Page 12 of Harpy of the Ton
“By Millican’s Bank—do you know them? The master’s great-grandfather entailed the estate, but the entail only lasted three generations. All that’s left is the title—and this run-down place.”
“How do you know such things?” Lawrence asked.
“My nephew’s a clerk at Millican’s—he’s gone to London. A clever lad, Jonny is, though I say so myself. It’s him who’s shown me how to put a bit by each month to save for a little cottage of my own. Though whether that’ll happen now…” She hesitated, then tilted her head to one side, regarding Lawrence with a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “They paid you yet?”
Lawrence shook his head. “I’ll be paid on completion.”
“If you’ve any sense, get them to pay you something now, lest you find yourself out of pocket. The master’s only employing you to keep Lady Arabella sweet. He cares little for this place, and I suspect he’ll abandon it once he’s got his hands on her fortune.”
She folded her arms, then sighed. “I should feel sorry for her, seein’ as she’s a woman in a man’s world. I often see her running off to the stables to hide from the duke—and sometimes I see such misery in her eyes. But then she lets loose with that sharp tongue of hers, threatening to have us beaten or dismissed. A harpy like that deserves everything that’s comin’ to her. I’ve never met such an unpleasant creature in my life. Not even my sister, and she’s a right one, I can tell you. The way she speaks to poor Jonny sometimes makes me want to take my fry pan and—”
“The duke’s not a kind master, then?” Lawrence asked, unwilling to hear what the cook would do to her sister with a fry pan.
“Far be it for me to gossip, but there’s no young women in the household—excepting Lady Arabella’s maid. And do you know why?”
Lawrence shook his head.
“Because, for all his stuffiness, Mr. Head is kind enough to deter any women in danger of…unwanted attentionfrom joining the staff here. His Grace doesn’t accept refusal from anyone—especially not a woman he takes a fancy to.” She shuddered. “We had to let a lass go when she was found to be…” She blushed and made a random gesture in the air.
“I understand,” Lawrence said, his gut twisting in revulsion.
“Luckily, Mr. Barnes at the King’s Head was in need of a scullery maid. He’s a right kind soul, is Mr. Barnes—andMrs.Barnes, for I’m sure the idea was hers. Mr. Barnes might have his name over the door, but it’s Mrs. Barnes who rules that household. And why not, I say? It’s us women who do the work—except yourself, Mr. Baxter, of course. I’ve seen you work ever sohard in the garden. Yet poor Susie had to bear the consequences of the master’s actions. But she’s a parlor maid now, with the bonniest boy you could imagine. You may have seen her?”
Lawrence nodded, recalling the thin young woman toiling in the guest rooms with a baby in tow. How many other bastards had Dunton fathered?
“Susie’s not the first,” the cook continued. “There’s a rumor about some Society miss in London, a friend of Lady Arabella’s—if that haughty creature could secure any friends! Doubtless there’ll be others.” She paused, guilt in her expression. “I shouldn’t speak of the master so, but there’s no harm in warning decent folk, is there? I wouldn’t want no daughter of mine working here. Do you have a daughter, Mr. Baxter?”
“Yes.”
“And your wife?”
Lawrence drew in a sharp breath. “She died six years ago.”
The cook’s face creased in distress. “Oh, bless me, Mr. Baxter, I’m that sorry! You’re carrying grief and here’s me rattling on. You poor man—widowed with a child.”
“Three children.”
“Threemotherless mites! And they’re all alone while you’re here?”
“A friend’s taking care of them while I’m here.”
“Where might they be—if you don’t mind my asking?”
“At Brackens Hill,” Lawrence replied. “My friend’s finding us a house there.”
“Aye, I’ve heard of it,” she said. “That’s a long way to go to leave your children.”
Lawrence nodded, the familiar ball of guilt unfurling in his stomach. “I cannot bear to leave them, but I’m doing it for them.EverythingI do is for them.”
“Of course,” the cook said, her voice softening—as did the voice of any woman of a certain age when faced with the notionof a man on his own with children to support. By the count of five, she’d be recommending candidates for a second wife.
One…two…
She leaned forward.
Three…
“You’re a good man, Mr. Baxter.”
