Page 31 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

L ucy rolled over with a grumble, burrowing deeper.

There was a chill in the air, the warm cocoon she’d slept in all night having disappeared.

Blinking, she opened her eyes to see that the other side of the massive bed was empty.

Harry was gone, leaving behind only the indentation of his head on the pillow… which was quite close to her own.

He’d slept close to her, but hadn’t touched Lucy, as he’d promised. Yes, Harry was entirely considerate of her person, but?—

A knock sounded at the door, interrupting her thoughts, forcing her to sit up. The sun blazed through the windows, dappling the room with light. A glance at the clock on the bedside table told Lucy it was quite late. Nearly noon.

“Come in,” she said, tucking the coverlet around her, expecting a maid. This was Harry’s bedroom, after all. He wouldn’t knock no matter how solicitous he’d been the previous night.

The door opened a crack to reveal a plump older woman, graying hair hanging in a spray of ringlets about her temples. She carried a tray with a steaming pot of tea along with a covered plate and headed straight towards Lucy with a smile.

“Mrs. Estwood,” the woman greeted her. “Good morning. I am Mrs. Bartle. My apologies for not greeting you upon your arrival last evening. I fear after a nip of brandy, I fell asleep before the fire. Probably shouldn’t mention such, since I’m Mr. Estwood’s housekeeper.

” The rolling cadence of her words sounded very much like Harry.

“I believe you met my husband, Mr. Bartle, when you arrived.” She smiled broader.

“This is Lizzie.” She nodded to the girl at her heels. “Your maid, if you’ll have her.”

Lucy nodded her agreement. “Good morning,” she said softly.

Mrs. Bartle bustled over to the bed, bringing with her the scent of yeast and warm bread before handing the tray to Lizzie.

“Hold this a moment.” She leaned Lucy forward and pushed the pillows up behind her, fluffing them as she went.

“Now, then, Mr. Estwood said you’d be hungry.

Starving, I believe was his word, so I’ve brought you tea and honey.

Toast. Eggs and ham.” She took the tray, lifting the lid from the covered plate with a flourish.

Lucy stared at the tray. She had never been allowed such bounty for breakfast—or, really, any meal. The ham smelled divine. The eggs were fluffy and sprinkled with herbs. She wasn’t quite sure where to start. Picking up her fork, she took a bite of the ham, stifling a groan of pleasure.

“Lizzie.” Mrs. Bartle clapped her hands.

“See about Mrs. Estwood’s bath.” She nodded in the direction of a door on the other side of the room.

“Bathing room. Mr. Estwood insists a bath deserves a separate space. Spent a fortune having pipes fitted inside so he’d have water with the twist of a knob.

Extravagant, I told him.” She spoke with a great deal more familiarity than a mere housekeeper.

Pipes? Not even Father had running water.

Lucy smiled into her tea.

“Much better than dragging a tub about. There’s a boiler to heat the water at the back of the kitchens.

” Mrs. Bartle nodded sagely. “Mr. Estwood had enough of bathing in kitchens when he was a child, he says. Likes to soak without an audience now. The man doesn’t even have a valet, and given his status, he should.

Perhaps you can talk him into one? I’ve a nephew who would be perfect.

” The ringlets jiggled about her temples.

Lucy was unsurprised. Harry had grown up poor. He knew how to dress himself. A valet would seem an unnecessary extravagance to him, especially since he could knot his own cravat.

Lots of uses for a cravat, Lucy.

A furious bit of heat seared her cheeks at remembering Harry’s words from last night.

“Mrs. Estwood?” Mrs. Bartle was peering at her as she poured the tea. “Are you unwell? You look a bit warm.”

“No.” Lucy cleared her throat.

“Ah. It’s my chattering. Mr. Bartle likens me to a magpie. Can’t help myself,” she said with a shrug.

“Not at all,” Lucy said quietly, chewing on a bit of the ham.

She quite liked Mrs. Bartle. The older woman had a friendly, motherly manner.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Estwood, if I may ask?” The words came out smoothly.

Barely any sound of the dreaded lisp. Lucy had worried that waking in a completely different bed, in a home other than her own, might be awkward, but all she felt was a sense of lightness.

Her affection for Harry Estwood bloomed bright, at the very least because he allowed her to eat.

“I’ve known him since he was nothing more than a wee lad. Mr. Bartle was the ironmaster at Pendergast when Mr. Estwood came to work at the foundry. Said he was the cleverest boy he’d ever met. Always calculating numbers out loud. Measurements and such. Started out as a dresser, Mr. Estwood did.”

“A dresser?” Lucy had done quite a bit of research on how an ironworks operated, but not names of specific tasks or who did them.

“Cleans out the molds so they can be used to cast the wrought iron once more. Already knew how to run the furnace and hammer the metal, given his father was a blacksmith.” Mrs. Bartle’s lip curled slightly at the mention of Estwood’s father.

So Harry had worked at Pendergast from the time he was a lad.

His love of metallurgy, his passion for archeology mainly focused on weaponry, may have started at the blacksmith’s forge of his father, but it had been honed by working alongside Mr. Bartle at the ironworks.

She considered the scar on the butler’s face and now understood it must have been caused by a fire.

Papers, the ones knocked to the floor by Harry last night, covered the floor and the other side of the table near the fireplace. Lucy could just make out sketches of rods and beams. Pendergast had planted the seed for Harry’s future wealth. No wonder the ironworks meant a great deal to him.

Which was why Gerald Waterstone had taken it.

My father is a terrible person. He really is .

“Always running about, Harry Estwood,” Mrs. Bartle prattled away. “Swift of mind and feet. And a good thing, too.”

Lucy recalled Harry jogging back and forth across the grass when she’d seen him in the park. Teaching the young boy how to throw the ball with easy athleticism.

“He’s who pulled Mr. Bartle from the fire.

” The housekeeper tapped her cheek. “The scar is hard to miss.” Her lips trembled.

“I’m forever grateful. I would do anything for Harry Estwood.

” Mrs. Bartle looked away for a moment, perhaps recalling what had to have been a horrifying experience while offering Lucy a glimpse of the loyalty of those who surrounded Harry.

“There I go again.” Mrs. Bartle turned back to Lucy, eyes misty. “Let us find you something lovely to wear.” The housekeeper strode to the large armoire standing in the corner, while a burst of steamy lemon and verbena scented air came from the bathing room.

Her favorite. “The soap?—”

“Mr. Estwood said it was your favorite,” Mrs. Bartle said, throwing open the armoire doors. “Now, you’ve quite a selection to choose from.”

“Those aren’t mine,” Lucy stammered, staring at the display of gowns and dresses, still surprised over the scented soap. The armoire was crammed full, the bottom drawer bulging with an assortment of chemises, stockings, gloves, and the like.

“Special delivery from Madame Dupree.” Mrs. Bartle didn’t even turn around. “I’ve never seen so many fripperies. I’ve had to put the rest in another room.”

Romy’s doing.

Lucy blinked back the tears threatening to leave her eyes.

Her friend had had everything Lucy ordered sent here, knowing full well she would leave the Waterstone house with only the clothes on her back.

Romy had asked, as she and Granby had left Estwood’s home yesterday, if Lucy would call on her today.

And Lucy would, to thank her friend for everything she’d done.

“Mr. Estwood didn’t work with his father?

” Lucy asked, turning her attention from the stunning array of dresses and gowns to take another bite of ham.

She’d never enjoyed anything so much in her life.

Ham tasted different when every bite wasn’t being watched.

“I thought he might have been his father’s apprentice rather than seeking employment at an ironworks. ”

“He came to Pendergast when his father…died rather unexpectedly. Never cared to be a blacksmith. The pay was decent for a lad of his age. Didn’t even have whiskers yet.

Had his mother and younger siblings to support.

His older sister took employment in Lord Wilde’s kitchens.

At any rate, Mr. Bartle oversaw the floor, and while my husband has many fine qualities, numbers are not his strong suit.

Estwood helped him with the ledgers, at first. That boy could rattle off entire rows of numbers without even consulting the columns.

Kept everything here.” She tapped her forehead.

Lucy suspected he still did. She couldn’t fathom what it was like to eye a column in a ledger and calculate the sum without even using a pen. She glanced at the papers littering the floor again, saw the dark scribbles of Harry’s handwriting.

I always knew he was brilliant.

Mrs. Bartle held up a gown of pale blue. “This would look lovely with your eyes, Mrs. Estwood, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I do not. I will take your recommendation.”

“Very good. Oh, I nearly forgot. Mr. Estwood left this for you.” She pulled a note from her pocket, handing it to Lucy. “He rushed out early this morning.”

Lucy unfolded the paper, squinting to read Harry’s writing.

Scribbles, indeed. His penmanship left much to be desired.

No more than a haphazard scrawl. She had to read through it twice to make out one or two nearly illegible words.

Harry had gone to meet with his solicitor and would return late this afternoon from what she could tell.

“Once I’m dressed, can you ask Bartle to have the carriage brought around? The Duchess of Granby has asked that I call upon her.” Lucy would thank Romy and also leave a note with her friend for Rosalind, expressing appreciation for the lemon cake.

“Of course, of course. I’ll inform Mr. Bartle.” Mrs. Bartle bustled about, disappearing to instruct Lizzie once more before returning in a burst of lemony scented steam. “I believe your bath is ready, Mrs. Estwood.”

Later that day, Lucy found herself humming as she made her way down the steps of the Duke of Granby’s home after a lovely visit with Romy.

She absently patted her stomach, stuffed from an assortment of cakes, scones, and other pastries, all from Pennyfoil’s.

How pleasant it was to enjoy a biscuit without having it snatched from your fingers.

Or to put honey in tea without judgement.

Thus far, her first day as a married woman had been…lovely. Harry’s household staff was pleasant, friendly, and clearly worshipped her husband. Best of all, no one followed her about. Romy, bless her, had cautiously broached the subject of marital relations, inquiring if Lucy needed any…direction.

She stumbled on the last step, nearly dizzy with anticipation of what tonight would bring.

Lucy wasn’t afraid, not of Harry nor of what would happen in the marital bed and assured her friend that she was aware of the particulars.

She took a deep breath, smiling to herself as she approached the carriage.

There was a lightness to the day, the worry over Dufton and Father having faded into the background, at least for the present.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Lucy paused, thinking it might be one of Romy’s footmen.

“There you are, Mrs. Estwood. I’ve come to offer congratulations.”