That settled it. Whether he felt it necessary or no, she must convince Paul to come with her to meet Juliet at the docks. A personal plea, one from the heart. Surely if he heard how much it would mean to Juliet, he would relent. She must tell him, face-to-face, this morning. That meant tracking him down to tell him so, without delay.
How long would it take a servant to bring her breakfast? And where would the master of the house be at this hour of the morning?
She had no idea. But she was Juliet’s voice in this house, and hers was a voice that must be heard.
She gathered her skirts and quit the room. Kellridge was a puzzle to her still, even after Paul’s brief tour the day before. She couldn’t very well go knocking on every door looking for Paul, but she could at least rule out the east wing. He had made it quite clear that that part of the house was for the nursery only.
The best course of action would be to go downstairs and into the west wing of the house. She rushed down the stairs, brushing her hand against the satin-smooth walnut banister. Then she crossed through the vestibule, the thick Aubusson carpet muffling the sound of her slippers. Funny, for a home so thoroughly staffed, not one servant passed by as she made her way to the west wing. And the silence in the house was deafening. Not even the ticking of a clock marred the absolute quiet of the hallway.
The rooms—how perfect and still they were. Each one had its door flung open to the world, and admitted a view of balance and precision. The music room fairly glowed with instruments polished to a high gleam, yet those very instruments sat mute, crying out to be played. A billiard room, handsomely masculine yet vacant. A small sitting room, pretty and elegant but as blank as a canvas awaiting an artist’s touch.
She paused in the doorway of the library, a room redolent of aged leather and paper, and breathed deeply. Shelves lined the room from floor to ceiling, and on those shelves rested books. Books that marched up and down the shelves in perfectly ordered precision, grouped by binding color as well as by size. The overall effect, in contrast with the sweet and musty smell she breathed in, jarred her nerves. The contents of this room were surely well-loved, judging by the age of some of the volumes on the shelves. Order was an affront to its dignity. An old beloved library should be cozy, or at the very least, some disorder should mar its sterile perfection.
She stepped into the room and crossed over to a large, round mahogany table that commanded her attention. A massive arrangement of roses and chrysanthemums rested on its smooth, gleaming surface. She plucked a slightly wilted leaf from a rose stem and cast it onto the floor. She took a step backward and surveyed the result. Better, but not enough. She tugged another leaf from the arrangement and cast it onto the surface of the table.
There. A small act of defiance, but a necessary one. She wouldn’t openly rebel against Paul’s fastidious standards, but a few stabs at insubordination might do Kellridge a world of good.
She backed out of the room, her heart pounding in her chest at her temerity, and continued her progress down the hall. One door stood resolutely closed to the outside world, in direct contrast to the others that had been flung open.
Likely this was his study. Perhaps he was in there?
She couldn’t very well fling the door open. She wasn’t brazen enough for that. She knocked twice, rapping her knuckles against the glossy painted wood.
“Enter.”
Becky paused a moment. What should she say? She’d come here so certain of her purpose that she hadn’t given a moment’s thought as to how to communicate that purpose.
“Parker, is that you? I said enter.”
She gathered her skirts along with her courage and opened the door.
* * *
Paul didn’t bother to glance up as he perused his ledger book. “What took you so long, Parker? I must finish these accounts before I leave for London.”
“That is precisely what I wish to talk to you about. Your departure.” A soft feminine voice, utterly unlike his estate manager’s, spoke. Startled, he glanced up.
“I thought we had come to an agreement about this yesterday.” He tilted back in his chair and clasped his hands together, drawing them upward and cradling his head in them. If he affected an air of breezy unconcern, perhaps she would drop the matter entirely. Or at least, not become so overwrought about it. Her trembling, fluttering manner was forcing that uncomfortable sensation to the surface, like something crawling against his skin.
Too much emotion. With Becky, every sentiment bubbled right to her surface. How downright fatiguing it all was.
“Imagine how she must feel—a little girl journeying to a faraway land. How lonely she shall be! You should meet her at the docks and make her feel welcome.”
He forced himself to stare at the ceiling, avoiding any glance at Becky. Her voice was still soft, but she was commanding him. This was not a plea, but an edict. He must—for the sake of the child, of course—expose himself to the raw wounds of Juliana’s death, his own failings as her brother, his disgust at how poorly things had been managed, as well as all the chaos and upheaval of Juliana’s rushed marriage.
Becky Siddons definitely did not understand what she was asking. He brought his hands down upon the desk and looked her in the eyes.
“If you are accusing me of shirking my duty, Miss Siddons, let me remind you that I brought you on board here solely to act as Juliet’s caregiver.” He used the same clipped tone of voice he reserved for negotiating contracts and setting terms in his business dealings. “I’ve converted an entire wing of my home to serve as her nursery and your living quarters. Moreover, I am leaving a carriage at your full disposal so that you may personally meet her upon her arrival. Juliet is being very well cared for. I haven’t neglected my duty at all.”
“I am not saying that you are,” Becky argued. “But think of how nice it would be for her to see her uncle’s face.”
Did Juliet even comprehend she had family in England? No telling what his sister had said about her relatives. No doubt that blackguard she’d married had a thing or two to say about the Holmes family. Paul had never seen a portrait of Juliet. Did she look like her mother? Or perhaps she favored her father.
A sharp pain stabbed through his being at the thought of little Juliet’s face—probably so like her mother’s, with a dimple in her chin—and he winced, closing his eyes against the anguish. He breathed in deeply, allowing the icy frost of disinterest to creep over his soul. He must remove himself entirely from all passion and sensation.
He grew so cold that when he opened his eyes, ’twas strange indeed to see sunlight streaming in through the windowpane. Surely when one was chilled to the bone, there should be a storm raging outside.
“I have given you my answer about this matter.” He met Becky’s disapproving gaze. “Never ask me again, Miss Siddons.”
She recoiled as though he’d slapped her. “Very well. I shan’t.” Though she spoke little, her rigid pose and heightened color spoke volumes. Becky was quite offended, but she would soon get past it. As with everyone else at Kellridge, she would simply have to learn that in some matters, he was both right and unyielding.
He unclasped his hands and sat forward. At least she showed genuine concern for Juliet’s welfare. In that way, she was the perfect person to be his niece’s caregiver. She was willing to defy him and to press her point to make sure her charge’s needs were at the forefront of every discussion. ’Twas admirable, in a way. But she had overstepped a boundary, and she should never be allowed to cross that line again.
He cleared his throat. “So, now that we understand each other, I will let you know that I am leaving for London on the morrow