Lady of Shame. Ann Lethbridge
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Claire stiffened.
The chef glowered. ‘Now.’
The maid tossed her head. ‘First you want soup. Now you want the housekeeper. Make up your mind, can’t you?’ She scampered off.
‘Can’t we have soup?’ Jane asked.
‘Later,’ Claire said. She wasn’t going to let anyone see them begging for food as if they really were vagabonds. They would eat in the dining room, like Montagues.
‘I apologise for the mistake.’ He grimaced. ‘We were not expecting you, I think?’
The apology gave her renewed hope. She offered him a smile. ‘It is my fault for coming to the scullery door.’
As he gazed at her face, his eyes darkened, his lips formed a straight line. ‘Madame is generous.’ He had transformed from a man who seemed warm and caring to one whose back was rigid and whose attitude was formal and distant. A huge gap opened up between them and they were now in their proper places. Or perhaps he would not think so, once he knew her story.
‘Madame Stratton will be with you shortly,’ he murmured. ‘You will excuse me, I think?’
Claire smiled her gratitude. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’
‘De rien. My pleasure.’ He bowed and left.
Pro forma, of course, but her thanks had been heartfelt even if her responses to his touch had been distinctly strange.
He had disappeared into the kitchen.
A strategic retreat.
Jane pressed a hand to her tummy. ‘I’m so hungry. Why did you say no to the soup? I can smell it.’
So could Claire. The scent was aromatic and utterly tempting. She was hungry too. It had been a permanent state of affairs these past few months. Recalling the very formal arrangements for family dining at Castonbury Park, she anticipated it would be hours before dinner was served. ‘We will ask for some tea and biscuits,’ she said. ‘As soon as we are invited in.’ If they were invited in.
Jane heaved a sigh, but folded her mittened hands in her lap and swung her legs back and forth.
Claire reached out and squeezed the small hands in hers. ‘It won’t be long.’ She prayed she was right.
At the sound of the tap of quick footsteps on the flags and the rustle of stiff skirts, Claire came to her feet, half fearful, half hopeful. Now she would know if she was welcome here or not.
Despite the grey now mingled with the blonde hair neatly confined within her cap and the new wrinkles raying out from the corners of her friendly blue eyes, Claire recognised the housekeeper at once.
The footman who had closed the front door in their faces only moments before peered over the housekeeper’s shoulder. ‘Saints, another one crawling out of the woodwork claiming to be a relative.’
‘Be quiet, Joe,’ Mrs Stratton said sharply. ‘Go back to your post at once.’
The footman glowered, but stomped off.
The housekeeper turned back to Claire, her kindly face showing surprise mingled with shock. No doubt she saw changes in Claire, too, but it was the shock of recognition and Claire felt a rush of relief.
‘Lady Claire. It is you.’ Genuine pleasure warmed the housekeeper’s voice as she dipped a curtsey. ‘And sent to the servants’ door too. I am so sorry about Joe. It is almost impossible to get good staff these days.’ This welcome was far warmer than she had ever dared hope.
‘It is Mrs Holte now,’ she said with a smile that felt stiff and awkward as her voice scraped against the hot hard lump that had formed in her throat. ‘I wasn’t sure you would remember my married name after all these years.’ If Mrs Stratton had heard it at all. The Montagues had cast her off the moment she had married. ‘It is good to see you again.’
Jane tugged on her arm.
She indicated the child. ‘Jane, this is Mrs Stratton.’ She smiled at the woman. ‘Jane is my daughter.’
Mrs Stratton dipped her head. ‘Welcome, Miss Jane. Are you hungry after your journey?’
‘Yes, if you please,’ Jane said. She glowered at Claire. ‘We almost had soup.’
Claire took her hand. ‘I would like to speak with my brother.’
‘I don’t believe His Grace is receiving today, but I will check. In the meantime, I will ask that tea be sent up to the small parlour.’ Her voice sounded a little strained. ‘I am sorry, but none of the other family members are in residence at the moment.’
Not receiving? Would this visit of hers be for nothing, after all? ‘Is His Grace unwell?’
‘He has been not been himself for a while. Worse since Lord Edward’s death, I’m afraid. He rarely sees anyone.’ She pressed her lips together as if she wanted to say more, but thought it unwise. Claire knew the feeling. How often had she stifled her words in George’s presence for fear of saying the wrong thing?
‘I read of Lord Edward’s demise in the papers after Waterloo. It must have been a dreadful blow after poor Lord Jamie such a short time before.’ She shook her head knowing how she would feel if anything happened to Jane. ‘Perhaps I should not have come unannounced.’ How could she have thought to impose when he was suffering such sorrow? ‘I will go.’
In that moment, she felt like a traveller who had walked miles only to be faced with a cliff she couldn’t possibly climb and had to retrace her steps and start all over again. Yet there had been no other path to take that she had been able to see. If she left now, she would never find the courage to come back. And she had so hoped she and Jane could stay, that they could finally have somewhere they could really call home after so many years of moving from place to place.
Mrs Stratton glanced down at the small valise and back at Claire.
What must the housekeeper think of her turning up here after all these years without any notice? Pride forced her spine straight. ‘I thought to seek my brother’s advice on a matter of importance while I was visiting in the district. I would have written requesting an audience had I realised he was indisposed.’
‘I know His Grace will wish to be informed of your arrival,’ Mrs Stratton said gently. ‘Later. I will ask Smithins to let him know you are here. In the meantime, may I show you to the parlour?’
Confused, Claire could do no more than smile and nod. She followed the housekeeper through the kitchen, with its gleaming pots and huge open fire. The chef looked up from a pot over the stove, his dark gaze meeting hers with an intensity that sent trickles of heat through her blood.
Unnerved by her strange reaction, she looked away and hurried after the housekeeper, along the servants’ corridor to the columned entrance hall and up the stairs into the family wing.
As they walked, Claire’s heartbeat returned to a more moderate rate and she was able to take in the familiar sights of her old home. Hope once more began to build. She ruthlessly tamped it down. The duke might yet toss her out of his house.
And if he did, somehow she would manage.
The small parlour was light and airy and faced south to get the afternoon sun. The blue paint on the walls contrasted delightfully with the heavy white and gilt ceiling mouldings. Landscapes and the occasional portrait decorated the walls, and tables were littered with Greek and Roman artefacts collected by her father as a young man on his grand tour.
She sat down on the gold-and-blue-striped sofa beside the hearth and Jane wriggled up beside her. ‘Do you think they will bring us something to eat soon?’
‘We can hope.’ She cupped her daughter’s face in her palm and gave her cheek a pat. The child was worth any amount of humiliation, if humiliation was what she had in store. For all she knew, Rothermere