Winterset (18 page)

“It’s all right, Mrs. Michaels,” Anna assured her. “We can find her whereabouts, I think. It just occurred to me that my uncle would have given her a stipend.” Though he might not remember, it was a certainty that her father would have. “Mr. Norton would be the one sending it, I imagine.”

Reed nodded. “Yes, of course. We’ll ask Norton.”

It took no more than a note to the solicitor, delivered by one of Reed’s grooms, and within an hour they had a missive in return, stating that Mrs. Hartwell resided with her son in the nearby village of Sedgewick. This seemed to them a hopeful development, and they set out the next morning in good spirits to visit the housekeeper.

They rode, rather than taking a carriage, and Anna could not help but enjoy the morning. When Reed had courted her three years ago, they had often gone riding, and simply being out with him this way again was enough to make her feel the way she had then—at least a little.

The cottage to which Mr. Norton had directed them was a pleasant half-timbered house of Tudor construction, well kept up, with a small, fragrant garden in front. When Reed knocked on the door, it was opened by an apple-cheeked young girl, who stared at them a little shyly and bobbed them a curtsey, then called for her mother.

A middle-aged woman appeared next, and when Reed explained that they were there to see the Mrs. Hartwell who had once been the housekeeper at Winterset, she gave them a puzzled look but invited them inside.

“It’s John’s mum you’re wanting to see, then?” she asked, leading them into a small but pleasant parlor.

“Yes. I am Lord Moreland. I live at Winterset now. And this is Miss Holcomb. We were—I had some questions regarding Winterset that I wished to ask Mrs. Hartwell.”

“Well, I—of course you can see her, if you wish, but I doubt there’ll be much you can get from her. Please, sit down, and I’ll get you some tea. Lizzie!” She bustled out of the room, and Reed and Anna exchanged a look.

The apple-cheeked girl returned not long afterward with a tea service on a tray, and a few moments after that, Mrs. Hartwell came in, her steps slowed to accommodate the old woman who leaned heavily on her arm.

The girl, who had been uneasily waiting, shifting from foot to foot, sprang forward to help her mother lower the old woman into a chair.

“Mother Hartwell,” the middle-aged woman said loudly, bending down and looking directly into the old woman’s face. “You have visitors.”

The elder Mrs. Hartwell turned to look blankly at her daughter-in-law, then swiveled her head to cast the same blank look at Reed and Anna, sitting on the couch across from her.

“Mrs. Hartwell, I am Lord Moreland. I own Winterset now, where I understand you used to be the housekeeper.”

The old woman blinked and turned back to the other woman, opening her mouth and making a few garbled noises. The middle-aged woman shot Reed and Anna an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry. It’s hard to understand what she says. She hasn’t been the same for the past few years, ever since she had the apoplexy. The doctor said it was a miracle she lived, but she hasn’t been able to walk or talk right since then.”

“No, it is we who should apologize for intruding upon you like this,” Reed replied. “We did not realize…”

“If you want to go ahead and ask her, I can tell you what she says,” the woman offered.

“We were going to ask her about some of the other servants who worked at Winterset while Mrs. Hartwell was housekeeper there,” Anna began.

They all looked at the old woman, who was nodding pleasantly. Encouraged, Anna went on, “We were especially interested in Susan Emmett. She worked there almost fifty years ago.”

The old woman continued to nod, smiling a little. The younger Mrs. Hartwell bent and asked her, “Do you remember Susan Emmett, Mother? At Winterset.”

The old woman made a few more garbled sounds, and her daughter-in-law turned to them apologetically. “I’m sorry. Sometimes she doesn’t make much sense. She said…I think she said something about an animal.”

“The Beast?” Reed asked.

The other woman looked surprised. “Yes, that is what it sounded like. Does it mean something to you?”

“A little.” Again Reed and Anna exchanged a look. It would be almost impossible to get any useful information about the murders from Mrs. Hartwell. “We were hoping she could tell us about Susan’s death.”

“Beast gor ’er,” the old woman managed to get out, the clearest thing she had said yet.

She added something, and her daughter-in-law cast them an embarrassed look. “I think she said that the girl was a silly chit.”

“Could you tell us, Mrs. Hartwell, the names of some of the other servants who worked at Winterset then?”

There was another long struggle to speak from Mrs. Hartwell, translated by her daughter-in-law. “I think she said, Cutting or Cunning.”

“Cunningham,” Anna supplied.

“Oh. Yes, I see. And then she said Arabel or Anabel, but she gave no last name. And then Josie—I’m pretty sure of that one—but I think she was saying that all of them are dead.”

Reed and Anna soon took their leave, thanking the women for their help. He threw her up in the saddle, then mounted his own horse, and they started down the street.

“I’m afraid that didn’t get us much of anywhere,” Reed commented.

Anna cast him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at her and smiled. “No one’s fault, really.” He sighed. “I wish we could get the names of the other servants. In his note, Norton said that only the butler and housekeeper had received stipends. He did not know the names of any of the other servants who had been in your uncle’s employ, and, of course, those may not even have been at Winterset almost thirty years before Lord de Winter left.”

Anna sighed. “No, I would imagine that most of them were too young to have been there that long ago.”

After a moment, Reed said, “There must have been record books.”

Anna glanced at him. “Why, yes, I am sure you’re right. I wonder we didn’t think of it earlier. They would have had household accounts books, and it would have listed the wages they paid the servants.”

“Now, if we just had any idea where those are.”

“Father probably took the most recent ones over to the Manor when he took over my uncle’s business dealings. But I would think he would have left all the old books at Winterset.”

“If the old books were still there, of course,” Reed inserted.

“It is a long time to keep them, I suppose, but our estate manager’s office has books dating back a hundred years or more. Of course, my Holcomb ancestors were a good bit more methodical than my de Winter ones, I’m afraid.”

“The de Winters were erratic?”

“The de Winters were colorful,” Anna said with a grin. “They tended to live their lives on a grander scale. Like old Lord Jasper—the one with the staghounds.”

“Mmm. ‘Colorful’ can be rather trying sometimes. And I can tell you that I speak from experience.”

“I cannot believe that your family is as odd as you say,” Anna told him.

“No? That is because you have never met them.”

“I’ve met Kyria. And Con and Alex. And they were all charming.”

“But just look at their names. Who would name twins Constantine and Alexander?”

“Someone who envisioned great things ahead of them?” Anna ventured.

“No. I’ll tell you who—the same person who named the other set of twins, my older brother and sister, Theodosius and Thisbe.”

“Oh, my.”

He flashed a smile at her, and she felt her insides melt. “You see? My father thinks little of importance happened after the fall of Rome.”

“And did not your mother object?”

“My mother, I believe, proposed my name and my sister Olivia’s. Kyria was something of a compromise, being Greek for Father and pleasant-sounding for Mother. But she is inclined to give in to my father on such issues as names, because her mind is concerned with more important things—social reforms, the vote for women, child labor laws.”

“I think your mother sounds like a very good person.”

“Oh, she is. So good, in fact, that one can sometimes find it difficult to live up to her expectations.”

“Surely
you
have not failed her expectations.”

“Of course I have. We all live in fear of her.”

Anna laughed. “What a piece of flummery! I don’t believe you for an instant. I have never met people who are less afraid of anything than you and your brothers and sister.”

“Ah, but you have never met my mother,” he retorted with a smile.

They continued with such banter as they rode back to Winterset, but once there, they set about looking diligently for the old household records.

First they searched the small locked room where the household silver had always been kept, but there was no sign of records there. They moved on to the study, then the library, but found no household accounts, new or old.

“The estate manager’s office!” Anna exclaimed after a moment. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. He had a small house on the grounds—it’s beyond the stables, and when my father took over the estate, he transferred everything to our own estate manager. The cottage has been closed up ever since, but I wonder if maybe they left all the old records there in his office.”

“It’s worth a try,” Reed agreed.

It took some time to find the appropriate key, and in the end, they came up with four that might open the office. Taking them all in hand, Reed and Anna strode across the yard and past the stables, walking the path that led past a copse of trees to a small house. There was a door on the side of the house that opened directly into the estate office.

One of the keys worked, although the lock turned with the creak of age and disuse, and Reed pushed the door open, revealing a small room containing a desk and some cabinets, as well as a few open bookcases. There were also two large trunks lying behind and beside the desk, and smaller boxes stacked up in every available space. A layer of dust coated every surface in the room.

Leaving the door open for the light and air, they stepped into the room. Anna looped up the trailing train of her riding habit and tucked it through her belt so that it would not drag across the dusty floor. She made her way through the maze of boxes to the single window and pushed the curtains aside, letting in more of the summer sunlight.

Reed sighed, looking around him. “This could take us hours. I should have brought a lamp.”

“Let’s start, anyway. If it grows dark before we find it, we can go back for light.”

“You’re right. Where do you suggest we begin?”

“Are there labels on any of the boxes?”

“I think so.” Reed brushed off the top of one. “‘Farm Accounts’ and a date. That’s not it.”

They ruled out several other boxes, but the trunks did not have labels attached to them, so they simply opened one and began to dig through it. It was impossible to avoid the dust, and their clothes were soon liberally smeared with it. Once they had reached the bottom of the first trunk, they opened the second. A cloud of dust rose from the surface as they lifted the lid. Anna let out a low cry of dismay.

“Oh! Look at this!” She gazed down at the dust that coated the front of her skirt. “Penny will never get this clean. She will think I have been out rolling in the dirt.” She wiped ineffectually at the dust, succeeding only in furthering the damage. “Oh, dear.” She sighed and raised a hand to brush back a strand of hair from her forehead.

Reed chuckled, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Wait. You are only making things worse. Now you have a streak of dirt across your forehead. No, don’t touch it. Here.”

He dug in his pocket and pulled out a large white handkerchief. Taking her hand in his, he turned it palm up and wiped the handkerchief over it.

Anna watched his hands at work on hers. His fingers were long and nimble, dusted with a sprinkling of black hair. She had always loved the look of his hands, she thought, strong and masculine, but not blunt or square. They were very capable hands, yet they could move with great gentleness and tenderness. A quiver of sensation ran through her, startling her, and she drew in a sharp breath.

Reed’s hands froze on hers, and he looked up at her. They stood that way for a moment, their gazes locked, his hands still around hers. Then he looked back down and continued to wipe away the dirt, his fingers moving slowly, gently on hers. Anna felt each stroke of his hand, his skin separated from hers by the silken cloth of his handkerchief.

“You should not,” she said a little breathlessly. “You are ruining your handkerchief.”

“It’s all right,” he replied, his voice faintly roughened.

He let go of her hand and took the other one, applying the same treatment to it. The silk cloth caressed her skin, stirring up a slow, curling heat in her abdomen. She felt suddenly, tinglingly alive, her nerves aware of every sensation—the slide of the cloth over her skin, the touch of air against her throat with each breath she took, the heavy thrum of her pulse.

Reed straightened, letting go of her hand. He took her chin between his fingers, holding her head steady as he wiped at the smudge of dust on her forehead. He was very close to her now, only inches away, his gaze locked on hers. Anna felt as if his eyes could see right down into her soul, as if they could discover the secrets of her heart. She gazed back at him, unable to look away.