subdued, sovereign. “You are very kind, Mr. Holmes. My room here is a palace compared to my usual accommodations. May I have your permission to withdraw?”
“Of course.” He rose. Better to make one last stab at peace. “Anything you need from London, for yourself or for the child, please do let me know. Send a runner, if you wish.”
Becky nodded, her head held high. “I am sure we will want for nothing, but you are good to think of us. I wish you a safe journey.” She bobbed a slight curtsy, and with a swish of creamy skirts, she was gone.
Paul sat back at his desk, rubbing his thumb meditatively over the smooth pages of his ledger book. He might have the running of things at Kellridge for now. However, this little milliner with her charming dimple was likely to sorely challenge his long-held and unopposed reign.
Anger surged through Becky as she marched back down the hallway with as much dignity as she could muster. She couldn’t even think of strong enough terms to adequately express her outrage. Her hands shook and she grasped them together to still their trembling.
Paul Holmes and his autocratic, domineering ways.
His lack of concern for others.
The clockwork precision and cold, emotionless way he lived his life and ran Kellridge.
Thinking that a few trinkets would make everything better.
’Twas rather like applying a mustard plaster to a broken heart.
Becky paused in the doorway of the library. Her leaves—the leaves she had scattered not moments ago—were already gone. Picked up by some silent servant, no doubt.
For a brief moment, she simply stared. How could they already have vanished? The mechanical preciseness with which Kellridge was run was truly astonishing. She hadn’t seen the servants cleaning as she passed by before. No, someone must routinely make the rounds to ensure that every room was exactly as it should be, not a speck of dust marring a polished surface, not a single leaf disgracing a thick, plush carpet.
She might fling back her head and howl at the absurdity of it. Why was Paul so afraid—aye, that’s what it was, genuine fear—of disorder, of disarray, of basic human emotion? In the brief moments before he shut her out completely, she had glimpsed the stark terror in his dark eyes.
Well, it didn’t signify why Paul was afraid. Not really. He wouldn’t change in that, not while he was lord of the manor. He was too used to everyone obeying his every command and anticipating his needs. She must either accept it, or leave.
Becky leaned her head against the satin wood of the doorframe and closed her eyes, willing herself to calm down. God must have sent her here for a reason, and for His sake, she could not waver. She could not leave. Leaving meant failure. Leaving meant forsaking His purpose for her life. Or at the very least, what she thought His purpose might be. By giving up now, she would be admitting she wasn’t good at anything. She wasn’t a milliner, and she wasn’t a nursemaid. She certainly wasn’t any man’s bride. For the rest of her life, she would be a failure at everything, and that would be intolerable.
Besides, she must be here for Juliet. No child should grow up in a home devoid of all feeling and emotion. She must remain as long as she could for Juliet’s sake. She would make their corner of Kellridge a pleasant and cheerful place. What if God had called her here just for this reason? Did He promise it would be easy or effortless?
“I must learn to choose my battles with Paul,” she murmured under her breath. Somehow, saying the words aloud gave them strength. “I cannot change him, but I can always try to act in Juliet’s best interest.”
“Excuse me, my dear,” an unfamiliar voice piped up behind her.
Becky gasped and whirled around. An older woman smiled gently at her, the late-morning sun reflected in prisms of light in her spectacles. Her graying hair was bound in braids around her head and she was gowned in a simple dress of cinnamon moiré. There was something more than just practicality and elegance in her bearing. In the brown eyes behind the spectacles, Becky glimpsed warmth and good humor.
“I must admit I heard someone speaking, and I wondered if perhaps there was something amiss.” She gave a slight bow of her head. “Are you by any chance Miss Siddons, our new nursemaid?”
“I am.” Becky grasped after her manners and bobbed a slight curtsy.
“I am Mrs. Clairbourne, the housekeeper. I do apologize for not meeting you yesterday and showing you about the house myself. Mr. Holmes prefers to meet new employees and introduce them to Kellridge personally.” She gave a slight tilt of her head, and the corners of her mouth turned downward with something like mirth. “So, I let him do as he wishes, though I always want to do my own introductions afterward.”
Becky nodded. “I understand.” Perhaps Mrs. Clairbourne was choosing her battles, as well. “Kellridge certainly is well run. I imagine nothing slips by Mr. Holmes’s notice.”
“Well, he did come into the running of this house very young.” Mrs. Clairbourne motioned for Becky to follow her. “He was only eighteen when the elder Mr. Holmes passed away. Still at an age when most young men are trying to learn their places in the world, and so many siblings to care for! All of them determined to follow their own paths—’twas rather like trying to keep kittens in one basket. I imagine that discipline is how he managed to take control and run the estate so well.” Mrs. Clairbourne paused as they entered the vestibule leading to the other wings of the house. “Would you like to join me for a little tea? I usually have a few moments to myself in the morning before we begin worrying about dinner.”
“I’d like that very much.” How nice not to have to retire and sit by oneself in the east wing. She really had nothing to occupy herself with until Juliet’s arrival, and that was not for another three days’ time. She could visit her sisters, of course, but if she left now, she might struggle with coming back. Even though she was beginning to think she had been called here, it would be mighty hard indeed not to crumple and fold when she saw Nan’s practical little face, or embraced fiery Susannah.
“Follow me, then. I have a little sitting room all my own.” Mrs. Clairbourne led the way through the back of the house, the part Becky had only glimpsed in passing when Paul had escorted her to her room the previous day. What a vast, rambling building this was. Becky craned her neck backward and peered all around her like a goose—after all, she was trailing behind the housekeeper, and no one would notice if she gawked. She would never find her way back to the east wing of the house on her own. She certainly would never find Mrs. Clairbourne’s sitting room again, not without a map and a compass.
The housekeeper ushered her into a small, tucked-away room under one of the back staircases. How marvelous—it might have been a large closet at one time, but now it saw use as a lovely sitting room. Two deep wing-back chairs flanked an arched window with leaded panes. A vase of the very same chrysanthemums that had graced the library held cheerful court on a mahogany table. An orange tabby cat slept on one of the chairs, curled into a striped ball.
“I would never have guessed such a room even existed.” Becky smiled, clasping her hands before her. “How different it is from everything else at Kellridge. So—alive.”
“Do sit. Tabs, move out of the way.” Mrs. Clairbourne shooed the cat out of the chair and patted the cushions
