Loving A Lost Lord. Mary Jo Putney
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Mariah said, startled. “I didn’t know we had any relatives.”
“You have whole clutches of them.” Her father’s gaze shifted away from her to contemplate the sea again. “I was the black sheep and my father disowned me. With justice, I might add. Now that I have achieved respectability, it’s time to mend fences.”
Family. What a very strange concept. “You have brothers and sisters? I might have cousins?”
“Definitely cousins. Not that I’ve met any of them.” He sighed. “I was a very wild young man, Mariah. I didn’t start to grow up until I became responsible for you.”
She tried to imagine what it would be like to have family beyond her father. “Tell me about your—our—family.”
He shook his head. “I will say no more. I don’t want you to be disappointed if I am still forbidden the family home. I really have no idea what I’ll find there.” His expression was bleak.
“Surely at least some of your relations will welcome you back.” She tried not to sound wistful when she added, “Perhaps I can visit them?”
“I’m sure that even relations who still disapprove of me would be pleased to meet Miss Clarke of Hartley Manor.” He grinned. “Now let’s visit the kitchen. I’ve found that Mrs. Beckett is a most excellent cook.”
She followed happily, ready for some of the bread she’d smelled baking. It would be worth missing her father for a fortnight or two to finally have a family.
Hartley Manor, several weeks later
Mariah awoke with a ridiculous smile on her face, as she did every morning now. She slid from the bed, wrapped a robe around herself, and padded to the window to look out at the shimmering sands that bordered the sea. She still had trouble believing that this lovely estate had become her home. Granted, much work needed to be done, but every day there was some improvement. When her father returned, he would be surprised and pleased by her efforts.
A gentle rain drifted across the landscape, soft and magical. The dampest corner of England wouldn’t have been her first choice for a home, but no matter. Now that she was here, she loved every raindrop and twist of fog.
Hoping that she would receive a letter from her father today, she dressed, doing her best to look like her dignified imaginary sister. She began to comb out her hair while mentally listing her tasks for the day. After breaking her fast, she would go into the village. First she would call on the vicar, who had promised to suggest men who might make good outside servants.
Her thoughts lingered on the vicar. Mr. Williams was single and attractive, and she had detected warmth in his gaze whenever they met. If he was looking for a wife, he would want a Sarah, not a Mariah, but she was making progress at being respectable.
After visiting Mr. Williams, she would take tea with her new friend, Mrs. Julia Bancroft. Knowing a clever, amusing female near her own age was in some ways even better than the vicar’s admiration.
The local midwife, Julia was a young widow who was also the local substitute physician since there were no real doctors for miles around. She treated minor injuries and ailments and knew something of herbs.
They’d met after a church service and immediately struck up a friendship. Granny Rose had taught Mariah a great deal about herbs. Mariah wasn’t a natural healer like Julia, so she was pleased to pass on her great-grandmother’s knowledge to a woman who appreciated it.
When the snarls were out of her hair, she twisted a neat knot at the back of her head. Sarah approved. The young maid of all work arrived with a tray containing toast and a cup of hot chocolate and helped Mariah dress. Mariah felt like quite a grand lady.
After finishing her light repast, she pulled on her gloves and cloak, collected her straw bonnet, then headed down the stairs, whistling cheerfully. She stopped before reaching the kitchen. She was quite sure that Sarah wouldn’t know how to whistle.
“Good morning, miss.” The cook, Mrs. Beckett, spoke with a Cumbrian accent so thick that Mariah could barely understand it, but no matter. She was a good plain cook, and she welcomed the new owners because they were living in the house. For years, Mrs. Beckett had been a general housekeeper and sometime cook on the rare occasions when the previous owner had chosen to visit. It was good to have a steady position, she’d confided, but she’d missed having people about.
“Do you need anything from the village shops?” Mariah asked.
The cook shook her head. “No need, the pantry ’tis full. Have a nice walk, miss.”
Mariah was fastening her cloak when the maid scuttled into the kitchen, her eyes wide. “Mr. George Burke is calling to see you, miss,” she blurted out.
Mariah’s cheer fell away. If only her father was here! But she hadn’t even received a letter from him in over a week. “I suppose I must see the man,” she said reluctantly. “Please ask him to wait in the small salon.”
After the maid left, Mariah said, “At this hour, I don’t suppose I’m required to serve him refreshments. I wonder what he wants?”
Mrs. Beckett frowned. “I don’t know what Mr. Burke will do, and that’s a fact. I’d heard tell he was staying at the Bull and Anchor. I hoped the rascal would leave Hartley without calling here. You watch yourself with that one, Miss Mariah.”
A good thing Mariah was dressed to go out. That would give her an excuse to keep the meeting short. “Do I look proper?”
“You do indeed, miss.”
Conjuring Sarah’s serene expression, Mariah headed to the small salon. When she arrived, George Burke was contemplating a small, inlaid table. In his early thirties, he was fair-haired and good-looking in a bluff, manly way.
As she entered the salon, she said, “Mr. Burke? I am Mariah Clarke.”
“Thank you for receiving me.” He ran his fingers over the inlaid wood wistfully. “This table belonged to my grandmother.”
It was a pretty table and Mariah liked it, but she and her father had agreed that Burke should be allowed to remove personal belongings and anything with sentimental attachments. “In that case, you should have it, Mr. Burke.”
He hadn’t looked at her when she entered, but at her words he glanced up. His expression changed. Mariah recognized that look. It was the interest of a man who found a woman attractive and was wondering how beddable she might be. “You are gracious,” he said. “I’m sorry we meet under such circumstances.”
Then why hadn’t he stayed away? Coolly she asked, “You have returned to Hartley for a visit?”
“I’m staying at the inn.” He frowned. “This is awkward. I called largely because I wondered if you had heard the news about your father.”
Alarm shot up her spine. “What news? If you wish to speak with him, you must wait until he returns from London.”
“So you haven’t heard. I feared that.” Burke glanced away, not meeting her gaze. “Your father was killed by highwaymen just outside of London, in Hertfordshire. I was staying at the local inn when I heard about the stranger who had been murdered, so I stopped to see the body in case I could help identify him. I recognized your father immediately. His face, the scar on the back of his left hand. It was unquestionably him.”
She gasped in disbelief. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“You insult me, madam!” Burke took a deep breath. “I will make allowances for your grief. If you don’t believe me—how long has it been since you received a letter from your father?”
Too long. When he first left, she’d received a letter about every other day. “It…it has been over a week.” She sank onto a chair, still not quite grasping that her father could be gone. But highways could be dangerous, and she’d been feeling anxious about the lack of letters. Her father had promised to write often, and he never broke