Chapter 4
Four
Agnes sat in the front drawing room and sipped a tea of chamomile and St. John’s wort.
It was a new blend she had mixed to break through her melancholy.
If it was effective, she would offer it to her patrons.
Others in the city must suffer from the same despair, especially on an October day as gray as this.
Picking up a warm bun from the tea tray, she forced herself to keep moving forward with her daily routine, or else she’d break.
Just like every other morning before Richard’s final moments, she began her day at the small table by the window.
It faced the main street and was a prime location to watch the people of York go about their day.
But this morning, it didn’t provide the same calm as before.
Instead, the noises from the carriages, the clamor of daily greetings, and the stomping of feet amplified her worries about her future.
The chatter of the city’s morning patterns that had once been a song was now a warning of life’s jagged edges.
Richard’s absence was not the hole that she thought it would be, but a loud pain that overwhelmed every sense.
When she was done here, Agnes planned to spend the rest of the morning in her attic apothecary, as was her routine.
In between mourning and funeral visitors, she had foraged a variety of herbs from the forests surrounding Skelton Manor.
While most of the meadowsweet had finished flowering, she had brought home an abundance of its leaves and roots for use in her pain-reducing remedies.
After that, she would break for luncheon. That was what she had always done, but now only empty chairs would greet her. Perhaps it was time to begin new habits. It had been naive to think her life would continue in the same way as if she hadn’t lost her companion.
Ward knocked on the frame of the open door. “Lady Skelton. You have a caller, but I told him you are not in. He insisted that I make certain.” She didn’t have to look at her butler to know he was unimpressed.
“Please. I cannot face Charles just yet. Next week, maybe I can consider readying myself to speak to him.”
She had met Charles after her betrothal to Richard had first been announced.
Charles’s father, Richard’s cousin, had passed away from consumption twelve years ago, making Charles the Skelton heir at the age of eighteen.
Agnes knew that he was considered a charming, if not flirtatious, gentleman of London society.
She simply didn’t have the energy to face him right now, force polite small talk, or have anyone else witness her grief.
“Understood, my lady. But I would be remiss if I did not inform you that the caller is not Lord Skelton. It is Mr. Evans.”
“Oh.” Agnes put down her teacup without taking a sip. She intentionally slowed her movements, afraid she’d smash the porcelain in her surprise.
Mr. Evans had visited their Bootham home dozens of times over the years but always to meet with Richard. This was different. He was here to call on her. Only for business, of course, as he was the executor of Richard’s will, but regardless, her heartbeat drummed loudly in her chest.
“Would it be appropriate for me to accept his call, Ward? Without Charles here?”
Over the course of her marriage to Richard, she had developed a soft spot for the old butler.
While Richard was her gentle friend, Ward was a fierce protector.
In the early days of her life here, he had ensured that the rest of the staff treated her with respect and assured her every comfort.
Ward was knowledgeable in what was expected of a baroness from his years of service to titled families.
“It would be acceptable for you to meet Mr. Evans, as he has legal and financial matters to discuss, my lady. I will sit him in the parlor.” His gaze went to her hair and then inventoried her dress and hands, no doubt recognizing her ruffled state.
“But might I recommend you first return to your chambers? I will send Kitty to attend to your appearance.”
Taking one last bite of her bun, she returned the remainder to the tray and turned out of her chair. The shatter rung in her ears before she realized that something had knocked against her hand.
The porcelain shards scattered across the floor were unexpected but familiar. Richard’s coffee cup. She blinked, trying to make sense of the situation. Her body stilled as she recalled her breakfast at the tea table, attempting to remember if his coffee cup had been sitting on the tray.
For an instant, she could smell the scent of his favorite roast, but then it was gone. No coffee had been brewed in the townhouse since his death. The staff preferred her teas.
Later, she would ask Kitty if she had put Richard’s cup on the tea tray.
She didn’t have the mental fortitude to decide what this meant just now.
She passed Ward in the foyer on the way up to the attic.
“Please warn Mrs. Smith to watch her step when she collects the tea tray. I knocked a cup to the floor.”
In her room, she pulled down the black crepe that covered the mirror.
In theory, her curls were contained by a high knot on the top of her head, loosely secured with a black ribbon she had tied herself.
At worst, it was frightful. At best, it was most definitely not a respectable coiffure for company, especially male company.
Not that Mr. Evans was that type of male company.
“Oh, Kitty, I’m out of my depth. I never learned how to be a baroness, and now I have to learn how to be a widow as well.”
“Do not fret, my lady. Your mourning dress is still appropriate. That’s a benefit of black. It’s suited for almost any occasion.”
And Agnes was pretty sure that it suited her.
There was something about the black against her skin that she found incredibly striking, as vain as that sounded to herself.
She studied her reflection. The color darkened her eyes, intensified the curve of her eyebrows, and emphasized the way her eyelashes created a delicate frame.
Her skin appeared more effervescent against the dark fabric.
She was sure widows were not supposed to have a glow about them, but she did.
With her curls effectively wrangled into place, she returned downstairs, taking a seat in the parlor. A fresh tea tray was laid on the table between the navy-blue velvet sofa and wingback chairs.
She barely had a moment to register her nerves and fight them down when Ward announced, “Mr. Evans.” She turned to greet him, and all of her anxiety drifted away.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Evans. Please do sit down.” He didn’t look as berry-red as he had at Richard’s funeral. Quite possibly, he had recovered from whatever had been ailing him. But when he spoke, the tremor in his voice remained.
“Good morning, Lady Sk-Skelton.” The tremble of his hands was also still present, matching the unsteadiness in his greeting.
“Please, let’s have tea first, and then you can tell me more about the affairs to be handled.”
As she poured the tea, the most magnificent scent filled the room. “That smell . . . It's unlike any tea I have been served before.”
“Lavender and lemon balm, Mr. Evans. I dry the plants myself. Do try it.”
Pausing first to inhale the fragrant steam, Harry brought the teacup to his lips with shaking hands. Lady Skelton’s gaze was heavy on him while she awaited his verdict.
Why couldn’t he just be a regular chap around women? He had assumed it was one of those skills you had to acquire when you were a boy. So really, he had never stood a chance with his mother passing away when he was only two years old.
Surrounded by four brothers and a father, he had been given no chance to practice speaking to any women until his brothers had married. And by that age, his nervousness had already become part of who he was.
Arguably, there had been one woman in his childhood.
Mrs. Sampson was a boisterous bull of a woman, and she managed their home like the most exacting commander in the British Navy.
Never once did their home feel like the sinking ship expected of five single men.
But naturally, being chastised by Mrs. Sampson for dirtying his clothing while chasing moths had not prepared him for romance.
One day, he hoped, he would be the kind of man capable of wooing women, or at least just one woman who would agree to be his wife.
One who would find him charming, engage him in thoughtful conversation, share life’s intimacies.
At the age of five-and-thirty, his longing for a companion surged, consuming more of his daily thoughts with each passing year.
The spellbinding voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Well . . . what do you think of the tea? Do you find its taste as pleasing as its aroma?”
A rush of calm rose through Harry’s body, and it wasn’t just the tea warming him from the inside out. He tried to give his compliments. Not try, he did. The clarity in his speech surprised him.
“It far surpasses any tea I have tried before, Lady Skelton. I fear I may never enjoy a cup of common English tea again.” His heart beat harder at the sound of her laugh, a small chuckle that caused her delightful lips to part.
“I didn’t mean to ruin you to all other teas, Mr. Evans.
But I’m pleased to hear you enjoy it.” Harry had a suspicion that this woman would ruin more than just tea for him.
“Lemon balm and lavender both have a calming effect on the body, and on our minds. I craft blends with a purpose but with a nice taste too. No one wants to sip on something that tastes like grass, even if it does wonders for their health.”
Incredible. Here she was mixing and brewing a tea to solve his troubles, allowing him to not only speak the words that came to mind but to make her laugh.
Was it the tea or was it her tender, encouraging glances? She appeared satisfied as she watched his mouth take each sip. His trousers tightened. Tea had never aroused him before.
“Here, try these cakes from Mrs. Smith. She makes lovely Madeira cakes.” She extended the plate toward him.
Harry took a cake. She was right, they were lovely. Magnificent, actually. Fresh, bright flavors burst on his tongue.
“She flavors them with herbs from my garden.”
Magic. This woman is magic. Since when did tea and cakes make him believe in the supernatural? Harry bid himself to calm down, remembering the reason for his visit.
“Let’s discuss the late baron’s inheritance then.” He licked the final crumbs from his thumb.
She nodded and handed him another cake. Harry ate half before he began speaking.
“As you know, Skelton Manor and its surrounding property is entailed, with the exception of the dower house and steward’s cottage.
You are to inherit both houses and the small plot of land on which they lie, along with a modest sum.
The account should be enough to help maintain the houses.
If you manage your finances well, you should be able to keep a small staff.
I would be happy to help you arrange it. ”
“No.”
Harry had known he was being bold by offering his services to her. He had tried to convince himself he would do it for any of his employers’ widows, but he had never made it a habit to work without payment.
“I am sorry to assume you didn’t have your own financial advisor. I shouldn’t have overstepped.”
“No, it’s not that. I won’t be living at the dower house.”
“I was unaware you had other properties.” It came as a relief that she had more than the property mentioned in the will. She could live a comfortable life after all.
Lady Skelton shook her head. “I will live here, just as Richard told me I would. He gave me this house and insisted I accept the other properties you mentioned. But it remains my choice where to reside, and I chose York. He also promised more than a modest sum. The number he told me was quite substantial.”
The warmth that had spread through his chest rushed away as he tried to decipher what Lady Skelton explained. A sharp pain pierced his stomach as he came to realize the misunderstanding. Why would her husband have told her this? Harry never had any reason to doubt Lord Skelton’s honesty.
“I’m sorry, Lady Skelton. Other than the small properties in Skelton and the modest account, all other assets, including this townhouse, are passed on to the heir, the current Lord Skelton, Charles Brus.”