Passion and Propriety (Hearts of Honour Book 1) (9 page)

“I’ve made a list of the staff we’ll need for now.” Mr Potts gestured to a sheet on which Naomi was making notes. “A ’andful each of maids and footmen, another cook to assist Mrs Potts, kitchen ’ands, a laundry woman, a stable-boy, and sundry gardeners and ’andymen to start cleaning up the place.”

Mr Potts’ eyes gleamed, and Hannah imagined he was picturing the glory days when the estate was a hive of activity.

“We’ll need a butler, a stable master, a head gardener, and a new ’ousekeeper. I’m a little old for the post.” Mrs Potts smiled sadly. “We’ll probably ’ave to advertise in the city to find senior staff.”

“All those people to care for one man?” Rachel’s eyes widened. “He must be terribly spoiled.”

“Not at all.” Hannah struggled to keep the ire from her tone, as her patience with her sister wore thin. “The viscount’s been in the military for the last five years and is undoubtedly used to considerable deprivations. I’m sure he’s quite capable of taking care of himself with only a minimum of assistance.”

“But an estate this size takes an army of people to run properly,” her father pointed out.

“Oh, aye.” Mr Potts nodded. “If ’is Lordship is keen to reestablish the stables, cultivate the farmland, and see the ’erds built up again we’ll need a whole ’ost of workers. Then there’s the staff needed to open up the guest wing for visitors and the ballroom for entertaining, though I imagine ’e’ll want to see it renovated first. It will be boom time for the village, that’s fer sure.”

“Will he be able to afford to do all of that?”

Naomi’s question earned a reproving look from her father, as it was considered rude to speculate about another person’s wealth . . . or lack thereof. Still, plenty of people did it, regardless of their place in society.

“The estate’s lain dormant these many years,” Naomi continued, unrepentant. “It’s a wonder the viscount didn’t question the lack of income.”

“I don’t think Mr Grantham could be bothered with the farming side of things,” Mr Potts said. “Crops and animal ’usbandry are a tricky business, and ’e could ’ave easily come up with all manner of excuses for the lack of returns. I suspect ’e’s been pocketing the money wot was supposed to go on wages, improvements, and the like while flogging those mines up in the ’ills, and opening up more. I’d be surprised if the viscount knows about ’alf of them, despite the fact they’re on ’is land.”

“They’re disgraceful places.” Rachel pulled a face, but rather than rebuke her, Hannah reached across the table and covered her sister’s hand. It was true, and she shuddered at the thought of the harsh conditions endured by the workers in the mines, many of them children.

“If the viscount has condoned the way they’ve been managed all these years, then he’s no better than his father or grandfather before him.” Naomi scowled. “Didn’t anyone ever try to contact him and tell him what was going on?”

“Many times,” Mrs Potts and the vicar said in unison.

“But the letters had to go through Mr Grantham.” Hannah sighed. “I’m sure the viscount will make changes for the better now he is aware of what’s been occurring . . . once he is fully recovered,” she added, hoping he wouldn’t let them down. He’d stayed away for ten long years, only returning because he’d thought he was going to die. Not that she blamed him. Added to the misery he’d been forced to endure in his home, the local society had treated him with disdain when he was a boy, a fact she found reprehensible. She would just have to convince him that people had changed, that his presence was welcome, and that it was worth investing his time and finances into the community that had previously caused him nothing but grief.

Hannah crossed her fingers again as she considered the likelihood of her potential assurances coming to pass. With the memory of his forebear’s abusive leadership and Mr Grantham’s harsh management fresh in the minds of the locals, they might take some convincing that the new viscount was to be trusted. The curse still hanging over his head was hardly an inspiring legacy, and Hannah wondered if he would regret his return to Blackthorn Manor—that’s if he chose to stay. He might yet decide to turn his back on them all once more.

Chapter 9

Responsible

William felt much better when he next awoke, although Miss Foster’s absence from her usual place in the chair beside his bed was less than ideal. He scanned the room and found it empty, the possibility he might have frightened her off with his less-than-affable manner causing his heart to pound. But then he recalled she had promised to introduce the injured soldier who would be acting as his temporary valet and to continue with her nursing duties. Of one thing he was certain. Miss Foster was not the sort to abandon her post.

Hannah.

In the privacy of his thoughts, he would allow himself the indulgence of using her Christian name. He liked the sound of it just as he greatly admired its owner. He should have insisted she leave as soon as his new assistant arrived rather than practically begging her to stay. But he was a long way from being fully recovered, and she
had
said she was the only one who could be trusted with his medications—disgusting concoctions though they were—and the care of his rapidly healing wound. As long as he had a suitable helper for dealing with his personal needs, he could see no harm in her monitoring his recovery . . . none he was willing to admit to at any rate.

While restlessly awaiting her return, William’s body began to make one of those personal needs known. Having eaten solid food after goodness knew how long, it was to be expected, but he doubted his ability to make it to the closet at the far end of the hallway. It was a pity he’d not had the place renovated during his absence, as a modern bathing room situated next to the master suite would have been appreciated right about then. He would have to inquire into having one built. While he was at it, he could see about fixing up the old pile.

The thought brought him up short.

He wasn’t going to die.

Neither would he be returning to his life in the army. His injured leg would have seen him discharged months before if he hadn’t stubbornly refused. There was no way they’d take him back with an arm that barely functioned.

It had not been his intention, but he’d effectively returned to Blackthorn Manor . . . to
live
.

Groaning at the thought, William used his good arm to drag himself upright and then swung his legs around to place his feet on the floor beside the bed. His head swam, and his breath came in harsh pants.

“Lord Blackthorn, what are you doing?”

His joy at Miss Foster’s return was tempered by his predicament. To be observed by a lady in such a debilitated and barely dressed state was humiliating in the extreme. She rushed to his side and placed an arm around his waist, and his traitorous body revelled in her nearness.

Lord, she smelled good.

He, however, did not.

“I need a bath,” he muttered. And a nightshirt, and a shave, and a hearty meal, if he could stay awake long enough to do it justice.

“Is that why you were trying to get up?”

This close, he could see flecks of gold in her hazel eyes and faint laugh lines at the corners. No, Hannah did not possess the childlike look of a young debutante embarking on her first season, but she had qualities he much preferred—character, intelligence and, he suspected, a wry sense of humour. For the moment, she was eyeing him warily.

“I think a bath might be a little premature, my lord,” she said when he didn’t reply. “Trevor Dawkins has arrived and is settling into the servants’ quarters. I could ask him to assist you, though it’s quite a distance to the bathing room. I fear it would be too much for you.”

“I fear you are right.” William was still breathing heavily, and that was just from pulling himself upright, though Hannah’s proximity may have played a part. “I was just commenting on my less-than-fresh aroma.”

“I could give you a sponge bath?”

William’s eyes widened as his mind filled with images of her hands on his body, some from mortifying memory and others from imagination. After nursing him back to life, was she trying to kill him?

“I understand you have concerns about your modesty, my lord, and rightly so,” she added at his pained look. “If you would prefer, I could ask Mr Dawkins to assist you for propriety’s sake?”

“As long as you give me my shave,” William said, his good sense deserting him. “I don’t fancy a man who is missing fingers scraping my face with a blade.” For all he knew, the young man was quite capable, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Miss Foster.

She nodded. “Very well. Why don’t you lie back and rest while I get everything organised?”

The thought was tempting, but he shook his head, his body reminding him why he’d been trying to rise in the first place.

“How long before Dawkins will be here?”

“Not too
long. I could send Tommy, the Jenkins boy, to fetch him if there’s a problem . . . unless it can’t wait.” She gestured towards the blasted bottle sitting prominently on his bedside cupboard.

“It’s not
that,
” he muttered, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“Oh, I see.” Corresponding colour rose in her own, but he was too embarrassed to appreciate it. “Not to worry. It’s a sign you’re on the road to recovery,” she said with a wan smile.

Her words gave him hope she hadn’t
assisted him with this particular matter while he was incapacitated. Some things could not be borne.

“I had Tommy help me place a special chamber pot, one that’s been fitted into a chair, behind the screen for your use.” She gestured to a new addition to the room, a feminine-looking three-panelled affair embellished with Oriental artwork. It must have come from the rarely used mistress’ suite, as none of the Blackthorn wives had lived long enough to leave much of a stamp on the rest of the manor. It was thoughtful of Hannah, but he wasn’t sure he could make even that small distance unaided.

He sighed, avoiding her gaze. “Do you think you could assist me to cross the room?”

“Certainly.”

With her arm hugging his waist and his good arm resting across her shoulders, he rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Maybe we should wait for Dawkins?” she suggested when he slumped against her. She wasn’t a small woman, but he towered over her and must have been close to double her weight.

“Can’t,” he muttered, taking a wobbly step. Weak as a damned kitten, he almost fell to the ground. His injured leg ached, though he had to admit it wasn’t as bad as he would have expected after so long without use. It was his arm that was causing him agony.

“Need a sling,” he said between panted breaths, holding his hand to his chest to ease the radiating pain.

“Oh, I should have thought of that. I’m so sorry. Can you stand for a moment?” With her hands at his waist, Hannah steadied him while he tried desperately not to think about the fact her soft fingers were on his bare flesh. For a maiden, she appeared surprisingly unshockable, but he had no desire to test her limits. If his body chose this moment to betray him with a visible response, he doubted either of them would recover from the embarrassment.

William snorted. There really wasn’t anything to worry about. In his weakened state, he was barely able to stand let alone rise to the occasion.

Hannah released him only long enough to retrieve a cloth from the sideboard, fashion it into a large triangle, and tie it around his neck.

“Thank you.” He sighed when the impromptu sling took the weight of his arm, and then grudgingly accepted her assistance. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy her touch—he was a man, after all—but the circumstances were far from ideal.

Step by torturous step, they made their way to the corner of the vast room. With a shake of his head, William rued the ludicrousness of the master of the house requiring such a large suite. It wasn’t as if any of his predecessors would have shared it with anyone, as tradition dictated a husband visit his wife in her room—as seldom and as briefly as possible—before retreating to his own domain.

To his relief, the seat was furnished with sturdy rails, and he assured Miss Foster he could manage alone. Thinking of her as
Hannah
at this moment was out of the question.

“Let me know when you’re safely seated,” she said from the other side of the screen, earning a malediction muttered beneath his breath. “I heard that,” she added.

“My apologies, Miss Foster.” He rolled his eyes, feeling like an errant schoolboy.

“I’ll just go hurry Dawkins along. Promise you’ll wait for our return before trying to stand?”

William’s response was a growl, though he had every intention of complying. Waltzing across the room unaided after the spectacle he’d just made of himself was hardly an option.

Meeting one’s new valet while seated upon a glorified chamber pot, half-dressed and fully wild in appearance, was not ideal for garnering respect. But a short while later, the young man of military bearing who asked for permission to step behind the screen maintained a neutral expression.

“Trevor Dawkins, my lord,” he said with a nod. “Line Infantry, Twenty-seventh Regiment.”

“Well met, Dawkins. Now help me off this blasted thing,” William said, avoiding eye contact.

Of average height and build, which made him a good few inches shorter than William, his new valet was, thankfully, not lacking in strength and well able to support him on his return to the bed. At the last moment, Hannah entered the room and redirected him to sit on the chair beside it.