The Lodestone (10 page)

But she must be allowed sufficient time, Drake reasoned, to overcome the shock of her grandfather’s death; and then he would place in her hands her small inheritance.

**

When Cleome next awoke, the sun was shining brightly through her window, making a criss-cross pattern on her patchwork quilt. An early April nip was in the air, so a fire blazed in the hearth and she forgot for a moment what had happened. A light tap came at the door and Mary stuck her head inside the room.

“Oh, you’re awake now, are you? And a much needed rest you had,” she said, stepping in with a large breakfast tray. “You are to eat every scrap and finish up this nice pot of tea Mrs. Tibbits has made. And not a peep about it, miss.”

“I really couldn’t eat, Mary,” she began, but the maid would have none of it.

“Nonsense. You’ve not had a bite nor a sup since yesterday mornin’ when the new master—when Mr. Stoneham carried you up here.”

The maid’s expression was guarded, as if to spare Cleome, even for a few more minutes, from what must be faced; but her concern was obvious as she bustled about the room. She fluffed Cleome’s pillows and propped them behind her as she sat up; and then she placed the tray across Cleome’s lap and poured out the tea.

“Yesterday?” Cleome asked. “Have I been asleep that long?”

“Yes, but it was needed. Don’t you fret. We’ve been able to manage.”

“How is my mother?” A new fear clutched Cleome’s heart. Mary pulled a chair close to the bed, sat down and took one of Cleome’s hands in her own.

“Well, she could be better. She’s weak, but doctor’s been over from Oakham. He says with care, she’ll pull through. She took on somethin’ awful—had it in her head it was
your
father she seen hangin’ there. We told her it was a tramp come in and done that awful deed. Wouldn’t do, doctor said, to tell her the truth just yet.”

The cold fear that had gripped Cleome since finding her mother in the stable crept away at last, and a new strength flowed through her veins. How stupidly she had behaved. It was a shock, yes; all of it. But her mother needed her and she had to make final arrangements for her grandfather. And here she was, languishing in bed like one of those frivolous women who passed through the Eagle’s Head on their way to the Baths to take the cure for their imagined illnesses. She tried to give the tray back to Mary, but she was surprised to find how shaken she still was.

“Oh no, miss.” Mary pushed her gently back against the pillows. “You’re not to get up ‘til you’ve eaten every scrap. The master has ordered it.”

“I want to see my mother.”

“Of course you do, lambie. But first, be strong enough to give her strength.” Mary stood and straightened her apron. “I’ll go along now and look in on her.”

“Now, miss. You mustn’t take on so. Mr. Stoneham has been a godsend. I mean, with everything happening as it did. He has seen to everything, even to getting vicar to stand ready for the service, and to make arrangements about the grave an’ all. And he’s left strict orders that you’re to be tended with the greatest of care—as if we wouldn’t do it anyway—and you are not to exert yourself in the least until he returns. He has closed the inn to guests for the time being.”

“How will I ever tolerate hearing him order you all about?” Cleome’s voice shook with anger and sorrow.

“Well, what’s done is done. You cannot go blamin’ him for what your granda did to himself. We’ve known for years that the master’s devil was cards and the like, while some men are plagued by meanness and drink. He was very kind, miss; but he had his weakness like we all do, and it finished him. Had it not been Mr. Stoneham, t’would have been someone, sometime. He couldn’t resist a game, no matter what. You are old enough to understand that. And, there’s some’at else you ought to know.” Mary paused, as if to give Cleome time to take it all in. “The staff has been won over out of respect for how Mr. Stoneham took charge in this awful business. He’s asked us all to stay on, with the same wages and allowances as before.”

“I wonder what benevolence he intends for me, and for Mamma,” Cleome said bitterly as she took a sip of tea.

“Well, perhaps there’s your answer,” the maid replied, pointing to a slim, white envelope propped against the honey pot at the rear of the tray. She headed for the door, saying over her shoulder, “And remember, miss. You’re not to get up until ’tis finished. Every crumb and every drop.”

Cleome took another drink of the sweet tea, grateful for the warmth it gave her. She could not attempt the food as yet; but settling back against the pillows once more, she picked up the envelope. It was addressed to her in the strong, flowing hand she recognized immediately. Cautiously, as if the contents would burn her fingers, she opened it.

My dear Miss Parker,
he wrote.
I do not see how my intrusion on your grief would be of benefit to either of us. I have business to attend in Newcastle, and I do not expect to return for at least a fortnight. The competent staff of the Eagle’s Head has been instructed to see to your every need in this time of great sadness, and I hope to find you a little improved when I return. At that time we can make necessary arrangements regarding the inn, and discuss your situation. I remain, your servant, Drake Stoneham.

“My servant, indeed!” Cleome was seething. She wondered what he would be calling himself as he pushed her and her mother out the door. She picked up her fork and attacked her breakfast with grim determination. Taking the place of her grief, for the time being, was a calm, pure hatred for its perpetrator. She would eat, and she would somehow gain the stamina and wit necessary to fight him. Her resolution renewed, she swore to herself and the God in Whom her faith was now somewhat shaken, that she would keep a roof over her mother’s head . . .
this
roof. She would not languish in bed but would continue to run the Eagle’s Head as usual. When Mr. Stoneham returned from Newcastle, she would have it fully operational. Not a penny would be lost during the transition of ownership. She would show him that her knowledge and efficiency were indispensable and she’d ask him to allow her and her mother to remain. She could move into her mother’s room, giving him another room to let, which would increase his profits. And the inn was large enough so that they need cross paths but occasionally.

She knew that in time she would resent the flaw in her grandfather’s character that had led him to do this, to blithely depart a cruel world, leaving two dependent women at its mercy. Cleome decided that somehow she would learn not to be dependent, ever again, on anyone—least of all, a man. But for the present, her bitterness must be put aside, along with her grief at losing her dear granda. He must have a decent burial and she must get to work.

**

Reverend Jefferson, the vicar at the small church her grandparents had attended, was scandalized when Cleome insisted on including Jacqueline at the funeral; but this tragic, useless death had matured Cleome into a stubborn, unyielding woman. Quite simply, she meant to have her way in laying her granda to rest. Using his suicide as justification, she also insisted on burying him beneath an old oak tree at the edge of the property, near the stream, instead of in the consecrated church yard. It had been one of his favorite places, where he’d taught her to fish and showed her where the best wild plums grew. In a simple ceremony, the vicar offered up a lengthy prayer, asking God to grant mercy, even for this unforgivable sin and so on and so on. Cleome was relieved when it was over. She and Jacqueline walked back to the inn together, each taking comfort in the other’s company while Cleome shared her plan with the French woman.

When Garnett called a little later to extend his sympathies, he found Cleome bustling about the kitchen, giving orders as to what dishes were to be provided for the many mourners who had come to pay their last respects. She was courteous, and she found his concern comforting, but she didn’t need to lean on him or cry on his shoulder as he so obviously expected.

There was not a raised eyebrow on any of the faces of the mourners on seeing Jacqueline at Cleome’s side, but with the exception of Lord Foxworth, Garnett and Sir Laurence Easton, there was not a gentleman of any great social standing present. Most were farmers and tradesmen with whom William had done business over the years. It was a bit out of place having the serving wench there, they agreed among themselves; but as they had all known Adelaide, they could easily understand Cleome’s sentiments.

The young laird of Easton Place stood in the corner quietly, hardly taking his eyes off Cleome, which made her extremely uncomfortable. But she was glad Garnett realized the awkwardness it would cause if he tried to draw her into conversation. Instead, he respectfully joined the other men at the long, heavily laden table for one last toast to William Desmond.

***

There was nothing like hard work, Cleome decided, to take the mind off the sorrows of the heart. Finding chores enough in the fortnight following the funeral was certainly no problem. By day, she took advantage of the fact that there were no guests in the inn and ordered the place scrubbed from top to bottom. She and Mary patched all the linens while Jacqueline and Fanny polished every piece of furniture to a blinding sheen. Stubbornly ignoring the pain that settled around her heart, she had the two serving maids strip her grandfather’s room bare and she refurbished it with items gleaned from other rooms, as well as from the surplus in the attic.

Her grandfather’s clothing and personal effects she packed away, with the exception of the few mementos Jacqueline wanted. When they had finished redecorating, they stood back and surveyed their work with satisfaction. It was a room any gentleman would find adequate to his needs when spending a few weeks in the countryside.

The ornate four-poster bed that Cleome’s grandparents had shared, and that Jacqueline had briefly enjoyed, was also brightly polished. The great, carved claws at its base were free of dust, and the eagle’s heads that adorned the tops of each post were polished so brightly that Cleome could see her own face reflected in them. She and Jacqueline found an old Persian carpet in the attic and under Mary’s direction, Mickey had hung it up in the sunshine and beaten years of dust out of it. Although Cleome knew Mr. Stoneham would replace them with his own things, she had polished her grandfather’s silver-backed hairbrushes and put them on the heavy oak dresser along with the silver tray Adelaide had given him as a wedding present. The tray was intended to hold cravat pins and the like, but Granda had steadfastly refused to indulge in such frills. Grandmamma’s brass and porcelain bathtub was polished and now stood in the corner behind a lovely Viennese screen. Cleome had Young Sam and Mickey place a desk large enough to suit the new master’s big frame in another corner and she’d supplied it with a store of paper, quills and a leather writing portfolio that had been a birthday gift to her from her grandfather. While the furniture and mattresses were airing outdoors in the spring sunshine, she had Mickey whitewash the walls and Fanny and Jacqueline launder and re-hang the drapes. With everything back in place and sparkling like new, it was a gentleman’s room, and perfection itself.

A week later, Drake’s trunks arrived on the afternoon coach, along with a letter explaining that he would be detained a week longer than expected. Cleome and Jacqueline immediately set to work on the contents of his luggage. They mended stockings and patched shirts, undergarments, trousers and jackets, washed and pressed all, and then hung them in the chiffonier in better condition than they had arrived.

At night, Cleome relieved Mary and sat beside her mother’s bed, willing Ramona to live. Ramona developed a fever and with it, fanciful hallucinations of the past. Some of the ramblings her mind took her on were mercifully pleasant, and she would sing hoarsely or talk of the few people who had figured kindly in her wasted life. But at other times, she moaned as if in the greatest agony. When the fever broke, and she slept peacefully, Cleome relinquished evening nursing duties to Della and Mary and allowed herself, at last, to get some rest.

Garnett Easton came to the inn often and after the first uncomfortable afternoon in the parlor with him, Cleome directed Jacqueline and Fanny that should he call in future, he was to be shown into the dining room, served, and presented a bill. Perhaps Garnett meant well, but the warnings her Grandmamma had given her so long ago regarding men and their intentions toward her made her wary.

Within ten days after her grandfather’s death, Cleome had the Eagle’s Head in top shape and reopened it for business in spite of Drake Stoneham’s orders. She was determined to show him that although she was young and had an invalid mother to care for, she could be an asset. She was counting linens out to Fanny and Jacqueline the morning he returned. Hearing the clatter of hooves on the cobblestone courtyard in front of the inn, she thought it was another traveler seeking lodging, and she bade Fanny go down and greet the guest.

“Make up number three, please,” she said to Jacqueline as Fanny clambered quickly down the stairs. “Now every room is full,” she said triumphantly. “The new master’s money box will be heavy. I believe it will work, Jacqueline.”

“
Oui
, Mademoiselle Cleome. I am sure he could not find such a clever one as you are to see to his house.”

Fanny made considerably more noise coming back up the stairs than she had going down. Excited, she clutched her white cap to her head to keep it from flying off in her haste. “’Tis not a guest,” she hissed. “’Tis ’im—the master—and you should see the likes of ’im. Three days growth of beard on his face and dusty as a beggar!”

Cleome snapped into action. “Quickly!” she said, taking the linens out of Jacqueline’s outstretched arms and replacing them in the cupboard. “Get Della to lay the fire in his room and tell Mickey to ready his bath. You, Fanny—tell cook to get his breakfast going. He’ll be tired and hungry, I expect, and in no mood for nonsense. Come along now. Look lively.”