Bride of the High Country Page 4

  Now, with only two days before the wedding, Margaret’s head was a muddle and it seemed her life revolved around endless appointments and ink-smeared lists. As she hurried down the servant’s hall in Doyle’s sprawling mansion, she studied the latest list—Items for the Ceremony. Only one entry remained. Thinking it might be something Mrs. Bradshaw could handle, she followed the short hall off the kitchen to the housekeeper’s office, where she found her going over her own lists.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” Margaret said from the open doorway.

  Immediately setting down her pen, Mrs. Bradshaw rose. “Not at all, Miss Hamilton. Do please come in. How may I help you?”

  Margaret wondered how the slim, straight-backed woman managed all this fuss without a single brownish gray hair slipping from her severe knot. Not even a smudge showed beneath her dark brown eyes. In contrast, Margaret felt as if she’d been dragged behind a carriage.

  “I need a drape for the altar,” she told the housekeeper. “The one supplied by the hotel is too busy. Perhaps a simple green underskirt with a white topper. That would tie in with the ferns and not fight with the flowers. What do you think?”

  Mrs. Bradshaw nodded in approval. “I think that would be lovely. And we may have something suitable on hand. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll go now to check the linen closet.”

  After she left, Margaret pulled a chair around to the end of the long worktable-style desk and sat down, grateful to be off her feet for a while. Careful not to disturb Mrs. Bradshaw’s neat stacks of lists and invoices and order sheets, she picked up the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and read over her own notes.

  The smell of baking bread and spices settled around her. Pots and pans clattered. Women’s laughter drifted from the kitchen.

  An image burst into her mind—a battered ragdoll on the braided rug by the kitchen stove, her mother at the table, sharing tea and laughter with a neighbor. Only a snippet of memory, there and gone in a heartbeat, but it left behind a yearning that brought a gentle ache to Margaret’s heart.

  Her mother should be here. She should be sharing this special time in her daughter’s life. It should be her laughter drifting from the kitchen, instead of that of strangers. If not for that despicable Irish runner, it might have been.

  Another image. This one not so cherished: her father, slumped on the curb, shivering with fever and despair, trying to convince her mother he would find a place for them to stay and all would be well.

  Voices intruded as two women moved into the short hallway between the kitchen and Mrs. Bradshaw’s office, where they began sorting through the tableware needed for the evening meal. Margaret couldn’t see them from where she sat, but even though they spoke in whispers, their words carried easily over the clank of silver.

  “Hear what happened to that Irish girl who caused the ruckus the other night? O’Reilly, I think her name was.”

  “The widow lady Mr. Kerrigan sent packing?”

  “That’s the one. Took a midnight swim in the East River.”

  Margaret froze, the pen poised halfway between the inkwell and the page.

  “No! Did she really?”

  “Fished her and her babe out early this morning. The police chief himself came to tell Mr. Kerrigan.”

  A drop of ink slid off the nib to fall in a fat black splotch on the list. Setting down the pen, Margaret pressed her palms flat against the top of the desk. She shouldn’t be listening to this. She should dismiss those vile gossipers on the spot.

  “Surely the police don’t think Mr. Kerrigan had anything to do with it?”

  “Maybe not, but she wouldn’t be the first person to cross Mr. Kerrigan and come to a bad end, if you know what I mean.”

  “Hush, Grace! You want to get us sacked?”

  Margaret shot to her feet, almost knocking over her chair. As she stalked toward the door, Mrs. Bradshaw’s voice rose in the kitchen.

  “Lissy, has the greengrocer brought the blueberries yet?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Start on the parfaits anyway. If he hasn’t come by four, use peaches.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The clack of the housekeeper’s heels on the stone floor grew louder as she came into the short hallway between her office and the kitchen. “Finish up with that, you two, then get the potatoes peeled. You’re not being paid to chitchat.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” two voices said in unison.

  “One moment, please,” Margaret said stepping from the office.

  Mrs. Bradshaw looked up, her arms loaded with folded lengths of green and white cloth. The two startled maids whipped around. One looked guilty. The other defiant—Grace, the gossiper—Margaret guessed.

  She fixed her gaze on that one. Clasping her hands tightly at her waist to hide their shaking, she said in as steady a voice as her anger would allow, “Grace, you disparage the man who gives you employment. That is not acceptable. You are dismissed.”

  Defiance sagged into shock, then tears. “But, ma’am, I didn’t mean—”

  Ignoring her, Margaret turned to the housekeeper, who was watching with a mixture of distress and confusion. “Mrs. Bradshaw, please take Grace to her room to pack her things, then have one of the footmen escort her from the premises.”

  The housekeeper set the cloth aside. “Of course, Miss Hamilton.”

  After she ushered the protesting Grace away, Margaret turned her attention to the other maid, who stood white-faced and trembling. “Your name?”

  “Gretchen, ma’am.”

  “Those who listen to gossip, Gretchen, are as guilty as those who spread it.”

  “Y-Yes, ma’am.” The stricken woman—little more than a girl, really—covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook.

  “Tale carrying cannot be tolerated. I’m sure you understand that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her hands muffled her voice but couldn’t stop the drip of a tear through her fingers. “I’m s-so sorry.”

  Margaret looked away, memories of her own fear clutching at her throat. Anger gave way to disgust—disgust with this poor woman for her weakness and shame, with herself for adding to it, and especially with Doyle for inviting such gossip with his suspect behavior. “See that it doesn’t happen again.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Attend your duties.”

  “Oh, thank you, ma’am.” The girl fled into the hushed kitchen.

  Margaret walked stiffly into the office, the space between her shoulder blades already tingling from the glares of disapproval sure to be headed her way.

  Servants talked. That’s how they lightened the long hours of toil in the homes of the rich. The only way to prevent it was to gain their loyalty. But now, not only had Margaret ruined any chance of that, she had also added validity to the rumors by overreacting to idle speculation. Now she would have to deal with a resentful staff.

  But what if it’s true?

  She pushed that thought away. Of course it wasn’t true. Doyle might be impulsive and somewhat temperamental, but he wasn’t a murderer. He would never harm a woman, much less a child. How could she even think such a thing?

  But still, the doubt remained.

  Mrs. Bradshaw returned with the linens. “I’m so sorry for that, Miss Hamilton,” she said, putting the cloth on the table. “Grace knew better. Most of the staff is intensely loyal to Mr. Kerrigan, as well they should be. I will make a point of reiterating our policy regarding such reprehensible behavior.”

  “Thank you.”

  The housekeeper stood for a moment, her color high and that worry still showing in her eyes, as if she expected to be dismissed just for hiring Grace. It struck Margaret the control she wielded over the dozens of employees who labored on her behalf. She didn’t like that power—didn’t want the burden of it. But as mistress of this house, that
would be her task.

  “Will these do?” Mrs. Bradshaw motioned to the linens.

  Margaret forced a smile. “They’ll do very well, Mrs. Bradshaw. I’ll trust you to attend to it.” She needed to get out of this house and away from all these people who fluttered so anxiously about her. She needed room to breathe. “Have the carriage brought around, please,” she said, gathering her lists.

  “Of course. Will you be coming back later?”

  Since the engagement ball, she often joined Doyle for dinner so they could spend time together away from the hectic wedding preparations. The quiet evenings were such a welcome reprieve from Mrs. Throckmorton’s pointed comments that Margaret didn’t mind if Mr. Rylander often joined them and talk revolved around business. She had a keen interest in such things and learned a great deal from their conversations, even if she wasn’t always included in the discussions. “I shall be ready at the usual time.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  Margaret turned to go, then swung back. “I want to thank you for all your help, Mrs. Bradshaw. And for your support earlier. I hope it doesn’t put you in a difficult position with the staff.” Then without waiting for a response, she walked from the room.

  * * *

  When the carriage returned at seven that evening and Margaret went downstairs, she saw Mr. Rylander waiting in the foyer rather than her fiancé.

  “Good evening, Miss Hamilton.”

  “Mr. Rylander.” Irritated that Doyle had not come for her himself and that she would have to suffer another meal under Mr. Rylander’s glowering eye, she swept past him and down the steps.

  When they reached the coach, Rylander reached around her to open the door and offered his hand to help her in.

  She ignored it and climbed in on her own. “Where’s Doyle?” she asked, taking the forward-facing seat.

  “Detained.” The coach rocked with his weight as he settled against the window corner across from her, his long legs stretched at an angle so they wouldn’t crowd her skirts, his right arm resting along the back of the seat. “He hopes to be finished by the time you arrive.”

  They rode without speaking as the carriage wove slowly through congestion caused by an overturned drayman’s wagon. She tolerated his disapproving scowl as long as she could, then finally brought up the subject that had been troubling her since that scene outside Mrs. Bradshaw’s office earlier.

  “I heard about the O’Reilly woman.”

  He studied her, his expression betraying nothing. “And what did you hear, Miss Hamilton?”

  “That she and her child drowned in the East River.”

  He nodded but offered no further explanation.

  “Well, you must know how that looks, Mr. Rylander, in view of the scene at the house the night of the ball.”

  His brows rose. “It was ruled a suicide. Are you insinuating it wasn’t?”

  “Are you so certain it was?”

  A long pause. “You think Doyle had something to do with it?”

  “I’m sure my fiancé is quite innocent.” She put emphasis on “‘my fiancé’.”

  He was too intelligent not to note it. “But you’re not as sure about me.”

  She looked at him in silence, allowing him to draw his own conclusions.

  “May I ask what I’ve done to put that suspicion into your mind?” he asked after a moment.

  “A natural curiosity.”

  He turned his head and looked out the window. Margaret had the sense that he was struggling to contain his temper. When he finally aimed his gaze back at her, his dark brows formed a scowling ridge over his deep-set eyes, and his hoarse voice vibrated with indignation.

  “I assure you, Miss Hamilton, I had nothing to do with the deaths of Mrs. O’Reilly and her child. The woman was obviously despondent over her husband’s death.” The words were short and clipped, his southern accent stronger than usual.

  “So it would appear.” Margaret shifted under that furious glare but refused to look away. “Yet it seems strange to me that despite a promise of free rent for a year and a weekly delivery of groceries, she was still so distraught she decided death was her only recourse. Doesn’t that seem odd to you, Mr. Rylander?”

  “Tragically so. But then I have always been amazed by how the female mind works. By what logic does a woman make the decisions she does? Or are her conclusions based solely on emotion? What is your opinion, Miss Hamilton?”

  It was Miss Hamilton’s opinion that he was no longer talking about Mrs. O’Reilly. Uneasy with the turn in the conversation, she deflected it with an offhand gesture. “I think it is beyond male understanding to grasp the nuances of female thinking, so men shouldn’t even bother to try. There has been talk among the servants.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “They’re saying Mrs. O’Reilly hasn’t been the only one to cross Doyle and come to a bad end.” She felt foolish voicing such a thing aloud, but it needed to be said and she needed to see his reaction when she did. “Naturally, I dismissed the kitchen maid who said that. But—”

  “But now you’re wondering if it’s true.” He watched her, those cold gray eyes boring into her, his long, big-knuckled fingers drumming softly on the back of his seat. She sensed dark currents running through his mind but couldn’t fathom where they would lead his thoughts next.

  “I have known Doyle Kerrigan for over five years, Miss Hamilton. He can be unforgiving, hot-tempered, even ruthless. But he’s not a cold killer.”

  “Are you?” Shocked that she had spoken that fear aloud, she pressed back against the cushions, expecting an explosion of anger.

  Instead, the corners of his eyes narrowed in amusement. “No, Miss Hamilton, I’m not.” He punctuated that with the first full smile she had ever seen on his stern face. “Not yet, anyway.”

  The man definitely had all his teeth.

  * * *

  Dinner was a quiet affair in the grand dining room. Normally Margaret would have preferred a more intimate setting for a group of three, rather than clustered at one end of the thirty-foot-long table under the watchful eyes of footmen standing in the shadows. But this evening she was not in a particularly talkative mood, her mind preoccupied with wedding details and that awkward scene earlier with the gossipers and the even more awkward scene with Mr. Rylander in the carriage. She didn’t know why she let the man distress her so. Like now. Even though he had been utterly polite throughout the meal, she could feel the weight of his gaze across the table, and it made her extremely uncomfortable. To make him aware of it, she narrowed her eyes at him in warning.

  He narrowed his back, although that crinkle at the corners of his eyes hinted at amusement rather than ire. Horrid man.

  Even Doyle seemed subdued throughout the meal. Perhaps he had heard the talk about Mrs. O’Reilly, too. Or perhaps a business proposition had gone sour. Or his shoes were too tight. With Doyle, she never knew, his moods were so difficult to gauge and he shared so little of himself with her. It was a bit sad that they didn’t know each other better, considering they would be spending the rest of their lives together.

  “Hammond came to see me today,” Rylander said as footmen served peaches and cream in tall crystal parfait glasses. “Seemed upset.”

  “He knew what he was getting into.”

  Margaret took a small bite, found it too sweet, and set her spoon aside. “Is this the same Hammond who bought the foundry?”

  Doyle didn’t answer.

  “Some of the workers have walked off,” Rylander continued to Doyle as if she hadn’t spoken.

  Determined not to be ignored, Margaret tried again. “Is this the place where the accident occurred and Mr. O’Reilly was killed? Is that what they’re upset about?”

  Doyle took a long sip of wine, then returned the goblet to the table. He watched her, twirling the delicate
stem in blunt fingers, his mouth tight.

  Realizing she would get little information from her fiancé, Margaret turned to Mr. Rylander. “Perhaps if they knew about the generous compensation Doyle offered Mrs. O’Reilly, they would be less angry.”

  “It’s not about that. It’s about the machinery.”

  “It’s unsafe?”

  “Faith, Margaret!” Doyle slapped his open palm onto the table so hard the parfaits rattled on their serving plates. “This doesn’t concern you. Sure, and you should be fretting over doilies and flowers and some such, rather than involving yourself in business matters.”

  Margaret felt heat rise into her face. Did he take her for an imbecile?

  “Yes, it’s an issue of safety,” Mr. Rylander cut in smoothly, his calm tone belied by the barbed look he shot at Doyle. “Hammond was aware of the accident and the cause. He had ample time to make further inquiries and assessments.”

  “It was Hammond who pressed for a quick sale, not me.” Doyle tossed his napkin beside his plate and rose with a smile to show his good humor was restored. “Shall we retire to the drawing room?”

  As a footman stepped forward to pull back Margaret’s chair, Rylander rose and buttoned his dark frock coat. “I’d best go talk to Hammond.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s good business, Doyle. The man has influence.”

  “You’re pandering to a fool.”

  Rylander rounded on him. “It’s not pandering. It’s rebuilding trust. Something I wouldn’t have to do if you thought with your head instead of that chip on your shoulder. These dodgy deals harm your credibility.”

  Margaret blinked at him in surprise. She had always thought of Rylander as Doyle’s flunky, seeing his natural reserve as weakness. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  Doyle spread his arms to indicate his grand home. “Sure, and those dodgy deals have also made me rich, so they have.”