The Steward of Blackwood Hall

Chapter twenty-one - In defence of a broken heart

There had been occasions during Anabelle's life when she had wished to become invisible, to melt into the ground like the last snows of winter. But that desire had never been greater than during the complete stillness following her father's words. Instead of defending his daughter, he had chosen the cruellest moment in which to highlight her folly, and the weight of self-consciousness fell heavily upon her shoulders.

She cast a look across the table, only to see Mr. Fielding's noble features turn to stone. Unwilling to watch his regard for her crumble before her eyes, her gaze sank as she stared at the napkin wrung between her hands.

The uncomfortable silence stretched. Everyone around the table awaited her reply.

Anabelle reached for her wine and swallowed a mouthful, hoping to wash away the lump that had formed in her throat. As she replaced the glass upon the table with a shaky hand, she said, "I...I believe it was Mr. Sutton who first told me there was a new steward at Blackwood."

Although she directed her answer to her father, she knew Mr. Fielding would be listening with no less interest. "When I went to the house to see about the blocked stream I asked particularly to speak to the steward, and the young footman directed me to a place that looked like the steward's office. That was where I met Mr. Fielding."

As she recalled the circumstances, her nerves calmed and she continued with tolerable composure. "As no one took the trouble to inform me that there was, as yet, no new steward employed at Blackwood, I believed the gentleman I had met in that room was the person I had asked particularly to see. In the absence of information to the contrary what else should I have thought?" She threw her question across the table as a challenge, but Anabelle made the error of glancing at Mr. Fielding's face as she spoke, and her fledgling defiance withered under his flint-like gaze.

His response, when it came, had an icy edge to it. "I was not informed that you particularly requested to speak to the steward. If I had realised you were labouring under such a misapprehension, you can be certain I would have enlightened you."

"How could I know you were not who I expected when you never said anything to contradict it?"

"To a clear-sighted, intelligent young woman such as yourself, I would think it obvious. Even if you mistook the circumstances upon your first visit, you surely could not fail to perceive the truth in our subsequent meetings."

The mention of their time together made her heart ache, for there was nothing in Mr. Fielding's tone that could give even the slightest hope that he recalled those moments with fondness. Whatever affection he might have held for her must surely be at an end.

After listening to their exchange, her father offered his own peculiar form of conciliation. "While neither of you has been entirely candid during your conversations, it seems we can lay some of the blame at the feet of an inexperienced footman."

At this point, Mrs Latimer made her own awkward attempt to break the discomfort that had settled upon the table. "Oh, I agree. Hiring new servants is always such a trial, particularly when you are setting up a household. I do not know what I would do without Mrs Crossley to guide me."

She recounted the story about the time when Mrs Harrison had hired a new scullery maid, who broke a tray full of china plates. Although Anabelle appreciated her step-mother's efforts to dilute the tension it did not seem to have any appreciable effect on Mr. Fielding, whose firmly pursed lips and fist clenched around the stem of his glass spoke volumes as to his state of mind.

When Sir Henry told his own jocular tale—where a servant had spilled a tureen of cold fish soup into his uncle's lap—Mr. Fielding's stony expression betrayed nary a twitch. He ignored the sweet treats on the table, concentrating fully upon the diminishing contents of his glass.