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“But that’s a lass’s job,” the boy objected.
“Well, you’re doing it today,” Helen said. “And mind it’s well swept and scrubbed.”
“Aw,” the tall footman groaned, but he went from the room.
Helen turned to the remaining servants. “Meg, come help me polish the dining table. You two”—she gestured to the other maid and the shorter footman—“finish cleaning that chimney. We have to get it clear if we’re to have a fire in here tonight without setting the room ablaze.”
They worked all through the afternoon, cleaning, sweeping, polishing, and even taking the rugs and curtains out to beat them in the wind. By six o’clock, the dining room was as neat as a pin and a fire roared in the fireplace, though it did still smoke a little.
Helen looked about, one hand massaging the ache at the small of her back. What a tremendous chore! She’d never take a housemaid’s work for granted again. At the same time, she couldn’t help a pleased smile spreading over her face. She’d set her mind to it, and she’d done it! Helen thanked the maids and the two rather worn footmen and sent them off to the kitchen for a well-deserved cup of tea.
“What shall we do now, Mama?” Abigail asked. The children had been wonderful workers all afternoon. Even Jamie had helped polish the windows.
Helen smiled at them. “Now we go wash up so that we can properly greet Sir Alistair when he comes down for his supper.”
“And we’ll eat in the dining room with him!” Jamie exclaimed.
Helen felt a pang. “No, dear, we’ll have a lovely supper in the kitchen.”
“But why?” Jamie asked.
“Because Mama’s the housekeeper, and it’s not proper for us to eat with Sir Alistair,” Abigail said. “We’re servants now. We eat in the kitchen.”
Helen nodded. “That’s right. But the meat pie will taste just as good in the kitchen, don’t you think? Now, let’s tidy up, shall we?”
But forty-five minutes later, when Helen and the children again came down the stairs, Sir Alistair was nowhere to be found.
“I think he’s still in his tower,” Abigail said, frowning at the ceiling overhead as if she could see the master of the castle four floors above. “Perhaps he sleeps up there, too.”
Both Helen and Jamie glanced instinctively up at the ceiling. Mrs. McCleod had said that she planned supper for seven o’clock. If Sir Beastly didn’t appear soon, his supper would be cold, and, more importantly, he might offend the only qualified cook for miles and miles.
That decided it. Helen turned to the children. “Darlings, why don’t you go to the kitchen and see if one of the maids can make you tea?”
Abigail looked at her. “But what will you do, Mama?”
Helen straightened her fresh apron. “Fetch Sir Alistair from his den.”
THE KNOCK ON the tower door came just as Alistair lit the candles. The light was fading, and he was in the midst of trying to record his observations on badgers. This was for his next great work: a comprehensive listing of the flora and fauna of Scotland, England, and Wales. It was a huge undertaking, one that he felt without vanity would place him in the ranks of the great scientists of his age. And today he’d been able to write for the first time in weeks—months, if he was honest with himself. He’d eagerly begun the work over three years ago, but for the last year or more, his work had slowed and faltered. He’d been beset by a sort of lethargy that made writing extremely difficult. Indeed, for the last few weeks he’d made barely any progress at all.
Today, however, he’d risen knowing exactly what to put down in his manuscript. It was as if a breath of reviving wind had been blown into his lungs by some unseen god. He’d spent the day in intense writing and sketching, accomplishing more than he had in months.
So when the knock interrupted his labors, he was not pleased.
ung around on the last syllable and pinned Henderson, his longtime secretary, with a cold stare. They were in Lister’s study, an elegant room newly redecorated in white, black, and dark red. It was a room appropriate for a duke and the fifth richest man in England. At the far end, Henderson sat in a chair before Lister’s spacious desk. Henderson was a dry little man, mainly bones and sinew, with a pair of half-glasses perched on his forehead. He had an open notebook on his knee and a pencil with which to record notes in one shaking hand.
“I admit it is very distressing, Your Grace, and I do apologize,” Henderson said in his whispery voice. He thumbed through his notebook as if to find the answer for his own incompetence there. “But we must remember that Mrs. Fitzwilliam has no doubt chosen to disguise herself and the children. And, after all, England is a very large place.”
“I’m well aware of how large England is, Henderson. I want results, not excuses.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“My resources—my men, money, contacts—should have found her by now.”
Henderson gave several quick birdlike bobs of his head. “Naturally, Your Grace. Of course, we have been able to trace her as far as the road north.”
Lister made one sharp cutting motion with his hand. “That was nearly a week ago. She may’ve laid a false trail, gone west to Wales or Cornwall, or for all we know, caught a ship for the Colonies. No. This is simply unacceptable. If the men we have on her now can’t find her, then hire new ones. Immediately.”
“Quite, Your Grace.” Henderson licked his lips nervously. “I shall see that it is done at once. Now, as to the duchess’s trip to Bath…”
