CHAPTER 11 #2
"I don't want to interact with eligible young ladies. I want to…" Gabriel cut himself off, acutely aware that what he wanted was currently arranging lemon cakes in the parlor.
"You want to what?" Edmund prompted innocently.
“It is of no importance. I'll endure whatever matchmaking torture Aunt Agatha has planned, and then she'll leave, and I can return to my peaceful existence."
"Your peaceful existence of sharing a bed with your housekeeper while pretending you're not completely besotted?"
"I'm not besotted. I'm... temporarily infatuated."
"For someone who's temporarily infatuated, you certainly spent a long time staring at the door she just walked through."
"I was admiring the woodwork. We had it polished."
"Of course you were. The woodwork. Not the way that dress fits her perfectly, or how the morning light caught her hair, or…"
"Edmund, I'm warning you…"
The sound of carriage wheels on gravel interrupted what would have been either a threat or a confession. Gabriel straightened his cravat, assumed what he hoped was an expression of ducal dignity rather than barely suppressed panic, and went to meet his doom.
Lady Agatha descended from her carriage like a general arriving to inspect troops she fully expected to find wanting.
She was wearing purple again, a different shade that somehow managed to be even more aggressive than the last as her expression suggested she'd been practicing her disapproval during the entire journey.
Behind her, a young woman emerged who could only be Miss Penelope Ashworth. She was everything a young lady should be, blonde, delicate, dressed in pink muslin that probably cost more than Clara's entire wardrobe…and she looked terrified.
"Gabriel," Lady Agatha announced, as if his name was both a greeting and an accusation. "You're looking... less cadaverous than last time."
"Aunt Agatha, your compliments are, as always, overwhelming in their generosity. I'm positively glowing with health and vitality, as you can clearly see."
"Don't be smart with me, boy. And don't think I don't know what you're doing with all this sudden domesticity. A few clean windows don't render you competent."
"No, but they do make it easier to see the approaching doom you represent. May I escort you to the parlor? We have lemon cakes."
Lady Agatha's eyes narrowed. "How did you know I favor lemon cakes?"
"I make it my business to know everything about potential threats to my peace. Research is the foundation of any good defensive strategy."
"I'm not a threat, Gabriel. I'm trying to help you."
"Your help feels remarkably similar to an invasion, but please, do come in and help yourself to tea while you catalog my various failures."
He led them into the parlor, where Clara had worked magic. The room sparkled, silver gleamed, and the lemon cakes were arranged with mathematical precision on china that Gabriel hadn't even known they owned.
"Miss Ashworth," he said, remembering his manners. "Welcome to Ashbourne Hall. I apologize in advance for whatever psychological damage my aunt inflicts upon you during your visit."
Penelope, barely eighteen and clearly overwhelmed, attempted a curtsey. "Your Grace, thank you for receiving us. Your home is lovely."
"It's tolerably less decrepit than usual, due to the efforts of my staff, who've been threatening to mutiny if I don't maintain basic standards of cleanliness."
"Your staff?" Lady Agatha's tone suggested she knew exactly how many staff he'd had a week ago.
"Yes, my remarkably efficient staff, who've managed to transform this mausoleum into something resembling a habitable dwelling despite my best efforts to thwart them."
As if on cue, Peter appeared with the tea service, his footman's training evident in every precise movement. Gabriel watched his aunt assess the young man's performance, searching in vain for flaws and finding none.
"Tea, my lady?" Peter offered with a perfect bow.
"Who are you?" Lady Agatha demanded.
"Peter Morrison, my lady. His Grace's footman."
"Since when does my nephew employ footmen? Last I heard, he'd dismissed everyone and was living like a hermit."
"His Grace reconsidered the wisdom of complete isolation and hired a small but capable staff," Gabriel said smoothly. "We're all about redemption and second chances here at Ashbourne."
Clara chose that moment to appear in the doorway. "Your Grace, shall I have Cook prepare additional refreshments?"
Gabriel's mouth went dry. She'd added a white collar and cuffs that made her look like a governess or companion rather than a housekeeper. The effect was devastating in its propriety, making him want to dishevel her completely.
"Miss Whitfield," he managed. "I don't believe you've been formally introduced to my aunt and her... companion."
Clara dropped a perfect curtsey. "Lady Agatha, Miss Ashworth, welcome to Ashbourne Hall."
Lady Agatha's eyes sharpened like a hawk spotting prey. "You're the housekeeper?"
"I am, my lady."
"You're very young for such a position."
“I've been managing households for many a year now."
"Managing? Or destroying? I've heard some interesting rumors about you, Miss Whitfield."
Gabriel tensed, but Clara remained perfectly composed. "Rumors are like weeds, my lady…they grow everywhere but rarely bear fruit worth consuming."
"Cleverly said, but that doesn't address the substance of what I've heard."
"Which is?"
“That you arrived upon my nephew's doorstep in a state of utter destitution and distraction, and, by some means or another, prevailed upon him to offer you sanctuary.”
"I appeared seeking employment, found His Grace in need of domestic assistance, and we reached a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
"And yet here you are, transformed from desperate refugee to respectable housekeeper in barely a week. Rather miraculous, wouldn't you say?"
Clara continued. “Would you care to inspect the household accounts? I've brought them up to date, and I believe you'll find them illuminating."
Lady Agatha looked slightly taken aback. "You've managed the accounts?"
"Among other things. His Grace has been most patient while I've implemented necessary improvements to the estate's domestic operations."
"Gabriel doesn't have a patient bone in his body."
"Perhaps he's been inspired to develop patience by the obvious benefits of allowing competent people to perform their duties without interference," Clara suggested mildly.
Edmund made a sound that might have been a laugh converted into a cough. Gabriel wanted to kiss Clara right there in front of everyone.
"Speaking of duties," Clara continued, "I should check on preparations for luncheon. If you'll excuse me, my lady, Miss Ashworth."
She left with another perfect curtsey, and Gabriel forced himself not to watch her go this time, though the effort nearly killed him.
"She's very... articulate for a housekeeper," Lady Agatha observed suspiciously.
"I don't employ inarticulate people," Gabriel replied. “I do not tolerate simpletons and I have enough problems without adding intellectual deficiency to the list."
"Don't be crude, Gabriel. It's unbecoming."
"Everything about me is unbecoming according to your standards, so I might as well lean into the disappointment."
Miss Ashworth, who had been silent throughout this exchange, suddenly spoke up. "I believe our housekeeper seems wonderful, Your Grace. She clearly cares about the estate and your wellbeing."
Everyone turned to stare at her. She immediately turned pink but continued bravely. "That is to say, it's obvious she's worked very hard to improve things here, and that speaks well of both her dedication and your judgment in hiring her."
Gabriel regarded the girl with new interest. "That's very perceptive of you, Miss Ashworth. Though I suspect my aunt didn't bring you here to admire my domestic arrangements."
"I brought Penelope because she's exactly the sort of young lady you should be courting," Lady Agatha said bluntly. "Accomplished, well-bred, appropriately aged, and possessing a fortune that could restore this estate to its former glory."
"The estate doesn't need restoring. It needs to be left alone to crumble peacefully without matrimonial interference."
"Don't be ridiculous. You need an heir, and Penelope needs a husband. It's a perfectly logical arrangement."
"I'm sure Miss Ashworth has her own opinions about being bartered like livestock, don't you, Miss Ashworth?"
Penelope looked between them like a deer caught between two predators. "I... my father thinks very highly of Your Grace."
"Your father thinks highly of my title and the potential connection it represents. He's probably never actually met me, or he'd think differently."
"Gabriel," Lady Agatha warned.
“Am I supposed to pretend interest in this child to satisfy your dynastic ambitions?"
"I'm eighteen," Penelope said quietly. "Not a child."
"You're younger than Miss Whitfield and probably even younger in experience. You're definitely a child."
"Why does Miss Whitfield's age matter?" Lady Agatha asked sharply.
Gabriel realised his mistake immediately. "It doesn't. I was merely making a comparison to establish relative maturity."
"You seem very aware of your housekeeper's particulars."
"I'm aware of all my employees' particulars. It's called being a responsible employer."
Edmund interrupted what was becoming an increasingly dangerous conversation. "Perhaps we should allow Miss Ashworth to tour the gardens? I understand you're quite passionate about horticulture, Miss Ashworth."
Penelope looked relieved. "I do enjoy gardens, yes."
"Then you must see ours," Gabriel said, seizing the escape route. "They're in a state of romantic decay that I'm sure you'll find either charming or horrifying."
"Romantic decay?" Lady Agatha's voice could have frozen fire. "Is that what we're calling neglect now?"
"We're calling it authentic deterioration with potential for renovation, much like everything else around here."
"Including you?"