Page 6 of Thief of the Ton
“Dear God,” Papa whispered. “It’s worse than I thought.”
The cottage door opened, and a couple appeared—a plump, gray-haired woman, and a ruddy-faced man with an unruly mop of brown hair.
The woman wiped her hands on her apron, then bobbed a curtsey. “Oh, your lordship, we didn’t expect you so soon. Welcome to Springfield Cottage.”
“Springfield?” Lavinia asked. “Isn’t that where Cousin Charles lives?”
“He’s been good enough to rent us a property on his estate,” Papa replied. “To think! From Fosterley—to this!”
“I like it,” Lavinia said. “It looks like a fairy tale.”
“Foolish chit!” Papa replied. “This is no fairy tale. It’ll be cramped and cold.”
“We can light a fire.”
“And suffer the smoke?”
“We can make it comfortable, Papa. It’s like my den in the woods. It…”
She caught a blur of movement, then cried out as he clipped the side of her head.
“That’s enough!” Papa roared. “Can’t you see today’s difficult enough without your prattling?”
The couple in the doorway exchanged a look, then the woman approached Lavinia.
“Shall I take the child inside, Lord de Grande?” she asked. “Get her settled?”
“Very well.” Papa sighed, “Mrs.…?”
“Mrs. Bates, at your service, sir,” the woman said. “This is my husband, Joe. He’ll be tending to the grounds.”
“Grounds!” Papa gave a snort of derision. “A hovel, surrounded by weeds. What doyoudo, Mrs. Bates?”
“Housekeeper and cook, your lordship. I’ve got a bit of stew going for supper.”
“Housekeeperandcook—ye gods!” Papa cried. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Lavinia rubbed the side of her head, which still smarted. Papa glanced at her, then he sighed. “I suppose we must make do. Come along, child.”
He took Lavinia’s hand, then led her inside, with the couple following.
“Joe, get the fire going in the parlor!” Mrs. Bates said. The man scuttled through a side door, then the woman turned to Papa. “Shall I show you the bedchamber? We’ve got it all comfy, like—and there’s a separate chamber for the lass. Or would you like to take tea in the parlor first? I’ve a fruitcake ready to welcome you into your new home.”
“Very well, tea it is,” Papa said. “And perhaps a drop of brandy to go with it. I’m in need of something stronger than tea before I face what awaits me upstairs.”
Mrs. Bates’s smile slipped a little, but she spoke brightly. “I’m sure you’ll feel much better after a pot of tea and some fruitcake, sir. You must be tired after your journey.”
The woman’s voice reminded Lavinia of Millie, who’d always used an overly bright tone to coax her into doing something she didn’t want to.
Mrs. Bates led them into a low-ceilinged room on the ground floor. A large, deep red sofa dominated the space. Beside the fireplace—where Mr. Bates poked at the fire, coaxing the flames to dance among the coals—was a large wing-backed armchair, furnished with the same fabric as the sofa. Lavinia entered the room, her boots clacking against the floorboards, and she wrinkled her nose at the unmistakable odor of wood polish, combined with a delicate floral aroma. Beside the sofa was a round table, bearing a vase filled with wild flowers and grasses, a burst of color that gave the room a welcoming air.
The windows were set into the thick stone walls, with deep red curtains accented by flecks of orange and brown, tied back with emerald-green sashes. The windowsills had been fashioned into window seats, with green cushions to match the sashes on the curtains. Lavinia ran toward the window and looked outside, just in time to see a second carriage roll to a halt outside the cottage.
A liveried footman climbed down and opened the carriage door. A woman climbed out, straightened her back, and glanced toward the cottage, shielding her eyes from the light of the setting sun.
She was clad in a ruffled dress of black silk and gripped a cane, curling her claw-like fingers around the top. She spoke to the footman, her sharp voice carrying through the air, then strode toward the cottage, her sprightly gait indicating that she had no need for the cane—at least not to assist her in walking. Lavinia knew, from experience, that the cane served a different purpose altogether.
“Papa!” she cried. “It’s Aunt Edna.”
