Chapter 3
“Wouldn’t the dowagers faint at the sight of what we are doing?” Emeline asked, laughing as she tucked a stray black curl back under the scarf wrapped round her head.
On the other side of the dining room, Louise paused in the midst of arranging various artifacts on a shelf that was meant to display fine china. Her customary reserve gave way to a giggle. “Indeed! It’s quite shocking.”
The two women were in the process of transforming the formal dining room into a study that they could both use. All six mahogany leaves had been inserted into the Chippendale table, stretching it to its full nine-foot length, and Emeline and Louise had each created makeshift desks at opposite ends.
As she positioned her inkstand and letter holder on the worn, burgundy leather blotter, Emeline looked around for Bartholomew. The kitten, who grew larger by the day, lay curled up on one of the dining chairs, pretending to sleep.
She affected a stern tone. “I am quite aware that you are only waiting for your chance to leap up on this table and disrupt the items we have so carefully arranged. Be warned, if you should do so, there will be no sardines for your supper.” Glancing across at Louise, she whispered, “Heaven help us if he tips over an inkpot.”
Bartholomew had opened one eye, just a fraction.
“I believe we can trust him,” Louise asserted as she came close enough to survey the kitten. “Isn’t that so, Mew?”
This made Emeline laugh out loud. “I fear we may become eccentric spinsters, raising a cat together instead of marrying and having real children.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well. What husband would tolerate this?” Louise swept a slim hand through the air, indicating the stacks of books, the sideboard given over to cases of fossils, and walls hung with Emeline’s framed sketches of everything from ammonites to Mary Anning’s faithful spaniel, Tray.
“That’s right. He would be demanding to know where he could expect to enjoy his feast!” laughed Emeline.
Louise’s eyes danced as she rejoined, “And his port!”
For a moment, they leaned against one another, laughing.
Emeline imagined a conventional scene wherein she was clad in a proper gown, her hair neatly arranged, and a sober man was seated at the table, waiting for his breakfast to be served.
He would be obscured behind the newspaper, barely aware of his wife.
She couldn’t even begin to imagine small children in this tableau.
Of course, if they were messy eaters, their father would not permit them to sit at the same table with him.
Emeline suppressed a small shudder. Thank heavens she had gotten away from the London Season when she had the chance, two years ago!
“I could never do it,” she declared to Louise. “I mean, be a wife.”
To her surprise, her cousin gave a wistful shrug. “I suppose it might seem more appealing with the right man.”
She is thinking of Charles, Emeline realized with a pang.
“Ah-hem!” came an uncertain cough.
Dora, their new cook, peeked around the doorframe.
“Oh, hello, Dora.” Emeline tried to look more serious. “What is it?”
The petite young woman, sent to them by Grandmama Raveneau, blushed to the roots of her coppery hair. “I thought to cook breakfast for you, my ladies.”
“That’s very nice,” said Louise, though Emeline suspected her cousin wasn’t any hungrier than she was.
Who could think of food when they were in the midst of creating their wonderful new study?
As if reading her mind, Louise added, “We are expecting a visitor in less than an hour, and I suspect we shall need to fortify ourselves.”
“That is a very good point.” Gesturing to the cook to come closer, Emeline said, “If you were expecting us to behave as conventional women, Dora, I fear you must be disappointed. However, we do like to have fun, and our needs are modest. Will that suit you?”
The girl’s freckled face broke into a relieved smile. “That suits me fine, miss! I have been in the Raveneaus’ home since I was fifteen, so I am accustomed to folk with eccentric ways—though they do use the dining table for meals.”
“Yes, my grandparents are more civilized than I am,” Emeline said, amused. “Perhaps you can bring us coffee and something very light.”
“Toast with fruit compote?” Dora suggested brightly.
“Delicious!”
When the cook scurried off, beaming, Emeline turned to Louise.
“Until you mentioned our new employer, I had almost forgotten that he is coming to meet us this morning! I look a fright.” She glanced down at her simple sky-blue gown, one that had served her well when she spent her days either searching for fossils or piecing them together over a worktable with Mary Anning.
Her long hair, twisted into a chignon, was mostly concealed under a scarf.
“Do you think I ought to change my clothes before the men arrive?”
“How funny you are.” Louise patted Emeline’s cheek. “Just last night you declared that our employer was doubtless a fat old man with jowls who is too lazy to waddle to the Reading Room and do his own research. Do you now desire to impress him with your beauty?”
“You make a splendid point, dear cousin.” Emeline happily turned back to arranging her books. “I shall be exceedingly content if I don’t have to leave this room all day.”
When in London, it was Hart’s custom to take rooms at the Pulteney Hotel. The location overlooking Piccadilly and the Green Park was ideal, and the establishment was impeccably managed. There was even a staff of footmen, waiting to do errands for the guests.
Hart had a tastefully appointed suite of rooms for himself and a second apartment for Mrs. Peachey, his housekeeper, and her younger brother, William. Assigned to the young Lord Jasper first as groom and later as manservant, William was more like a plainspoken uncle than a servant.
Mrs. Peachey, meanwhile, had overseen the kitchen staff at Caversham Castle for two decades.
Thus, when Hart left university, it had come as a shock to the old duke to hear Mrs. Peachey firmly declare that she meant to manage “young Lord Jasper’s household,” and she and William would reside with him.
His Grace had barked that Peachey and William had both taken leave of their senses, but they went all the same.
Was she motivated by pity for him, bumped down not only from the dukedom, but even a title of any consequence? Perhaps. Yet the tiny, determined housekeeper quietly followed wherever Hart traveled, if he allowed it. It really made no sense at all.
“Will you permit me to tie your neckcloth?” William inquired now as they both stared at Hart’s reflection in the mirror.
“Not today,” Hart replied, as he had nearly every day for all of his adult life. He sent William a crooked smile. “No offense, old man.”
“None taken, my lord.”
There were many things Hart did that made William and his sister blink.
Hart couldn’t count the number of times Mrs. Peachey had asked why he didn’t purchase a “proper home” in London rather than return to the Pulteney.
How could he explain that he didn’t want to remain long enough in London to draw comparisons with his brother, the Duke of Caversham?
Ever since that life-altering day when their father had summoned the little boys and proclaimed that Austell was the first born and would succeed him as duke, Hart had striven to find his own, clearly separate path.
What did it matter if he traveled the Continent, took mistresses, and flirted with danger? It suited Hart to keep the beau monde in a state of uncertainty about his nature. When he lived a rake’s existence by night, no one would expect him to have finer interests by day.
William held up the charcoal-gray wool coat Hart had chosen, and he slipped into it.
It was the most sober piece of clothing he owned, and it lent him a properly distinguished look.
He then picked up a brush and, as his valet watched in evident surprise, tamed his usually disheveled hair into a more conventional style.
“I perceive you have noticed my altered appearance,” Hart remarked dryly. “Never fear, I have not reformed. I merely have a part to play this morning.”
The older man pressed his lips together as if to suppress further comment. Instead, he extended Hart’s finest black silk hat and cane, just as a knock sounded in the parlor next to them. He heard Mrs. Peachey’s voice, then a deep, French-accented reply.
Hart went out to greet Justin St. Briac, enjoying not only the promise of a new adventure, but also the satisfaction of knowing he was resolving Austell’s thorny problem. Perhaps his brother need never know how dire the situation had become.
“Good morning,” he greeted St. Briac, pausing to don a pair of spectacles. “Do you think I look scholarly enough?” Even from a distance, he felt Peachey’s curious gaze.
The Frenchman laughed. “Oui! Well done, m’sieur.” He laughed but gestured to the spectacles. “There’s really no need for those. Your age and white hairs will be enough to convince them that you’re a scholar.”
Hart shrugged and removed the spectacles before opening the door to the hotel corridor.
Turning back, he spoke to William and Mrs. Peachey, who stood side by side.
He seldom told them where he was going or when he would return but rarely omitted words of parting.
“You two are at liberty to enjoy the city in my absence.”
“Yes, Lord Jasper,” came Mrs. Peachey’s reply. After a brief moment, she added, “Do take care.”