Escaping Notice (18 page)

“What do you have there? Is that not my lace?”

“Well, yes,” Helen said, feeling exhausted. “I was just going to
wash it —
a
fter I get your chocolate.”
Or toss it in the midden pile. Miss Eloise would be much better
off if all her lace were burned.

“I don’t care for chocolate this morning. It is too early.” Miss
Leigh pulled the covers over her shoulders. “Wash my lace. I will
expect it to be ready when I wish to dress.”

“Yes, Miss Leigh.” Under no circumstances would Helen allow Miss
Leigh to wear those pathetic scraps of lace.

Some women looked better in plain, well-cut clothing and Eloise
Leigh was one of them.

No matter. Helen was determined to refurbish her employer’s
wardrobe. Then maybe she would see the glances Mr. Symes cast
toward her when he thought she was not looking.

But that would never work. Miss Eloise Leigh was related to an
Earl. She was far above Mr. Symes, just as Helen was above Mr.
Caswell. One could not marry outside one’s class without a great
deal of weeping, wailing and disinheriting.

Where would England be if everyone just married
higgledy-piggledy without thought to class and background?

But would it not be nice if one could forget appearances and
class distinctions? If Helen’s admittedly poor hairstyle and even
worse clothing did not matter? If Mr. Caswell would see her inner
worth — if she had any — instead of her plain, insipid
exterior?

Of course, he might consider her interior just as insipid as her
exterior, considering the mess she was making of things.

She re-opened the drawer and dutifully collected the pile of
dingy, stained lace as well as a few of Miss Leigh's dirty
handkerchiefs. She made her way down to the small room off the
kitchen, sure she would be the only one awake. The servants used
the room for various cleaning tasks and the long, rough wooden
table would serve her well. She could spread out the delicate lace
to dry and mend any tears. Perhaps she could salvage some to
appease Miss Leigh.

On her way through the kitchen, she was surprised to find the
cook already at work. Helen grabbed a porcelain basin, a small ball
of blueing, a chunk of soap and a bucket to fetch water from the
well.

“Your brother's in there, peeling potatoes,” the cook commented,
not even looking up as she prodded a few sausages crackling in a
pan on the stove.

Helen smiled. “You are keeping him busy, then?”

“He finished up them shoes yesterday. This morning, it was a
choice between the stables and peeling.” The cook laughed sharply.
“Wise lad.”

“Ned was always bright. Thank you for keeping him from
idleness.”

“No trouble.”

After a quick trip to the well, Helen returned to the work room
to find Ned scowling at a tub of potatoes. At the sound of her
footstep, he stood up, sending a shower of peelings onto the wooden
floor.

“Miss — uh, Helen, what are you doing here?” He darted over and
took the bucket of water out of her hand as if he thought it was
too heavy. A wave of cold water splashed over the edge, drenching
her skirt. “Oh, I'm sorry, Miss — that is, Helen.” He glanced over
her shoulder at the door, for fear someone may have heard him
stumbling over her name.

Helen laughed and pulled her skirt away from her leg, giving it
a small shake. “I'm doing a bit of fine laundry,” she replied
gaily, showing him her bundle. “And I hope you are almost finished
with those potatoes. Cook is sure to have a pot boiling in
anticipation.”

Struggling with the heavy bucket, his face twisted. The tip of
his tongue poked out of the side of his mouth as he heaved his
burden onto the table. Then he turned to scowl at the wooden bowl,
still two-thirds full of dusty, brown-skinned potatoes.

“She gave me hundreds — no
thousands
— to peel.” He waved
a dirty hand toward the tottering pile of mostly-white vegetables
in the center of the table. “I've already done more than an entire
army could eat.”

“Excellent.” She restrained herself from ruffling his ragged
brown hair. He needed a haircut and oddly enough, that made him all
the more endearing. “And rest assured your efforts are much needed,
since Ormsby seems to house an entire regiment of servants. They
are the 'army' you are feeding.”

Edward snorted and picked up his knife to begin his methodical
peeling again, as Helen poured water into the white washbowl. A
roll of heavy linen sat on one of the shelves in the room, and
Helen took it down. It would serve well as a drying cloth for the
lace. She carved a few flakes of soap from the gray cake and
swirled them into the water to soften them before she added the
lace. Occupied with her task, she frowned as she scrubbed the lace
and delicate handkerchiefs, trying not to be too depressed about
her failure to find the necklace and escape.

“Is something the matter?”

Helen glanced up, surprised to find Ned studying her, his young
face crumpled with concern. “Why, no.”

“You're lying,” Ned said in a smug tone, flicking another glance
at her. “I can tell. When you lie, your nose turns pink. Like a
rabbit.”

“Charming,” she murmured. “But I assure you, nothing is
wrong.”

“Don't you trust me? I won't tell anyone.”

She stared at Ned. His brown eyes were filled with
disappointment, and he frowned at her refusal to confide in him. He
thought she did not trust him, but she did. Ever since he’d tried
to protect her by weaving an utterly preposterous story at the inn
where they met, she’d trusted him as she would her own brother. And
she knew how it felt when others discounted her. She refused to do
the same to him.

“I'm sorry, Ned. One of the reasons I came to Ormsby was to find
a necklace I lost the last time I visited — the Peckham necklace.
And I
did
find it. Only Mrs. Adams found me with it, and I
had to give it to Miss Leigh. It's silly, but I'm just not sure how
to get it back again. And I do not want to be responsible for
ruining Mr. Caswell's investigation, although I suppose we cannot
keep up this charade forever. It is bound to end sooner or
later.”

Ned's expression grew somber. “I don't know why we can't stay
like this. And I'll help you get the necklace.”

“Oh, no. Please — I should not have mentioned it.”

“I can help, honestly,” Ned insisted, his face glowing with
determination. “You can leave it up to me.”

“Absolutely not.” Helen squeezed the soap out of a length of
lace and rinsed it carefully, before spreading it out and pinning
it to the linen on the table in front of her. “You are not to go
upstairs, as you very well know. And it is my task to get the
necklace. It is your task to help your brother.”

“He doesn't want my help either — no one does,” he declared in
an angry, ill-used tone.

“That is not true! You are doing a great deal to help everyone.”
She smiled and gestured to the growing mound of potatoes. “Just
look at that.”

He snorted and began kicking a table leg in frustration. She
watched him as she soaked another piece of lace in some blueing to
whiten it. “We have Wednesday afternoon off — why don't we go
exploring? They say there is the ruin of an old abbey in the
grounds. We could go there.”

“Already been there,” he replied truculently. The table shook as
he took out his frustration on its heavy oak legs. “Not much to
look at. Just a lot of old, gray rocks.”

Even Helen was disappointed to hear that. She actually thought
it might be fun to explore a romantic Gothic ruin, and it would
take Ned's mind off his chores. Staring at his bowed head, she
watched as he continued peeling the potatoes, his face a grim mask
of concentration.

“Ned —” She was about to ask him if he was thinking of running
away, but stopped when she realized it might put the idea into his
head if it wasn’t there already.

As he eyed her expectantly, he rubbed his nose with the back of
his hand, leaving a gritty smear of dirt. “Oh, all right,” he said.
“I'll go with you if you want to see it. But there's nothing
there.”

“Thank you. I did not want to go alone, and it might be
fun.”

“For you, maybe. There wasn't even a dungeon as far as I could
tell.”

“How shocking!” Helen struggled not to laugh. Ned appeared to
have odd notions about religious buildings. “What is an abbey
without a dungeon?”

“Exactly. I'll bet they tortured the heretics until they begged
for mercy.”

Helen wanted to explain that abbeys were generally inhabited by
nuns who were more likely to heal sick heretics than apply
thumbscrews to them. However, she decided that information could
wait. If Ned found out, he would be so disappointed that he would
probably never set foot there again.

Spreading out the second bit of lace, she examined it for tears
and loose threads. Most of it was still in fairly good condition
with only two sections that needed mending.

“I think you should stay here,” Ned announced after several
minutes of silence.

She glanced up to find him studying her. “Why?”

“Well, you have to stay somewhere while I'm at sea. I'm going to
be a captain, you know. Not right away, of course, but maybe in a
year or two.”

His concept of the time it took to develop such a career was
somewhat awry, but the details could wait — along with his
commission.

“I see. But why must I stay here when you are threatening to
abandon me and join the navy?”

His gaze was bright with pride. “Because you have to wait for
me, until I come back. I'm going to marry you when I'm a
captain.”

“Well, Ned, I'm honored, but you know you have to actually ask a
woman, first?”

Ned turned slightly green as he realized his mistake. “But I
thought —”

“We will make a gentleman’s agreement.” She stuck out her
hand.

“But you’re not a gentleman.”

“No. However, it is a matter of honor, isn’t it?”

He nodded and took her hand.

“Excellent. You can ask me when you are Captain Ned. However,
you’ll have to find me at my address in London. Is that
acceptable?” The thought of going back to the city lowered her
spirits, but she forced a smile.

“Agreed.” He pumped her hand enthusiastically.

Despite everything, she had been happier here than at any time
in London. She liked the country, and she liked doing small,
unnoticed things for Miss Leigh. Worse, she would miss Ned. She
almost reached out to ruffle his wayward curls.

“I'll find you there, then, when I’m a captain,” Ned stated with
confidence.

“Do you not think I might be too old? When you return?”

“Old?” A strange, speculative gleam filled his brown eyes. “How
old are you?”

Helen laughed. “Never ask a lady her age. In any event, you may
find some other lady on your travels. However, rest assured I will
ensure you know where to find me. Just in case.”

He nodded, picking at the eye of a potato with the tip of his
paring knife before changing the subject abruptly. “The earl is
dead, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I heard them talking about it. He drowned,” he said with
obvious relish. “And he deserved it, too.”

“Ned! How can you say such a thing?”

“I’ve heard things about him, things you wouldn’t credit.”

“I’m shocked to hear you say such a thing. I’m sure the earl is
not dead —”

“He is! They found his brother dead, too, along with the
wreckage of their boat. I heard Mr. Symes talking to cook about it.
If you ask me, a sea monster attacked them. That’s why the boat was
smashed to bits and it probably ate the earl.”

“You must have misunderstood, Ned. You cannot go about spreading
such rumors.”

“I never say a word.” He shrugged and peered up at her briefly.
“I went to his room, you know.”

“The earl’s room? Ned, how could you? If you get caught you will
be punished.”

“Not
his
room, his brother’s. That’s why Mr. Caswell is
here, you know. To investigate. So I was helping him.”

“He told you to go into Mr. Castle’s bedchamber?”

Ned dropped his gaze and dug more energetically at the potato
eye. “I’m helping him, and I found a book — one Mr. Castle was
writing.”

“You did not take it, did you?”
Please don’t let him be found
with Mr. Lionel Castle’s diary.
They’d all be tossed out on
their ears, if not worse.

“I read it.” When he caught her appalled glance, he blushed.
“Parts, anyway, and it’s a wonder the earl wasn’t murdered in his
bed.”

“Ned! I’m sure it says no such thing!”

“It does too! He said his brother never listened to anyone
—”

“He’s an
earl
! He does not have to listen — others should
listen to him.”

“He’s a proper old tartar. He ordered Lionel, his own brother,
to join the church or else! Then he was getting ready to throw
their aunt to the wolves.” He smacked his lips over the last word.
“Probably gave that sea monster a stomach ache.”

Helen stifled a giggle over the last image, inappropriate though
it was. “He was not going to throw Miss Leigh to the wolves. That
is a gross exaggeration.”

The table shook as he kicked it. “He was throwing her out,” he
insisted.

“She was moving to a smaller house,” Helen admitted with a
sinking heart. Ned’s accusation was true, if a trifle colorful. The
earl had asked his aunt to move to the Dower House, and Helen
sensed Miss Leigh did not want to go.

She probably felt she
was
being tossed to the wolves.
Nonetheless, the earl probably had his reasons, arrogant and
insufferable though they obviously were.

“And Lionel owed money — pots of it — to some bad men.”

“What do you mean by that?” She gripped his shoulder.

“It’s in that book. He said he owed more than he could pay. He
was afraid the earl would find out. The earl would have done
something terrible to him, he said.” He looked up at her with a
gasp. “That’s it! The earl found out and murdered him!”