Mrs Bailey shook her head. ‘I am not sure she should go anywhere near the old man, no matter how personable this Mr Kendal may be.’
Jane listened with trepidation, and more than a little confusion. At this moment she had no notion of what she wanted, beyond a sneaking suspicion that she would very much like to see Mr Kendal again...
Strange...thought Robert idly, glancing at the few remaining russet, gold and yellow leaves still clinging to the trees as his carriage rumbled through the country lanes towards Ledbury House. Even in February some of their trees still hold a few autumn leaves, while in Yorkshire winter has been with us for nigh on four months already. Winter comes later and kinder this far south.
He felt a pang of nostalgia for his home. He was often gone from Beechmount Hall on matters of business, but after a few days away he always ached to return. Not long now. If Lady Kingswood would only tell him where he could find this Jane Bailey, then...
Then his next task would be to convince her to come with him—but what method of persuasion Robert was to use he honestly did not know.
He sighed as the carriage pulled up outside the front door. The postilion dismounted from the lead horse and let down the step. Robert descended, glancing around instinctively. Ledbury House was a fine dwelling, comfortable and cosy without being imposing. The contrast with Beechmount Hall, where he had lived for the past twenty years, was stark.
His hostess was there to greet him and introduce him to her guests—the local vicar and a young relative whom she addressed as Lady Cecily. Apparently she was Lord Kingswood’s ward and lived at Ledbury House. She had been away visiting relatives and had just returned.
How could he discover more about the identity and whereabouts of Jane Bailey when there were four of them for dinner?
Shortly after his arrival, dinner was served. Robert accompanied Lady Kingswood to the dining room, with the Reverend Burns and Lady Cecily following. Naturally rather reticent, he had learned over the years to endure social gatherings with an appearance of equanimity. Afterwards, he always found himself drained by the effort of being in company.
I do believe, he thought now, my aversion to empty social intercourse goes back to my circumstances at the time when I first moved to Beechmount Hall.
Tonight, however, Robert had a purpose, and he intended to make the most of the opportunity.
He had the honour of being placed on Lady Kingswood’s right, and as the first course was served she politely drew him out, asking if Yorkshire had always been his home.
‘It has,’ he confirmed. ‘I was born in Harrogate and lived there with my parents until my father died, after which my mother and I moved to Beechmount Hall. I was eight, so that was exactly twenty years ago.’
The vicar and Lady Cecily were conversing politely at the other side of the table. Robert absentmindedly thanked the footman who was serving the first course—soup, along with a squab pie and some leeks. He tried a forkful, which tasted delicious.
‘Your mother is related to the family there?’ Lady Kingswood continued.
‘Distantly,’ he confirmed, as a middle-aged female servant entered, carrying further dishes. She was followed by a maid—the pretty one who had dropped the tray earlier.
Females waiting at table? Unusual. A deliberate informality, Robert suspected.
Lady Kingswood was politely waiting for him to say more.
‘My mother’s aunt is Mr Millthorpe’s second wife—his first having died many years previously. Aunt Eugenia is my mama’s only living relation, so it made sense for us to move there.’ He shrugged. ‘I was too young to fully understand the reasons, but I believe my mother and her aunt provide female company for each other, so it suits both of them.’
‘Wait. Mrs Millthorpe is your great-aunt, and yet you also address her as “aunt”?’
‘Yes—at Mrs Millthorpe’s request. I should explain I call her husband my uncle, although he is in fact only my great-uncle by marriage. Mrs Millthorpe desires me to call them simply “aunt” and “uncle”, as my mother does, declaring she would not suffer the indignity of being anyone’s great-aunt!’
Lady Kingswood smiled at this. ‘And are they both still there at Beechmount Hall?’
The servants, having placed all the dishes on the table and removed the covers, now stood back impassively, waiting for them to eat. Normally Robert would barely notice, but the maid with rosy cheeks continually drew his attention. Not that she was doing anything in particular.
It is just that she is remarkably pretty.
A footman served Robert a slice of pie. ‘Er—yes, they are. My Aunt Eugenia swears she could not manage without my mother.’ He frowned.
Lady Kingswood glanced briefly across the table, to where the vicar and Lady Cecily seemed entirely focused on their own conversation. ‘And it is your uncle who has sent you here?’
Robert nodded. ‘It is.’
‘Tell me more of Mr Millthorpe.’
For the next two hours Robert attempted to reassure Lady Kingswood of his honourable intentions. He could not be dishonest about his uncle, but carefully used words such as ‘eccentric’ and ‘strong-willed’ to signal something of the old man’s character without, he hoped, frightening the Countess.
At times Lady Kingswood conversed politely with the vicar, while Robert chatted about botany and books with Lady Cecily. However, each time the table turned he and Lady Kingswood returned to their discussions of Beechmount Hall and those who lived there.
The name Jane Bailey was not mentioned.
All in all it had been a most pleasant evening, if tiring, he concluded, climbing into his coach while the coachman held up a lantern for him. And hopefully a useful one. Lady Kingswood had asked him to return on the morrow, which he took as a positive sign.
As the post chaise made its way down the lanes by moonlight towards the inn at Netherton his thoughts turned again to the pretty housemaid. It had been a long time since a woman had caught his eye. He had had his share of discreet liaisons—most recently with a London courtesan, and until just two months ago a flirtatious widow in York. He had no thought of marriage, so restricted himself to encounters where the woman involved would understand what he could and could not give.
Respectable servants, no matter how beautiful, had never been of interest to him. Until now.
I wonder what her name is, he thought idly. She should be Diana, goddess of the woods. The huntress, the wild one...
He chuckled at his own flight of fancy.
Ah, but she is a goddess, hiding in a servant’s livery.
‘My fair Diana!’ he muttered aloud, imagining himself offering her a sweeping bow, before kissing her hand. ‘Lord!’ he told himself. ‘You are drunk, Robert. Do not let a flirtation distract you from your obligation.’
Yet as the carriage trundled on he lost himself in imaginings which would have shocked the ladies of Ledbury House.
Jane awoke early, before the first light of dawn began seeping into the basement window of the chamber she shared with her mother. Serving at table—not