Page 55 of The Work of Art

She sent Violet off to fetch a can of hot water, and once she was alone, went into her dressing room. She pulled her hair back from her neck and examined herself carefully in the mirror.

Though it was still sensitive to the touch, her throat bore no visible marks.

She sighed with relief. There were no high-necked gowns packed in her valise, nor any scarves or wraps that would have covered her throat, and such an injury would have been impossible to explain to the servants. She was thankful she no longer had to worry about such things.

Indeed, she wished the entire incident with Arthur could be resolved with as much convenient expedition.

She wasn’t angry with him. How could she be? He hadn’t meant to hurt her, and though he’d scared her enough to make her cry, she was physically no worse for it. But she wondered why he’d done it. It was clearly connected to the nightmare he’d been having—a nightmare she assumed was about something that had happened to him in Spain. She wished she knew what it was. Unfortunately, her only piece of information about Arthur’s experiences in the war had come from her two unreliable cousins.

Had he truly been left for dead on the battlefield?

And what was the nature of the injuries he’d suffered?

Even after their night together, Philly was no closer to understanding. Arthur had doused the candles well before he removed his clothes. But in the dark, when she’d touched his bare chest and his shoulders, she’d felt his scars. It seemed to her that they were very like the scars she’d seen on his left hand. What had caused them? Who had caused them?

Until now, she’d dealt with Arthur’s past by pretending it didn’t exist. It had seemed kinder not to remind him about the war and all that he’d endured while fighting it. But after last night, she knew she’d been wrong to remain silent. Arthur wasn’t going to forget the past simply because he didn’t talk about it. His nightmare was enough proof of that.

When Violet returned, Philly washed with the rose-scented soap she’d brought with her from her uncle’s and dressed in a printed muslin gown. After Violet arranged her hair in a rather haphazard style—not unlike something Philly could have achieved on her own—Philly sent her off to summon Mrs. Lamb.

Her grandmother had always said that in order to successfully run a great house, the mistress and the housekeeper must work together in harmony. Philly planned to start out as she intended to go on.

A short time later, Mrs. Lamb knocked at the bedroom door. She was a tall, thin woman with black hair, hooded eyes, and a harshly slanting mouth—a medieval oil painting come to life. At first glance, it was impossible to tell whether she was cruel or kind, intelligent or calculating.

Philly invited her in and bade her sit down in one of the chairs near the fireplace.

They began to talk.

Within ten minutes, Philly had come to the conclusion that the sinister-looking Mrs. Lamb was neither cruel, nor calculating. She was merely a very unhappy, very dissatisfied housekeeper—and one intent on maintaining her meager authority.

“Captain Heywood’s a good master,” Mrs. Lamb said. “And he pays a fair wage, but there’s naught to do in Heycombe, and precious little to do in the house with so much of it not in use. I always said keeping house for a single gentleman who don’t entertain, and rarely leaves his library from dawn until dusk, was a difficult business. I’ve managed it as well as can be, though I daresay, now you’re in residence, you’ll have complaints aplenty about how I run things.”

Philly ignored Mrs. Lamb’s defensive tone. She wasn’t unsympathetic to the housekeeper’s plight. A new mistress in an established household always disturbed the order of things, and sometimes not for the better. “A difficult business? How do you mean?”

“It’s not easy to keep on good servants when there’s so little for them to do, and no chances for them to display their particular skills. Our former cook is a fine example. In her last place, she was accustomed to making fine cakes and puddings. She wasn’t content to cook simple fare for a single gentleman. She gave notice within two months. And then there are those younger maids and footmen who fancy a more exciting life in Bath or at Melton Abbey, in service to some fine lady or gentleman.”

“Of course. I understand.” Philly paused. “Where is Melton Abbey?”

“Lord and Lady Markham’s estate. It’s not far from here. They’re always having house parties with all manner of London society folk in attendance.”

Philly’s brows knit in a pensive frown. She hadn’t considered that Arthur would have society neighbors. Certainly not the sort who regularly entertained ladies and gentlemen from London.

Did her uncle ever visit Melton Abbey?

Did the Duke of Moreland?

The very thought set Philly’s stomach in knots.

“A rather adventurous lot, if you ask me,” Mrs. Lamb went on. “Young bloods racing their carriages up and down, and even a duel fought right out in Mr. Tuttle’s north pasture last summer.”

“Good heavens.”

“Indeed, ma’am. It was a right scandal. And just the sort of thrilling event to tempt away two of our young footmen. They’re working in the abbey stable now, or so I hear—and good riddance to them.”

“Surely the servants know the many benefits of working in a quiet, respectable household? They need never worry about their wages being lost in a card game, for instance, or some visiting rake taking undue liberties during a raucous party.”

“Oh, Heywood House is respectable, to be sure. And Captain Heywood is an honorable gentleman. No one would ever say otherwise. But he keeps himself to himself. Perhaps a little too much, if I may say so. He don’t tolerate company, if you know what I mean, and he has his black moods to contend with. You could have knocked me over with a feather when the express came saying he was bringing home a wife. ‘This house ain’t fit for a lady,’ Crofton said to me when he read the letter, ‘and nor is the master.’” Mrs. Lamb met Philly’s eyes, her mouth set in a grim line. “But now you’re here, ma’am, and we must make the best of things, mustn’t we.”

Philly looked steadily back at her. “So we must.”