Chapter 5
Chapter five
Washed, in a fresh skirt and bodice and with her hair tidied and gloves exchanged, Lorelei descended the stairs into the basement.
She shouldn’t be here, but she also had no desire to sit and wait to be served upstairs.
The sooner she ate, the sooner they could go searching.
A lightwell filled the hallway with muted sun, and as she slipped off the bottom step, she paused, blinking to allow her vision to adjust. In the subdued light, her gaze hunted about aimlessly until it landed inside the cavity of a room to one side.
Wood panels and scuffed carpet solidified, before firmer shapes emerged from amidst the dark wood and dust. Tillman’s coat was hanging over the back of a chair in front of a washbasin and discarded towel, but the rest of the space stood empty.
The scent of lemon soap lingered in the air, the same type that had been sent to the washroom for her.
Lorelei raised her wrist to her nose and inhaled.
His skin would smell like hers, and the thought of such a small shared intimacy sent a shiver along her spine.
Unlike the rest of the staff, Tillman didn’t live in the main building on the estate, nor with family in the village.
He had the privilege of his own cottage, placed between the fields and the gardens that surrounded the manor.
He reported to her almost daily. In those meetings, he spoke at length about fields left to fallow, crops shooting, cows birthing, and come autumn, the harvest. In the early days after William had died, when she could barely focus on a number in a ledger, let alone decide on markets or which flour mill to send the grain to, he had taken his time.
She’d learnt to follow his measured explanations, but until yesterday, their exchanges had been solely about the estate.
He’d never discussed anything more with her and had never referred to her as his worry.
Not a bother, but a worry. At a time when she was so wracked with the same feeling, the word felt like a compliment.
Lorelei passed the door. He was simply tired, just like she was, and he’d muddled his words. That was all.
The clink of porcelain against a wooden benchtop carried down the hallway. Lorelei chased the noise through the dim quiet, past more narrow doorways, the butler’s rooms, and the larder. She stopped at the edge of the stone-floored kitchen.
Tillman was facing away from her. An oil lantern dangled above the stove, and yellow light spilled over him.
He’d removed the ribbon that normally restrained his hair, and the chestnut waves, scattered with silver, flowed free, their tips resting on his shoulders.
Little drips of water spotted his white collar.
He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves to just below his elbow, as was his habit—one she’d learnt to ignore over time.
He tapped a distracted rhythm against the benchtop, then cut a slice of butter from a pat beside the stove and dropped it into the griddle where it sizzled, lacing the air with its rich scent.
Of course he could cook. He was a man who straddled worlds, and even here, he was adapting to the change in an instant.
‘Mr Masters?’ she called from the door.
He spun, only betraying a moment of shock before his mouth settled into a smile. ‘Duchess,’ he said, then leant back against the benchtop. ‘I was going to bring all this upstairs. Mr and Mrs Jones are generous, but the bread is a day old, so I was frying it off first. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I’m too impatient to wait upstairs,’ she confessed. ‘I am sure it will be fine. I…’ She wrung her hands, and he observed the movement, his brow creasing. ‘I was hoping to speak with you in a place where we might not be overheard. Do you think we are alone down here?’
The kettle bubbled into the low notes of a whistle. Tillman lifted it from the stove, and water glugged as he poured it into the teapot before clipping the lid. ‘Everyone is in a flurry upstairs. And I’d never break your confidence. You know that.’
Lorelei came into the room and slid into a seat at the small, round table. He set a mug before her, then returned to the stove. His gaze stayed on the pan, but he angled himself towards her, listening.
‘You know the world of the estate and the lives of men like William better than me. In light of that, do you think I’m capable of raising Arley on my own?
Raising him the rest of the way, that is.
He’s already so old. Did you know he’s shaving?
’ A strange mix of love and pride combined inside her over the small discovery, before doubt swallowed it whole.
She tapped her gloved fingers against each other.
‘What I’m asking is, will I do him harm if I don’t send him back to the academy? ’
Tillman flipped the toast onto a plate. He spun the teapot and lifted it, pouring a steady stream of thick tea into the mug then set it before her. He placed a pot of honey on the table.
‘You know the estate,’ he said, as he slid into the chair opposite and poured tea into his own mug.
‘It’s not my estate,’ she replied.
‘It’s not mine, either,’ he shot back. ‘What’s planted in the westernmost field?’
‘Barley.’
‘And when can we expect the first calves?’
‘Usually February, but this year, March. The rains held things up for some weeks.’
‘See? You’ve been doing it all for years. You can teach him everything he needs to know.’
‘It’s only with your help that I know.’ She wrapped her hands around the mug. ‘I couldn’t manage on my own. Not like William used to. Or like my father does on his estate.’
Tillman barked a laugh. ‘No one does any of it on their own, and William definitely didn’t.’
The space between them hardened. Tillman picked up his mug and gulped a mouthful, then another. He set it back on the table with a lopsided clunk. ‘I shouldn’t have made such a bold criticism.’
Lorelei spun the plate of toast. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say anything bad about William before. He’s always been so… so…’
‘Respected?’
‘More than respected. Hallowed. Practically revered as a saint.’ Lorelei stripped off a glove and took up the toast. The butter, a little burnt, melted into the crunch, and the first bites settled in her stomach. ‘I wish I had known how to make him happy as a wife.’
Lorelei hid behind a sip and kept her gaze on the table.
Damn fatigue, stupid warm kitchen, and him, just sitting and listening to her…
saying nothing… It was all far too comfortable.
If she didn’t rein herself in, all the thoughts she’d been so careful to keep locked inside would tumble out as confessions.
And when it came to the estate manager, with his slow drawl, patient words, and his hair all loose and tousled, confessions were a dangerous thing.
Best to shift the attention from herself.
‘After he died, why did you stay?’ she asked.
Tillman spooned a dollop of honey into his half-empty mug. ‘I enjoy the work.’
She laughed. ‘The work? Helping a clueless woman understand what you could do in your sleep? You owed me nothing. Your parents, your family, none of your kin live nearby. You could have found another position just as good, if not better, much closer to your home. You were William’s friend.
Not mine or my father’s. What kept you from leaving? ’
‘I’d worry about you if I wasn’t there.’ He swiped the cup off the table and nodded at the toast in her hand. ‘You can take that with you, if you like. I’ll hail a cab. Let’s go find your boy.’
Regents Park, Hyde Park, the British Library.
The theatre, the docks, the rowing club.
The cab crawled through the city, making a slow serpentine past all the places the caretaker could remember Arley asking questions about.
It was a day for breaking with convention, because Tillman sat in the cab with her, albeit on the opposite side, facing backwards as they trawled the streets.
Lorelei simply couldn’t bear the thought of sitting alone.
He scanned the streets from one window while she looked out the other.
At some places, he thumped the roof, and they stopped so he could lean out the window to speak with passers-by or leap down to chat with a doorman.
When he hauled himself back into the cab after another unsuccessful stop, a swell of warm gratitude rose inside her, so awkward and expansive in the normally tight, composed space of her chest. He turned to look out the window again.
‘He may have already returned to the house. Do you want to head back and see?’
Lorelei pressed her fingers to the glass. The cab slowed into a corner, and they rumbled past some gentleman’s club with tall doric columns and marble stairs. As they passed a turning carriage outside, her eyes stuck to a golden crest painted on its door.
‘Father?’ She followed the familiar shield. ‘What is he doing…’
Lorelei scanned the street to find her father striding along the pavement. He was walking with a stiff posture and with purpose towards a small gathering further along the road. No, not a small gathering. Just two men chatting. Two young men…
‘That’s him!’ she cried, half rising from her seat. ‘Arley—he’s here!’
Tillman thumped the roof, and the hackney rolled to a stop.
He opened the door, squeezed onto the street, pulled out the steps, and held her steady as she clambered down.
‘Arley!’ she called again, louder this time.
Then she grabbed her skirts. She hadn’t run since she was a girl, and never in silk slippers, never in London, but the rush of relief at finding her son roared louder than decorum.
She was going to hug him. Then she was going to shout at him.
Then hug him again. Then let him know, in no uncertain terms, just how worried she had been, and that he was to never, ever run away again.
Lorelei raced across the short distance, wrapped her arms around Arley, and tugged him against her chest. ‘So worried. I was so worried. What were you think—’ Lorelei glanced up, over his shoulder.
‘…thinking,’ she finished, as all her insides melted. A ghost. He had been speaking to a ghost. There was no other explanation. The same dark hair, same jawline, same stature—even the same cocky assurance as his mouth stretched to smirking.
Her husband’s ghost stood here on the city street on a bright day. Her breath left her body so fast she crumpled with the force of it. Her knees hit the stones. The man Arley had been speaking to bore such a striking resemblance to William that he must be a ghost. There was no other explanation…
But no. No, that wasn’t it. He looked younger than any William she had known and far younger than the man who had left her.
The realisation cracked her like a lightning fissure.
This was his son, William’s other son. Her husband had no brothers, no cousins, had descended from a line of sole surviving male children for four generations.
But the son she’d always thought of as a younger half-brother was not a boy, nor even close in age to Arley.
He was a grown man wearing a full suit, top hat, and an air of condescension.
Bile burned as it rose in her throat, her stomach twisting. The tightening inside her chest was followed by a racking cough and indignant splutter.
The other son was older than Arley. The bastard. The other boy, William’s other boy. Older.