The Nanny Arrangement

Chapter Five

Anger surged through Becky as she marched back down the hallway with as much dignity as she could muster. She couldn’t even think of strong enough terms to adequately express her outrage. Her hands shook and she grasped them together to still their trembling.

Paul Holmes and his autocratic, domineering ways.

His lack of concern for others.

The clockwork precision and cold, emotionless way he lived his life and ran Kellridge.

Thinking that a few trinkets would make everything better.

’Twas rather like applying a mustard plaster to a broken heart.

Becky paused in the doorway of the library. Her leaves—the leaves she had scattered not moments ago—were already gone. Picked up by some silent servant, no doubt.

For a brief moment, she simply stared. How could they already have vanished? The mechanical preciseness with which Kellridge was run was truly astonishing. She hadn’t seen the servants cleaning as she passed by before. No, someone must routinely make the rounds to ensure that every room was exactly as it should be, not a speck of dust marring a polished surface, not a single leaf disgracing a thick, plush carpet.

She might fling back her head and howl at the absurdity of it. Why was Paul so afraid—aye, that’s what it was, genuine fear—of disorder, of disarray, of basic human emotion? In the brief moments before he shut her out completely, she had glimpsed the stark terror in his dark eyes.

Well, it didn’t signify why Paul was afraid. Not really. He wouldn’t change in that, not while he was lord of the manor. He was too used to everyone obeying his every command and anticipating his needs. She must either accept it, or leave.

Becky leaned her head against the satin wood of the doorframe and closed her eyes, willing herself to calm down. God must have sent her here for a reason, and for His sake, she could not waver. She could not leave. Leaving meant failure. Leaving meant forsaking His purpose for her life. Or at the very least, what she thought His purpose might be. By giving up now, she would be admitting she wasn’t good at anything. She wasn’t a milliner, and she wasn’t a nursemaid. She certainly wasn’t any man’s bride. For the rest of her life, she would be a failure at everything, and that would be intolerable.

Besides, she must be here for Juliet. No child should grow up in a home devoid of all feeling and emotion. She must remain as long as she could for Juliet’s sake. She would make their corner of Kellridge a pleasant and cheerful place. What if God had called her here just for this reason? Did He promise it would be easy or effortless?

“I must learn to choose my battles with Paul,” she murmured under her breath. Somehow, saying the words aloud gave them strength. “I cannot change him, but I can always try to act in Juliet’s best interest.”

“Excuse me, my dear,” an unfamiliar voice piped up behind her.

Becky gasped and whirled around. An older woman smiled gently at her, the late-morning sun reflected in prisms of light in her spectacles. Her graying hair was bound in braids around her head and she was gowned in a simple dress of cinnamon moiré. There was something more than just practicality and elegance in her bearing. In the brown eyes behind the spectacles, Becky glimpsed warmth and good humor.

“I must admit I heard someone speaking, and I wondered if perhaps there was something amiss.” She gave a slight bow of her head. “Are you by any chance Miss Siddons, our new nursemaid?”

“I am.” Becky grasped after her manners and bobbed a slight curtsy.

“I am Mrs. Clairbourne, the housekeeper. I do apologize for not meeting you yesterday and showing you about the house myself. Mr. Holmes prefers to meet new employees and introduce them to Kellridge personally.” She gave a slight tilt of her head, and the corners of her mouth turned downward with something like mirth. “So, I let him do as he wishes, though I always want to do my own introductions afterward.”

Becky nodded. “I understand.” Perhaps Mrs. Clairbourne was choosing her battles, as well. “Kellridge certainly is well run. I imagine nothing slips by Mr. Holmes’s notice.”

“Well, he did come into the running of this house very young.” Mrs. Clairbourne motioned for Becky to follow her. “He was only eighteen when the elder Mr. Holmes passed away. Still at an age when most young men are trying to learn their places in the world, and so many siblings to care for! All of them determined to follow their own paths—’twas rather like trying to keep kittens in one basket. I imagine that discipline is how he managed to take control and run the estate so well.” Mrs. Clairbourne paused as they entered the vestibule leading to the other wings of the house. “Would you like to join me for a little tea? I usually have a few moments to myself in the morning before we begin worrying about dinner.”

“I’d like that very much.” How nice not to have to retire and sit by oneself in the east wing. She really had nothing to occupy herself with until Juliet’s arrival, and that was not for another three days’ time. She could visit her sisters, of course, but if she left now, she might struggle with coming back. Even though she was beginning to think she had been called here, it would be mighty hard indeed not to crumple and fold when she saw Nan’s practical little face, or embraced fiery Susannah.

“Follow me, then. I have a little sitting room all my own.” Mrs. Clairbourne led the way through the back of the house, the part Becky had only glimpsed in passing when Paul had escorted her to her room the previous day. What a vast, rambling building this was. Becky craned her neck backward and peered all around her like a goose—after all, she was trailing behind the housekeeper, and no one would notice if she gawked. She would never find her way back to the east wing of the house on her own. She certainly would never find Mrs. Clairbourne’s sitting room again, not without a map and a compass.

The housekeeper ushered her into a small, tucked-away room under one of the back staircases. How marvelous—it might have been a large closet at one time, but now it saw use as a lovely sitting room. Two deep wing-back chairs flanked an arched window with leaded panes. A vase of the very same chrysanthemums that had graced the library held cheerful court on a mahogany table. An orange tabby cat slept on one of the chairs, curled into a striped ball.

“I would never have guessed such a room even existed.” Becky smiled, clasping her hands before her. “How different it is from everything else at Kellridge. So—alive.”

“Do sit. Tabs, move out of the way.” Mrs. Clairbourne shooed the cat out of the chair and patted the cushions down. “I’ve a tea tray right here. Cream or sugar?”

Becky settled into her chair and stretched out her slippered foot to scratch Tabs’s back. The cat arched in appreciation and flopped onto the floor as if she were a rag doll. “Sugar, please.”

“Here.” The housekeeper handed over a delicate china cup. “Be careful, it’s rather hot.”

Becky blew on her tea and, as Mrs. Clairbourne busied herself with her cup, absorbed the atmosphere of this jovial little nook. “I rather think you’d need a place like this in Kellridge,” she admitted as Mrs. Clairbourne sank into her chair. “It’s so lively and warm. The rest of the house is so sterile.”

“Sterile?” The housekeeper drew her eyebrows together over her spectacles. “I don’t know about that. I do know that the master likes everything to be in place. He’s a good man, and the house keeps me hopping.”

“Oh, I don’t mean to offend.” Here she was, bungling her first chance at companionship at Kellridge. “The house is lovely. I’ve just never lived anywhere so precise. I rather wonder at bringing a two-year-old here.”

“Well, that’s why you are here.” Mrs. Clairbourne took a careful sip of her tea. “Mr. Holmes anticipated that young Miss Juliet would be a handful. He knew we have too much to do as it is. So, with his usual foresight, he brought you on board to see that things run smoothly.” She gave a little smile as she stirred her tea. “I must admit to a little mother’s pride where he is concerned. I’ve watched him since he was just a wee baby himself, and he did his family credit when he took over. You’ll never see an estate so well run as Kellridge, not in the whole of Derbyshire.”

Becky tasted her tea. Lovely—just the bracing kind of thing she needed after her disappointing morning. She’d have to tread carefully—Mrs. Clairbourne was clearly proud of Paul and, because of that pride, would hasten to defend him from any perceived criticism. If she were to preserve this connection, she must be more subtle. “I agree. The house is quite beautiful. You’ve done wonders with the east wing. I know Juliet will appreciate it. I certainly do.”

“Good, I am so glad.” The housekeeper fairly beamed under Becky’s praise. “Anything you want, you know you may have it. Mr. Holmes is never stingy or mean. Do you need anything? Anything I’ve forgotten?”

Becky set her teacup aside and considered the matter. If she were in charge of Juliet and all her wants and needs, then she must keep her occupied. The suite they shared was delightful in every way, but was rather kitted out like a guest room for lords and ladies, not as a home for a child. “Toys,” she admitted finally. “We don’t have any toys, and I am sure that Juliet will want to play.”

“Of course. Why on earth did I neglect such an important detail?” The housekeeper sat up straight in her chair. “I am sure Mr. Holmes can send things from London, but they won’t arrive before Juliet is here.” She shook her head and made a tsking sound. “Whatever am I going to do? The shops in the village only have a few things. Nothing too entertaining for a child, I fear. I suppose we shall have to make something.”

If Paul knew she had just commissioned a lot of toys from his already overburdened staff, he would be furious. She had nothing to do for the foreseeable future. This task could keep her busy, and keep her from brooding until she was able to go and meet the child. “Perhaps there is a box of old things I could go through? Since Mr. Holmes had so many siblings, it may well be I could find some of their toys—clean them up and make them do until we can get more from London.”

“Excellent idea.” The housekeeper put her teacup aside with a brisk gesture. “In the attics, I am certain of it. We put trunks of Miss Juliana’s things away after she left for Italy.” She rose. “In fact, I believe you’ll find several things up there you can use,” she continued, punctuating each word with a wag of her forefinger. “Let me get the keys for you.” She rummaged through the string of keys about her waist, procuring a skeleton key with a filigree handle. “Here it is. Now, I could spare a footman...”

“No, indeed.” She could hunt for treasure all afternoon. A house as vast and rambling as Kellridge, with what had to be a storied past, would have all sorts of interesting things tucked away beneath its eaves. ’Twas the perfect scenario. She could enjoy looking through all the articles of Kellridge’s past, imagining the stories behind each item. She would be out of everyone’s way, and most importantly, she would be doing something nice for her charge. “I couldn’t ask you to add to anyone’s duties, and I have nothing with which to occupy myself as it is.”

“Well...” The housekeeper trailed off, as though considering the matter. “I hate for you to do all that lifting alone, without help.”

“If I need assistance, I promise I shall come down and ask for it.” Sudden gladness rushed through Becky. Mrs. Clairbourne was such a dear. If she could but cultivate her friendship with the housekeeper, Kellridge could be livable. The prospect of having something to do for the next few days was heartening. “How do I find the attic?”

“You’ll want to take the back staircase all the way to the third floor.” The housekeeper opened the door and ushered Becky into the hallway. “When you reach the top of the stairs, the attic door will be to your left. Are you quite certain you will be all right? I do feel guilty about asking you to grub around among those dusty trunks.”

“You didn’t ask—I volunteered.” Becky gave the housekeeper a bright smile and accepted the key. “I am very glad to do my part to make Juliet welcome here.”

She began the long trek up the back staircase. Each step was as though she were marking her new path, starting out on her journey, and she prayed silently for strength and wisdom as she ascended. At the top of the stairs, she might find toys for Juliet. In some small way, she was also going to find a place for herself at Kellridge.

* * *

Paul cast his quill aside and stretched as Wadsworth bustled into his study with the afternoon tea. “I’m leaving tomorrow, Wadsworth, instead of in two days’ time.” Though he laced the words with masterful nonchalance, each syllable grated on his nerves. His plan had always been to leave two days hence. Changing that plan now went against the grain.

The butler stiffened as he laid out the tea tray. He, too, hated change and the disorder it brought. “Indeed, sir?”

“Yes. I’ve decided there’s no use lolling about. I’ll strike out on the morrow. Business is waiting. Everything’s been packed, hasn’t it?”

“Well, yes, all is ready for your journey.” Wadsworth tucked a serviette under one of the saucers with his usual efficiency, and handed it across the desk to Paul. “Except for your carriage. Jim is seeing to the wheels, making sure they are in prime condition for traversing all the roads. He was planning on being ready in two days’ time, not tomorrow.”

Paul clenched his jaw and shook his head slowly. This was what came of changing the established order of things. “Hadn’t thought of that. I suppose I could take the landau instead.”

“I had rather thought the landau was for Miss Siddons’s use, when she was called to fetch Miss Juliet.” The butler gave a courteous little cough. “Opening it up and allowing fresh air might be very nice indeed for traveling from the coast, especially since Miss Juliet will have been cooped up for so long.”

“Yes, yes. You are right.” Paul raked his hands through his hair. What an irritating problem. “I can’t use the other carriages—the gig and the curricle are far too light and unsuitable. You’ll just have to tell Jim to hurry up and have as much done on the town coach as can be done before tomorrow. I am certain it will be fine.”

“I’ll go at once.” The butler prepared to take his leave but paused on the threshold. “There is one other matter I think you should be aware of. Mrs. Clairbourne gave Miss Siddons the key to the attic. She is up there now, and has been for some hours.”

Paul pushed his chair away from the desk and rose. “Attic? Whatever for?” No one ever went up into the attics. There was never any need. The attic held nothing more than the relics of the past—there was no use for them now.

“I believe she wanted to find some toys and playthings for Miss Juliet. I told Mrs. Clairbourne that she should have asked permission of you first, sir, but she did insist that it was all perfectly harmless.” The slight edge to his tone spoke volumes of his feelings on the matter. Wadsworth and Mrs. Clairbourne had long ago declared an uneasy peace when it came to the running and management of Kellridge, yet every now and again, that competitive spirit showed through once more. Paul suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. It did no good to stoke the fire.

“I’ll go and have a look. Do hurry and tell Jim about the town coach. I want to leave at dawn.” Paul followed the butler out of his study and hastened—without breaking into a run, which might give more weight to the situation and thus more fuel for Wadsworth’s tiff with Mrs. Clairbourne. What sort of things did they have tucked away in the attic? There was no telling. He climbed the back staircase with a growing feeling of unease. The last time they had done any great shifting up there was after Juliana left for Italy.

The door to the left of the stairs stood open, so he ducked inside. Daylight streamed in from the dormer windows, and dust motes danced in the sparkling sunlight. Paul drew his forefinger along one of the trunks and noted the gray smear of dust. For an attic, it was rather clean. All the boxes and trunks lined the walls with military precision. He glanced across the room.

“Miss Siddons?” He spoke in a regular, measured tone of voice. No use in sounding belligerent or ruffled. That would only get Becky’s hackles up again. “Where are you?”

“I am over here.” A scuffling sound caught his ear, and he followed it over to the left rear corner of the attic. Becky was hunched over a trunk, her pretty white dress smudged with dust, and a long trail of dirt marking her cheek. Beside her rested a pile of ancient playthings—dolls, jumping jacks and blocks. His mouth quirked in ruthful recognition—even a puzzle he’d spent hours assembling when he was a boy.

She clicked the lid of the trunk shut and faced him squarely. “Please don’t be angry. Mrs. Clairbourne gave me her permission.”

She seemed almost afraid, and yet her eyebrows held that same defiant arch. His heart dropped a little as he took in her bedraggled dress and widened eyes. He didn’t want Becky to fear him or to think ill of him. If only they could recapture those brief, fleeting moments on the moor when they were comfortable with each other. For some reason, which he did not care to examine, he found himself drawn toward Becky. Of course, he must always maintain his mastery of his household—but couldn’t he do so while befriending Becky? Couldn’t they reach a truce, as Wadsworth and Mrs. Clairbourne had?

“I’m not upset.” He sank onto the floor beside her, heedless of the dirt. “Just...surprised.” He picked up the puzzle and began rearranging the pieces. “You’re in the right, you know. I had no thought in my mind of playthings. I made her room up as I would for an adult guest. ’Twas a sore mistake.”

“Well, no harm done, and I am happy to have plenty to do.” She cast a shy smile his way and reached for a doll. “I shall clean everything up and have it ready for her once she comes.”

“Good plan.” A sudden urge to tell her everything about Juliana struck him. What if he told her the whole sordid tale and unburdened himself to her about his own failings? It might be a relief to share the painful past with someone.

He tamped the urge back. That was weakness. That was folly. He was master of Kellridge and of his own feelings and emotions. His past transgressions were his own to bear, and he must do so alone.

The cold frost that served him so well settled back over him as he clicked another piece of the puzzle in place. “I leave tomorrow. As I said before, do let me know if there is more that I can do. I’ll send some proper toys from London. Not these worn, cast-off old things.” He chuckled dryly and rose, dusting off his trousers. “Be sure to lock everything back up when you leave.”

“I will.” She gazed at him with an inscrutable look in her eyes. “Godspeed, Mr. Holmes.”

He gave a brief nod and walked back out of the attic. He was doing the right thing. He was doing the only thing he could. His duty was done, and now he would fling himself back into London and the season and all its dubious delights as his reward.

Each step echoed through the quiet, still house as he descended.

There was emptiness in his life that only a strategic retreat to London could fill.

Funny how deep and vast that emptiness had grown in just the past few days.

Chapter Six

The weather was nothing short of abominable. One of those late spring showers that soaked a man to the bone and made mud of the most navigable roads. Rain ran in rivulets down Paul’s hat as he waited for the carriage to be pulled round, and he drew his overcoat closer to drive out the damp. The sooner they were started, the better. Perhaps they could make it as far as Derby before changing horses. The carriage plodded into view, its slow pace causing his pulse to quicken.

“Don’t spare the whip,” he remarked curtly to his driver as he placed his foot on the board. “We want to get ahead of this weather if at all possible. The roads aren’t a sea of mud yet. Give the horses their heads.” He gave a brief nod to the grooms, who had taken advantage of the rain to move up front onto the box, as he climbed into carriage.

“Aye, sir,” the coachman replied. His tone sounded doubtful, though.

Well, that was simply too bad. Even if his driver had some misgivings about his orders, he was bound to obey them.

The coachman’s whip cracked through the air and the carriage leaped forward. Paul removed his overcoat and cast his hat aside. Then he settled against the squabs and watched Kellridge retreat into the distance. Who knew when he would see it again? ’Twould be months at least.

Guilt gnawed at his insides. He shouldn’t leave. He could turn the horses around now, and no one would say anything. Well, that wasn’t true. The gossip in the servants’ halls would natter on endlessly, for the master never changed his plans, and already he had dithered over the day of his departure. His uniform and practical way of living had been severely thrown since Becky’s arrival, and he simply had to gain mastery over his own life again.

Kellridge would get on just fine. That was why he ran things the way he did. Besides, he had business in London. Selling Father’s shipping shares would grant him a tidy profit and dispose of a responsibility that he had grown too mired within. Everything would be attended to in his absence. The greatest reward lay in knowing he could run with the most decadent crowd in London, and no matter how dissipated his company or his time spent, Kellridge would be waiting for him when it came time for all revelry to cease.

The carriage bounced and jerked along the roads. Was it the high rate of speed that caused such a well-sprung carriage to jostle about? He usually traveled at an alarming pace, so surely that wasn’t it. Perhaps the rain was already making a mess of the roads. Oh, well, nothing to do but endure it. Once they reached Derby, he’d enjoy a fine dinner and perhaps play cards with the innkeeper. He always was a good chap, up for a game at a moment’s notice.

Paul wedged himself into a corner, which eased some of the discomfort of his travel. He could prop his head against one of the cushions and get a good nap in. ’Twas better to do so now, when en route to London. Once he reached his townhome, he’d get precious little sleep.

The carriage gave a violent jounce and skidded down a length of the road. His horses whinnied, his coachman cursed, and through the mixed and jumbled noise of chaos, he discerned the sickening and undeniable sound of splintering wood. He braced himself against the side of the carriage but was thrown like a rag doll. His head bashed against the window, which was odd because now the window was where the floor should be, and hundreds of drops of water splashed his face. No—they cut his face. ’Twas not water, ’twas broken glass.

As the carriage’s mad flight ground to a halt, Paul put tentative fingers to his cheeks and discerned a warm, sticky trail of blood.

“Are you all right, sir?” the coachman cried out from above him—far above him, and not through the window, but through the carriage door, which was now where the ceiling had been. The coachman whistled softly. “You look as though you lost the fight.”