Page 34

“Shh, little one. Rest, now,” Penelope murmured softly. She felt abandoned and afraid herself—unsure of what she was doing and very alone. It did no good to let fear take hold, knowing it would only seep into her manner and unsettle the little child.

She rocked the little baby in her arms, trying to still his wails.

He was eleven months old—quite able to sit up, crawl about and play with the few playthings she had found in the nursery.

He babbled freely—when he was not wailing in distress—and said a few words, and she knew that he could understand a great deal more of what she said, even if he could not respond verbally to everything.

She had also noticed that he was uncomfortable, frightened and uneasy far more than he was calm. She stroked his soft, downy blond hair.

“I wish I knew more about you, little one,” she said gently.

Something had upset the child a great deal—that was plain from the moment that Penelope had arrived, just two days before.

After receiving a letter inviting her to the manor, she had spoken to Mrs Harwell, the housekeeper, and had been advised to move in the very next day.

She had done so. After the terrible lies that her former employer had spread about her; she had been amazed to be offered a position.

She had not asked any questions, and nobody, in all that time, had told her anything about the child, other than his name and age.

His origins were a mystery. Was he the earl’s son?

If he was, she had no idea of his story.

“He’s a strange fellow, the earl. Isn’t he, little baby?” she murmured, tucking a strand of her dark brown hair behind her ear. The baby gazed up at her, momentarily distracted from his distraught yells by some tone that he heard in her voice. She smiled.

Thomas gazed up at her, seeming to notice her for the first time. She grinned wider, and he gazed back, his eyes lighting with interest for the first time rather than with fear. She could not hide her genuine relief and delight. He chuckled.

“There now, little fellow,” she cooed. “Now you feel better. Isn’t that grand?”

He giggled again, and she beamed at him, then went to sit down in the upholstered chair by the fire.

He was much calmer, and she reached for the glass nursing bottle that she had prepared for him.

She had placed it in a bowl of warm water, hoping that the milk would be helped to stay warm, and her heart lifted to see that it was, indeed, still able to be used.

She placed the glass spout of the blown-glass object into his mouth and tipped it gently, allowing a slow trickle to enter his mouth.

She had already learned to do it slowly and carefully, so as not to provoke a fit of coughing from the poor baby as the milk flowed too quickly down his throat.

The nursing bottle was a strange invention, Penelope mused—far from ideal—though Thomas ate porridge and other mashed foods as well, he still needed to nurse and she was grateful for the contraption’s presence in the house.

“You poor little fellow,” she murmured, stroking his silky hair again.

Her mind wandered to thoughts of where he might have come from.

Having seen the earl for the first time, she could not help but think that he could not be Thomas’s father.

The little baby looked nothing like the earl.

The earl’s hair was very dark brown. Thomas was blond and had hazel eyes, and the earl’s eyes were grey.

She blushed as she recalled how he had stared at her with that clear-eyed grey stare.

She had stared back, her heart thudding in her chest. Her cheeks warmed further as she recalled his face.

He was rather handsome with those high cheekbones and that firm chin.

She blushed, chiding herself inwardly, amused by her own inappropriate thoughts. He was her employer, and he seemed a grumpy, distant sort of man. There was certainly nothing appealing about his personality.

All the same, he was handsome, she thought with a smile. Emily would laugh at me if she knew what I was thinking.

Her heart ached at the thought. Her younger sister, Emily, just eighteen years old, was employed at Sterling House as a lady’s maid.

Sterling House was twenty miles away, and Penelope’s brow furrowed.

She doubted that she would be able to see Emily very often—maybe on important feast days, like Christmas and Easter, they would be given a day off, or at least a few hours, so that they might visit one another.

“Shh. Hush, now,” she murmured, looking down at Thomas. Her thoughts of the earl had been replaced by worried ones, and Thomas clearly perceived her distress. He shifted in her arms, turning his head away from the bottle, and his little face crinkled in discomfort.

“Hush, now, little fellow.”

He thrashed and turned his head, and Penelope drew a breath, trying to compose herself.

She pushed away her thoughts of home, her distress at not seeing Emily, and her worry for her father and for her own future.

It was upsetting Thomas. She focused on the sounds around her—the crackle of the fire, the patter of the rain.

The storm was less severe than it had been, the thunder rumbling occasionally from far away.

As she focused on the room and the present moment, Thomas seemed to relax a little, ceasing to turn or wriggle in her arms.

“Sleep, little baby,” she began, singing a song that she recalled her own grandmother singing when Emily was a baby.

Emily was born when Penelope was already five years old.

It seemed strange to think, sometimes, that Emily was eighteen and she herself three-and-twenty.

She pushed the thoughts away again, not wanting to unsettle Thomas.

She sang, rocking back and forth with Thomas clutched in her arms. He began to quieten, his belly full of warm milk and her heartbeat under his ear.

“Sleep, little baby...”

She did not know how long she sat and rocked him, but she noticed, as she stood and tiptoed across the room to settle him in his cradle, that the storm was silent. Not so much as a drop of rain pattered down. She walked to the window and drew back the curtains, staring out.

The night sky was pitch black. It was impossible, through the thick panes, to discern if there were any stars visible, or if it was still overcast. There was a tree close to the window, the boughs glistening in the candlelight that shone through the panes.

It was impossible to see anything on the ground below, just absolute blackness.

It was a strange sensation, staring out into the dark—as if she was the only person in the world, or as if she and Thomas were afloat on a vast, black ocean cut off from the mainland.

I feel a bit like that, she thought, leaning on the windowsill. She felt isolated, living in the manor, surrounded by strange, silent servants and the stranger, more silent earl. Nobody seemed to speak, as if the earl’s own solemn reserve had cast a hush over them all.

She gazed out. On the road, a light flickered. A coach, she guessed, the lanterns lighting the way to some distant manor or village. Perhaps it was the mail coach, heading to the place where it would stop for the night.

“Miss Matthews?”

Penelope tensed, turning and gesturing sharply to the sleeping baby. The young woman in the door made an apologetic face, hazel eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

“Sorry,” she whispered in a loud whisper that would have graced a stage. “I came to see how you fared. You did not dine downstairs with us.”

“Thomas was fretting,” Penelope explained, smiling at the young woman, who she guessed must be around her own age, perhaps a few years her senior.

“Thank you for coming to ask after me,” she added warmly.

Nobody on the staff had paid her any particular heed since her arrival, though nobody had been unkind, either.

It was a relief to talk to someone who seemed friendly and open.

“It was no trouble,” the young woman replied, her slim face lit with a sudden, bright grin that transformed her long, angular countenance into something of real beauty.

Her hair glowed with coppery highlights in the candlelight.

Penelope recalled seeing her in the kitchen for the first time the previous day, at luncheon.

Penelope had liked the look of her instantly, but she had hurried through her meal and departed so fast that Penelope had not had a moment to talk to her.

“Thank you,” Penelope repeated with genuine appreciation. “He is sleeping soundly now,” she added, glancing over at the cot where Thomas slept peacefully for the first time in several hours.

“Good. You did well. Funny little fellow,” the young woman replied. She gazed at the cot with real warmth in her hazel eyes.

“He is a funny fellow.” Penelope paused. Perhaps the young woman knew something about the boy. “Is he the son of the earl?”

“No. No, I do not think so,” her visitor answered, brow lining with a brief frown. “Though, I must admit, I would not know. I only arrived at Brentdale recently myself. I am with Lady Penrith’s household.”

“Oh?” Penelope smiled, feeling intrigued. “Well, then, we have both been at Brentdale only a short while.” That was very comforting, though her heart sank. Perhaps Lady Penrith would stay only for a week.

“That is the case,” the young woman replied. “I am afraid I did not introduce myself. I am Anna Peterham. I am pleased to meet you.”

“I am pleased to meet you too,” Penelope replied, inclining her head politely. “I am Penelope Matthews. Please call me Penelope,” she added, recalling that Anna had called her Miss Matthews earlier.

“Thank you, Penelope. And, of course, you may call me Anna.”

Penelope smiled warmly at her. The manor did not seem so lonely anymore. She had found someone who could be a friend.