War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 (5 page)

Ruth sat next to the maid and set to eating. “Didn’t his grace say you were a relative of his?” the girl asked. “What are you doing down here with us?”

Ruth shrugged, wishing the duke had not invented the tale “I must eat somewhere. I’m a governess by profession.”

The maids stared at her curiously, and Ruth’s heart sank. Governesses, companions and other genteel people who were employed to serve a family fell between the two stools. They weren’t good enough for the family, and they did not fit in belowstairs, because who knew what they would convey to their masters? Nobody trusted them. They could lead very lonely lives.

Ruth busied herself with her food and the big dish of tea someone set before her. “I’m just here to care for the babies and set up the nursery.”

“How long are you here for?” the maid next to her asked as she shoved a stray lock of hair back under her linen cap.

“As long as his grace needs me.”

“Have you been to London?” the footman asked her. He’d taken off his heavy coat and sat at table in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.

Ruth shook her head. “No further than York.”

“London drives people mad,” the other footman said sagely. “It’s not a safe place. You wouldn’t get me going there.”

“What about if he orders you, Will Kennaway?” Daisy, the maid sitting next to Ruth asked.

Will Kennaway blushed. “That’s different.”

Ruth cut into a thick slice of bacon. “I’ve never been to London. I come from the north.” She stopped herself saying “Cumbria” in the nick of time. They might know the babies’ mother came from there.

“Scotland?”

“Nearly.” She sipped her tea. Just as she liked it, strong and hot.

She didn’t linger long over her breakfast, but the chatter going on around her disturbed her a little. What could she say?

She turned to her food, and said nothing, then excused herself to go upstairs. She’d seen eight servants down here, all but the housekeeper and the butler. It seemed a woefully small contingent for such a large house, ten servants, plus the nursery staff, and the duke’s personal body servant. The duke seemed content with the arrangements, so who was she to criticise?

On her way upstairs, she caught sight of the duke. He was striding down the hallway by his apartments, which were two floors below hers, almost directly, except, of course, much grander. What would the house look like opened to visitors?

It was likely she would never know. She turned hastily to go in the other direction.

“Miss Carter!”

She had to stop when she heard him call, so she waited, head down, hands clasped before her and bobbed a curtsey.

“Don’t do that,” he said irritably. “Look at me.”

She raised her gaze to his face. “Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Ruth.” His one-sided smile warmed the expression in his eyes, which bore marks the colour of bruises under them. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Is that one of the questions you said you wanted to ask me?”

“No, saucy wench, it is not.” His voice lightened. “We will speak of that tonight. I’m still considering what I want to ask you. You are an enigma, Ruth. A pixie.”

His epithet startled her into a laugh. “Most people call me a beanpole.” Why did he provoke her into such answers? She had determined to say yes sir and no sir, but all her good intentions flew out the window when she spoke to him.

“Not to me. You’re as mischievous as a pixie or an elf, that’s for sure. Or maybe one of the sprites that inhabit the woods around Rome.”

“Are there such things?”

“I am assured there are. Should you like to see them one day?” He gazed at her as if he really wanted to hear her answer.

“Indeed, sir, that would be beyond my wishes. I don’t think of it because I doubt I’ll have the opportunity.” Taking her courage in both hands, she drew a breath. “Your grace, I would like to go into the attics to find a few things for the babies.”

He waved a hand airily. “Of course you may.”

He studied her, his gaze roaming over her. The resultant heat must be a result of the weather and her gown, not because he was paying attention to her. “Why do you wear such stifling clothes in the middle of summer?”

The middle of summer had come two months ago, in June, but really this August was much hotter than it had any right to be. “Because they are what I possess, sir.”

“If you are venturing into the attics, then I have something more suitable for you, if you’re handy with a needle. There are any number of clothes up there. They might be old-fashioned, but I give you permission to do with them as you will.”

“Sir, I couldn’t possibly—”

He broke into her protests. “Yes you could. You may use what you wish. I believe fashions were a little different a few decades ago, but I feel sure you could spend time remodelling them to your liking.”

“Were they your mother’s?”

He flinched as if she’d struck him. “Do not use those. All the trunks are labelled, I believe, with the names of the owners. I do not wish you to use the ones my mother wore. However, my two aunts lived here until their deaths, around twenty years ago. Use those.”

She perfectly understood why he would not want someone using his mother’s clothes, although that gave her another clue. She had not asked the servants about the family history. As a distant relative she’d have known it, so it would seem suspicious if she’d asked. But his words meant he remembered his mother, and probably still mourned her.

The duke was around thirty, which meant when his aunts were alive the fashion was for larger hoops and wider skirts. That would give her more fabric than she needed. She would also undertake to raise the hems to a more practical level. Grand ladies tended to prefer skirts that swept the ground. That would make the skirts a reasonable ankle length for her, or even higher. She could fashion a ruffle with the spare fabric to make the garment decent.

Her mind running on, she found the thought of new clothes, however handed-down, exciting. A thrill went through her, such as she had not experienced since that disastrous season in York. Her mother had chosen most of her clothes, but since she was used to selecting items that suited shorter, prettier girls, they mostly turned out horribly wrong for Ruth’s lanky form.

“My aunts bought new clothes every season,” he said. “There are trunks full in the attic. Select a few. Take six.”

“Six!” She had never owned so many garments in her life. “I’m sure I won’t need that many.”

“Nevertheless, take them. I wish to recommence our dinners, and you should dress decently, so use three for that. You know how to dress for dinner?”

She nodded. Neatly, but with a lower neckline and longer skirts than she used for the daytime. Without drawing too much attention to herself, of course. That, her mother had told her, ignoring the efforts of her youngest child to be noticed everywhere she went, would be vulgar. Perhaps she’d find fine lawn for neckwear, and even a ruffle or two.

“Come with me,” he said.

Obediently, she followed him. He strode along a wide corridor and then up a flight of stairs and into a room she had never entered before. It looked like a private sitting-room, although the furnishings, like many in this room, were shrouded in Holland covers.

He dragged down a cloth, revealing a portrait. “That’s my mother,” he said. “You see why I cannot consider her clothes suitable for you.”

The portrait showed a delicate blonde lady, sitting on a bench under an oak. She wore a broad hat, a pale blue gown with wide hoops and a disapproving frown. “She was lovely.”

“Yes, she was. I took after my father. She was short and blonde. Not at all like you.”

“No.” Of course, Ruth was tall and mousy. She would never make a society beauty. “I am built on different lines.”

He stared up at the portrait in silence, a frown between his dark brows. Ruth did not want to interrupt his memories, but his studied silence made her uncomfortable.

“She was a devil,” he said.

What did that mean? Had she been unfaithful? Was that why her son put so much stock in honesty?

With a decisive movement, he turned his back on the portrait and met her gaze. The frown smoothed out. Ruth tried not to fidget.

He studied her in silence until he eventually said, “I’m keeping you from your duties. Do not forget those clothes. In future, I will expect your appearance at dinner to be much more suitable than it was on your first night.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she was perfectly suitably dressed, but recalling he was her employer, not her equal, she merely bowed her head.

“Go then, see what you can find. I can see you’re eager to be gone.”

She turned and left as quickly as she could.

* * * * *

Ruth ventured into the attics later that day. She found them eerie, but in reasonable order. Furniture from centuries ago lined the walls, covers tossed over them, and as she went through to the other areas, she discovered trunks lined up as if waiting for the coach that would never come. Lifting the lid of one, she discovered the clothes his grace had promised. These were the clothes of a woman long dead, twenty or thirty years at the least. They smelled of camphor and lavender. Some of them looked unworn.

Ruth chose a few items. Three for evenings, as the duke had instructed, and three more for the daytime. That was as many gowns as she’d ever owned in her life.

The garments were made of fine silks and linens. She ventured to take a pair of stays, since she had left home with only one pair. Another unworn pair, of cream cotton with terracotta pinks printed on them, outmoded and they probably would not fit as well as her own, but she would have something to wear while her others were being laundered.

She put them aside and passed on to the other rooms. Eventually, in a corner she discovered much of what she required for the nursery.

She carried her bounty to the entrance in triumph. She would ask one of the footmen to carry down the furniture for her, but the smaller items she could take herself. Some pap feeders, essential for weaning, more linen cloths, and some gowns for the boys, loose and comfortable in this hot weather. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. Here, under the leads, the heat stifled her. She’d be glad to get out of here.

She needed something else—sewing materials. She’d brought but a small set of needles and silks with her, more suited for minor mending tasks. Perhaps she could mend some household items for the duke while she was here. Who on earth did the mending and the laundry here? Surely not those housemaids, whose work must be cut out keeping the house clean and orderly.

She had so many questions. That put her in mind of what the duke wanted for that night. The thought of his game sent butterflies rioting in her stomach. After a few days when he did not demand her presence, she assumed he had forgotten his whim, but it seemed not.

Picking up the clothes she’d selected, she scurried down the stairs, glad to get out of the heat.

She spent the afternoon altering a gown and supervising the installation of the replacement cradles. The gown was old-fashioned, the box pleats at the back only sewn down to the shoulder blades, so she completed the stitching in the modern style, sewing them down to the waist. She fitted them over her smaller side hoops, and although the material billowed a bit, it was acceptable. It was in a lightweight silk, the fabric a pretty blue and much more suitable for the weather. She found a stomacher to match, the plainest she could discover.

Andrea nodded when Ruth reappeared in her new gown. The nursemaid behaved perfectly amicably to her, but at no time did Ruth believe she could make a friend of her fellow worker. A colleague, perhaps. Andrea kept her private thoughts to herself and Ruth could not break through that final part.

So she was alone, but what of that? She’d spent most of her life solitary, in the midst of her family. Apart from Rhea.

At the appointed hour, neatly attired in the blue silk, she went downstairs, this time arriving on time. Light still streamed through the broad windows on this side of the house as she tapped on the door to the yellow drawing room and went in.

Not a trace of yellow marked this gracious room. Instead, the walls were draped in green silk, and the sofas upholstered in darker green. The oriental carpet on the floor held no yellow, either. She knew she was in the right place because the duke stood to greet her.

He stood to greet her.

That small act made her believe she was a lady again. Nobody ever focussed his attention on her in that way. She swallowed.

He smiled. “Would you like a drink while they are setting the table? By the way, that is not my question. I’ll tell you when I’m asking that.”

He’d forced a smile from her. “I would appreciate a glass of wine, sir.”

“There is some tolerable madeira. Will you take a glass?”

“Yes, please.” Her voice had grown small and quiet. She cleared her throat.

He handed her a glass with just enough of the fortified wine, not too much. He’d judged her requirements to a nicety. Then he took her to a sofa and waited until she took her seat before he took his own, on a chair close to her, picking up a glass of brandy already by his side.

“Miss Carter, I have to compliment you on your fine looks. That colour suits you. I’m pleased you took the opportunity to select something better and more practical for this weather.”

Even in the late afternoon the warmth permeated the old stones of the house. Her own gowns would have become oppressively hot.

“Thank you, sir.”

The door to the dining room opened, and Henstall announced dinner was ready. The duke let her precede him and she did her best to glide in the approved manner, but she was not sure she managed it. Certainly not in the manner of a great society lady. She had no illusions about herself.

He helped her to sit with his own hands, and then took his seat next to her, at the head of the table. Like yesterday, they were seated together and also like yesterday, they were alone. The little silver hand bell stood accusingly between them, daring her to ring it.

She wouldn’t do it.