One Day for a Valet

Chapter 4

Supper arrived on a tray that night, and exactly twenty minutes later, a maid named Annie brought a second helping of baked apples drizzled in a rich cream sauce. No one asked any questions. After the exhaustion and uncertainty of the year since her papa had died, the sensation of stability she felt with food in her belly, a room to herself, and promised wages was enough to make her quiver with relief.

Sofia stripped off her dress down to her chemise, then stopped at the bedside table to pick up a book she hadn’t noticed earlier. Giambattista Basile’s, The Tale of Tales … in Italian. A square of parchment peeked out from between its pages. She smiled, swallowing past the sudden tightness in her throat as she stroked the raised letters of the leather-bound book and pulled the parchment out to read it.

My dearest lethal swordswoman,

Unfortunately, this isn’t a gift because it isn’t mine to give. I did, however, search out and pilfer the very best of the two Italian books in His Grace’s opulent library. A task which, I can assure you, took the better part of the afternoon and left me nursing multiple papercuts. I offer it with the hope that it will comfort you on your first night in a new home. The upstairs maids have informed me that your health has improved. I am glad, as I intend to challenge you to a rematch, and you will require the full restoration of your energy for any hope of victory.

Your servant,

Christopher P Keene

She sighed and stared at the note, a cold sense of foreboding settling in her stomach. He is thoughtful. It had been ages since anyone had considered her needs, and his kindness was no less irresistible to her soul than the scent of bread was to her stomach. The urge to melt into the sensation of being cared for, however minor the token of his solicitude, was overwhelming. Because to her, it didn’t feel small. And that was treacherous. To her father, she had been little more than a housekeeper, handling all of his practical concerns. She often wondered if he knew how the butcher’s bill and rent got paid. With Oliver, there had been genuine affection… right until the moment he walked away without a thought for what her life would look like in his absence. And her mother, well, she didn’t warrant thinking about at all.

There could be no considerate gifts. No fencing rematch. No allowing herself to be teased and provoked into banter. Her moral compass had grown increasingly unreliable as her body fat had dwindled. At this point, you could strum her ribs like the strings on a mandolin. But even she would not stoop so low as to encourage a friendship she would eventually betray. Detachment from the family and staff was best for everyone, and that included Christopher Keene and his compelling smile.

Reaching into the drawer of the small secretary desk in the corner, she retrieved a piece of parchment, a quill, and ink.

Dear Sir,

While I appreciate your thoughtful non-gift and inquiries into my wellbeing, my time with the Anson family is for the exclusive purpose of educating the children. Any attachment would serve as an unwanted distraction from my employment. I appreciate your respectful distance moving forward.

Sofia Lioni

She sanded the parchment and folded it neatly into quarters, but with no idea where to find Mr Keene and little chance of locating his quarters on her own, Sofia crushed the letter in her hand. She was about to toss the paper into the waste bin when a knock sounded. “Come in.”

Polly slid through the door, closing it behind her. “I’m just checking to see if you need anything before I retire upstairs for the night.” Sofia glanced down at the mangled letter in her hand, considering the risk of spreading gossip amongst the servants.

Following Sofia’s gaze, Polly gave an encouraging smile. “Oh, it’s all right Sofia. I’m right good at keeping secrets.”

After another heartbeat of hesitation, Sofia decided she didn’t care if Polly thought her behaviour untoward. Warding Christopher off was more important than maintaining Polly’s good opinion. “Can you see that this finds its way to Mr Keene please?”

Polly nodded. “Is there anything else you need?”

Sofia pressed the letter to Polly’s palm and gave the woman’s hand a gentle squeeze between her own. “No. Thank you, Polly. You’ve been very kind. I will see you in the morning.”

Tucking the note into her apron pocket, Polly bid her goodnight.

Thirty minutes later, Sofia was settled in her bed, book in hand, when there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called. When no one entered, she pulled herself out from beneath the cosy counterpane and opened the door. Empty, dark hallway stretched in both directions. She looked down. Another book and another note. This time, Flora and Fauna of the Italian Rainforest.

My dearest governess-with-whom-I-have-no-particular-attachment,

I can only assume that my previous non-gift was not to your liking. That, or perhaps you object to my poorly executed marriage proposal. Please note that I’ve never before seen fit to offer for a woman, so I had no idea that the thought of being bound forever to my charming company would cause such a visceral response. It is with a heartfelt apology that I send this “I’m-sorry-for-proposing-marriage-to-you” gift. I will continue to bring presents to your door until such time as you see fit to forgive and befriend me.

Your most repentant servant,

Christopher P Keene

PS Should you decide to reply to this post, I will pass by your door in one hour and would likely notice if a letter was peeking from beneath.

Sofia sighedas she settled onto the bed. She should leave both books outside her door as a response, but the whimsical fairy tales in her native tongue called out to her heart, and even the dry botany text conjured thoughts of home. She would keep them and make no response at all. An hour later, she listened to his footsteps pause outside her door for the briefest moment before continuing down the hall. Then she fell into a dreamless sleep.

Sofia slept like the dead and woke to a cold, grey pre-dawn sky. After dressing and considering her itinerary for the day, she opened the door… and nearly ran headlong into a massive potted pear tree heavy with fruit. Nestled within the branches was a note. Sofia spread her fingers across her lips to suppress a laugh and opened the folded parchment.

Dearest non-friend,

Having failed abysmally to gain your favour through literary offerings, I have adjusted my strategy to appeal to your stomach instead. With no proper sweets close at hand, I procured this fruit tree with the notion that more is always better. Why settle for one delicious pear when you could claim guardianship of an entire tree? Should our head gardener, Davies, assemble a formal inquest as to the whereabouts of his prized specimen, it would be best to plead ignorance. He can be a tad prickly about his greenhouse inhabitants.

Your English mouse,

Christopher P Keene

Sofia stared at the tree, which was sagging under the weight of succulent pears, and tried to think rationally. That endeavour grew more uncomfortable by the moment as servants began to mill about in their early morning tasks casting curious looks in the direction of her orphaned tree. One laborious inch at a time, she dragged the unwieldy beast into her room, situating it close to the window. Then she heaved a sigh, picked a pear, and took a bite. Her mouth flooded with tangy sweetness.

Sofia’s itinerary clearly needed adjusting now. A fifteen-foot potted pear tree could not reside in her room. Despite the inconvenience of having to seek out Mr Keene this morning—and her unease at the attention his unorthodox gift had garnered—she couldn’t help but feel flattered by the effort required to plan and carry out the botanical heist. She threw the pear core into the waste bin, licked the sticky residue from her fingertips, and headed for the kitchens.

Mr Keene sat amongst a handful of men, enthusiastically breaking his fast. When one of the gardeners greeted her by name, his head jerked up and a warm smile transformed the determined expression on his face.

“Good morning to you, Miss Lioni. I trust you slept well?” He pushed away his half-eaten meal and stood to cross the room.

“Take it back,” Sofia whispered as he drew near.

“Take what back?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Oh. You mean the tree?” He did a very poor impersonation of a chastened lad for all of a heartbeat before his dimples rejoined the conversation.

“Yes, the blasted tree!” she yelled under her breath, enunciating each word. “Besides it being completely improper to gift me with an enormous, beautiful variety of dwarf pear—which does not even belong to you, I will add—they require the company of a second tree in order to pollinate. It must go back. Now.”

Keene’s smile only grew. “You think my gift was beautiful.”

“Santo cielo! No, you ninnyhammer. I said the tree is beautiful, and it would have been beautiful even if it had remained in the glasshouse from which you stole it. And to which you are going to return it. Without delay.” She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned.

His expression grew contemplative. “I didn’t realise they required a matched pair.” With a thoughtful hmm from the back of his throat, he scratched his fingertips through his thick hair, which was in want of a trim. Ironic, given his profession. “I see. Rest assured I will rectify the situation immediately. My heartfelt apologies, though I would argue the gift was quite proper. What could be more impersonal than a plant? Gentlemen give ladies flowers all the time.”

“I’m not a lady, I’m a governess. And that is not a bouquet of flowers,” Sofia spat.

“Touché. Come now, I promised to set things right with the tree and apologised for my rash proposal. The next one will be far better thought out.”

The response churning in her mind fell dead on the spot and her jaw snapped closed. They stood there, toe to toe, his smile none the dimmer for the threat of physical harm doubtless sparkling in her eyes.

“No proposals. No botanical specimens. No books or notes or even speaking to me unless it is in a professional capacity.”

His head cocked to the side as if her demand required a great deal of consideration. Then he gave a single decisive shake of his head. “No. That won’t do. My arithmetic is already exceptional, and I don’t believe you require any of my services… although, come to think of it, you might look rather dashing in a cravat.” He continued talking as Sofia stared at him. “Not a black one though… perhaps a majestic purple or a soft gold to bring out the warm tones in your skin.” He snapped his fingers, his eyebrows darting to his hairline, and Sofia jolted at the unexpected sound. “I’ve got it! Blue. Not royal blue, of course. Something more understated, elegant.”

“If you”re quite finished dressing me in imaginary menswear?—”

“Yes of course. My apologies! It’s an occupational hazard. My point, love, is that you don’t require my services and I don’t require yours, which would leave nothing at all between us.”

She rolled her eyes. “Finally. You are beginning to understand my point.”

She closed her eyes then, and drew a slow deep breath. Mr Keene matched her silence as she endeavoured to regain her unravelling control. When she opened her eyes, he spoke again, all the teasing in his voice gone. “Can’t we be friends, Miss Lioni?”

Before she could find the words to cut him down, Sofia made the mistake of looking at him. Truly looking. Eyes wide and earnest, he held her gaze with such sincerity that all the perfectly logical reasons not to befriend him lost their traction and slipped away.

He shifted closer, his voice dropping to a low, intimate purr. “I know how difficult it can be as the newest member of the staff, and I only wish for you to feel comfortable here. Happy.”

Oh. Good grief, he smells delicious. She breathed through her mouth. In doing so, she realised, she was ceding some high ground… but it was a far sight better than the alternative, which was twitching her nose like a rabbit in the hopes of picking up more of his clean, tantalising scent. “So you provide every new servant with books from their native country and a complementary fruit tree?”

“Most new arrivals are English, so it stands to reason that they can procure any number of books on their own from Gabriel’s library. He lends them freely.”

“And the pear tree?” she prompted.

He floundered.

Sofia could admit to herself that she was vaguely disappointed when Bennett strode up, depriving Sofia of the experience of watching Mr Keene attempt to explain his way out of a fifteen-foot pear tree.

“I’m sorry for the interruption, Miss Lioni. Keene, the dowager has arrived.” Bennett looked at Keene with an expression that made Sofia wonder if he was indulging in a fantasy involving violence toward Mr Keene with the prickly end of a broom.

Sofia observed the pair with reluctant amusement. Keene appeared for all the world like he might dally longer just to watch the annoyed twitch of Bennet’s eyebrow. With a resigned sigh, however, Keene returned his attention to Sofia. “My apologies. I need to wake His Grace and warn him that we are under siege.” And with that, he dashed out the door as if someone had set fire to the curtains on the second floor of the mansion.

It wasremarkable what adequate nourishment could do for a person’s energy. Sofia made it to town, purchased two unattractive but serviceable dresses, acquired as much food as she could easily carry, including a pair of meat pasties, and meandered her way to Oliver’s hunting box, all before lunch. Following the menacing crack of an axe blade through wood, Sofia found her brother sweaty and exhausted beside a mouldering oak.

At thirty-eight, Oliver was ten years her senior. Since his return, however, he looked old enough to be her father. His curls, once glossy and wild, now hung limply in a queue. His bones and muscles, meanwhile, were burdened with more weight than his athletic frame was meant to carry, and his normally rich chestnut-brown skin stretched rough and blotchy across his cheeks. An eerie emptiness had overthrown the glint of intelligence in his eyes, and without it, he looked like an entirely different man.

Dropping the axe to the ground, he lumbered over to meet Sofia, calling out in their native tongue, “Thank God. I’m starving.” Sofia tried not to react to his gross exaggeration. After all, she would never wish for her brother to suffer actual starvation, as she had. During his absence, pilfered fruit from the university greenhouse and discarded crusts of bread had often been the only relief from the dull ache in her stomach… and that was only when she managed to be faster than the pigeons. He reached for a pastie and took several massive bites before pulling her in for a hug.

Sofia grimaced at the touch of his slippery skin but did not pull away. It still felt too good to have him back in her life to complain that he was dirty. Well, perhaps a little complaining. “You smell. Go wash up in the creek.” She attempted to grab the pastie from his hand, but he laughed and held it well above her head. “Little flea, stop ordering me about. Did you bring me anything to drink?”

Fully aware of the sort of drink he was seeking, she answered with an innocent shrug. “There is a skin of fresh water in the satchel.”

He scowled. “Not that kind of drink.”

Ignoring his grumbling, she followed him through the thick underbrush to the riverbank.

“I take it from your absence that the family hired you on?” Oliver bent down to splash cold water onto his face and neck.

Sofia stepped in beside Oliver, rinsing her hands. “As their governess, actually. The salary is more than generous.” She stood and shook the water from her hands. “This is the opportunity we need, Oliver. If I remain with the Ansons, even for a few months, we”ll have enough money saved up for a fresh start… somewhere else.”

Oliver’s jaw tightened, and the icy contempt in his narrowed gaze sparked an unexpected flinch deep in Sofia’s muscles. This was her brother. Her protector. The smiling adolescent who had invented silly stories when she couldn’t sleep. The one who had safeguarded her happiness at the expense of his own countless times. He will not hurt me.

After her father had died, Sofia had been alone with naught but her own wit and tenacity to rely upon. And she had been brave. Where had all that courage gone? Annoyed by the fear that had silenced her tongue, Sofia clenched her fists, tipping her chin higher in defiance of her brother and of the wilting coward who had somehow taken up residence inside her.

“It’s not too late to stop this, Oliver. You can change your mind. We can make a new plan together.”

“Not too late? I’ve travelled eight hundred miles and invested countless months learning about the man. Don’t start this again, Sofi. I’ve made my decision, and I thought you were on my side.”

Ignoring the rising colour in his cheeks, Sofia pressed on. “From everything I’ve seen, the duke is kind to his servants and tenants. Her Grace is thoughtful and generous. Even their daughter is terribly likeable! There is no reason to upend their lives beyond your own selfishness and your hatred of a man who is long dead in the ground. What you’re suggesting isn’t some childhood lark. It’s dangerous and?—”

“Stop!” Oliver barked. Sofia took a half-step back at his blatant loss of self-control. He began again, his tone more moderated. “Is it selfish to want just a little bit of what so many have in abundance? Is it selfish that I do not want to see my baby sister starve?” He reached out with one large hand to cup her cheek, his expression pinched with remorse. “Sofi, it’s my fault that you have fallen into this state, but finally there is something I can do about it, some good that will come of my past and all the sadness it has brought us both. You must do this for me. Do this for us.”

Something cold and desperate flickered in his eyes, here and gone before Sofia could adjust to its presence. “It”s just one document, Sofi. Once you have it, we’ll go. Somewhere warm, where it doesn”t rain every other day. We’ll be together, safe and comfortable. I’ll take care of you, just like I always promised I would. And the duke will never miss what we take.”

Sofi looked away. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“All right, little flea. I’ll let it alone for now. I do not wish to upset you. You’re all I have. All I have ever had, really, and I love you so dearly.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “When can you come back and visit again?”

Sofi nibbled on her lower lip as she considered. “Next weekend, probably, but there may be an afternoon when the children’s lessons finish early and I can visit in the evening.”

Oliver’s lips pressed together in a flat line. “I don’t want you wandering the woods at night. There may be poachers. It’s bad enough you are working in that great house completely unprotected. English aristocrats are infamous for taking advantage of their servants. We know what kind of fiend Northam’s father was, and selfish cads beget more selfish cads.”

“I think you’re wrong about the Ansons, Oliver. And even if you aren’t, blackmailing the duke will destroy every member of his family. Is that really what you want?”

Oliver folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “I’m not going to destroy them, only lighten their coffers a bit. And I thought you didn’t want to talk about this?”

“I didn’t. I don’t. Just think about it Oliver. I should get back. They are going to miss me if I am away much longer.” Standing on her toes, Sofia kissed his cheek.

“Be careful, little flea.”

“Stop calling me that,” Sofia said, attempting to shape her lips into a smile she didn’t feel.

The return home took twice as long, her energy reserves depleted by both exertion and the haunting unease that crept up her spine at the memory of Oliver’s determined expression. He had been stubborn even before he left home, but there was a hardness present in his eyes since returning that she could not recognise. His gripping dependency upon alcohol only added to her disquiet. On their way to England, even when Sofia had gone to sleep hungry, somehow Oliver had found the means to fill his belly with drink.

Still pondering, Sofia opened the door to her room and froze. Two. There were now two pear trees basking in the afternoon light. To pollinate, she realised. An unwanted smile slipped past her frustration, and then she started laughing, her body shaking with the force of it as she covered her lips with splayed fingers. Sofia sucked in a breath of pear-scented air and all her tense muscles fell slack, her worries temporarily evaporating beneath the sweet fragrance and the ridiculousness of Christopher P Keene.

Sofia stroked a finger across the velvety skin of a pear, plucked it from its branch, and brought it to her nose. God, it had been so long since she had laughed, since her heart had served a purpose beyond its rudimentary function. She’d thought that Oliver’s return would usher happiness back into her life. Instead, the joy that had grown in her chest with his return had fallen flat again within hours of his arrival, and he’d brought with him only the promise of more grief.

But she wasn’t the same bewildered young girl who remained sobbing in their front garden long after Oliver had turned his back and walked away. Her misfortunes had made her stronger, and she’d learned she needn’t depend upon other people to bring her joy or fix her problems.

She would convince Oliver of the wrongness of his plan. And in the meantime, she would focus on what mattered—the children and her work. She would save every coin she could and disregard any feelings of comfort or happiness that did not derive from those things. Sofia allowed herself only a moment of melancholy before she embraced the truth—there was no place in her life for Christopher or his pear trees.