Chapter Eighteen
T he library was the warmest chamber in Stonemare, Verda decided, as did every other inhabitant, save Maura, who’d remained in the nursery with Julius. The rain, momentarily abated, preserved a chill that penetrated Verda’s heavy, woolen dress of olive to her skin.
“But I don’t wish to go home.” Lady Docia Hale, it appeared, possessed the privileged capacity to evoke tears on demand.
Verda would have been convinced, too, had she not just heard the girl needling Noah for his “nursemaid” tendencies. She’d bristled with outrage on his behalf. Thankfully, he’d restrained from launching himself at Docia. Her curiosity heightened to see just how far the girl was willing to take this latest act stage-worthy of the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden.
“Why not, dear?” This was the earl, showing a side of—not compassion, exactly—interest, perhaps. At the least, his cynicism was not on its usual full display.
Her bottom lip trembled just so. “There’s no one there.” The tears descended Docia’s cheeks. Big, fat drops made a slow trek when she blinked those eyes of startling azure, framed by long, now spiky, lashes.
Verda restrained from rolling her own.
“I shall drive her home,” Mr. Oshea said. “Miss Fairclough, perhaps you won’t mind accompanying us?”
She instantly agreed, as she could use a much needed escape from the castle’s oppressive atmosphere. “Certainly.”
Noah gave Verda a disgusted look and stomped out of the chamber without a word.
“I doubt the rain will be held off long,” Mr. Oshea said. “We should leave immediately.”
Verda nodded, frustrated, as there was no time to reassure Noah, vowing to speak with him upon their return.
*
The road to Chaston was fraught with ruts and mud that rattled the brains. Verda held on to the strap for dear life. From the corner of her eye, Verda admired Docia’s composure. It exceeded that of any young ladies she had ever encountered, though that wasn’t saying much, as she’d never had the privilege of children’s company.
Neither did Mr. Oshea appear off-balance in the least, with arms folded across his chest, legs splayed to keep him centered, and, annoyingly, stealing all the breathable air in the confined space.
“I hadn’t heard your sister had expired, my lady,” he said. “You have my abject condolences.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said sweetly.
“She was young, was she not?”
Her gaze turned out the window. “Sixteen.”
“That is indeed young.”
“Will I have to stay at Chaston? I’m haunted by her memory.” Her voice was soft, pitifully so.
Guilt pelted Verda for her uncharitable thoughts. There was just something about the girl that set her on edge. Perhaps she was projecting Noah’s prejudices. Still, Docia had been unmerciful in her taunts to him regarding Julius. Julius couldn’t be a more fortunate babe with such a staunch caretaker. And Verda would defend Noah’s choices to the death.
She turned her gaze out the window to the raging storm, releasing a sigh. It took near an hour to reach Chaston and her relief was monumental. Her bum was certainly thankful.
The carriage stopped close to the portico.
Mr. Oshea didn’t wait for the steps to be laid, whipping the door back himself and jumping out.
Docia’s expression was one of horror.
Verda took her arm and pushed her to the opening. “Hurry, my lady.”
Mr. Oshea’s arms proved as capable with an eleven-year-old girl as with a month-old infant. He handed her off to Fletcher and held his hands out for Verda.
“Truly?” she asked.
“Don’t tell me you’re frightened.” Plops of rain hit his grinning face. “You have a wish for wallowing in the muck, do you?” With a sharp, wolfish grin, he snatched her by the waist and set her under the portico then followed her inside the Chaston manor house.
They were met at the door by a young woman with dark hair secured at her nape. Her gray eyes were wide and worried. “Oh, Miss Docia, you’re back. I fretted all night. We received the note from Lord Pender…” Her eyes went to Mr. Oshea and her voice trailed off.
“How many times must I tell you, Olive, it’s Lady Docia.”
She flinched under Docia’s sharpness and gushed. “Of course, of course.” She dipped a shallow curtsy. Her eyes crept back to Mr. Oshea. “You are—” She gulped loudly. “Lord Pender?”
Verda tried to see Mr. Oshea through Olive’s perspective. He and his brother had the same shade of eyes, the same dark hair, but there the differences ended—to her. It was in the wrinkles creased at the outer corner of his eyes and mouth, indicating his outlook on life that was not so dire as the earl’s view.
“No, my dear, I am his brother, Lysander Oshea,” he announced with a bow, forcing Verda into hiding a grin. He turned to Verda. “It was Miss Fairclough here who found your mistress on the moors with a twisted ankle.”
Olive gasped. Between the two of them, they could turn a handy profit in treading the boards, Verda decided. “Twisted ankle. Oh, my lady. Are you quite all right now? I didn’t notice you limping.” Quite the observation, now that Olive had mentioned it—Verda hadn’t, either. It appeared the lady was quite recovered.
“Your papa had to leave for London.” Olive spoke on a rush of sheer exuberance.
Annoyance covered Docia’s pretty features. “Of course, he did, Olive. He’s bringing a governess. Now, please inform Mrs. Garrett we are in need of refreshments.”
“But—”
“Now, Olive. The weather is quite frigid. Hurry along.”
Verda had trouble reconciling the girl’s manner coming out of such a small body with the child’s voice. It was a fascinating study that titillated through her similar to that of reading Elizabeth Fulhame’s chemistry experiments. She couldn’t turn away.
Mr. Oshea stopped the maid. “One moment, Olive.”
“Sir?”
“How many servants currently reside in house?”
“Mrs. Garrett, she’s the housekeeper. Cook, and me. Oh, the stablemaster, but he doesn’t sleep in the manor.”
Mr. Oshea turned to Docia. “Where is all your staff?”
Her slippered toe dug in the carpet and twisted back and forth. “They’ve just been leaving. Especially since…” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged.
Since what? Verda’s eyes snapped from Mr. Oshea to Miss Docia. Verda had only met her the afternoon before. A confident child who’d seemed confident in her position. Even embellishing herself from ‘miss’ to ‘lady.’ What she saw now was a child whose shoulders had fallen, whose chest was deflated. A lonely, forlorn little girl with very few servants around.
She saw herself.
Mr. Oshea’s jaw tightened. “Did Lord Chaston indicate how long he’d be gone?” He spoke through clenched teeth.
“H-He left a note for… Miss—Lady Docia.”
“Might I see it, please?”
“Um…” She cast an unblinking glance to Docia, who shrugged. Then she dashed from the drawing room. Seconds later, she was back holding a piece of vellum.
He read it in silence, his brows furrowing.
“I see.” Mr. Oshea turned to Docia. “All right, my lady. Pack a bag. You must return with us to Stonemare.”
“Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.” She ran and threw herself into his arms. The childlike behavior appeared genuine and caught Verda by surprise. And, if she were being honest, warmed her inside.
Mr. Oshea’s arms tightened slightly around her before setting her back on her feet. “Hurry now.”
“I’m not sure—” Olive started.
“I’m going, Olive. You may stay here if you so choose.” Miss Docia dashed from the room.
An odd expression crossed her maid’s face, but it was as unreadable as it was fleeting. She turned and followed her charge.
A long moment ensued while Verda stared at the door. “That is a very nice thing you did, sir,” she said softly.
“We couldn’t very leave her here alone with only a cook, housekeeper, and lady’s maid.”
Verda smiled. “Don’t forget the stableman.”
“Indeed.” He smiled too.
With that minute exchange, the shell Verda had vowed to keep sternly in place, the one encasing her heart, fractured. The lesion was tiny, but the sound reverberated in her ears, discharging pulsing flecks of light. The sensations confused the pragmatic logic she lived her life by.
The difficulty to breathe was only due to the constricting corset. That was all.
Willing back the desire to place the back of her hand to her forehead and call for a vinaigrette, she took slow, shallow breaths until her vision cleared. She then patched the small fragment in her chest through sheer force. And logic.
*
Sander stood at the windows with his hands in his pockets. The rain hadn’t let up and if they didn’t leave soon, they could very well be stuck. He watched Verda’s reflection on the glass, never turning his head. Something was wrong. He wheeled about to see her face pale then flush. Alarm skittered through him. He was at her side in an instant. “What is it? Are you ill?”
“I-I’m fine.” She pushed away from him, stepping back. “Of course, you couldn’t very well leave her here with just three other women. But it’s odd that neither Stonemare nor Chaston are able to keep servants. Certainly Chaston isn’t considered haunted?” she said lightly.
His hands fell slowly to his sides. “No.” The touch of amusement in her voice assured him she was all right. Perhaps the low light was playing havoc with his senses where she was concerned.
She smiled, though it appeared to tremble. “As difficult as it is to fathom, she is a child.” She shook her head. “What on earth would possess her father to take for London in such a squall? Surely, the need for a governess could have waited until a more opportune time?”
Sander moved to the table he’d set the note upon. He picked it up then strolled to her and held it out.
Her head tilted and her eyes questioned him. She reached for it and read it as he had. Silently. She raised those lovely eyes to his. “I don’t understand. It reads as if a… a child penned this.”
“My exact thought. I suspect the viscount has been gone longer than her maid let on. I have no choice but to bring her to Stonemare.”
“Yes.” A long breath escaped her. “It won’t be that difficult to include her with Master Noah’s lessons.” She turned a stern look on him. “But I warn you, I fail miserably at embroidery.”
“I suspect she could instruct you in the art,” he teased. The issue released another fragile split.
She spun on her heel, putting her back to him, and setting the note back on the table. “Bite your tongue, if you don’t wish to send me after Lord Chaston in the same horrid weather.” He wasn’t certain, but it did sound as if she spoke through some obstruction.
He glanced back toward the windows. The panes rattled in response to the hammering gales. “I must speak with Mrs. Garrett. I don’t suppose you wouldn’t mind—”
*
Verda strode to the door. “I’ll see if I can prod the lady herself into action.”
She took the stairs to a third level, not because she knew where Miss Docia’s chamber was, but because her father owned a country house and children were typically assigned to the third level and the servants the level above that.
The layout of the house was pleasant compared to Stonemare with its cold halls and worn tapestries and rugs. She followed voices down the corridor to the far end on silent feet due to the thick carpets.
“But I must go with you.” Olive was quite insistent.
Miss Docia overrode her. “No. Lucius told me there are plenty of servants.”
Verda held back a snort. From what she’d ascertained, the castle could have used another thirty outside the six to ten she’d observed to date.
“And if I insist?’
“You won’t,” Miss Docia said sweetly. “Now, hurry. I need my trunk. The weather’s growing beastly.”
Verda tapped on the doorframe, startling the both of them. “I’m afraid Olive has the right of it, Lady Docia. There are fewer servants than Lucius let on about. I insist you accompany us to Stonemare, Olive. But the weather will play havoc on our trip back and we mustn’t dally.” She tugged on her governess status, spearing Miss Docia a stern look. “The carriage shall be departing in fifteen minutes with or without you.”
Miss Docia’s lips firmed in a way Verda was learning to associate with the age via Noah.
“I’ll be there, Miss Fairclough.”
“And your maid,” Verda said.
Miss Docia shot Olive a lethal glare. “Fine.”
“Thank you, Miss Fairclough.” Olive’s docile reply belied the look in her eyes. She was older than her charge by some five years, but it was quite clear it was Miss Docia who ruled. While usually the case, Verda acknowledged, the young lady could certainly stand lessons in ladylike behavior. Especially if she went about claiming to have the title of ‘lady.’
“Shall I send Fletcher up for the baggage?”
“Yes, thank you,” Miss Docia said.
Verda made her way back down the hallway, but the slamming of the door echoed behind her. Quite soundly, and she found herself swallowing back a shock of stunned laughter.