The Music Box (5 page)

“And discipline,” the housekeeper added.

“Of course. And discipline,” Hermione amended. Lowering her gaze, she studied Bryce’s shoes intently. “I don’t think you need concern yourself, Mrs. Gordon,” she pronounced. “Mr. Lyndley is clearly neat as a pin.”

With a suspicious glance at Bryce’s feet, the housekeeper gave a wary sniff. “I’m glad to hear that. I have enough trouble keeping things in order as it is. Take that rabbit for example. Why, I’m sure by now he’s covered Lily’s room with his tracks.”

“I sympathize with your plight, Mrs. Gordon.” Bryce found himself studying his own shoes, grateful to see they were devoid of any offensive specks of dirt. “I’ll do my best not to contribute to your dilemma.”

“See that you do.” With that, the housekeeper turned and strode back to her place.

“Mrs. Gordon has been with me for one and thirty years,” Hermione explained to Bryce, showing not a trace of discomfort at her servant’s sharp tongue. “Ever since your mother left her position here in order to oversee my Bedford cottage and, of course, to raise you. I was so dependent on Mrs. Lyndley—I’d never have survived losing her had it not been for Mrs. Gordon’s ability to step right in and take charge. She’s been a lifesaver all these years.” Pausing, Hermione glanced over at Bryce, a flicker of amusement twinkling in her eyes. “You needn’t look so terrified,” she murmured for his ears alone. “Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Bryce returned dryly.

“Now then,” Hermione continued in a normal tone. “For the rest of the family. Wilson, as you’ve probably guessed, is our incomparable gardener. Over there”—she gestured toward the leathery fellow on the right—“is Reaney, who runs the stables as if they were Ascot, acting as groom, trainer, and stableman all in one … and that’s despite his advanced case of gout. Standing between Wilson and Reaney”—a wave toward the babbling fellow with the misbuttoned uniform—“is Goodsmith, the finest driver
and
storyteller in all of England. Say hello to Mr. Lyndley, gentlemen.”

All three men complied.

Before Bryce could catch his breath, Hermione launched onward, introducing a long line of footmen, maids, and serving girls whose names Bryce couldn’t retain but all of whom had two things in common: their unswerving loyalty—both to Hermione and to each other—and their obvious and assorted oddities, the essence of which clearly diminished their effectiveness as employees.

And yet Hermione had hired them. No; she’d more than hired them. She’d retained, nurtured, and treasured them, not only in spite of their oddities but, as Bryce’s heart and instincts concurred, because of them.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so moved or the last time he’d seen such selfless generosity.

Then again, maybe he could.

He cast a swift, tender look at his hostess. Once again Hermione Nevon had rendered her magic, this time not with a bastard infant but with a group of lost souls, wresting them from a questionable fate, taking them in and transforming them into a family.

A family she wanted to bequeath to him, to entrust to his care when she was no longer there to offer them hers.

Lord, the magnitude of that responsibility was overwhelming.

To accept it would be arduous.

To refuse it, unforgivable.

Which left him—where?

“You’re exhausted, Bryce,” Hermione said quickly, as if reading her nephew’s thoughts. “To be frank, so am I.” She sighed, sinking back against the cushions of the settee.

“Are you all right?” Bryce asked at once.

“Yes, of course.” A faint smile. “Just fatigued. Besides, ʼtis you, not I, I’m concerned about. We’ve bombarded you with enough excitement for one morning.” Her weary gaze swept the room. “You can all return to your chores now,” she instructed the staff, forcing a reassuring smile to her lips. “We’ll meet again at lunch, at which time we can continue our visit with Mr. Lyndley.”

On cue, the servants began milling—and in some cases stumbling—out of the library, leaving only Chaunce, Gabrielle, and the little ones in their wake, all of whom hung back, their expressions anxious.

Hermione’s lashes fluttered. “Bryce, Chaunce will take you to your chambers so you can rest.”

“Forgive me, madam,” Chaunce inserted, clearing his throat. “But it is time for your medicine. Shall I fetch it before escorting Mr. Lyndley to his room?”

“No. It can wait until you’ve returned.”

“It most assuredly cannot.” Startled and troubled by the knowledge that Hermione required medication, Bryce bit back his concern—and his questions—about what she was taking and why. “I’m perfectly capable of locating my own room. Let Chaunce see to your medicine.”

“I won’t hear of it,” Hermione demurred.

“I’ll fetch your medicine, Aunt Hermione,” Gaby offered, concern furrowing her brow as she hastened to her aunt’s side. “Lily,” she asked, giving the child a meaningful look, “you won’t mind entertaining Crumpet a few minutes longer, will you?”

Lily shook her head at once, her distressed gaze fixed on Hermione.

“Good.” Pride and tenderness laced Gaby’s tone. “Go on, then, you and the others. I’ll come to your room in a little while.” With that, she turned back to Hermione. “Where can I find your medicine? You’ve never actually told me where you keep it.”

“It’s in the pantry,” Hermione murmured. “On the very top shelf—far too high for you to reach. Chaunce keeps it there so none of the children can mistake it for refreshment and accidentally drink it.” A contemplative frown. “I don’t see how we can manage this.”

“Might I suggest that Miss Gaby show Mr. Lyndley to his quarters?” Chaunce proposed. “In that way, you’ll feel reassured that our guest is settled, and he in turn will feel reassured that you’re receiving the proper care.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, relief flooding her face. “Whatever would I do without you, Chaunce? That’s a wonderful idea.” She inclined her head at Gaby. “Would you mind, dear? You know which room Mrs. Gordon readied for Mr. Lyndley.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Gaby replied, looking as relieved as her aunt. “Come, Mr. Lyndley. I’ll show you the best route to your quarters.”

Brushing a quick kiss to the top of Hermione’s head, Gaby led Bryce from the room.

“This really isn’t necessary,” he said once they were in the hallway. “As I told your aunt, I’m perfectly capable of finding my own quarters.”

“That’s what you think,” Gaby apprised him. “You’ll soon see otherwise. Nevon Manor is huge, its halls more winding than a maze. Why, some of the servants still have trouble finding their way around, and they’ve lived here for years. Trust me, Mr. Lyndley, without the proper guidance, one could get dreadfully lost.”

A corner of Bryce’s mouth lifted. “Just as Alice did in Wonderland?”

Gaby’s laughter spilled forth like sunshine. “Precisely so.”

“In that case, I’ll retract my claim and accept your guidance with the utmost humility.”

“A wise choice.” Gaby gestured toward the stairway. “Come.” Gathering up her skirts, she led him up to the second-floor landing, then along a series of corridors that twined to and fro until Bryce began to feel grateful for the escort.

“Who on earth designed this manor?” he muttered.

“Lord Nevon did,” Gaby supplied, slowing down until she could walk beside Bryce. “He was a great fan of mazes, so he fashioned Nevon Manor as one. It’s wonderful fun, especially for the children. They conduct their races right here in the hallways.”

“ ʼTis a wonder they ever emerge.” Bryce glanced about him, noting the stark contrast of decorations—oddly shaped vases atop elegant mahogany side tables, unusual paintings adorning traditionally textured walls. “Is there nothing ordinary about this house?” he asked aloud.

“Not a thing. How could there be? There’s nothing ordinary about Aunt Hermione.” Gaby followed Bryce’s gaze and smiled. “What you’re seeing is a bit of everyone’s taste. As a family, we’re all permitted to provide little touches of our own. Hence an unusual blend of decorations, not only in our individual rooms but throughout the manor.”

“The residents are unique as well.”

“True.” Gaby tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, angling her head to study Bryce’s expression. “You’re puzzled. I suppose I would be, too.” She pointed down the hall, where their path curved off to the right. “Your room is just around that bend. If you’d like, I can answer your questions—at least a few of them—while I acquaint you with your surroundings. I’d answer them all, but I did promise Lily I’d fetch Crumpet as soon as possible. So the rest of our discussion will have to wait until later.”

“Thank you.” Bryce fell silent, his mind racing over the myriad questions he wanted answers to, trying to decide which ones were the most pressing.

His concern decided for him.

“Hermione,” he announced the instant Gaby led him through the door to his chambers. “I want to know about Hermione. Is she ill? What medicine does she require and how long has she been taking it? Is her condition serious?”

Gaby paused at the mahogany chest, her fingers skimming its gilded handles. “I don’t know how serious Aunt Hermione’s condition is,” she said quietly. “According to her, she’s just tired and still recovering from her brother’s death. She summoned our physician, Dr. Briers, just after word of His Grace’s passing reached her. It was on that visit that Dr. Briers insisted Aunt Hermione begin taking medicine.”

“On
that
visit?” Bryce repeated. “Were there others?”

“Yes.” Gaby swallowed. “One other that I know of—about a month before the duke’s death. Aunt Hermione is very private about her health, so I haven’t an inkling what was discussed, nor do I know what condition her medicine treats. All I know is that most times she’s her usual vital self; but every once in a while—especially this past week—she becomes terribly tired and weak. Then we’re all excused from the room except Chaunce, who’s the only person she’ll turn to for help, and we don’t see her for hours. Presumably she’s resting. At least that’s what I tell myself. Ofttimes I stand outside her door, aching to burst in and insist that she accept my support. But I understand how proud she is, how important it is for her to feel independent. So I force myself not to intrude.”

A poignant pause before Gaby added, “My intentions are not entirely noble, I’m afraid. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to hear anything dire, doesn’t want to face the possibility that Aunt Hermione isn’t well. Instead, I pray. Every night I ask God to leave her with us, to understand that we need her far more than he possibly could. I realize that’s selfish. But in truth, I don’t know what we’d do without her.” Gaby’s voice broke, and she bowed her head, fighting for control. “Forgive me. I’m sure you didn’t want to hear all that.”

The knot in Bryce’s gut had intensified with each passing word. No, he hadn’t wanted to hear Gaby’s fervent explanation. But not for the reason she suspected. She thought him a detached stranger, one who was drifting through their lives like a passing cloud, only to vanish as quickly as he’d arrived; that, as a result, he’d feel uncomfortable, maybe even irritated by hearing so intimate a recounting. In truth, just the opposite was true. What he felt was a combination of wonder and trepidation; trepidation over the possibility that Hermione’s health might be failing, wonder over Gaby’s ardent, genuine anguish. Clearly, the young woman standing before him loved Hermione with all her heart.

It was humbling to realize that Hermione was capable not only of feeling such love but also of inspiring it in others.

Grappling with a barrage of unexpected sentiments, Bryce walked over, handed Gaby his handkerchief. “I’m the one who should apologize,” he countered, staring at her crown of shining hair and experiencing a sudden and insistent need to comfort her
and
to make her understand whatever fragments of his state of mind he felt able to share. “I didn’t mean to upset you or to besiege you with questions. It’s just that, in my own way, I care a great deal about Hermione. I’ve always thought of her as—inexhaustible, I suppose, perhaps even invincible. It’s hard to imagine her as ill or weak.”

“I agree.” Gaby dried her cheeks, raising her chin to regard Bryce thoughtfully. “You’ve known Aunt Hermione your whole life, haven’t you? Your mother was once her housekeeper.”

Warning bells. “Yes. Hermione had been widowed but a few short years when I was born. With her customary generosity, she allowed my family the use of her late husband’s small Bedford cottage. To hear her describe it, it was
they
who were doing
her
the colossal favor by agreeing to change residence just to oversee Lord Nevon’s neglected estate. But my parents knew the truth—and they blessed Hermione for it every day of their lives.”

“The truth?”

“Um-hum. My father, you see, had served as Lord Nevon’s valet, and with his lordship gone, there was no dignified position at Nevon Manor for my father to fill.”

“Leaving him with a new babe and no job,” Gaby supplied.

“Something like that,” Bryce hedged. “In any case, thanks to Hermione’s typical show of kindness, Father acquired both.”

“I see.” Gaby never averted her gaze. “She obviously cared deeply for your parents, just as she does for you. She speaks of you with such pride, such love. All these years I tried to envision what you’d be like, if you’d really be as wonderful as Aunt Hermione claimed. Frankly, I doubted it. I’m so glad I was wrong.”

Bryce started, taken aback by the blunt, contradictory assessment—an overt insult followed by a charmingly candid retraction. “Now you’ve sparked my curiosity. Why did you doubt your aunt’s faith in me and what makes you think your doubts were misplaced?”

“My doubts were rooted in one simple fact: I couldn’t accept that a man as remarkable as Aunt Hermione described would elect never to see her, that not one time in all these years have you visited Nevon Manor.”

Everything inside Bryce went cold. “Did you put that question to Hermione?”

“Yes. Only once, because it seemed to upset her greatly.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said it was her fault, that she’d severed all direct ties with you a lifetime ago, that her motives were sound and unable to be discussed.”