NINE
After the incident in the stables, Cecily didn’t speak directly with Lord Matthias for several days. Her nerves felt too raw and his eyes too seeing.
But she studied him like a green girl in her first Season—part fascination, part curiosity.
She stared out the dining room window as he worked with Indira in the wee paddock, laboring patiently to accustom the mare to the weight of a saddle.
She examined the returned meal plates after he dined, nodding with pleasure when his lordship devoured a carefully chosen meal.
Cecily had never once entertained the idea of becoming a wife again. Some wounds cut too deep to ever heal. Moreover, her choice to go into service ensured she would never again be a lady.
Yet, as she took a spot of afternoon tea in her sitting room one Wednesday afternoon, she pondered what life as Lady Matthias Kinsey might be like.
Despite Miss Carter’s disparaging words and his lordship’s own self-doubts, Cecily could easily envision him grinning at a wife down the dinner table or chasing giggling children around the nursery.
Yes, he might always be shy and reserved, but there was a strength to him, too.
A certainty that once he claimed a lady as his own, he would care for her tenderly and ensure she smiled regularly.
Cecily ignored the ribbon that threaded between her ribs and tightened at the thought of his lordship marrying. Would he and his new bride reside here? And how would Cecily herself—
“Mrs. Armstrong?” A knock on her open door startled her.
“Hansen,” she nodded at Lord Matthias’s valet standing in the doorway.
“I’m in a bit of a pickle,” he said. Like his employer, Hansen was rather bashful and quiet but diligently competent at his job. His lordship’s clothing was always neatly pressed, brushed, and styled.
“How can I help?” she asked.
“I discovered that an old school chum is visiting his aunt who lives down the coast toward Inverness. Lord Matthias granted me permission to take the afternoon for a visit, but I haven’t prepared for it. Several of his lordship’s coats require brushing, as well as . . .”
Hansen droned on, but Cecily already knew her answer.
“Of course, Hansen. Enjoy your half-day. I’ll see to his lordship’s things.”
As a housekeeper, Cecily had brushed clothing and tended to linens more times than she could count. It wasn’t her primary responsibility, but when needed, she helped to complete a task.
In this case, she could easily delegate caring for Lord Matthias’s clothing to a maid.
But there was something deeply private about touching his personal things, was there not?
It felt domestic—wifely, even—and she couldn’t bear the thought of relinquishing the task to another.
Or, perhaps, if she were being truly honest, she did not wish to delegate it to another.
She slipped into Lord Matthias’s bedchamber, still the same green bedroom he had initially taken at the back of the castle.
Cecily was unsure why Lord Matthias hadn’t moved into the more sumptuous laird’s bedchamber.
Did he simply not care? Or did he not dare take a space from his elder brother, even in his own home?
A large tester bed, hung with forest-green velvet drapes, dominated the space. A solitary wingback chair and footstool sat before the hearth. The room appeared tidy and well-scrubbed, thank goodness. The maids and Hansen had been diligent.
Books stood in tidy stacks on a bedside table and rested on the floor beside the chair.
Most were novels—Waverly, Mansfield Park, Frankenstein, The Corsair.
But a single non-fiction title stood out: The Life of Admiral Lord Nelson by Mr. Clarke.
Something twinged in Cecily’s chest at seeing it.
Of course, Lord Matthias would study the life of the most famous man to lose a right arm.
She dragged a finger along the leather binding before turning her attention to the coats, trousers, and buckskins laid out on the counterpane.
She lifted the first coat, a lovely navy blue, and pressed it to her nose—warm sandalwood with hints of bergamot, leather, and fresh hay.
How odd that this had become her life. Shrinking from the touch of a man, yet simultaneously gulping in breaths of his scent.
The laughing chatter of maids drifted up the stairwell and through the open door.
Right.
Task at hand, Cecily.
A gentleman’s wardrobe required constant maintenance.
Wool coats and trousers needed to be aired and brushed.
The leather of buckskins could tolerate some water to remove spotting, but generally a good brushing sufficed.
She grasped the boar bristle brush and began gently cleaning and tidying the garments.
When she reached the last coat, something crinkled in the pocket as she ran the coarse bristles along the nap. As was customary, she removed the slip of foolscap and set it aside while she completed the task.
It was only as she went to return the paper to the pocket that curiosity got the better of her. The foolscap was well-worn—creases deep, edges tattered—as if its contents might be consulted regularly.
Cecily held the paper for several seconds. Lord Matthias remained a puzzle, and she felt the pull of the wee clue in her hand. Was it a love letter from a long-lost paramour? A poem in the making? A tender missive from a parent? Perhaps, it might explain his hermit-like existence.
However, reading it would be an inexcusable invasion of privacy, not to mention a dereliction of her duty as housekeeper. Lord Matthias had decided not to sack her, but that could easily change, particularly if she proved untrustworthy.
She would not return his forbearance with betrayal.
Decision made, she moved to slide the paper back into his pocket. However, the worn corner caught on the fabric and tumbled the foolscap to the floor, half-opening it.
Cecily stared down at the paper, stark against the aged oak floorboards. The edges gave a little flutter, akin to a white flag flailing in surrender.
It felt like a plea—a beckoning to be read. And now curiosity had its talons in her.
With a glance at the open doorway, she picked up the note and stepped out of view of the hallway. Carefully, she unfolded the paper and tipped it into the window light, scanning the few lines.
The contents caused her to frown.
She held a list. Heartbreaking in its simplicity.
The first three items were easy enough to understand.
Let a residence with land
Purchase breeding stock and horses to retrain
Establish a reputation for retraining difficult horses
Every day, she watched Lord Matthias trudge down to the stables, working until dark.
Indira was only one of several horses he led into the paddock to retrain—patiently pushing them a bit farther each day—halter to lead rope to bridle to saddle.
He would succeed with those first aims, Cecily was certain.
It was the rest of the list that tasted like bitter tea on her tongue.
Engage with the local populace and become more comfortable in company
Practice conversing with ladies
Learn to dance
Kiss a lady
Court and marry a lady
The five simple items painted his life in humble terms. This was no note from a lost love. It was something infinitely more poignant. Lord Matthias clearly desired the goals he had listed but struggled to accomplish them. No wonder Miss Carter’s words had caused such pain.
An ache sighed through Cecily’s bones and twisted low in her belly. She wanted every one of these eight items for him. A kind, gentle life for a kind, gentle man, one who—
A loud clatter sounded in the hallway. Cecily jumped, emitting a high squeak like a rat startled in the larder.
“Apologies, Mrs. Armstrong,” Rawkin said, picking up a copper bed warmer. “Didn’t mean to spook ye.”
“No harm done, Rawkin.” She took a slow breath and folded the foolscap into her palm.
Insouciance was the best cloak for subterfuge, though it had been many a year since she’d used it.
“Are ye finished in here?” Rawkin’s eyes darted to the note concealed in her hand, but he said nothing.
“Aye. Let me finish hanging these up.”
Cecily lifted the coat, holding it between herself and Rawkin, the heft of the fabric concealing her hand as she slipped the paper back into its pocket. She pivoted for the wardrobe.
Guilt sat heavy on her shoulders. She should have resisted temptation. Lord Matthias deserved better. And, yes, she trusted Rawkin, but he would not protect her should his lordship inquire if someone had been snooping through his personal effects.
Though she might feel sympathy for Matthias Kinsey, there was nothing she could do as Cecily Armstrong, housekeeper, to assist him.
Besides, Lord Mattias's goals had referenced a lady, and everyone knew Avoch's housekeeper was nothing of the sort.
The incident in the stables clung to Matthias like a shroud, dimming his mood.
Somewhere in her past, a man had hurt Mrs. Armstrong. Matthias knew it with a certainty . . . like the sharp scent of pine before rain. He could draw a straight line between that hurt and her decision to abandon the life of a lady.
They were kindred souls, the two of them. Like himself, she carried a deficiency. It might not be as immediately apparent as his own, but it held a similar sense of loss. Neither of them was living the life they had hoped. Both were trying to overcome past emotional injuries.
He longed to help her. But decorum insisted she remain as wallpaper in his life .
. . existing, yes—perhaps even lovely and vibrant—but rarely singled out or studied at close quarters.
And his own inexperience and timidity ensured he had no notion of how to subtly assist her without crossing a line into impropriety.
The only ray of hope came from Isla—a reply to his inquiry. Rawkin produced the letter one dreary morning in mid-April just as Matt was finishing his breakfast in the snug.
His sister had much to say:
Matthias! I am appalled that I didn’t know of your interest in Miss Cecily Moulton before now. Shame on you. You must share such things with me. What else is a meddlesome sister for?
As to the former Miss Moulton, I have discreetly inquired as you requested. As her family hails from Kidderminster—not terribly distant from myself—it wasn’t too difficult to glean information.
She married Mr. George Miller (Baron Drempton’s cousin and heir) in Spring of 1810.
After their nuptials, she retired from society, preferring a life in the country.
None of my acquaintance have seen her in London for nigh upon a decade, though Mr. Miller and Lord Drempton have regularly been in Town.
I did uncover that Mr. Miller died last October, leaving Drempton without a close heir, meaning Mrs. Miller did not produce a male child before her husband’s death.
Regardless, I presume the widowed Mrs. Miller now resides at the family estate outside Lincoln, though one person suggested she left for the Continent in the wake of her husband’s loss. I have uncovered no rumor or scandal attached to her name. She appears to be a perfectly respectable lady.
Now to my many questions—why your interest in her after so many years? Were you aware her husband had passed?
Please assuage my curiosity and tell me all, particularly as I have entered my confinement with this babe and would welcome the distraction.
Matt certainly would not be telling Isla all, particularly not that the former Mrs. Miller was currently speaking in low tones with his butler in the dining room next door.
But his sister’s letter did piece together a wee bit of the puzzle.
George Miller had been Lord Drempton’s heir.
The two men had gone to great lengths to hide Mrs. Armstrong’s disappearance, as she had been in service for nearly six years.
Thankfully, ladies were not permitted to attend funerals—such grief was considered too much for their delicate constitutions—so her absence at her husband’s burial would have been expected.
The gentlemen’s actions explained much.
If a lady were trapped in a heinous marriage—one where her person was attacked and she felt unsafe—disappearing into service as a housekeeper would likely be preferable to a life of brutality. It would also render a woman nearly invisible to the upper classes.
Clever.
But then, Matt knew Mrs. Armstrong to be exceptionally clever. She had to be in order to exchange one life so fully for another.
The bigger question?
Her husband had been deceased for several months now. If Mr. George Miller had been the reason she became a housekeeper, why did she continue to hide? Surely, she could “reappear” at some relative’s house, and no one would be the wiser.
But, she hadn’t. Not yet, at least.
And Matt desperately wished to know why.