Chapter 7
Seven
Kate
Carrying twenty-year-old, billowing, silk mantuas down the manor's white marble stairs, Kate stopped above the landing to see what the major was doing now.
Given the excuse of his injury, he'd discarded his coat and left his neckcloth untied—again. And then he’d abandoned the sling to steady himself while unscrewing some odd piece from the back of the clock.
His clutter was once more spread across the stairs.
She'd spent far too much time attempting to understand the male mind, when it was really quite simple. They needed purpose. Fletch had too little.
“Sgt. Major, shall I ask the captain to help you? He enjoys taking things apart.” She traipsed down the stairs until she stood one step higher than the landing.
“Fletch. Not in the army now. Set us all free.” He didn't remove his head from the case.
“The captain isn't in the army either. There's no reason to ignore a well-earned title. I'll see what he's doing. You shouldn't use that arm.”
“Almost done. Cleaning and mending next.”
She didn't know why it irritated that he wouldn't look at her when speaking, but it did. She had decided not to reply when Miss Vivien sashayed down the main corridor, where she did not belong. The manor folk weren't strict, but people ought to know their place.
The memory of Ana Marie’s broken body at the bottom of the service stairs flashed, and Kate relented. She didn’t want to use those stairs either.
“Miss Lavender wants you in her office. I can take those gowns.” Vivien Jameson tugged them from Kate before she could hand them over. “You can't take care of the ladies and a shop, too, can you?” Her tone was almost malicious.
“Jealousy is not productive,” Kate admonished, relinquishing the gowns. Grieving Ana Marie’s demise and still terrified by her home’s invader, she didn’t have the mind for pettiness.
She lingered to talk with the major while Miss Jameson flounced off.
“Mr. Ferguson—” She robbed him of both title and the intimacy of his given name.
“—I'll send around for the captain. He'll know who can help mend and clean.” She'd also ask someone to send the fool man a cup of tea, at the very least.
He may have saved their lives last night.
She wouldn't easily forget his bravery. Men occasionally had uses. Last night had been one of them. She had stupidly frozen in terror. She had hoped she’d learned better, but she had little experience in physically defending herself.
Being adept at social graces did not stop intruders.
Not giving him a chance to argue, Kate swept down the hall to where she knew she'd find a footman. She set him on his errands then returned to the ballroom to see what Lavender needed.
Before she could reach the office, she noticed Miss Jameson had dumped the mantuas in the sewing room and vanished. She had intended to send her to the mercantile for more muslin. Kate debated who else to send.
That hilly drive was difficult for their older workers.
She glanced around for another of the younger ones.
Spotting one of their newest hires, Kate led Maryann to the side-entrance hall.
A pleasingly plump young woman who smiled easily despite the gap between her front teeth, Maryann was eager to please.
“We need five yards of Mr. Oswald’s finest muslin. He knows to charge—"
Damien and Rafe slammed through the portico door, startling them. And then, remembering they’d rode after Hugh, Kate sent Maryann scurrying back to the safety of the ballroom.
She stepped into their path to prevent the men from ignoring her. “What did you find?”
“Morgan, riding this direction.” Looking harried, Rafe glared down the empty hall. “Where’s the blamed footman?”
“I sent him on an errand. How long ago?”
“His horse disappeared up here before we arrived. We don’t have time for an interrogation, Kate. We need the captain to order the house and grounds searched.” Damien impatiently stalked past her.
Had she endangered the entire manor by sending the footman on an errand? Would Hugh have dared to sneak in? Unwilling to take risks, Kate ran for the ballroom to warn of an intruder.
“I’ll look outside,” Rafe shouted, while Damien hit the main corridor, yelling for the butler.
Verifying Maryann was informing the other workers, Kate hurried through the immense ballroom for the tower housing Lavender’s office and fitting rooms—a tower with stairs that remained unlocked on the outside during school hours. It was meant to be open to the public. . .
Apparently having sent the butler to locking doors, Damien followed on her heels.
They caught Miss Lavender examining one of the mantuas Vivien Jameson had carried in earlier. The modiste glanced up in surprise at their hasty entrance.
Apparently returned from wherever she’d been hiding, dark-haired Vivien stood in front of the cheval glass, holding one of the very large gowns against her slender frame and admiring her reflection.
“The madman who attacked Major Ferguson last night was seen riding this way,“ Damien explained, rushing through the workshop to the tower entrance. “We need to lock your door.”
Young, blond Lavender waved a wicked pair of sharp sheers. “I’d like to see anyone get past me!”
Gleefully, Vivien laid aside the gown and picked up another pair. Damien grabbed both their wrists and twisted. Both pair of shears hit the floor, crudely proving their uselessness. He dodged tables, mirrors, and dress forms to throw the bolt to the stairs.
“Rafe is locking the downstairs door?” Kate asked worriedly.
She didn’t feel relief at Damien’s nod. They could simply be locking the madman inside.
“How are we to look at that shop space we talked about if we can’t go out?” Lavender protested, unconcerned by the weapon lesson. “Why would a lunatic come here?” She thought about that a second. “Don’t answer that.”
That forced a smile out of Damien. “Mad men don’t think logically. He’s no doubt taking his insane grievance to the magistrate.”
Which would be Captain Huntley, who could be almost anywhere.
“If Hugh is wounded, he can’t be much danger, can he?” Kate looked for a bright side as she picked up the silks. “Finish hemming, Miss Jameson. This is not your concern.” She shooed Vivien back to the ballroom, empty-handed.
“She’s a gossip, that one,” Lavender said, taking up one of the silks to examine it. “Does this mean we can’t get the muslin either?”
“I’ll find Rafe and let you know when it’s safe to walk into the village.” Appearing as if he regretted bolting the office door, Damien took himself back through the twittering ballroom.
After his departure, Lavender exchanged glances and a smirk with Kate. “Now that Arnaud has turned the turret into his studio and abandoned us, the gentlemen are reluctant to visit.” Which explained the excited twittering. Kate’s brother-in-law was a handsome man.
“Having the gentlemen gone is rather a good thing, isn’t it? Your workers are less distracted and accomplish more.” Kate certainly hadn’t missed the disruption of men wandering in and out. She gestured at the silk-draped dress form. “Are you ready for me to start cutting?”
“Not yet. I need to think what will most flatter older ladies, be fashionable, and still suit their preferences. I’ll draw a few sketches first. Take a look at those fashion plates and tell me which colors and ribbons will be most acceptable for our shop, far from the wicked preferences of Paris.
” She said that with amusement, not disdain.
Fretting over a madman did no one any good.
The manor gentlemen would take care of him.
Reasonably certain that a nodcock like Hugh Morgan couldn’t breach solid stone walls, Kate allowed herself to enjoy the pretty pictures in the dream book of finery she could never afford.
Adding stylish sleeves and kerchiefs to sensible round gowns with drawstring bodices was far more practical for women without maids.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday.
” Lavender returned to her pinning. “About having one of our older ladies work in the shop with you? I can’t imagine we’ll be terribly busy, but it’s best to have two people available.
Since she took that fall last winter, Mrs. Young has been having difficulty walking.
She only works on buttons, though. Would she be useful in a shop? ”
Holding a length of lace, Vivien returned and waited until Lavender finished speaking before intruding. “I have an idea for buttons, if you’d like to see it.”
“Put some sketches together and I’ll look at them later.” Lavender took the lace and waved dismissively. “We need Thea’s order finished today, please.”
Lavender waited until the young woman had flounced out before continuing their conversation. “She is eager. We need to give her credit for that I suppose.”
Kate shrugged off the interruption. She was more interested in the shop scheme. “Mrs. Young will be perfect in a shop. The village women are far more likely to come in for new buttons than a new dress. Then she can persuade them into looking at new or refurbished gowns, and I’ll talk to them.”
“We’ll need to stock a few inexpensive fabrics for you to show,” Lavender acknowledged. “I wonder if Henri might bring us extra second-hand finds to keep in stock. He’s not been going into town so much since his son was born.”
“Doting father.” Kate smiled at the French tavern owner’s paternal instincts. “He could start his own shop of castoffs, so he needn’t go to town as frequently.”
“Competition for me,” Lavender pointed out.
Fletch chose that moment to stride in, glowering blackly. To be fair, Kate admitted, he pretty much always appeared as menacing as a wild animal prepared to ravage. Only half-civilized, he belonged in a jungle, not a parlor of silk and lace.
“The madman is attempting to see the captain! I’m pressing charges so Rafe can lock him up. Hunt needs you to do the same. The b. . . brute broke your door lock and trespassed.”
Nice of him to hold back his first choice of word. Kate set down the dream book. “Unless Hugh can be hauled to assizes, what good will that do? He needs a physician.”
“Good. We’ll lock him up, let him rot until he dies—” Fletch grabbed her elbow to steer her off.
Recalling her need to practice defense, Kate picked up the shears and stabbed his good hand with the point. “Don’t touch.”
He dropped her like a hot coal but didn’t budge. “Fine. Are you coming?”
“Does it mean we’ll be safe to walk into the village if I do?” She already regretted hurting him, but she’d endured enough manhandling for a lifetime.
He grunted. “Maybe. Depends on Hunt’s mood. If you ask that he lock up Morgan, he’ll listen.”
She raised her eyebrows at this declaration. “You can use words. Fine, I’ll come.” She glanced at Lavender for permission, bobbed a curtsy, and followed him through the whispering ladies.
Miss Jameson wasn’t present. Where was she off to now? Annoyed, Kate would have stopped to ask, but Fletch barreled through the enormous space as if hounds were on his heels. She had to pick up her skirt to run after him.
A shriek echoed in the distance.
“Outside?” Fletch raced down the hall for the portico exit.
“Tower,” Kate called after him, recognizing the muffled echo and panicking about the children using those stairs. They often screamed in delight after school, enjoying the echoes. This was not a scream of delight.
Outside, every man within hearing distance was running toward the manor. The thick tower walls had once muted cries. Now, the newly-installed windows not only let in light, but opened to the fresh air and released sound.
Fletch reached the cellar door first. “Not locked. Stay back.”
Rafe was supposed to have locked it. He must have caught the madman first and taken him to the captain.
“You have only one good arm, fool man,” Kate shouted. Seeing Henri running from his peddler’s cart, she waved at him to follow Fletch. He would have done so anyway, but it made her feel better for not following.
A dark head peered from one of the open tower windows: Arnaud—the artist who worked in the studio at the top. “We need a woman. She’s fallen and injured her foot.”
Being the only woman in the yard, Kate waved acknowledgment. Who had fallen? The schoolteacher? Verity and sometimes Arnaud’s shy cousin were the only women who normally used this outside entrance.
Gingerly, Kate stepped down into the dark tower’s cellar.
She disliked the enclosed, winding stairs and generally entered through the manor, but she couldn’t leave someone hurt in the stairwell.
No one waited in the dark cellar. Only light from the narrow windows illuminated this first set of stairs.
Listening to the murmur of voices above, she distracted herself by admiring the gas sconces the captain had somehow engineered to light the enclosed stairwell on this level.
In relief, she found Fletch waiting on the landing.
Wisely, he didn’t grab her arm again. Henri must be above with the screamer.
“Who?” she asked, hurrying past the formidable soldier.
“The ninny who took your silks,” he replied, staying on her heels.
Good thing, or she might have turned around and gone back down.
Miss Jameson? What on earth had Vivien been doing on these backstairs? Eavesdropping?