Page 54 of The Work of Art

Arthur looked pained by her question. He dropped his hand from her hair. “It doesn’t matter what I want. I can’t trust myself with you like this. Had I not come to my senses when I did—”

“Don’t dwell on what might have happened. Pray don’t. You woke up and all is well now.”

“It’s far from well.”

“But I’m in no danger.”

He shook his head. “Philly, please don’t.”

“Can we not stay together awhile longer? At least until sunrise? If you told me what your nightmare was about, then perhaps—”

“Talking about it won’t change anything.”

“Then we won’t talk, but you mustn’t send me away, Arthur. Not now. Not when you’re so upset. It would be worse than anything.”

“No. It wouldn’t be worse than anything,” he bit out in a sudden flash of anger. “What would be worse than anything is if I’d killed you.”

A shiver of fear went through her. She tried her best to suppress it. “How can you entertain such a terrible thought? You’d never have—”

“My hand was around your throat, Philly!”

She winced. What he said was nothing more than the truth, but he imbued it with such sinister implication that she knew then there was nothing she could say to sway him. Arthur was far too disturbed by what he’d done to be rational about it. “You need say no more. I’ll go back to my own room if that’s what you wish.”

Her calm acquiescence appeared to unsettle Arthur just as much as her objections to leaving him had. As she began to rise from his bed, he caught her by the wrist.

“It’s not what I wish,” he said quietly. “But I’ve promised to protect you, Philly. And I will. Even if that means I must protect you from myself.”

At daybreak, Violet entered Philly’s bedroom carrying a breakfast tray. While she drew the curtains and lit the fire, she made her excuses for having failed to come the night before, explaining that she’d put her head down on the kitchen table for “just a tick” and ended up falling asleep. She went on to tell Philly that her dogs were eating their morning meal down in the kitchens under William’s supervision, and that Arthur had risen well before sunrise and was now closeted in the library with Mr. Pebmarsh on important estate business, stating, “Mr. Crofton says he’s not to be disturbed by anyone.”

Philly hid her disappointment. She’d hoped she and Arthur might breakfast together. Indeed, she’d lain awake for the remaining hours before dawn thinking about what would happen when next she saw him. She’d imagined many different scenarios, but she hadn’t once considered that he wouldn’t even wish to see her. Did he really have pressing business with his steward? Or was he simply avoiding her?

Whatever his reasons, the end result was the same. She was to be left alone in a strange house surrounded by strange servants. It was enough to blue-devil a person.

But Philly had no intention of feeling sorry for herself. No matter what else had happened between her and Arthur, she was still the new mistress of Heywood House. She had much to learn and even more to do—more than enough to keep her busy for weeks.

The first thing she must address was the cook. The cold collation presented to them last night was unremarkable, but the morning meal Violet had brought on a tray was absolutely awful. The tea was foully pungent, the food was either undercooked, burned, or congealed, and not a single item was hot.

“Violet, how long has the cook been with us?” she asked.

“Going on a year, ma’am. But Mrs. Davies don’t fancy herself a cook.”

Philly moved her fork through a suspicious gray lump on her plate. “No?”

“She were a housekeeper at her last place.” Violet busied herself with shaking out Philly’s traveling clothes and putting them away. “But there’s not much choice for cooks round these parts, and Mrs. Lamb says Mrs. Davies does right enough for a bachelor’s house.”

Philly set aside her breakfast, unable to stomach it. “Violet, from now on, you needn’t bring me a tray. I’ll be eating my morning meal in the breakfast room.”

“Yes, ma’am, but…the breakfast room?” Violet’s voice trailed off as she lifted Philly’s stays, eying the cut laces with undisguised curiosity.

Philly suppressed a surge of embarrassment. “You may leave those out, Violet. I’ll mend them myself.” She waited until the maid complied before asking, “Does Heywood House not have a breakfast room?”

“I reckon so, ma’am, but I think it’s one of them rooms that’s shut up.”

“Where is breakfast served to Captain Heywood? The dining room?”

“No, ma’am. The master has a tray in the library. Spends most of the day in the library, he does.”

Philly frowned. She didn’t want to disrupt Arthur’s life, but she’d definitely have to make some changes.