Impoverished Miss, Convenient Wife

Chapter Four

‘Can I name the kitten now?’ Robert asked before Phoebe had even fully entered the room the next morning.

‘The kitten belongs to me…for the moment,’ Phoebe replied carefully, easing her way around the piles of discarded clothing. The sick room in bright sunshine was even more dismal than the night before. It was a wonder that Robert had survived at all amidst this squalor. It was a crime that the nurse had been allowed to behave in this fashion.

‘He likes it here.’ The kitten chased a dust ball across the room.

‘Yes, but he will like it better once the room is tidied up. And it is for your father to decide if the kitten stays.’

‘Papa doesn’t care.’ Robert’s lip trembled. ‘He told Mrs Smith that if I couldn’t be kept quiet, I was better off dead.’

‘Mrs Smith had a singularly overactive imagination.’ Phoebe disentangled the kitten from the curtain. ‘I would hardly be here if your father wanted you to die.’

Robert pursed his lips, thinking. ‘He never notices anything that I do right. He only notices when I am naughty.’

‘And you want him to notice you.’

‘Well, he is my papa. It is proper. I know that I must have done something wrong. A long time ago, he used to spend time with me. He used to draw me things like carriages…then he stopped. He even sent me away to school when I did not want to go.’

Phoebe closed her eyes and counted to ten.

‘Robert, your father does care…’ Phoebe paused. She refused to lie, but the boy seemed desperate for his father’s love. Why was it that people who did so little, commanded so much? It hurt that James and Edmund always took her stepmother’s part, that they did not see all that she had done for them. ‘He wrote to your aunt and asked for help. She sent me and I will ensure you get better.’

‘If I get better, will Papa like me?’ Robert asked in a small voice. ‘Will he let me keep the kitten?’

Phoebe swallowed hard. It would be easy to become attached to this motherless boy. She could well remember her own childhood and how everything had gone wrong once her mother had died. How she had wanted her father to smile again, and how he had only done so once he had married Alice. She gave her head a small shake. Her time was limited here and she could not afford to become attached to the boy. ‘The important thing is to get better, and you will get better faster if all this mess is cleared up.’

Robert wrinkled his nose and flopped down amongst the pillows. ‘Don’t like clearing up. I am too weak.’

‘Then you are too weak to name the kitten.’ Phoebe crossed her arms. ‘This room will be cleaned up and kept that way. I run a tidy sickroom. And you, young man, need fresh bed linen and a clean nightshirt.’

Robert shrugged a thin shoulder. ‘After that, can I name the kitten?’

‘We will see, but I think it can arranged.’

Robert’s face broke into a sunny smile. ‘I hope the kitten can stay for ever…and you as well, Miss… Benedict. Can I call you something different? One of the masters at school was called Mr Benedict and he used a cane. He was particularly cross when he found my frog in his inkstand.’

Repressing a smile, she said, ‘you may call me Miss Phoebe if you like.’

‘Yes, that would be good, Miss Phoebe.’

Phoebe turned her face away and busied herself with tidying the toys and the discarded papers. Robert would be very easy to love indeed.

Simon jammed his arm through the black superfine coat, and heard the material tear. He swore. Ponsby, his valet, said nothing, but handed him another coat. Simon gritted his teeth. ‘This time, man, hold the coat properly.’

‘As you wish, sir. I will see that the coat is mended.’

‘Ponsby, the shaving water was cold this morning.’

Ponsby made no reply, but merely gave a correct bow. ‘I will endeavour to have it warmer next time. Yesterday it was too hot.’

Simon ran his good hand through his hair and grimaced. He refused to stoop to the indignity of quarrelling with his valet. But this morning, every little thing pricked at his temper.

He hated the accusation in Miss Benedict’s eyes that he had been somehow at fault for the state of Robert’s room. His only mistake had been to trust that misbegotten nurse. Next time, he would know better than to ask Lady Bolt for her recommendation. And now he was stuck with a débutante as a nurse. A débutante with all her high-handed ways and a kitten. Exactly what he didn’t need.

What had Diana been thinking when she’d dispatched Miss Benedict? Matchmaking? Simon rejected the idea instantly. Diana knew his feelings on the subject of remarriage. She would never dream of sending such a person.

He pursed his lips. It was quite possible the suggestion had come from Miss Benedict. He would not put it past her. She would learn that he was not the marrying sort. Jayne had cured him of that for ever.

Unbidden, the image of Miss Benedict rose in his mind with her nightgown swirling softly about her ankles and the faint scent of stephanotis and lavender rising like a cloud around her, her face lifted towards his with her lips softly parted. He frowned and made a sweeping gesture with his good arm, banishing the image. He would never stoop so low as to make a guest in his house, a gently bred lady, his mistress. He was better than that. Even the thought appalled him, and yet the image lurked in the back of his mind. He made another effort to clear it.

His hand knocked the shaving bowl, sending a stream of dirty water onto his dressing table. With impatient fingers, he righted the thing and dabbed ineffectually at the spreading foam and mess. He bellowed for Ponsby, but the valet did not appear. Simon gritted his teeth and redoubled his efforts.

The sooner Miss Benedict departed, the better.

‘What are you doing, miss?’ the butler asked Phoebe, standing so that her progress down the passageway was blocked.

She tried to balance the assortment of toys and linen in her arms. All morning she had laboured to clean up Robert’s room and not once had Mr Clare appeared or sent word. She had thought surely he would want to know how his son was doing. It was only when she accosted the little under-housemaid that she had been able to find clean linen for Robert.

‘These will all have to be burnt. Bedclothes, curtains and these wooden toys. They will be a mass of infection and germs.’

‘Have you asked the master about this?’ The butler looked down his nose. ‘It was my understanding that he did not wish the young master to be unduly disturbed. Those are some of his favourite playthings. I would hate to think of the fuss the young master will make. You saw what he can be like. And when the young master makes a fuss, the master gets cross. It pains his head.’

‘Do you wish to tell Mr Clare that you have condemned his son to an early grave for a bit of peace and quiet or shall I?’

She stared long and hard at the officious butler. The man lowered his gaze.

‘One of the stable lads can do it,’ he said in an impassive voice. ‘The blizzard appears to have passed and the sun is out. Yes, it can be done as long as you will vouch for it, mind. I won’t have anyone saying it was one of the staff that did it. Mr Clare is not a man to cross and we all value our wage packets.’

‘Thank you, Jenkins. I will take full responsibility for this.’ Phoebe held out her bundle and willed him to accept it.

‘I sincerely hope you do, miss.’ Jenkins lowered his voice. ‘The young master before his illness was lively, but he meant well. We all want him well again. We were ashamed about the mess, but we are all frightened, like.’

‘And, Jenkins, I wish to speak with Mr Clare.’ Phoebe kept her gaze level and prayed that her cheeks would not flame. It was necessary—but would the butler think she was making up excuses? The memory of Mr Clare’s fingers against her wrist rose in her mind’s eye. She banished it and regained control.

‘Is the young master worse?’ Jenkins’s face turned grave and he shook his head. ‘Gladys was predicting such things, muttering darkly as she left. She says the house is cursed, what with the master’s accident and now this. She cannot wait to leave, having done her best for no reward.’

‘No, he is not worse,’ Phoebe replied slowly. She wished she could strangle Gladys and her folk wisdom. ‘I simply wish to send for the doctor, to have him confirm my diagnosis and give me some idea of the latest treatments. Mr Clare’s mind will be more at ease if he hears the truth from a medical man.’

‘The master is like a bear with a sore head today. Try another day.’ Jenkins shook his head. ‘His breakfast came back untouched. It is always a bad sign. Even his valet has gone to ground. I heard Mr Clare bellowing for more hot water only a little while ago.’

‘Mr Clare’s problems with his valet are none of my concern.’

Jenkins tapped the side of his nose. ‘Perhaps it is best to wait, miss, until the air is calmer. I have no wish to lose any more members of staff. You have no idea how difficult it is to find someone suitable. You will learn. The master is not to be provoked. It saves trouble in the long run.’

‘Is Mr Clare generally of bad temper, then?’ Phoebe asked carefully. ‘Both you and John the coachman have mentioned his ire.’

‘He has become more difficult since the accident and Miss Diana’s marriage and her departure to London have only made matters worse. She used to smooth over his upsets. She was in charge of the household, you see. She did all the menus, hired the staff, and generally ran the place. Now all we have is Mr Clare.’ The butler paused. ‘It is best to wait and ask him later. For the sake of all of the staff, if not your own health. The one thing Mr Clare desires above all else is quiet and his orders are to be obeyed.’

Phoebe gritted her teeth. Was it any wonder that this house appeared to be inadequately cared for if the staff were walking around on tiptoes? Mr Clare was the worst sort of tyrant. She wished again that she had quizzed Lady Coltonby more closely on her brother and his household. It had seemed enough that Lord Coltonby was able to help her brother and she was able to do something in return. She had never thought to ask about how difficult this man might be.

She drew a breath and thought of the alternative. He could not be any worse than her sister-in-law—the Dreaded Sophia. Her complaints and tantrums over the slightest flaw or fault had driven Phoebe to despair.

‘Do you think he will see me?’

The butler was silent for a long while. Phoebe’s insides tensed.

‘He is in his study, miss,’ the butler said finally. ‘Where he always is these days.’

‘Did he used to go somewhere else?’ Phoebe tilted her head to one side. ‘I had understood that Mr Clare was a gentleman.’

‘He used to be down at the colliery or on the staiths, but these days he prefers to stay here, seeing as few people as possible. Then he shouts when things go wrong or things are out of place. The house has not been properly cleaned for weeks. It makes for an unsettled life.’

‘You should give your notice.’

‘Mr Clare pays me extremely well, miss, and I gave Miss Diana my word.’

Phoebe lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Her responsibility was to Robert and not to his father. She had to do what was best for him, and not what was easiest for her.

‘I feel certain that once he understands the reason for my intrusion, he will pardon it. He will agree that it is best to act swiftly. Robert must get well.’

The butler inclined his head. ‘Ground floor, second door on the left. You won’t be able to miss it.’

‘Thank you, Jenkins.’ Phoebe straightened her spine and wished it did not feel like she was about to go into battle. ‘Would you mind asking the cook for a saucer of milk? My kitten is a bit hungry. Robert appeared to enjoy watching it chase a piece of string this morning.’

‘That I will, miss. And it is good you stood up for Master Robert.’

Phoebe went down the stairs, heartened at the thought that the staff supported her actions. She started to open the second door when there was no reply to her knock. It was a bit stiff, but gave way when she applied her shoulder to it. ‘Mr Clare, I would like to speak with you.’

A faint light shone through the shutters, but the room was shrouded in dust cloths. A faint dusty dank smell pervaded it; in the corner, a single dried rose lay abandoned.

Phoebe took a half-step inside. A ballroom, rather than a study. She had made a mistake with the butler’s instructions.

She would simply grab the rose and tidy up, the work of a moment. It seemed so sad and lonely there with cobwebs festooning the chandelier. A lonely reminder of some happier time. She half-closed her eyes, imagining what this room must look like when filled with light and people. It must be truly magnificent with an orchestra in the background and the excited chatter. A cloth covered most of the floor, but where it was pulled back, she could tell it was highly polished. Out of the corner of her eye she spied a spinet, its dust cover half off. Phoebe hesitated, looking at the black keys. Some servant had undoubtedly been careless and had left it open.

Quickly she walked over, intending to cover it, but her fingers brushed the keys. A low sound came out and her heart turned over. How long had it been since she had played? Of all the things they had lost, her spinet had hurt the most. But economies had had to be made, even if Alice had at first refused to see it.

Softly she picked out a simple tune, listening to the bell-like quality of the instrument. She closed her eyes, letting the music flow over her, holding her in its embrace.

A door behind her opened, and she froze, hands poised over the keyboard.

‘Ah, Miss Benedict, I fear you have lost your way. This room is never used. What precisely are you searching for? And why did you think you might find it here?’

Her cheeks burned as if she had spent hours in front of a roaring fire. Such a foolish thing to do. To play an instrument without permission.

Mr Clare watched her from the door across the hall with a sardonic expression on his face. He looked so very different from the man she had glimpsed in his shirt sleeves last night. Once again he was the pirate captain, prowling the deck of his ship, looking for people to feed to the sharks.

‘I appear to have mistaken the butler’s directions.’ Her hands smoothed her skirt. Absurdly she wished that she was wearing a colour better suited to her complexion than jonquil. ‘I was searching for your study.’

She left the ballroom without a backwards glance.

‘Indeed.’ He reached out and closed the door with a bang and then turned the key in the lock. ‘Endeavour to remember precisely what your business is. And where you conduct it.’

‘I doubt I will have any need to go in there again.’ Phoebe pressed her hands together, knowing that her cheeks flamed. It had been wrong of her to play, but at the same time it had felt so wonderful to have music flowing from her fingertips again. She doubted that Mr Clare would understand the lure of music. ‘I am here to look after your son, not to attend dances or to play the spinet.’

‘For future reference, my study is across the hall. I trust you will not be lost again.’ His face turned cold.

Phoebe forced her lips into a smile as inside she fumed. She of all people should have known better than to be swept away by such things. Wool-gathering, her stepmother called it. Sophia would sniff and call it something worse. ‘With you to lead the way, how could I be?’

‘Is your tongue often tart, Miss Benedict? You certainly seem to have no fear or hesitation of speaking your mind.’

‘Only when necessary, Mr Clare.’

‘That makes a change.’ A faint smile crossed his face. ‘Here I was thinking you spoke it all the time, and the devil take the hindmost.’

‘It is one of the disadvantages of mixing with my stepbrothers. My tongue has become far too free.’

‘And how many do you have?’

‘Three.’ Phoebe drew a deep breath. ‘I took an interest in my stepbrothers and their well-being. They have had their scrapes, but they have all turned out well. My eldest brother’s carriage accident had nothing to do with his upbringing and everything to do with taking a corner too tightly.’

‘And where was your stepmother? Did she take no interest in her children?’

Phoebe bit her lip. How did one begin to describe Alice, the Dowager Viscountess? Her nerves and her sudden enthusiasms, none of which included her children. Phoebe banished the thought as unworthy. Her stepmother was a good woman in her own way, and it was not her stepmother’s fault that her husband had perished in the way that he had. Phoebe knew where the fault lay with that. And after her father’s death, her stepmother had been incapable of anything but wallowing in self-pity. Someone had to comfort the boys and make sure they were brought up properly. ‘My stepmother is not one of nature’s nurses.’

‘And you are?’ His voice was liquid honey, flowing over her. Seductive and smooth.

Phoebe kept her eyes firmly on the Turkey-patterned carpet in the hallway. Was he mocking her? ‘I have reason to believe so.’

‘How pleasant it must be to have this passion to look after other people. To know what is right for them. Pure arrogance, Miss Benedict.’

‘To make them well, to make them whole again.’ She glanced up into his ravaged face. Her breath stopped. Did he need healing as well? Her cheeks heated at the wayward thought.

‘Nothing will make me well again, Miss Benedict.’ He inclined his head. ‘I charge you to remember that. I have no need of a nursemaid or a helping hand.’

‘I never…’ Phoebe clutched the folds of her skirt, twisting them about her fingers. Rapidly she schooled her features. ‘I am here as Robert’s nurse, not yours. And the only person I will pity is anyone foolish enough to attempt to look after you.’

‘And do the rest of your family also have this passion for sticking their noses into other people’s business? Going into closed rooms?’

‘It…it has been a long time since I have seen as fine an instrument as that spinet, let alone played one. I have begged your pardon. That should be the end of it.’

‘I sincerely hope it is, Miss Benedict. Temptation can be a dangerous thing. As you wish to examine my study, you might as well satisfy your curiosity—I see I will get no peace until you do.’

Phoebe brushed past him and into the study with as much dignity as she could muster. In stark contrast to the shrouded and mummified ballroom, the study burst with light and warmth. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth and the curtains had been drawn back to allow the winter sunshine in. Every surface had paper piled high on it. In one corner a model of a travelling engine stood. Phoebe stared at it, puzzled, but at the sound of rattling papers she turned her attention back to Simon Clare, who had sat down in an armchair.

‘Now that you have seen the study, is that all? Or was there something more than the urge to gawp?’

‘I…I…’

‘You appear at a loss for words.’ Mr Clare stretched out his legs. ‘Surely you are not coming to say that you wish to leave.’

‘No, not that.’

‘Very well. Your visit here saves me the trouble of climbing up the stairs. Precisely why did my sister choose to send you?’ He indicated a sofa. ‘Please sit. Should you remain standing, I would be forced to stand up again.’

Phoebe opened her mouth to protest, but then she saw the deep circles under his eyes. The man had spent the night by his son’s bed. Exactly how bad were his injuries?

She sank down on the sofa and kept her hands tight on her lap. Here was her chance to begin anew and to explain why his sister had felt it necessary to send her, why she had to stay and why the doctor should be sent for.

‘Lady Coltonby assured me that she had given a full explanation,’ Phoebe replied, keeping her head up. She was not going to think about the fate that awaited James if she left. Sophia had made it very clear that she was unprepared to help either James or Edmund. In her view, the boys had become men and should be responsible for their own livelihood, but Phoebe knew they would drift without help. Their potential had been cut cruelly short, first by their own father’s death and then by their older brother’s. She had a duty towards them, even if both Alice and Sophia denied it. Families should help each other out.