The Steward of Blackwood Hall

Chapter thirteen - The old barn

When Anabelle returned to her room she disturbed two maids who were remaking her bed. Not wishing to interrupt them she collected her shawl and went out into the garden.

As her gaze drifted over the wall her thoughts strayed to Blackwood Hall and the gentleman who currently resided there. She wished she'd had the presence of mind to ask how much longer Mr. Fielding would remain in the neighbourhood, but at the same time knew she would not have liked the answer.

The part of her mind that most loved being outdoors strained towards the gate, wishing for freedom. It was a long time since she had denied herself the pleasure of a daily walk, but she knew in her heart that meeting Mr. Fielding again would be too painful right now.

Anabelle wandered through the shrubbery, kicking a stone and watching it fly into the bushes. In the distance she caught sight of the same two maids who had been in her chamber. As they carried arm-loads of linen to the wash-house she found herself again wondering how much work one young maid could do in a day, or what tasks a wife of a steward would be expected to undertake to compensate for the lack of servants.

When they were younger she and Selina had spent some time playing in the kitchen, but she never stopped to consider the amount of work involved. Cook and her staff had always given her the impression of a hive full of bumble bees, hovering from flower to flower, always moving, never still.

She drifted closer to the kitchen door, watching the industry within. Cook was busy, preparing a joint for roasting, while the kitchen maid addressed a pile of vegetables with a paring knife. Neither was too busy to offer her a curtsey as she entered the room. "Mrs Smith, I wondered if I might be of use to you this morning."

"Why no, Miss Anabelle, we have everything in hand. Besides, Mrs Latimer would have my hide if she discovered you here."

"I would not tell her."

The cook crossed her arms. "No, but she would find out all the same and then what would I say?"

"You would say that every young woman should know what goes on in a kitchen."

"Ah, but should she? That is what your mother has Mrs Crossley for, and you will have your own housekeeper to manage the kitchen when you are married."

Of course, Mrs Latimer assumed that they would have servants of their own one day. Like any mother, she only wanted the best for her children—including her husband's daughters—and Anabelle had never before questioned the life that had been planned for her. She had always imagined herself presiding over a household very similar to that of Woodside.

But now it appeared even that future would be denied her. For while she had not been brought up to be the wife of a steward, earning less than one hundred pounds a year, she could no more conceive of finding another man whose presence affected her as Mr. Fielding did.

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Fielding studied his reflection in the mirror. He tugged the offending strip of white linen, first one way then the other, and shook his head, disgusted by his inability to complete a simple task to his satisfaction. Whatever he was paying that man of his, it was nothing like enough.

He had always prided himself on his independence, and steadfastly refused to be a mute canvas for his valet's art. He chose his own clothes and was more than capable of shaving himself when necessary. But when it came to folding and knotting his neck-cloth, he could only manage a rough approximation of the understated elegance that his man created with a deft flick of his wrist.

The cry of a raven drew his gaze to the window, yet his thoughts would not be constrained by mere panes of glass. Instead they ranged across the early morning landscape, over ploughed fields and hedgerows covered with haws and elderberries. He closed his eyes, the better to bring Anabelle Latimer's likeness into clearer focus.