Becky nodded, her features frozen and impassive. “Very well, sir. When may we expect your return?”
“Not until after the season ends.” He had planned to come home sooner, but why not stay the length of summer? ’Twould give plenty of time for Juliet to become acclimated, and then he would be home—after that, he could leave to go hunting in Scotland during the autumn months.
She cast her glance down toward the floor. “I hope that you have a good stay.”
“I am sure I shall. And of course, if you should need anything, you may send a servant into town. I have runners that often traverse the distance between Kellridge and London. I like to be kept informed of matters here, and shall continue to attend to Juliet’s needs even when I am not in residence.” There. That showed that he was keeping his niece in his thoughts at all times. Not all men had such a system, but for his needs, having runners allowed him to keep the tight rein on his household that Kellridge required. It would work well for attending to his ward.
“You are most generous.” Her eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the floor, but that same spirited temper—the one that had flared when he’d met her out on the moor—was beginning to show. The quirk of her mouth alone spoke to her burgeoning sarcasm.
He wasn’t behaving in a monstrous fashion—not if she understood his side of the matter. He just couldn’t bear heightened emotions, or passion, or anything that reminded him of his own failings. What he felt before still held true—Becky must learn her place at Kellridge and in his life. Even so, for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t bear for Becky to think ill of him.
Whenever the road got bumpy at Kellridge, he could always smooth the path with gifts. Perhaps she would think kindly on him if he offered something, anything.
“Is your room to your liking? You can change it around, you know. If the green doesn’t suit you, I could have the room redone.”
“No, it’s lovely.” She rose, her bearing reminding him of what Lady Jane Grey must have looked like on the way to the scaffold—an affronted, yet subdued, sovereign. “You are very kind, Mr. Holmes. My room here is a palace compared to my usual accommodations. May I have your permission to withdraw?”
“Of course.” He rose. Better to make one last stab at peace. “Anything you need from London, for yourself or for the child, please do let me know. Send a runner, if you wish.”
Becky nodded, her head held high. “I am sure we will want for nothing, but you are good to think of us. I wish you a safe journey.” She bobbed a slight curtsy, and with a swish of creamy skirts, she was gone.
Paul sat back at his desk, rubbing his thumb meditatively over the smooth pages of his ledger book. He might have the running of things at Kellridge for now. However, this little milliner with her charming dimple was likely to sorely challenge his long-held and unopposed reign.
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