FIVE
Though the day had just begun, Cecily already had her hands full.
Mrs. Finlayson had scores of questions about meals and preferences that Cecily couldn’t answer.
Rawkin and the footmen were frantically polishing all the silver.
Then, just as Cecily finished breakfast, Lord Matthias’s coach and servants arrived—two valets, His Grace’s personal secretary, and a groom, Mr. Forbes.
Men who required sustenance and accommodations.
In short, it was nearly luncheon before Cecily went in search of Lord Matthias to provide the tour he had requested.
“His lordship is in the stables,” Rawkin replied when she asked.
Pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders, Cecily wound her way down the spiral staircase, out the servants’ entrance, and along the flagstone path—keys on her chatelaine clinking with each step.
Grayburn’s warning to Lord Matthias the previous afternoon still pricked her ears like dropped needles:
Too young and comely.
You will hire a new housekeeper immediately.
She had been up half the night contemplating those words, a nervous tremor in her bones.
A sacking would be catastrophic. She had fled her last employer in haste when George had knocked and loudly demanded to see his wife.
Thankfully, Cecily’s employer at the time, the elderly Mrs. McIntyre, had lied and sent George on his way with a flea in his ear.
After that, the good lady had given Cecily twenty pounds and a glowing letter of recommendation before smuggling her out under the cover of night.
Cecily had spent four dreadful months in a rented room above an apothecary shop in Glasgow while hunting for another suitable position.
Her requirements were narrowly specific.
So specific, in fact, if Cecily were to ink them on paper, some unwitting reader might laugh at the absurdity—a rural house far from London; an elderly or absentee employer who never entertained; and most importantly, a position with minimal connections to the haut ton.
Colonel Gordon had met all her parameters.
When he decided to lease Avoch, she had been apprehensive at first. But after confirming Lord Matthias as the new tenant, she had felt nothing but relief.
She supposed his lordship would be similar to Colonel Gordon—an aged, reclusive invalid who never mingled in Polite Society.
Hah!
The warning in Uncle Moulton’s letter yesterday rattled her fears: Lord D has become more bold in his search to find you.
She could not lose her position now. At Avoch, she had experienced two years of safety.
Two years of building friendships and connections.
Mrs. Finlayson, with her jovial wit and easy manner in the kitchen.
Rawkins, with his perceptive gaze and kind words.
Mackenzie, with his adept control of the stables and teasing humor.
Here, Cecily was known and surrounded by those who might care to warn her if a stranger appeared asking after a woman of her description.
She did not wish to leave.
Rounding the corner of the stables, she finally spotted Lord Matthias in a small paddock. He held the halter rope of a pretty bay mare, talking in low, barely hummed words.
He looked a different man this morning. No fine coat, silver buttons, or immaculately-tied neckcloth.
Instead, his lordship stood in a loose greatcoat, simple waistcoat, tight buckskin breeches, and well-worn boots.
Divested of his London finery, Lord Matthias appeared more rugged soldier than refined gentleman. Sure-footed and languid.
A grizzled man in groom’s clothing stood just inside the gate, watching carefully—Mr. Forbes, she supposed, the groom who had arrived earlier with his lordship’s coach.
The mare tossed her head and tried to tug free of Lord Matthias’s hold. But instead of jerking on the halter and forcing her to obey, he allowed her a tantrum—feet prancing, head shaking. He stared across the paddock to the surrounding countryside as if bored.
After a few moments of misbehavior, the mare settled down, her head dropping.
Only then did his lordship approach her, holding the rope loosely and running his solitary hand along her neck, murmuring to her in a soothing monotone—“There you go, lass. That’s better, isn’t it?
We’re going to rub together just fine, you and I. ”
The nervous gentleman from the Great Hall had vanished.
Here was the former soldier Cecily had met on the road—calm, assured, skilled.
Obviously, he was more in his element outside a drawing room.
She longed to know his history. What battles had he seen?
What bravery had deprived him of an arm?
Did his losses—friends, comrades, limb—haunt him still?
For the space of three heartbeats, she let herself observe him as a man: the expanse of his shoulders, the assured cant of his head, the flex of his gloved hand holding the halter rope, and the press of powerful thighs against his leather breeches.
Three seconds up, she looked away. But not before heat washed her cheeks and pooled in her belly. Yearning uncoiled in her veins like a ball of yarn tumbling down steps. Truthfully, Cecily couldn’t remember the last time she had contemplated a gentleman with anything other than aversion.
This would not do.
If she managed to convince his lordship not to sack her—and that was a large if—her behavior needed to be immaculate. Beyond reproach. Her reputation as a god-fearing, upright woman was all that stood between herself and penury.
In short, there could be no ogling of handsome employers, no matter how tempting. She was finally a widow. Hallelujah! A label she intended to embrace until the day she died. Never again would an attractive man rob her of good sense.
Not even one as alluring as Lord Matthias.
That thought foremost in her brain, she crossed to the paddock fence and waited patiently for his lordship to note her.
It didn’t take long.
His lordship’s spine stiffened, as if Cecily’s gaze prickled the skin there. He turned to look at her. Tension returned to his shoulders, and a hint of a blush touched his cheeks. Like he found her presence off-putting.
No doubt, the idea was simply her imagination running wild. What about Cecily Armstrong, servant and housekeeper, would overset an aristocratic gentleman like Lord Matthias Kinsey?
The mare noticed his distraction and whinnied, stamping a foreleg to snare his attention. A perceptive beast, that one. His lordship rubbed her neck and murmured something in her ear before handing the halter rope to Forbes.
“Mrs. Armstrong,” Lord Matthias said, stepping through the gate. Did his gaze skim her face before looking away?
“My lord.” Cecily bobbed a curtsy. “My apologies if I interrupted—”
“Nonsense.” He waved off her words. “I appreciate you remembering my request for a tour.”
“Of course.”
With a bite of his teeth, he tugged off his leather glove and stuffed it in his coat pocket before running a hand through his hair and mussing it.
Not attractive, she firmly reminded herself.
“Though I know it’s not quite the done thing . . .” His lordship’s eyes darted to hers, his blush deepening. “I wish to apologize for our early arrival.”
Surely, he noted her astonishment. Gentlemen did not apologize to their servants. Not the done thing, indeed.
“I should have sent word ahead, but as I don’t often travel . . .” He drifted off on a wince. “The courtesy escaped me.”
Cecily was tall for a woman, but Lord Matthias topped her by a full head. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.
“No harm done.” A pause. “Thank ye. Your apology is . . . kind. That is to say . . . accepted.”
Ducking his head, Lord Matthias motioned for the two of them to return to the house.
They descended into silence.
The urge to fill the quiet felt unbearable. Words stacked in the back of her mouth, clamoring for release. How was his lordship’s day progressing? Was Avoch to his liking? After all, that was what a well-trained lady would do—ask a pertinent question and draw a gentleman into conversation.
This isn’t a social call, she reminded herself. If your employer wishes a conversation, he will open his mouth and speak.
They walked the path back to the castle proper, around the west side, and through the enormous oaken front door.
Though Colonel Gordon had modernized some aspects of Avoch—dramatically enlarging the windows in the great hall and long gallery, for example—the castle still retained most of its original medieval features.
The wee entrance hall definitely hearkened back to a time of lairds and clan warfare—stone walls lined with tapestries and an assortment of weapons that required endless maintenance to ward off rust. To the right, an arch led to the grand spiral staircase.
“Here we are, my lord. The entrance hall, as ye see. That door there—” She pointed to a stout oak plank to the left of the stairs. “—leads to the kitchen and staff quarters in the basement.”
She resisted the urge to babble on about the provenance of the tapestries and the age of the medieval front door and iron yett. Colonel Gordon often monologued about the history of his beloved estate, so Cecily knew it well.
Lord Matthias gave the room a cursory glance, that tension still in his shoulders. Without saying a word, he motioned for her to continue up the stairs.
Right. No conversation then.
Lifting her skirts to take the stairs, Cecily obliged.
His lordship was proving a conundrum—strong and capable, yet oddly reticent. Was he simply following her blindly while rehearsing His Grace’s words in his head—you will need to hire a new housekeeper immediately?
Her pulse flailed in her fingertips.
She had taken three steps when Lord Matthias’s voice reached her. “How long have you been employed as a housekeeper, Mrs. Armstrong?”