Twenty-one
Lavender
“Could we copy everything in Mr. Calendar’s notebook before returning it to the Evil Ones?” Walking beside a quietly steaming Fort through the afternoon shadows, Lavender recognized his palpable temper. “It does belong to them if they were paying that poor man.”
It had been a dull day, for which she ought to be grateful.
After Horrible Humpy had departed, Fort had practically set up shop in the hall to guard her, successfully preventing her from learning anything at all.
Her only customers had been the village ladies.
She hadn’t decided whether to be glad or irritated.
“I am not feeling generous,” Fort grumbled, proving his rare mood. “The swine prevented a poor man from respecting his employer with funeral clothes, while depriving Henri of a sale without any reason or consideration beyond assuming his wishes are more important than anyone else’s.”
“They aren’t?” Lavender asked. The son of a duke had a different perspective than hers.
“My experience has been that wealth offers privileges normal people can’t command.
Or so they assume, I suppose.” Fearing she’d been impolite, she hastily amended to add.
“A maid cannot acquire a free ballroom as I have. My family name gives me that privilege.”
This was not a subject she had really given much consideration—not that she considered many subjects outside fashion.
But she had never seen the normally impassive tutor in such a state.
The architect’s death had started it, but Humphries had him practically roiling with fury and spoiling for a fight.
She might not know a lot, but she knew when to be wary.
His noble lordship was balling his fingers into fists as they approached the portico entrance.
Time to check on her sewing room. . . Although it had been rather pleasant strolling with a proper gentleman who expected no more than conversation.
“If all men had the vote—” he said angrily, his thoughts having strayed down a strange path.
“And women?” she dared ask. “But we don’t. Do you need to buy land so you might vote?”
He blinked, briefly startled from his fury. “I was thinking of the village. I have never given thought to it for myself. My father and brother represent my family.”
“But you and Lord Weston do not always agree? I cannot see how voting will change minds, though. Lords will never agree with me. I should speak with Kate before she goes home. I’ll help deliver food to our patient when dinner is ready.” She bobbed a curtsy and hurried for the door.
Instead of going his own way and taking the short route to see his brother, Lord Fortescue followed her inside.
On any normal day, like a good servant, the tutor took the service stairs to the schoolroom.
Today, he escorted her to the ballroom door, bowed, and strode through the manor as if he owned the place.
Apparently, he had decided to cast off his humble disguise and return to the privileged comportment of an aristocrat.
Lavender felt a little light-headed watching his wide shoulders and trim frockcoat disappear down the main corridor. Silly, she knew. She was most likely just hungry.
Entering the immense sewing room she had created, she was thronged with excited workers.
“There’s to be a wedding!”
“Mr. Arnaud has finally proposed. . .”
“We can make Miss Thea’s wedding gown. . .”
Oh, my. Lavender cast a glance to her right hand, Kate Ferguson, who was smiling at the commotion. Kate nodded, indicating it was true.
Married! The peculiar heiress and the surly artist! Lavender shared hugs and excitement and promised to design the perfect gown—as if they weren’t in danger of losing everything to a consortium of swine.
Fort’s term for the inn’s guests seemed fitting. As far as she was aware, the sole purpose of a hog’s life was to gobble up everything in sight and look for more.
In hopes of seeing the bride-to-be, Lavender gathered design books and fabrics and, practically dancing with delight, carried them to the east wing. She enjoyed the company of her eccentric family, both ladies and gentlemen, and missed their gathering before dinner.
She was not looking forward to speaking with Fort’s irritable brother. But she couldn’t abandon the boys, and Fort couldn’t do everything. Arnaud and Thea had a business of their own to run and apparently an unexpected announcement to make. Weston was a bit of a fly in their happy broth.
The boys eagerly glanced up as she entered the schoolroom, as if they were starving prisoners waiting for gruel.
She laughed at their expressions when she dropped more books on their worktable.
“It is not yet dinner time! Where is Mr.—" She had to correct herself. “Lord Fortescue? Shouldn’t he have you racing up and down the hall for exercise about now?”
“He is arguing with his brother. He asked us to copy this.” Davy gestured at a battered notebook.
“And are you copying it?” She glanced at the pages they’d neatly written, but as usual, the scribbling made little sense. In fact, this made less sense than usual.
“It is code,” Oliver explained, as if he understood her confusion—and shame.
“A stupid easy code,” Davy added. “He only moves three letters down.”
Lavender had no notion of what that meant. “Have you translated it already?” At their nods, she gestured at the few sheets of paper they’d filled with their work. “Shall I take this to their noble lordships while you race each other up and down the hall? The winner gets an extra pudding.”
They might be geniuses, but they were small boys. Shouting, they raced each other out.
Lavender gathered up their work and carried it across the hall. Angry voices emanated from behind the closed door. Fort was so very seldom angry that she couldn’t help but be fascinated. He’d held his temper with her and waited to unleash it on the patient? Considerate but possibly not very smart.
She knocked in warning but entered without waiting for permission. To her surprise, the curate and Arnaud were with the quarreling brothers. Mr. Upton smiled and bowed at her entrance. She mostly got glowers and questioning looks from the others, even Fort.
She might not be as smart and educated as they, but she knew more about men than they did her. She beamed, offered congratulations to Arnaud—which startled the solitary artist—then handed the pages to Fort, instead of the earl who held out his manicured hand for them.
“Your students have copied the code and translated it. I have given them permission to race as a reward. I will return with your dinners after you discuss their findings with me.” She darted a look at Arnaud. “I assume you will tell Thea of our discussion as well.”
Arnaud nodded.
The grumpy earl glowered. “Food first.”
Lavender hadn’t taken time to change out of her working gown or to fix her hair. She must look an utter frump. But maybe it was time men saw her as more than a pretty seamstress. It wasn’t as if all their masculine prowess had solved any problems lately.
“Although I am glad to see your appetite returning, my lord, dinner will not be ready. Perhaps if we can find a way to catch a killer and send these. . . swine. . . on their way, it might be safe for Captain Huntley and the others to return, and then the kitchen can send for a fatted calf.” She might not read the Bible, but she’d learned the lessons.
She nodded at the pages Fort held, waiting expectantly.
All four men stared at her as if she were a talking cat. Thea must understand how that felt when she spoke of spirits. Men so lacked imagination.
“We’ll need time to read these.” Fort waved the pages apologetically. “Could you bring up the soup and ask the kitchen to deliver the rest when it’s prepared? The boys can wait in the tower for the trays.”
Of course, they couldn’t absorb words by holding pages. She’d simply wanted to be included. Hiding her mortification, she bobbed a curtsy and fled. So much for being too pleased with herself. They still saw her as little more than a maid.
In flight, she realized she’d been the only woman in a bedchamber with four gentlemen! Her baroness grandmother would have conniptions. Her kitchen maid grandmother would merely ask if the men had said anything interesting.
Perhaps she had serving class instincts, like Nana’s. She wasn’t meant to be a lady.
Dodging the racing boys, she met Thea emerging from the schoolroom. Already feeling lower than a toad, Lavender didn’t attempt to hug the usually reserved heiress, but she did congratulate her.
“Let us see if we stay alive for the three weeks of the banns being called.” Looking more worried than a happy bride should be, Thea followed Lavender to the kitchen stairs. “I fear Humphries will hear the banns and immediately notify my father with irate messages.”
Never having had a father, or any man at all in her life, Lavender was uncertain why that mattered. “You do not need his permission, do you?”
“No, most decidedly not.” Not explaining more, Thea led the way into the vast bowels of the manor cellar to hunt food for querulous men.
“I brought some fashion books I thought you’d like to see,” Lavender said diffidently as they carried up tureen and bowls. “My seamstresses are thrilled to be part of the wedding, thank you.”
“I had given no thought at all to a trousseau until Kate mentioned it. You may thank her. And you will be far better at choosing a gown than I am. I like comfortable. And not frail. I’m not as careful as I should be, and I’d like the gown to survive for other occasions.”
Still feeling a little battered, Lavender made no immediate suggestion. Was the heiress actually worrying about cost?
Oliver was declared winner of the race—Davy wasn’t much into physical activity— but they agreed to share the extra pudding when she brought it up. She wished everyone could be so agreeable.
Her cousin did not have Lavender’s difficulty bossing men around.
Once they’d carried up soup trays, Thea filled a single bowl for the earl.
Lavender watched with interest as the heiress carried the tray with one bowl into a roomful of shouting, hungry men.
“Soup is ready in the next chamber. You may shut up and eat or tell us what the shouting is about.”
Thea was a wealthy lady and sounded more like a fish wife than Lavender had ever dared. The men actually silenced.