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She was grateful for his support. He didn’t offer false condolences, and he was innovative in what would be required. He seemed able to think of everything. Eliza could only think of one thing—what now?—as she attended to her aunt’s cold dead body; washing the limbs that had been sources of endless complaint—her tired old legs, or her aching arms that had never offered Eliza a single comforting caress. Finally dressing the old woman in her Sunday best, she put a book under her chin to keep her mouth closed before calling Mr Patmore to help Dora lay the body out in the parlour.
Eliza admired his capability when he must come from a family that had all such practical matters attended to by servants. He admitted he’d never cooked a meal or made his own tea, so how could he anticipate her every need? A cup of tea when she was tired. A hot meal he arranged to have brought over from the White Swan.
And what must he think of her? She was little more than servant to a woman who lived like a villager, yet her aunt had a fortune in the three and four per cents. Or was that only a rumour?
Eliza tried to remain pragmatic. Since she could do nothing as regards the outcome of the will, she’d best be thinking of artful ways to make herself a valued proposition to Mr Bramley, she thought with feverish intensity as she went about her duties.
By midafternoon the next day, nearly a dozen old biddies crowded the parlour; drinking tea and eating sandwiches and plum cake. Aunt Montrose had more friends in death than she had in life. Eliza nearly said so to Mr Patmore, who had just returned from an errand fetching loaves of bread to assist Eliza in her duties of playing hostess to her aunt’s mourners, five of them occupying all the available seating in the small room.
Eliza was glad they didn’t seem to consider her company a requirement, but deeply offended when she overheard Miss Siddons say in clipped nasal tones, without lowering her voice, “I can’t imagine Annabelle would leave a penny to that sinning girl. She ought to be grateful she had a roof over her head and lived in such comfort the past seven years, don’t you think?”
A shiver ran through her. What did she know of Eliza’s sins? Of course, Miss Siddons’ companion agreed with clucking noises, and Eliza glanced at Mr Patmore to see if he’d heard. He made no indication as he stoked the fire. What would he make of Eliza’s past? Why was he here? Out of the goodness of his heart? Surely it was more important for him to get Devil’s Run back to Mr Bramley than stay here?
Her eyes followed the curve of his back as he leant over to drop a large piece of wood into the centre of the flame. She wanted to caress the elegantly curved line and feel the strength beneath; the muscle and hardness that made up the dependability he’d shown her this past day and a half.
He turned, unexpectedly, catching her eyes on him and Eliza looked away, embarrassed, before asking Miss Siddons if she’d like more tea while thinking what satisfaction it would give her to pour it down her scrawny cleavage.
The voice of Mr Patmore sounded a discordant note when the room was again bathed in silence, and the doctor had gone. She’d lost herself in conjuring up dreams of her unknown future, and she’d forgotten his presence.
“Is there anything else you need, Miss Montrose? I don’t believe you’ve eaten a thing and now there’s nothing left.”
The light had dimmed, and the room looked gloomy and untidy.
She smiled. “You’ve been so very kind and helped me so much. I really do appreciate it.”
“After what you did for me the other day, Miss Montrose, it was the least I could do.”
He gripped her hand, and she was dismayed by the extent of her disappointment when he dropped it as if realising the inappropriateness of the gesture.
“I’m reluctant to leave you here alone, Miss Montrose,” he said, glancing about the room. “Yet, anything else wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Since Mr Bramley sent you as his emissary, I’m sure that you remaining a little longer would be condoned under the circumstances.” She nodded towards the sideboard. “Perhaps you would be so good as to find something a little stronger than lemon barley water to go with whatever I can find to put on the table. Aunt Montrose might turn in her grave—” she put her hand to her mouth before saying ruefully, “—I did not mean to sound flippant. But I do intend to raid her medicinal brandy cupboard which she kept quite well stocked.”
A few minutes later, she was back with the remains of a meat pie and some cold cooked potatoes which she placed upon the table, together with cutlery and crockery.
“I’d better draw the curtains, in case we’re spied upon. And if someone calls upon me to offer their condolences, it might be preferable if you took yourself off to another room. I don’t mean to suggest anything untoward, Mr Patmore, but you know how tongues will wag.”
From his position by the sideboard, he watched her closely. Her movements were unhurried and elegant. She seemed as much at home in this more humble setting with so much to do, as she had when he’d been only partly aware of her at Quamby House. Her stillness was part of her essence. She imbued calm. And yet she could act like lightning when she had to. Nor should her quiet manner be mistaken for shyness, he’d realised. She was an impressive young woman.
“I do, but you’ll leave here soon enough, Miss Montrose, and I don’t think you’ll be sad about that. Now, there is plenty on the table. Take a seat with me and drink.” He handed her a glass containing a liberal quantity of brandy. “You’ve had a great shock today, and your nerves need calming. I’m only sorry it’s not your intended who is in my place to comfort you.”
Eliza laughed at the searching look he sent her before he picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. “I don’t expect Mr Bramley is the comforting kind, do you? Though that’s not the reason I’m marrying him.”
She speared a potato, giving a shrug at his incisive look. “Fortunately, my need for comfort has well and truly been cauterised. My aunt was perfectly horrid to me. I’m sorry she’s dead, for her sake, but if her complaints were anything to go by she didn’t enjoy her life very much. I certainly haven’t enjoyed mine the many years I’ve had to live with her.”
“And now you’re free.” He sent her a level look. “You don’t have to marry Mr Bramley if you don’t wish to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“My dear Mr Patmore…” She laughed softly. How little you understand. She didn’t say it, of course. “I am a woman. An unmarried woman without resources, as we speak. That may change, or it may not. But you came here to take Devil’s Run to Mr Bramley so he can race him next week, and it isn’t in my interests to irritate the man upon whom my future depends. Oh dear, I wonder who that is, now?”
The knock at the door had her swiftly picking up his plate to hide the evidence she had dined with another person. She nodded towards the room at the end of the passage, and obediently Rufus disappeared into the parlour where the old woman was laid out; a smile of smug serenity upon her marble face. Further observation of the corpse brought up no likeness between the severe features of the spare, scrawny woman in her coffin, and the lovely woman in the other room whom he could hear speaking to a well-wisher.
The candles laid out about the room cast gloomy shadows over the walls and floor. He pitied Miss Montrose having to spend the night alone with her dead aunt, though he had no doubt she was up to it. He’d not seen her self-possession falter. He appreciated that quality in a woman. He certainly would appreciate it in the one he’d someday take for his wife.
Restlessly, he moved about the room, wondering why he was feeling all at sea; reluctant to go when he should have gone
long ago. Before his heart had become inconveniently involved.
He could hear Miss Montrose talking. She appeared to be soothing a rather emotional woman on the front doorstep, though she didn’t invite her in.
