Chapter 16
Sixteen
What used to be a morning room in Hope House had been converted into another drawing room, though modest. Mrs. Kier did a fine job of filling it with the scent of lemon oil and paper—two things that brought Rose a measure of calm under the best of circumstances.
Her insides twisted tighter than the drawstrings of a reticule.
She stood before the small fireplace, the stack of books she’d bought at Hatchards organized on the table like little soldiers, each promising structure, rules, or escape.
She faced the young women seated in a semi-circle, teacups balanced carefully on knees, their expressions ranging from cautious curiosity to open suspicion.
Rose lifted the first volume. Moral Conduct for Young Women. “This is a fine place to begin,” she said, her tone clipped.
Kadida tilted her head, her braided hair brushing her shoulder. “Do we need to learn conduct, Lady Stanford? Or do you need reminding?”
Heat rose up Rose’s neck. She stared at the girl, Rose’s lips pressed into a line so tightly they ached. Slowly, she closed the book. “Perhaps,” she said coolly, “I do. Today I was…disappointed. That’s all.”
“By the merchant?” That was Miss Sharifi, whose pale brown eyes missed nothing.
Rose inhaled, sharp and silent. “Men often disappoint. Perhaps that should be the lesson.”
The girls gave her a collective look, the one shared among women who knew—who really knew—what it meant to expect little and receive even less. It was a sentiment in which she certainly could relate.
Rose blew out a pursed breath. She picked up the next book: A Lady’s Guide to Decorum.
“Very well. Let’s talk about tea. And choices.
And when it is appropriate to ignore both.
” She opened to a bookmarked page and read aloud, voice firm but inwardly hollow, “‘A lady does not betray emotion, no matter how distressed she may be. Her composure is her crown.’”
Stunned silence met her at this pronouncement.
“Utter rot,” muttered Gilly.
A laugh escaped Rose before she could catch it.
It felt ragged. A tear might have threatened, but she blinked it back.
She shut that book with a snap. “Just so,” she agreed.
“And yet…” She stared at the front of the leather tooling cover.
“Sometimes,” she said softly, “it’s all we have.
” Her throat closed briefly, but she refused to pause.
“Let’s pick three books each. One for pleasure.
One for improvement. And one…for…for defiance. ”
Miss Sharifi’s brows furrowed, her eyes glowing with intelligence. “Defiance?”
“Yes,” Rose said, meeting each of their gazes. “I highly recommend it.” She couldn’t believe what she was saying. Rose had never been defiant in her life at least before one irritating merchant had entered her world.
The women rose to pore over the books like young girls in a sweetshop—all except Inez, who stood apart from the others.
Rose moved forward. “Inez, Miss Macy?”
“I-I don’t belong here, ma’am. And if Billy gets wind of where I landed, I fear it will put everyone in danger,” she whispered.
“Nonsense. I shall personally see to your safety,” Rose said fiercely, her mask slipping. Purpose and a sense of ardent daring soared through her. She’d helped Inez, and it felt good.
“I can’t read.”
“Then you shall learn.” Rose spoke with complete conviction.
Inez was shaking her head, but Rose reached for her hand.
“It is possible, my dear.”
“Children learn to read all the time, Miss Macy.” Lena Sharifi had slipped beside Rose. “I’ll help you,” she told Inez. “I happen to read very well. I even helped children in my home country.” She looked at Rose, raising her chin in a show of rebellion. “My father was a doctor.”
“A doctor?” Rose echoed. Gratitude rushed Rose’s blood and, again, had tears constricting her throat and blurring her vision. “Do you practice as well, Miss Sharifi?”
Her shoulders relaxed somewhat. “Not officially,” she relented.
“But unofficially?” Rose asked, casting a quick glance toward Kadida’s swollen stomach. She flicked her gaze to Miss Sharifi again and was pleased by what she saw.
“Yes, unofficially.” She spoke so softly, Rose wondered if she was meant to hear the words.
“That is good to know,” Rose murmured. “Very good.”
“Come, Miss Macy.” Miss Sharifi looped her arm through Inez’s. “We must see Vella. She is to create gowns of silk for us. You would look lovely in the royal blue I spotted.”
With avid attention lighting her face, Kadida’s hand moved over her belly, listening to Miss Mabel Clark speaking softly. If memory served, Miss Clark hailed from the theater. She’d opened Gulliver’s Travels and was reading the main character’s accounting of his own life.
Books. Rose would be bringing more books.
Tomorrow, she vowed as she watched Kadida accept the book from Miss Clark and tuck it under her arm. The others filed out talking excitedly about the gowns Vella and Gilly were planning to create.
Hope soared through Rose.
This was where she belonged. Along with Inez Macy. Mr. Whitmore could hang. She’d had one disaster of a marriage. What need had she of a man who didn’t even keep to the very edict he himself had issued?
She nearly gasped aloud. She had no cause to think of him and marriage in the same sentence!
Hope House was truly a house of hope. And not for the young girls who needed saving. It was time to start planning the party she’d suggested to Gabriella to raise money. Between Rose, Gabriella, and Rebecca, they were certain to raise plenty. She plopped her chin on her fist, thinking.
She didn’t require the devil in a merchant’s mask to assist her. He needed her considerably more than she needed him.
Her brother was a duke and Rebecca had him wrapped about her little finger.
Rose also had friends. Perhaps…Lady Harlowe, Maeve could assist them. Of course, her mother Lady Ingleby could toss plans into disarray, but Maeve could be most unconventional.
In a small ancient escritoire located in the corner, Rose found a quill and penned her ideas to paper.
It would be perfect.
~~~
Emerson lugged his bag up the stairs to his old chamber and dropped it on the floor. He planted his hands on his hips, staring at the narrow bed.
Behind him, Ben snorted, and Emerson turned to see him peering in the room. “I’m not staying here,” Ben declared.
“And just where do you plan to stay?”
“At Hallandale. The old man is dead. Who’s to stop me?” He shrugged then turned on his heel and clattered down the wooden staircase, the sound echoing against the walls.
Emerson opened his mouth to refute the claim, then snapped it shut, scooped up his bag and quickly followed.
Ben was right. There was no reason not to stay at the main house.
They were there to learn what, if anything, had happened to Oscar.
He threw his bag on the boot and jumped in, slamming the door behind him.
“I take it Amir is aware of this change in plans?”
In answer to Emerson’s question, the carriage jerked into motion.
The ride, of course, was short. He ignored the amusement lighting Ben’s eyes.
He glanced out at the passing grounds, images of Rose entering his mind unbidden. What was she doing? She was furious with him no doubt. His actions practically screamed disrespect. And, certainly, a lack of regard.
The carriage drew to a stop. Emerson followed his brother from the vehicle and grabbed his valise. “Get your bag, Benjamin,” Emerson told him. “I suspect there are no servants in residence after all this time.”
Ben scowled but did as Emerson instructed.
Just as they reached the door, it flew back, revealing a face Emerson recalled from the past. “Sedgewick? Good to see you. We are here for a short visit.”
“Very good, sir.” He glanced at Ben and cleared his throat. “Sirs,” he amended.
Even knowing Ben couldn’t see his face, Emerson hid a grin.
“We’re here to learn something, anything of Oscar,” Ben said with a bite in his tone.
“Lord Hallandale, I regret to inform you, is out,” Sedgewick said. Ben had been a bit of a pill as a child. Apparently, Sedgewick held a grudge.
“What do you mean out? I thought him out of the country. Had he arrived in time to see the old man?” Emerson asked.
“I regret that was not the case. ’Tis my understanding he made every attempt to reach the elder Hallandale. But, alas, he was several weeks late, sir.”
“But he was here…in England?” Ben snapped.
Clearly that was the case, but Emerson held his tongue.
“Aye.” Sedgewick inclined his head.
Emerson wasn’t sure, but he sensed a mocking tone. Time to put this to rest before the old man decided to launch an attack. He let out a long breath. “Perhaps you could ready chambers for us?” Emerson’s calmness seemed to soothe the butler, who was long past his dotage.
“Of course, sir.” He looked past Emerson, and his eyes widened.
Emerson turned and saw that Amir had joined them under the portico. “Amir, this is Sedgewick. Sedgewick, my man, Amir.”
Though Sedgewick’s clouded eyes narrowed, he stepped back, allowing the three of them to enter the hall. “I shall have to send for a cook from the village,” he informed them.
“No need, Sedgewick. Amir is quite adept in the kitchens,” Emerson said.
Sedgewick frowned, and the deep lines across his brow furrowed with the weight of reluctance, or more likely, disapproval.
After a moment, Sedgewick relented. “Very good, sir,” he said at last. “I’ll see to the east chamber and the corner suite. The boiler takes time, I fear. His lordship preferred a cold room, so the fires are not laid.” Age hadn’t dimmed the butler’s haughty demeanor in the least.
Preferred?
“Surely you meant ‘prefers,’ Sedgewick?” Ben inquired mildly. Again, with the sharpness Emerson and others routinely overlooked.
“You must have been speaking of the late earl,” Emerson amended, silently applauding his brother. And just when had he stopped thinking of Ben as his half brother? A tight band manacled his chest. Something had altered in him, quietly, without permission. He was…proud.
Ben’s eyes narrowed on the old man, his lips compressed, his gaze accusing.
Sedgewick ignored Ben, turning and pausing at the foot of the stairs. “Certainly, Mr. Whitmore. What else could I have meant?”
Emerson inclined his head. “As I said, we are here to find the younger Lord Hallandale.” He glanced about the hall, noting the thick dust, grimy windows, and sconces he doubted had been lit in a fortnight.
Sedgewick flashed a look at Ben, one of distinct disgust. While Ben had been a spoiled, sullen child, Sedgwick’s dislike seemed to go deeper.
“And as I said, the new Lord Hallandale arrived from the Continent a month or so ago. He intimated business to attend in London. Financial matters,” he muttered with a glare. Resentment rose off him in waves.
Ben opened his mouth—likely to correct that implication—but Emerson laid a hand on his arm and gently urged him to the old library. “The corner suite will do fine. Thank you, Sedgewick. It’s good to see the house still standing.”
“The house stands, Mr. Whitmore. It always has.” Sedgewick hesitated, then stepped in close. “You understand, sir, I was never officially dismissed. That is why I’ve stayed. Not for lack of better options.”
Emerson studied the butler, doubting that. The man should be pensioned off, but Emerson let the matter slide. “You’ve heard nothing, then? No letters? No solicitor’s inquiries?”
Sedgewick shook his head once. “Only visitors.” He turned toward the darkened hall. “One man. Several months before the heir arrived back in England. Didn’t give his name.”
Ben froze. “You didn’t ask?”
The butler ignored him.
Emerson wanted to take Ben and rattle him senseless. Didn’t he realize setting Sedgewick on the defensive would make their task more difficult? Emerson stepped in front of Ben. “What did the man look like?”
“Arrogant. Smelled of pomade and polished leather. He asked a great many questions and touched very little.”
Emerson’s jaw ticked. “Did he ask about inheritance or the line of succession?”
“Aye.” Sedgewick’s eyes didn’t waver. “And he didn’t seem pleased by the answers.”
Ben muttered something under his breath and disappeared around the landing. Sedgewick waited, then said low, “If you mean to find Lord Hallandale, Mr. Whitmore…you’ll need to begin where he ended.”
“And where was that?”
“The study. He’d taken to locking it.”
“Do you have the key?”
“No.” Sedgewick’s mouth turned grim. “He once left the window unlatched. The wisteria vine on the east wall might still bear weight. If you’re careful.”
Silence followed this statement, with Sedgewick seeming to be waiting for Emerson to absorb this.
“I see,” he said slowly, not seeing at all, except for the fact his window-climbing antics were not limited to London.
“I believe Lord Hallandale feared someone.” The butler’s voice lowered. “And it was not me.”
Emerson’s eyes narrowed. “Was that someone noble?”
Sedgewick didn’t blink. “Aren’t they all?”
Emerson grunted, as he had nothing in him to refute such. “Send to the village for a cook and servants. The least we can do for Oscar, er, Lord Hallandale is to restore his residence back to a more livable condition.”
The man’s expression grew dark.
Swallowing a sigh, he asked mildly, “What is it?”
“No one will come here, Mr. Whitmore. The servants had not been paid after the late Lord Hallandale’s death. It’s why they left.”
“Ah. I see. That shouldn’t be an issue going forward, Sedgewick.
I shall handle the financial matters. In addition, you may inform each past employee that I shall restore all their back wages.
Of course, I shall double yours.” Emerson pulled a coin purse from his pocket and handed over fifty pounds to solidify his promise.
Sedgewick’s eyes widened then flicked up to Emerson. “Thank you, sir. I shall get right on the matter. Lord Hallandale will be most grateful,” he said, bowing from the room.
Yes, well, the appreciation likely depended on who the actual Lord Hallandale ended up being.