Chapter Nine
Bella,
Springs storms are raging over the sea. The air is saltier than usual; I can't scrub the smell out of my skin, no matter how hard I try. Robert says I'm beginning to remind him of a salted fish, but I'm fairly certain he was trying to be amusing. He says hello, as always, and inquires after the health and well-being of his favorite sister-in-law and nephew.
To be frank, the house sounds like a wreck. In all honesty, I'm rather glad I'm here instead of there. Though I don't doubt you'll be displeased to hear it, unloading coal is preferable to cleaning up rich master's messes. But perhaps my opinion is incorrect… after all, I never was very good at my job at Weatherby. Mr. Northing would forever be reprimanding me in some way, making me feel like no more than a lazy child. Ah, well. The past is the past. I've moved onto better things. At least now I'm by the sea.
I trust both you and Thomas are well. I miss you both very much; I hardly remember what you look like, and I'm sure Thomas has changed immensely. I know I mention it in every letter, but the fact never changes. One regret of being here is not watching my own son grow.
Enough dwelling. I do hope, for your sake, that Mr. Bertrand's disposition has improved some. He seems a daunting fellow, very difficult to get along with, you know. Perhaps he's simply shy around strangers. Everyone handles this type of situation differently… you, for example, are quick and friendly and witty, impressing everyone you meet to no end, whereas I mumble and trip and am generally a ridiculous person who embarrasses the company he keeps. But you knew that already.
Is Thomas adapting? Do let me know if Mr. Bertrand continues to frighten him. I would hate to know that the boy is running away from the master of the house every time they meet; call me vain, but it would be rather embarrassing on our behalf to have a child so easily scared by a tall man. Perhaps I should write Tom a letter detailing how I would personally handle the situation. On the other hand, he may not appreciate knowing that you're passing this type of information onto me. I was proud at his age; on more than one occasion I preferred to fail at a project rather than ask for help. It's a silly trait, but one I'm sure he will grow out of, given time.
I've got to be at the docks at sunrise tomorrow, so I'll end this here. Take care of yourself and of Tom, Bella. Write soon.
Yours,
Daniel
Two days after she had started work on the library, Isabel stood in the center of the room, surveying it with no small sense of pride. The bookcases gleamed, reflecting the sunlight pouring in from the freshly-scrubbed windows. The books, now in alphabetical order and arranged according to subject, stood in straight lines on the shelves. She and Thomas had worked together on the volumes, trading off cleaning the covers and putting the books in order. The whole process took a day at the most. The number of books in the library proved less than she had estimated: six-hundred and forty-five, rather than a thousand, on every subject she could think of. Travel, royalty, linguistics, nature, novels, poetry, music. The organization was a bit clumsy – to cut corners, she mixed nature and science into one category, as well as art and music – but it was significantly easier to navigate through than the previous jumble of papers it had been before. Once again, she was grateful to have Thomas. He was proving to be indispensable. Normally, she wasn't one to request help from her son, but she was prepared to make an exception until the house got to be in a more manageable state.
She looked around the room once more and smiled to herself. The overstuffed chairs were still dusty and smelling of mildew, but she was in no mood to move them outside to air right now. The chairs were oak and terribly heavy; she certainly couldn't lift one on her own, and Thomas wasn't bound to be any help. Satisfied, she turned and walked out the door, making her way to the stairs and trod down, gripping the railing tightly. She entered the kitchen still smiling, closing her eyes briefly as she stepped into a stream of sunlight, basking in its glowing warmth. For the first time in months, she felt truly content.
A loud crash resounded from outside.
Shielding her eyes against the sun, she peered out the window and saw Mr. Bertrand standing next to a plank of wood that appeared to have fallen off the side of the stable. He was staying perfectly still, the index finger of his injured hand stroking his chin thoughtfully.
Not bothering to consider the situation, she went to the door and opened it, stumbling outside into the sunlight. She rushed to the stable and Mr. Bertrand turned his head towards her, his pensive expression never wavering.
"Mrs. Bauer?"
"Are you alright?" She stopped the "sir" waiting to come out at the end of the question and bit her tongue, wishing she didn't feel so awkward.
His focus moved back to the stable in front of him. "I am very well, thank you. And yourself?"
"I heard a loud noise from out here," she said, ignoring his inquiry. "I just wanted to make sure you hadn't caused yourself further injury."
A ghost of a smile graced his lips, even as his eyes remained on the building. "I assure you, Madame, I am perfectly fine." His gaze flicked to her. "Though your concern is touching."
Annoyed at his sarcastic tone, mild as it was, she crossed her arms, glaring at the building. "May I be so bold as to inquire as to what the noise—"
"A board was crooked, Mrs. Bauer. I simply removed it. I am afraid it made quite a racket upon being disconnected." His foot absently tapped the plank of wood next to it. "The ground is more uneven than I originally thought, and the frame is a touch off-center. Foolish of me to allow such an oversight to occur." He dropped his hand. "Perhaps cobblestone floors would have been a better idea. I did not consider them until now… every country stable I have seen in this area has dirt floors…" he continued staring at the building quizzically, as if expecting it to answer him with its opinion.
"I see." Isabel folded her hands in front of her. "When do you expect it to be finished?"
His head snapped around and he looked at her blankly for a moment. "Finished? Oh." He raised his uninjured hand and lightly rubbed the bandage on his palm, giving a visible wince as he did so.
"Is your hand—"
"The stable should be complete within a few days," he said, ignoring her. "I am pleased you asked, as a matter of fact." He turned to the pile of tools beside him and knelt to the ground, his knee resting in the damp grass. His head turned away from her, apparently searching for something on the ground.
Isabel took this moment of distraction to study him. He still looked tired – he must be, she mused. Working on this ridiculous stable at all hours, never taking any nourishment. She sighed slightly. He had accepted a pot of tea into his room the previous evening and Isabel found the tea tray outside his door that morning, its contents empty. At least he was drinking something now. She savored the small victory.
He shifted his weight, raising his knee so he was now squatting, rooting through a stack of papers that had lain next to the tools. She glanced at him again.
The mask stared back at her.
Isabel had never had the curiosity other women did… even as a small girl, she was never particularly interested in other people's affairs, no matter how scandalous. Acquaintances of her parents simply thought she lacked the avid imagination required to spread gossip. She was dull, the poor child. Possibly a bit slow. Despite the assumptions, Isabel had kept to herself quietly throughout her life and rarely meddled in the lives of others. But this mask was beginning to draw something out of her, an intense desire to know what this dark man was hiding. Intellectually, of course, she knew that she would never see what was behind that cold porcelain. She also knew that, if faced with the choice, she most likely wouldn't want to. She suspected a part of her tugging interest was the knowledge that it would never be sated. And of course, she knew that if he went to such lengths to cover his face, it must be a horror indeed. She was honest enough to admit to herself that the idea of seeing his unusually handsome face marred in some way was not an attractive one, and she enjoyed the sight of him too much for it to be wavered in any way.
Enjoy the sight of him?
She mentally slapped herself.
Mr. Bertrand rose and turned, holding out several sheets of paper to her. She took them carefully, glancing at the untidy scrawl written on them. "What's this?"
"A list. Items I need from the metal shop." He straightened his back, placing his hands on his hips and stretching slightly. "I presume there is a blacksmith in town?"
"Yes, I believe I saw one."
"If you would be so kind as to collect the requested items, I would be much obliged."
"Certainly, Mr. Bertrand." She looked over the list, trying to decipher the measurements and metallic jargon in his illegible handwriting.
"Today, if possible."
She looked up at his patient expression. "Today? Right now?"
He glanced at the sky. "You have several hours of daylight left, Mrs. Bauer. Plenty of time to make a quick run to town."
She let her hand fall to her side. "Mr. Bertrand, with all due respect, I do not think it's really possible to quickly run into a town that's four miles away."
Mr. Bertrand's lips turned up in a small smile. "I would be much obliged," he repeated.
She folded the papers up delicately and slipped them into the pocket of her apron. "Of course. I'll leave immediately." She spun around and hurried towards the door to the kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Bertrand staring after her. Though she didn't dare turn to look, she could have sworn he was still wearing that smile.
The blacksmith's forehead was furrowed over the paper, trying to decode Mr. Bertrand's messy writing.
Isabel wrung her skirt nervously. "Do you do this sort of thing?"
The old man looked up, smiling widely. "'Course, ma'am," he said in a thick Scottish accent. "If it's done wi' metal, we ca' do it withou' a problem."
Isabel smiled politely. "Wonderful." She paused, glancing at the papers again. "Can you make out what it says?"
He turned a sheet to its side and tilted his head. "Havin' a wee bit o' trouble, to be honest wi' you, ma'am. But I'm sure we ca' figure it ou'." He tapped the paper lightly. "Looks like the master needs himself some hinges and the like." He raised his eyes to Isabel. "What's he doin', then?"
"Building a stable. I think." She rested against the wall of the small building, relaxing her aching muscles. She felt at ease in this town; it was full of other working folk, and there was a sense of camaraderie about the place, a haven for the people who devoted their lives to the service of others.
"Stable?" He looked back at the paper and shrugged. "He doin' this himself?"
"Building it? Yes. I'm the only servant on the premises."
The man's eyebrows raised in surprise. "A house wi' only one servant? Must not be very grand. What's the estate, then?"
Isabel felt her annoyance growing at the man's insufferable curiosity. "I do not believe it has a name. It's a modest house with some gardens around it."
"Is there a lake?" came a soft voice from behind her.
Isabel spun around and faced a lovely young woman with tightly-bound brown hair and shining, wide blue eyes. She looked at Isabel with a politely inquisitive expression, her small hands elegantly folded in front of her, enveloping a reticule.
"Yes, there is a lake. And an orchard."
The woman smiled triumphantly, releasing something of a giggle. "You live in that house! I'm so delighted to meet you!" She stuck out a hand.
Isabel stared at it for a moment, taken aback by the woman's abruptness. "The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure," she said carefully, extending her hand and shaking the young woman's.
"Samantha Kinneston, ma'am. I live just down the road, at the Forester's house." She gave a brief curtsey. "I've been working for them for as long as I can remember." She gazed at Isabel expectantly.
"It sounds very… ah, consistent." Isabel blinked at her own words.
Samantha burst into giggles. "Yes, I suppose it is! You must forgive my forwardness, but everyone in town has been so curious as to whatever became of that house! The Churchmans…" her eyes wandered to the blacksmith, who was listening intently. She shot him a cold look and he straightened, grabbing the papers off the table quickly. "Right," he said, clearing his throat. "I'll ge' to work on these straight away, ma'am. Should 'ave them done by tomorrow." He turned and disappeared into the back room.
Samantha turned her smile back to Isabel. "As I was saying, the Churchmans left that house a few years ago."
"The house I live in?"
"The very same! They just vanished! No one knows what happened… there were rumors, of course." She sniffed slightly, crossing her arms. "Murders and ghosts and whatnot. I don't believe a word of it, myself, but that doesn't stop me from feeling uneasy around the place now."
"Ghosts?" Isabel said faintly.
"So the village's children say. Hellions, all of them. I wouldn't believe them if they told me my head was on fire."
Isabel smiled.
"That being said, I do feel awkward doing so..." the young woman bit her lip and a light pink appeared on her cheeks. "I simply must ask… whoever bought the estate?"
"Erik Bertrand," Isabel said with an air of pride. Naturally, she didn't expect this woman to have any idea who Mr. Bertrand was, but that didn't stop her from wishing to make a good impression. It was a habit left over from Weatherby Park, where the servants were instructed to use Mr. and Mrs. Northing's name whenever possible. Feeding egos was a large part of wealthy society.
The woman's eyes clouded with some confusion, but her smile only widened. "My, how handsome he sounds!"
Isabel bit the inside of her cheek to stop the laughter building in her chest. "Do you think so?"
Samantha went pink again. "Oh, forgive me. I do say the silliest things." She smiled apologetically. "Is he a gentleman? I assume he is of no profession, being so removed from town."
"Yes, he is a gentleman." Isabel inwardly smirked at the idea.
"How lovely. That estate is so beautiful, I think. The cherry orchard is simply stunning this time of year." The young woman's smile became wistful. "The Churchmans were so kind. They were close acquaintances of the Foresters', you know, and always allowed me to walk through their gardens whenever the weather was pleasant."
"It's a long way to travel for a stroll," Isabel observed.
"The result is worth the journey." Once again, Samantha smiled. "It was so nice to meet you, Miss…"
"Mrs. Isabel Bauer."
"Mrs. Bauer." The woman curtseyed again. "I do hope we'll meet again."
"I'm sure we will, Mrs. Kinneston."
"Oh! Miss, if you please." Samantha grinned. "I am unmarried. Terribly dull, I know."
"On the contrary, Miss Kinneston," Isabel said lightly, picking her satchel up and sliding it onto her shoulder. "This conversation has been more interesting than many I've had with married women."
She turned to leave. As she let the door shut behind her, she distinctly heard giggling from inside the shop.
Catnip and fresh cream to the beta, Chat. Crazy-busy and still finds time to fix my typos. I'm a lucky writer.
A shout-out (type-out?) to the lovely Jennyfair, for making me smile at the beginning of a very long day.
The word "hellion" appears courtesy of Random-Battlecry. Don't ask.
Your reviews are encouraging and helpful and all things good.
