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Did the housekeeper practice that impervious expression in the mirror, Ivy wondered, or did it come naturally to her?
She meshed her lips together to prevent a slight giggle escaping her at the idea of Mrs. Baxter being born with the sour look. Ivy had certainly seen a few babies looking decidedly grumpy at the experience of being born into the world though they usually turned into the most darling of children.
“There is a visitor here,” the housekeeper offered succinctly.
Ivy blinked and set aside her knitting on the tiny circular table next to the sofa. She’d opted to spend time in the east parlor, much to the housekeeper’s frustration. Did she not know the previous viscount received guests in thewestparlor room, the housekeeper had asked.
Of course, Ivy knew nothing of what the original viscount did, and she preferred this room with its slightly old-fashioned furnishings and soft, high back sofas, all crowded together in the center of the room. It gave one a sense of coziness in a decidedly grand and slightly draughty house. Ivy adored furnishings that reminded her of her grandparent’s modest home.
The housekeeper eyed her as though Ivy should have something to say on the matter of a visitor. She wasn’t expecting anyone—Violet wrote and said her family would be coming to visit once she had settled in—and it did not seem likely anyone would wish to call on the newlyweds who had so hastily married, most especially when one of those newlyweds was a Musgrave.
“He is here for the viscount,” the housekeeper said after what felt like several long minutes.
“Is there a card?”
“No, my lady.” She sniffed. “I have left him in the hallway.”
“Well, I’m certain the viscount must be around here somewhere. I spent time with him just this morning.”
Though she could be accused of stretching the truth there. He had popped into the breakfast room, snatched up a slice of unbuttered toast which seemed odd indeed, then announced he was incredibly busy and could she please excuse him. All appetite for the morning meal had vanished then and there.
What was her husband doing at all hours of the day? She so rarely saw him in the house it was bordering on ridiculous. She wasn’t so silly to believe they might miraculously fall in love, but she had hoped they would at the very least grow to be companions. Maybe even friends.
One could not be friends with someone they never saw, could one?
The housekeeper glanced at her polished black shoes. “I’m not at all certain where the viscount is, my lady.”
Ivy felt a certain sense of smugness at the idea this woman was highly perturbed by the fact she did not know everything that was occurring in the house. Ivy could, she supposed, put out an advert and replace her, however, it seemed foolish to change any of the staff members so soon, and from what Muriel said, hiring new staff here might not be easy. Until she understood the running of this household, she needed the sour-faced woman.
“No one knows where he is,” she added, lifting her chin.
“Well, I shall receive him then,” Ivy said sweetly in the hope of disguising her increasing annoyance. Did the woman have to make everything so difficult and drawn out? Ivy never lost her temper. The only time she could recall doing so was when Billy Frater called her twin sister a toad-faced witch and she’d slapped him soundly. She didn’t believe in hitting others. Physical punishment was merely an expression of her own anger and not always an appropriate response as far as she was concerned, and it still made her cheeks warm to this day to recall it.
Billy was a little louse, though, and he’d never come near either of them again.
“You may want to receive him in the hallway, my lady.”
Ivy inhaled deeply and straightened in her seat. “I shall receive him here, Mrs. Baxter.”
The housekeeper hesitated then dipped her head and hastened out. Ivy understood her reticence when the man entered the parlor room. Though dressed in a neat cassock with a pristine white collar, his boots were caked in mud and Ivy winced when she noted the trail he left behind as he traipsed into the room, hat in hand. She ignored Mrs. Baxter’s smug expression and rose and motioned for the man to enter.
“How can I help you, Reverend—”
“Godalming,” the elderly gentleman offered, bowing deeply. “Forgive the intrusion, but I was hoping to speak with the Viscount Hartwood.”
“I’m afraid he is...out at present. Perhaps if you return tomorrow—”
“I’m only in town for the day, my lady, so this cannot wait.” He cleared his throat. “I wanted to ensure that the viscount knows if he needs anything, my family owe him a debt of gratitude and that the lord shall not see this go unrewarded.”
Opening her mouth, then closing it, she eyed the vicar. “Forgive me, but what debt of gratitude is that?”
“Surely you witnessed the incident, my lady? It was on your honeymoon after all.”
“Incident?”
“When the viscount saved my granddaughter’s life,” he replied as though she must have known all along.”
“I see.” She offered a vague smile. “I imagine my husband wished to spare me any worry. What precisely did my husband do?”
