The Earl's Revenge (7 page)

A correct butler answered his groom’s knock.

“I am Lord Bridgeport,” Mark declared, noting the flicker of surprise in the butler’s face. “I know I was not expected.”

“Welcome, my lord,” intoned the butler, leading him into a darkly paneled hall. “I am Burgess. The master’s rooms are always kept in readiness.”

That sounded encouraging. “My luggage coach should be along soon.”

A child’s squeal raised Mark’s brows.

“Your daughter, my lord. She must have escaped her nurse again. Allow me to show you to your rooms.”

“And arrange a bath,” ordered Mark, barely able to get the words out through his shock. He had completely forgotten that one-sentence exchange with Cramer some months earlier.

The girl cannot remain in residence while the roof is being replaced, his secretary had noted.

Send her and the nurse to Cornwall
, he had suggested absently, his mind on other matters.

Now, as he followed the butler up the stairs, he cringed, unwanted memories crowding his head. His wife’s death had meant nothing in itself, but he had been furious that the child was a girl. It made another marriage inevitable, and the prospect was more than daunting.

He had managed to keep the agreement with his father secret for the entire year between that first disastrous betrothal and his marriage. Thank heaven he had been able to disappear immediately into Westron. Lady Bridgeport’s fury at having her will crossed proved even worse than anticipated. He later learned that his father had locked himself in the library and taken meals separately for several weeks for fear of a physical attack. Several servants had willingly departed without references rather than endure the countess’s tantrums.

He tried to remember his wife, but could not bring her image to mind. She had been an insipid, quiet mouse, so uninteresting that he had barely been able to consummate the marriage. That was an unexpected flaw in his plans, for he had never before experienced such a problem. It had taken every bit of willpower he possessed to get a child on the chit. And then she had died, leaving him still in need of an heir. Out of consideration for his father, he allowed his mother to again choose his bride. But the wedding never took place.

What wretched fate! Why, of all the spots he could have gone, had he chosen Cornwall? Where was his vaunted luck when he needed it? He had no desire to meet a child who could only remind him of a period he wished to forget.

He was sorely tempted to leave immediately, except that the estate problems he had already noted must be addressed. Sighing, he entered a large chamber crowded with heavy walnut furniture and hung with deep red draperies. It was clean and showed no sign of damp. At the least the household staff seemed competent.

* * * *

An hour later there was still no sign of Federsham or his luggage, but Mark had washed away the dust of travel and was ready to meet his steward. The house dated to Elizabeth’s reign with few changes since its construction. The rooms contained no means to summon a servant, and the lack of anyone in residence meant that there were insufficient footmen to carry messages. That would have to change.

He had reached the main staircase when running footsteps forced his eyes up to the second floor. A young girl was racing down the stairs, her face twisted in agony.

“Never run on stairways!” he barked, hardly aware of the words as his eyes widened in shock. He was staring at a living portrait of himself at age seven – slender body, coltishly long legs, russet hair tumbled in disheveled curls, green eyes shining. But in her case, the glow was a sheen of tears.

“Oh!” she gasped. “Who are you?” But she continued without waiting for a response. “Please help, sir. Nana has fallen and is in great pain. She cannot rise, and I am not strong enough to lift her. Please come!”

Waiting only until he took the first step in her direction, she raced back up the stairs. His mind in chaos, Bridgeport followed.

The girl moved so quickly that he was forced to break into a trot to keep up. She finally threw open a door at the end of a long hallway. The room was equipped as a Spartan nursery, but he had no time to take in the details. The old woman crumpled on the floor was feebly trying to rise, but even an untutored eye could tell that she had broken a hip. There was no sign of anyone else.

“I brought help, Nana,” the girl announced, kneeling solicitously beside the old lady and laying a trembling hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right now. You’ll see.”

“Thank you, dear Helen,” the nurse managed in reply. “Who is he?”

“Oh, dear. I don’t know.” She stood and turned to Mark. “I am Lady Helen Parrish and this is my nurse, Miss Beddoes.” She managed a creditable curtsy.

“And I am your father, the Earl of Bridgeport,” he replied gravely. “Who is the housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Burgess.” Wariness crept into Helen’s eyes, causing a strange tightness in Mark’s chest.

“Good. Tell Burgess to summon a doctor. Then find Mrs. Burgess and ask her to come here. Nana needs more help than I can give her.” As Helen scampered out of the room, he carefully lifted the nurse and carried her into the adjacent room. She was unconscious from the pain by the time he laid her gently on the bed.

Mark’s head swirled dizzily as he pulled up a chair and sat down. He had not even known his daughter’s name. Shame washed over him. How could he have treated her so shabbily? It was true that he had no particular use for children and that he’d been furious that she was a girl, but that was a selfish reaction to the prospect of doing it all again. It certainly wasn’t the child’s fault.

Yet in six years he had not even bothered to inquire as to her name.

His wife had written a month before the birth to say that her own nurse would care for the babe. That was the last time he had even considered arrangements, leaving details of her upbringing to the estate steward. He had known nothing of the nurse’s character or age. She must be nearly eighty and should have been pensioned off years ago. No matter how well behaved Helen might be, it was impossible for this woman to properly care for her. Burgess had hinted that escaping her nurse was a regular occurrence. A maid must immediately be found who could care for the child.

Nana stirred, opening her eyes. Pain still twisted her face, but she seemed lucid.

“Lord Bridgeport?” she asked uncertainly.

“Yes. Have you no one to help care for Helen?”

“There was adequate staff in Yorkshire, my lord,” she murmured. “Mrs. Burgess promised that Rose would help us as soon as she returns from her mother’s sickbed. There are no others available in so tiny a place as Treselyan.”

Helen’s return prevented a response. She was accompanied by a bustling woman dressed in black.

“I fear she has broken a hip,” Mark murmured to the housekeeper.

“I pray not, for she will never again rise from her bed.”

He nodded.

Mrs. Burgess turned to Helen. “You must find Ro— Oh, dear, the lass is still at home with her ailing mother. Perhaps— But no, Cook went into the village to find a better joint for dinner. And Willy is fetching the doctor from Bodmin – but that could easily take three or four hours.”

“Helen can give me a tour of the house and grounds,” offered Mark with a sigh. “Once the doctor arrives, perhaps you can arrange for the footman to look after her.”

“Yes, my lord.” She turned to the nurse, who seemed to be drifting somewhere just short of unconsciousness. “Take some of this laudanum, Miss Beddoes. It will be a long wait until the doctor can see you.”

Mark shook his head and headed for the door.

“Are you really my papa?” asked Helen when they had left the nursery behind.

“Yes.”

“I have always wanted to meet you,” she continued in a rush. “But Nana says you are too busy to travel so far. Are we closer now?”

“No. This is just as far as Westron, but I have business here.” What was he supposed to say to a child? Guilt was already gnawing at his conscience. How could he explain that he had given her not a single thought in six years? He glanced again at that face so like his own and shivered. “Have you been here long?”

She glared as if it was a foolish question – which it was, of course. “About a month, I think. At least, that was what Miss Elaine said yesterday.”

“Who is Miss Elaine?”

Her face lit up. “My bestest friend. She tells me all about the world and birds and animals. And she taught me how to read books for myself so I do not need to wait for someone to tell me the stories. And she is showing me how to make pictures so they look pretty. She does the most fantastic drawings, often out of her head, for she does not need to see a real thing to paint it.”

“Does she live here?” he asked in surprise, though if she did, surely Mrs. Burgess would have consigned Helen to the woman.

“Of course not. She lives in the village with her friend, Miss Anne. But she likes to walk out on the moor and draw. I often see her there. And sometimes I go into the village to have tea with them. We all went to the vicarage one day. There was a fat old cat with a secret smile. I think he had just caught a mouse.” She jumped off the last step and laughed.

Mark was becoming more horrified by the minute at this artless recital. “Do you go out alone?”

She nodded. “Nana cannot walk more than a few steps anymore, but I am always very careful. Miss Elaine showed me places that are too dangerous to go and taught me how to read the clouds. I never leave the grounds when a storm is coming. She says the paths are dangerous with wind and wet. She thinks I should stay closer to the house, but that is boring, and she does not mind me visiting.”

Mark’s head was swirling. Clearly she was not being properly cared for. Deciding that he must investigate the local spinsters that his daughter claimed as friends, he thrust aside annoyance and allowed Helen to introduce him to the house.

It had not been used as a residence for a long time, though he believed that an uncle or cousin had lived there in his father’s youth. The furniture was heavy and dark, dating back at least a hundred years. The library was hardly worth the name, containing fewer than fifty volumes, most of them sermons. It was good to get outside.

“Today is pretty,” observed Helen, holding her face up to the sun. “It is often foggy or rainy here. Nana complained about the damp when we first arrived. She suffers dreadfully from rheumatism. Jenny often has a hard time making her comfortable.”

“Who is Jenny?”

“One of the nursery maids at home. She looks after Nana and Lily looks after me.”

“Why did they not come with you?” he questioned idly.

“Nana wondered that too, but the orders were to send only the two of us, so she assumed there were other maids here. Lily and Jenny were happy enough to get a holiday.”

“Let us look at the stables,” suggested Mark as his guilt increased. It was his own unthinking words that had led to that order.

“There is not much to see,” said Helen with a shrug. “Mr. Bowles keeps his horse here because his cottage has no stable, and there is another that Mrs. Burgess uses with the gig, but that is all. Toby wanted to keep a pair to use with our coach, but Mr. Bowles said it was a waste of money for nought but an old lady and a brat. I heard them arguing about it just after we arrived.”

“Toby is the groom?”

“No, that is Freddie. Toby is our coachman from Westron. He wanted to teach me to ride, but Mr. Bowles refused to let us use his horse, and the other is unaccustomed to a saddle.”

“Mr. Bowles is the steward, I believe.”

She nodded. “I don’t like him. He has an angry face.”

“Most people do during an argument. Or did you say something to upset him?”

She giggled. “No, he never talks to me, though he is annoyed that we came. He will be even more annoyed to see you. I don’t think he likes people much. Or maybe he doesn’t like to answer questions. Anyway, Miss Elaine showed me how to draw eyes and mouths so that the face can be happy or sad or angry. Mr. Bowles always has an angry face. Mrs. Burgess usually has a happy face. Jenny had a sad face when we left, though she is usually happy. Burgess has what Miss Elaine calls a butler’s face. It shows nothing. She also says that many people use a false face so that no one can tell what they are really thinking. Mrs. Hedges in the village is like that. She wants to know everyone’s secrets, so she pretends to be friendly. But I saw her hit a little boy when she thought no one was looking. And yesterday she kicked the vicar’s cat.”

And what could he say to that? For a child of barely six years, Helen was a very astute observer. He frowned as they entered the stable. Though in reasonable condition, he could see deficiencies. As with the grounds, there was neglect. It was long past time that he visited here.

“I wish I could ride,” continued a wistful Helen, interrupting his thoughts. “It would be ever so much more fun than walking. But Nana said I must wait until I am older and we return to Westron.”

Mark remained silent, but inwardly he seethed. He must find her a governess. And he must revisit Yorkshire. The steward could not have been properly supervising her upbringing. Was he also neglecting his estate duties? Nelson was right, devil take him. Even the best employees turned lazy if they were not adequately managed.

Elaine frowned at the parchment pinned to the drawing board on her easel. Her hand hesitated a moment before adding two lines and broadening a third. Finally, she smiled and laid down her pen. Only then did she realize that Anne was standing in the doorway.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Exquisite. Your skill improves every day.”

Slipping the drawing into a folio with a dozen others, Elaine stretched. “Have you been back long? I did not hear you come in.”

“No more than five minutes, but it is nearly time for dinner.” She hesitated, but there was no point in putting off the news. “Lord Bridgeport arrived at the Manor this afternoon.”

Elaine paled. “I have feared a visit ever since I learned that he owned it. It would seem that my luck is on the turn again.” She paused to frown. “Or perhaps not. What would he gain from pestering me?”