"Then what?"

She traced the edge of the concrete step with her big toe and nervously plaited her skirt with her fingers. "It's just that I can't stay in there, not for long at a time. I can't bear it. It's crazy-sounding, but I can't stand the walls." She glanced between them, pleading for understanding, then gave a hopeless shrug and looked away.

Rachel felt a quick frisson of recognition. Impulsively, she touched Sidony's shoulder. She herself hadn't suffered that particular torment in prison—the irrational terror of enclosed spaces—but others had, and their miserable cries and useless protests still rang in her ears, because she'd heard them almost daily for ten years.

"Why?" William asked kindly. "What harm can walls do to you?"

Rachel was about to answer for her—that the fear might be groundless but it was still real, still horrible— when Sidony spoke for herself, and the answer made Rachel gasp. "None, I know, but it makes me think on all the times my pa locked me up in a box, and then I feel like I've got to start screaming or I might die."

Holyoake's honest face blackened with emotion.

But his voice was deep and calm when he said, "Let's set down here for a minute, shall we? Myself, I can always think better when I'm setting."

So they sat down on the top step of the little porch in front of the summer pavilion, Rachel and William on either side, Sidony in the middle. The moon was gone; the chimneys of Lynton Hall were etched in sharp black against the hazier black of the sky. Filled with pity and shock, Rachel could think of nothing to say. She was grateful when William said quietly, conversationally, "So. Yer pa shut you up in a box, and that's why you can't keep long to yer work in the kitchen. Because o' the walls." Sidony nodded faintly. "Why would the man do such a low and heartless thing?"

"He said because I was wicked. But. . . 'twould be for small things, leaving the churn out in the rain or not polishing the tinware to 'is liking. I didn't mind the hitting so much as the box. "Iwas a cupboard for blankets and such. He'd empty it out an' make me get in." She wrapped her arms around her knees—a frighteningly revealing posture. "Just for a night usually, but once for the whole day, too." Her voice broke at the end; she hid her face in her skirt.

Chilled, Rachel put her arm around the girl's thin shoulders and hugged her. William looked miserable; his big hand hovered over the curve of Sidony's spine for a moment, but then he dropped it back to his side. Rachel sent him a commiserating look. She was a woman, so she could comfort Sidony by touching her; William was a man, so he could not.

Sidony wiped her face with her hands, her hands on her skirt. "I'm all right now, ma'am," she said softly, and her wobbly, grateful smile went straight to Rachel's heart.

"Mrs. Wade," Holyoake said ponderously.

"Yes?"

"I was just now thinking. Esther Pole, you know, she's not as young as she used t' be."

"That's true. Esther's been slowing down; I've heard others say it." She knew exactly where he was leading, and wondered why she hadn't thought of the solution herself.

"She could do wi' some help, and no mistake."

Sidony's dark-lashed eyes widened on him. "Miss Pole, the dairy woman?"

"Aye. She's slowed to a crawl," he avowed—a shameless exaggeration. "Now you, Sidony, what do you think o' dairy work? "Iwould be harder'n kitchen work in many ways, not least of all the regularity of it, so to say, plus it takes some muscle, and you being sommat of a puny thing—''

"Oh, I could do it, Mr. Holyoake, I know I could," she said excitedly. "I'm the one who always milked Baby, our cow at home, and I helped her birth the calf, too, and 'twas a hard labor, with no one about but me. I'm sure I could work in the dairy for Miss Pole if you'd try me. And I think"—she smiled suddenly, with a charming, adult wryness—"I think 'twould be a great kindness to the Frenchman, for I've tried his patience sorely."

William looked over her shoulder at Rachel, lifting his eyebrows to ask her opinion. She gave a nod of approval and he said, "You could start tomorrow, then. Meet me in the dairy barn at six o'clock, and we'll tell Esther together. Now," he continued before Sidony could speak, "there's still the matter o' yer room. You can't be sleeping out here on the grounds anymore. Tisn't seemly for a young girl."

She dipped her head and nodded. "I know. I'll try—"

"The lads sleep in the stable wi' the horses. Rough quarters they are, naught but straw beds on planks and a place for a few clothes, wood partitions between them and the animals. Still, they're snug and warm, and I've never heard complaining. What if I was to rig up sommat o' the sort in the dairy barn? You'd be all alone, but I could make a wee bit of a room, nothing fancy, wi' a door and a lock so you could be private. The thing is, it'd be open on top, like; 'twouldn't feel enclosed. And—the animals would be there for company." He said that self-consciously, as if his sensitivity to Sidony's plight embarrassed him slightly. "Do you think that would be all right, Mrs. Wade? Think 'is lordship would object for any reason?"

"I can't imagine that he would, Mr. Holyoake."

Sidony's small, pixyish face was a study. Rachel felt in sympathy with her when her hand stole over to Holyoake's sleeve and touched it shyly. "Thank you," she said in a small voice. "How kind you are. I don't know what to say to you, sir."

William was smiling warmly until she said the word "sir." Then he gave her hand a brisk, fatherly pat and got to his feet. '"Tis late. Six o'clock'll come in no time, so you'd best be going off to bed, girl. Your
own
bed, I think."

She nodded, resigned to it.

"I know another place," Rachel said suddenly, and they looked at her in surprise. "It's cool and spacious, very airy, and it has a nice high ceiling. A little hard, maybe, but you've got your pillow. And you'd have Dandy for company."

Sidony's face was all eyes and open mouth. "Where is it, ma'am?"

She smiled. "Come along and I'll show you."

15

A young lady was coming out of Sebastian's study just as Rachel entered it. She was blond, attractive, smartly dressed, with a proud, confident carriage that made her seem taller than she really was. Sebastian, who was behind her, evidently on his way to see her to the front door, halted in the threshold. "Ah, Mrs. Wade," he said, smiling—a smile that went a long way toward banishing an emotion Rachel recognized with dull surprise as jealousy. "Have you met Miss Deene? Miss Deene, this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Wade."