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“Evenavis puriset the girls off something fierce,” Conlon said.
“Leave it with me, then.” Arthur sighed and followed Conlon into the kitchen to be greeted by only one place setting. “Was it not Madam’s wish we take our meals as one?”
“Her Grace has been and gone,” Morag said, setting down the teapot with a thump.
“It is nine of the clock, Master Artie,” Conlon informed him, with subtle censure.
“Our duchess,” Morag continued, “is keen to do a day’s work.”
“As a skivvy?” Arthur snorted.
“Oh, how I dream of having a skivvy,” the housekeeper moaned.
“A dream you will continue to enjoy without hope of it coming true.” That was a lie. He had to find new staff if only to take the pressure off old joints.
Morag scoffed. “Not if Her Grace has anything to say about it.”
Her Grace wouldn’t, for this was all for show, was it not? Her interest in Arcadia meant nothing for their union. Well, it was not a union. They were united in name but not in truth. In truth, it was poignant, watching her chat with the little bird. It made his eyes sting, as they would if he’d gazed straight into the sun, and also a little heavy like he needed a good nap. This made no sense as he had slept well. On the ground, it had to be said, not much of a pleasure, not even for his bear, who truly enjoyed his creature comforts. Which did not include sleeping through a deluge and awakening on a bed of soggy leaves, the drip drip drip from the arboreal canopy tormenting him on this fine—
“And where is Madam this fine morning?”
Conlon cleared his throat. “I believe the duchess is up in the attics.”
***
Osborn caught her off guard by charging into the eastern attic; most of the pots and pans Beatrice had ferried from the kitchen crashed to the floor.
“Madam, I believe I instructed you to avoid this area.” He stood over her like the dark clouds only now passing over.
“Your Grace.” She thought to drop into one of her curtsies but suspected he knew what she intended when she did so, which lessened the effect overall. “It may have come to your notice there was a storm last evening. Steps must be taken no matter how small to thwart further damage to this dwelling.” She picked up a pan and set it beneath a drip. “Do make yourself useful if you insist I am not to work unaccompanied.”
Beatrice placed a pot beneath another hole in the roof. For such a large house, there was next to nothing in it. Given the state of the rooms she’d seen, it was natural to assume the bulk of the family belongings had been stored away, and yet the attic on this side of the house was empty but for puddles of rainwater.
Osborn set about placing the rest, muttering aboutcursory solutionsandwho would empty the thingsand then: “I expect you were a headstrong girl.” He nudged his last pot under an egregiously leaking eave.
“I became headstrong,” Beatrice said. “My mother was blessed by many a happy event, nigh on yearly. I was responsible for my siblings as soon as I reached the age of seven.”
“You are one of nine.” He sounded proud he’d remembered.
“I am. My mother is now beyond the years to enjoy further confinements.”
“And yet—” Even he was not enough of a clod to finish that statement.
“And yet.” She called upon Lady Frost and held his gaze. “And yet I have not been so blessed.”
At least he had the decency to look abashed.
Let them move swiftly on. “The servants quarters are in slightly better condition.” There had been little accommodation made for live-in staff, and she wondered why. Perhaps they had been allowed to stay with family in those rundown cottages? She would quiz Mr. Conlon later.
Beatrice placed the last of her pots and handed him another saucepan. “Shall we proceed?” She led the way across the short hall. “I find myself surprised by the lack of…”
“Belongings? Paraphernalia? Impedimenta?”
“Sofas. Tables. Chairs.”
“It is not the way of my…kind to settle in one place for very long. Generally. So possessions are not the apogee of our existence.”
“But furniture, Osborn, surely.”
