Chapter 3
Winifred hurried down the hall toward the kitchen from her the room at the front of the house’s ground floor.
“Good afternoon, Bridgette,” she bid the family cook with a huge smile and open arms. They had known each other since childhood, played together and worked together for most of their twenty-four years.
Bridgette had come to work here in London for Bettington five years ago.
Since a child, she had helped her mother who was cook in The Grange.
Bridgette dusted her hands on her large white apron and opened her arms as she ran toward Winifred. “You decided to come?”
“I did.” Winn glanced around the large warm kitchen.
Empty of others, the expansive room was heated by the huge open fireplace and well-lit by the sun streaming through glass dome of the ceiling.
Filled with copper pans and cooking utensils, the kitchen was a marvel of modernity.
It smelled of malt and cinnamon, cooked apples and roasting chickens. Bridgette had made it home.
“Everything looks so wonderful. You have kept them well fed.”
“I have done me best, thanks to you recommending I come up from Bettington Grange. They look good, too. Those boys, I mean. As for his lordship, he’s off his feed these days.”
“I noticed.”
“Why are you here?” Bridgette led Winifred by the hand to come sit in a comfy chair to one side of the stone fireplace. “At first you wrote you would come, then in another you said you would not.”
Winifred took a moment to ponder her words.
She had never breathed a word of how she cared for their master.
Never gave an inkling of her foolish desire for him.
She had buried deep her memory of that day in the Grange’s rose garden when she had made the mistake to touch his cheek, commiserate with him… and kiss him.
She caught a breath. She must not recall those moments now, either. Bridgette knew her so well, if she blushed or dithered, Bridgette would ask questions. “I thought I owed it to him to give him my decision in person.”
Bridgette tipped her head, a skeptical look in her eyes. “How did that work?”
She inhaled. “Not well. I am still here, aren’t I?”
“Did he assign the housekeeper’s rooms to you?”
“He did. I left my traveling reticule there and came here straight away to talk to you.” At the sound of rattling in the far hall, she met Bridgette’s gaze in alarm.
“It’s fine. That is Fox, the butler, probably in the wine cellar. His hearing is bad. My two maids are off to the market. We are alone. How long do you stay?”
“I am here until the day after Christmas.”
Bridgette opened her mouth at that news.
Did she have an idea anyway of her desire for the dashing widower who was their employer? “He trapped me.”
“What?”
“I don’t mean that to make him sound dastardly. But when I told him I could not stay, he asked why. The only thing I could think of was to say I was going to be married.”
Brigette snorted. “So he objected.”
“Like you would expect. He is used to getting his way.”
Bridgette gave her a sarcastic look. “Ha! You can say that. Except for his sons, of course. They run him ragged. All of us, too.”
“They are such good boys. Thank heavens they are kind and smart and—”
“And full of trouble!” Bridgette sniffed. “So if you told the master you were going to marry, what did he say then?”
“He asked when I’d take vows and I made the mistake to say soon.”
Her pretty friend chuckled. “But it’s Advent.”
“How well I have forgotten,” Winn mourned.
“Did he ask who you were to marry?”
“Detwiler,” she said with a wince.
“Oh, dear me. Him! There are a hundred men in Bettington Grange village and nearby Canterbury who would give their teeth to carry you over the threshold.”
Winn grinned. “No toothless man for me.”
“But Detwiler? He’s plain as a pewter mug and just as gray.” Bridgette folded her arms over her ample chest and pulled back in alarm. “You are not really going to marry him? Are you? He’ll work your fingers ’til they bleed. Not a kind man or…well, not a man to want in your bed.”
“Bridgette!” Winn laughed, a hand to her mouth.
“Well, do you? Want that kind of man pawing you?”
“No, of course not. Why do you think I’ve refused him these many years?” She rubbed her arms. The man in her bed should be a blue-eyed man of thirty-five with chestnut colored hair, tall, strapping, with kissable lips. And he should want only me.
Bridgette seized both her hands. “Tell me true, Winn. Why won’t you take this job?”
She stared into her friend’s dark eyes. It was time to come to terms with what she had always wanted…and what she could not have. Bettington. The handsome, dashing Earl of Bettington.
She rose and stood before the fireplace, one hand up to the scorched brick.
Fifteen feet high, it dwarfed her. So much about this house, this man and her affection for him did.
She’d hidden her feelings, her aspirations, her daydreams of belonging to him.
Now she had days in December to come to terms with who she was and why she could not ever be his.
She had grown up in the presence of the Earl of Bettington. Her father who met with the man often, took her with him to those frequent visits. She was a precocious child, dominated by her blustering father who, if he could help it, did not let her out of his sight.
From an early age, she was treated to the mellow resonance of Bettington’s baritone voice.
To his silent contemplation of issues. To his measured approach to problems. So unlike her father was Bettington that she saw the young earl as her ideal.
Then as she grew to a youthful girl, it was Bettington who filled her nights, just as he often appeared in her days.
She mooned over him until seven years ago when he married.
Then she told herself she would cut him from her reverie.
Impossible as that was, it became even more difficult when the new countess had trouble managing her households.
That lady’s frequent outbursts of temper and her disinterest in her own children created chaos at Bettington Grange and here in Dudley Crescent.
Winifred’s unique ability to calm a difficult father and settle disputes among quarrelsome villagers meant her own father recommended her to Bettington as maid and later, at the grand old age of twenty-one, just before the countess died, Winn became housekeeper of Bettington Grange.
She’d carried out that function for the past three years.
As such, she’d ordered Bettington Grange’s staff in the main house and the gardening staff.
Occasionally, she’d settled disputes among the grooms. But she became a presence to Bettington whenever he appeared for summer holidays.
Since the death of his wife, he brought his three sons with him and it became a natural responsibility for her to hire and fire their governesses, order their meals, their days, and play with them.
Catching bubberflies. Planting flowers and herbs.
Swimming in the river. And teaching them how to dance.
Now Bridgette wanted her to share her most intimate longings with her. “I am the local barrister’s daughter. The one who was his house maid, then his country house housekeeper. I am no countess.”
“We have not discussed this, but I will say I understood that you took the maid’s position to remain close to your father. But it was also to remain near him, wasn’t it?”
“It was that or take a position as a lady’s companion in Bath. I could not…” She caught back the tears that memory caused. “I could not leave my father.”
“Or this man whom you admired.”
“Or this man.” Whom I love.
She heard Bridgette scrape her chair across the tiled floor. Her friend came to wrap her arms around her and hug her close. “Let’s make the very best of this opportunity, can we, hmmm?”
Winn turned in Bridgette’s arms and hugged her tightly. It felt good to share her secret with her. “Thank you.”
“No need for that. Now, we begin with your welfare. I baked scones this morning. Or I have a good fish pie left from last night’s dinner. You must be hungry.”
“The pie would be grand.” Winn followed her to the door to the cold cellar. Her mouth watered at the thought of flaky goodness.
As Winn finished her pie and tea, she thanked her friend and sighed. “I have to get on with this. Tell me what the major problems are.”
“His lordship did not tell you?”
“He focused on the boys’ needs.” A hint of his own. “But I want to hear from you about all else. What do we need here?”
“Two new upstairs maids who do not faint at the sight of little boys being boys. A new footman who is strong enough to carry more than a feather. Also one who bears with Fox’s poor hearing and does not yell at the fellow and scare us all to death.”
“Two maids and a footman who are kind, strong of body and constitution. What else?”
Bridgette set her teeth. “A governess.”
Winn rolled her eyes. “They are usually such a dry bag of bones.” And difficult to hire during the winter holidays.
Bridgette pointed a finger at her. “The last one walked out bag and baggage, grumbling about the three of them.”
“They are not bad boys.”
“No, they are not. But she was a hag, having them up at six, washing in cold water, hours and hours of study and not enough fresh air.”
“We can wait on that one until after Christmas…or well, no, I cannot. I am here only until the day after Christmas.”
“Stay longer!”
“Bridgette, you know if I do, I get myself in trouble.”
“So then, just avoid his lordship!”
“Easier said than done, my friend.” Especially when he presses so near and tempts me with his scent and his gaze and…
“You can do it. Besides, there is much else here to cure.”
“Like what?”
“I’d suggest a look at the household books. The last housekeeper was a simpering fool in front of the earl. But judging by the way she trimmed my budget, I think she had sticky fingers.”
“Stealing from the earl’s purse?”
“I have no proof, but she ordered me to spend less. That meant fewer produce from the greengrocer and no choice cuts at the butcher’s.”
“Did the earl catch her at it?”
“I doubt it. But he complained about my stew, so…he had an inkling of something amiss.”
“Huh. Good riddance.” She felt better about her stay here now that she had clear direction to improve the way the house ran. “What else?”
“Make playtime for those little boys.”
“Playtime it will be.” Winn smiled, wishing December weather could create bubberflies. “What else?”
“Playtime for his lordship.”
Winifred burst out a laugh. “Absolutely not!”
“You know he needs it. He always has.”
“Not with me.”
“Why not?” Bridgette gazed at her, all soft with compassion. “You play a ruthless game of cards. I know because I’ve lost too much coin to you! Take him at cards.”
Cards was not the play her friend implied. Nonetheless, the temptation sent a thrill up her spine. “I cannot.”
“You can. Be good to him. That wife of his was an odd fish.”
Winn often wondered how much of the countess’s scandals had permeated the household servants’ knowledge. She would not ask, lest she have to explain. She would not allow anyone to take her man for a fool.
“Winifred! You know that he needs a woman who loves him.”
She glanced about, ensuring they were alone. “If I started…if I dared to show him any of…of my true feelings, you know that I would not be able to contain myself.”
“Exactly.”
She shrank back. “I cannot be his mistress.”
“Of course not.” Bridgette grinned. “Be his wife.”
* * *
That was impossible. Winn strode about her new rooms among the servants’ first floor accommodations, murmuring to herself how she could never become Bettington’s wife.
Her father had often warned her against such aspirations.
He had been the one to comfort her when villagers taunted her for her mother’s scandalous behavior.
She had always told herself that being good was its own reward.
Over the years, she had established a good reputation for herself, one that had blotted out her mother’s behavior.
She had rejected Detwiler every time he’d asked.
She’d also refused one new resident in the village and two other farmers recently.
She loved only one man and had consigned herself to spinsterhood, but taken his household position as housekeeper.
None there in the country house suspected she cared for him.
Having lived to twenty-four with no incidents to mar her spotless reputation, she was no longer ridiculed for her mother’s mistakes.
But her father had noticed that as a sixteen-year-old, her gaze was plastered to the local earl.
He warned against any infatuation. Lest he or anyone see her longing for Bettington, she sought to keep her gazes impersonal in public. She had succeeded—or so she thought.
But after Bettington married, her father had erupted one afternoon after Bettington had invited her to participate in the family archery contest. “Never think it possible. You are not his family. He is too high born and if you try to be his friend, you will only be shunned. He, too! Abandon all hope!”
Winn had heeded his words. Oh, yes, she had a good education and a way with words. She was smart and happy to meet new people. She had manners and indeed, she could dance with grace. But she could never be a countess.
Housekeeper, yes. Substitute governess for a while, that too. But never Bettington’s equal.
She had more sense.
She would simply stay out of his way these next few days. She’d care for his sons. Coordinate the staff. Ready the house for a Christmas reception.
Then go home. To George Detwiler and ask him to marry her.