No going back now. She was committed. For Jane’s sake. She smiled down at her daughter, who pressed tight up against her hip.
The door opened. A young footman in red-and-gold livery looked down his nose at them. ‘’Tis at the wrong door, you are. Don’t you people know nothing? Servants’ entrance is round the back of the west pavilion.’ He pointed to the left. ‘That there large block at the end.’
He slammed the door in their faces.
Shocked speechless, she recoiled. Her heart gave a horrid little dip. The footman thought her a servant. She glanced down at herself and Jane. They were respectably, if shabbily, dressed; her widow’s weeds had seen better days, and her skirts were dusty, wrinkled from their travels.
The doubts about their welcome attacked her anew. The seed of hope nurtured in her chest all the way from London shrivelled, sapping the strength that had sustained her once she had made up her mind to bury her pride and ask for help.
Should she knock again and risk a more violent rejection? What if none of the family were home? No one to endorse her claim?
‘Why did he close the door?’ Jane asked, her voice weary.
Why indeed. Might Crispin have left word she wasn’t to be admitted? She shivered. ‘I think he thought we were someone else.’
Jane tugged at her skirt. ‘What shall we do?’
She forced a confident smile. ‘Why, we will go around the back just as the nice man suggested.’ Perhaps there she would find a servant she knew. She retraced her steps back to the drive.
‘He wasn’t nice,’ Jane grumbled as they trudged along the walkway leading to the servants’ wing. ‘The farmer with the cart was nice. Why couldn’t we stay with him?’
‘Because he isn’t family.’
Jane looked up at the house, her face full of doubt. ‘I want to go home.’
‘This is our home.’ Claire hoped the anxiety fluttering in her stomach wasn’t apparent in her voice. She quickened her pace, heading away from the block for family and guests, feeling very much like a stranger who didn’t belong.
Another set of arches hid the kitchens and cellars and quarters for the staff. They stopped at a plain brown door. She squared her shoulders and rapped hard. This time she would not be turned away.
It opened. A waft of warmth hit her face along with a delicious scent of cooking. She swayed as it washed over her and she heard Jane sniff with appreciation.
A tall man in his mid-thirties wearing a chef’s white toque and a pristine white apron gazed at them down an aristocratic nose. At some point that haughty nose had been broken and badly set, resulting in a bump that only slightly ruined the elegant male beauty of hard angles and planes. Not English, she thought, taking in the olive cast to his complexion and jet hair.
Onyx eyes fringed with black lashes too thick and long for a man swiftly roved her person. They took in her undecorated bonnet, her black bombazine skirts and her scuffed half-boots. She had the feeling he could see all the way to her plain worn shift with that piercing dark glance.
Sympathy softened his harsh features. ‘Step inside, madame.’ His voice was deep and obviously foreign.
Giddy with relief, she almost fell over the threshold.
‘Careful, madame.’ A muscular arm, hard beneath the fabric of his coat, caught her up.
A thrill rippled through her body. A recognition of his male physical strength. Shocked, she pulled away.
He released her and stepped back as if he, too, had felt something at the contact. He gestured her forward into what must be the scullery with its dingy whitewashed walls and a large lead-lined sink.
‘Sit,’ he said. ‘At the table.’ He pulled back a bench.
Claire sank down, glad of the respite, while she gathered her wits. Jane hopped up beside her.
‘Mademoiselle Agnes,’ he called out. ‘Vite, allez.’
A young woman in a mob cap ran in from the larger room beyond. The kitchen proper, no doubt.
‘Bring soup and bread,’ he ordered.
The girl ducked her head and disappeared.
‘No, really,’ Claire managed, gathering her scattered wits. ‘I need to—’
‘It is fine, madame. No need to be anxious,’ he said. ‘You are hungry, non?’ he said, smiling at Jane.
‘Starving,’ the child replied with the honesty of youth.
‘You don’t understand,’ Claire said. ‘I need to speak to Mrs Stratton.’ She held her breath, hoping beyond hope that the housekeeper she’d known as a girl was still employed here.
‘She has no work. I am sorry, madame, all I am permitted is to offer you soup and send you on your way.’
Permitted? On whose orders? Heat rushed through her. So much heat, after coming in from outside. Her head spun. She tugged at the button of her coat, tried to undo the scarf around her neck. It tangled with her anxious fingers.
‘Are you ill?’ He crouched down and with strong competent hands worked at the knot. She could not help but stare at the handsome face so close to hers, so serious as he focused on the task at hand. Such a face might have modelled for an artist’s rendition of a Roman god of war. His fingers brushed the underside of her chin. Liquid fire ran through her veins. He glanced up, his eyes showing shock and awareness. His lips parted in a breathless sigh.
For one long moment it was as if nothing else existed in the world but the two of them.
Her skin tingled. Her body lit up from within.
He jerked back, his hands falling away. He swallowed. ‘It is free now.’ He rose to his feet and backed up a few steps, gesturing to the table. ‘You will feel better after you eat.’
Still shocked, she could only stare at him. How could she have responded to him in such a wanton way? Because he was handsome? Or because it was a long time since a man had shown her and Jane such kindness? In either case, it was not appropriate.
‘Soup sounds awfully good,’ Jane said wistfully.
‘No,’ Claire said, fighting to catch her breath. ‘I did not come here for food. Or work. I must speak with Mrs Stratton. Please tell her Lady Claire wishes to speak with her.’
Confusion entered his dark eyes. Followed swiftly by comprehension.
‘Mademoiselle Agnes,’ he called out. ‘At once.’
The girl popped her head back through the door. ‘I’m pouring the soup,’ she said. ‘Give a girl a minute.’
‘Never mind that. Fetch Mrs Stratton. Immédiatement.’
‘What? To see some vagabond?’ the girl said.
Claire stiffened.
The chef glowered. ‘Now.’
The maid tossed her head. ‘First you want soup. Now you want the housekeeper. Make up your mind, can’t you?’ She scampered off.
‘Can’t we have soup?’ Jane asked.
‘Later,’ Claire said. She wasn’t going to let anyone see them begging for food as if they really were vagabonds. They would eat in the dining room, like Montagues.
‘I apologise for the mistake.’ He grimaced. ‘We were not expecting you, I think?’
The apology gave her renewed hope. She offered him a smile. ‘It is my fault for coming