“We will hire more staff, of course. I’m sure you know some girls in the village who can be relied on to give this place a good scrub and polish. Send for them at once. I want every room shining and clean throughout.
“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Moffat’s eyes gleamed with a martial light. “How many girls?”
“As many as you need—you will know that better than I—and some men to beat carpets and carry furniture about and do what needs to be done. His lordship gave mecarte blanche, if you remember.” She smiled at the housekeeper. “But we won’t try to do it all at once. We will start with the rooms most likely to be used—the hall, the dining room, that little sitting room you showed me that seems likely to get some sun—and work toward the least likely. And first on the list is to prepare bedchambers for the young ladies.”
The elderly housekeeper’s face lit up. “Lady Rose and Lady Lily, m’lady? They’re coming home at last?”
“Indeed they are, as well as Lady Georgiana, my husband’s niece.”
Mrs. Moffat looked doubtful. “I’ve never heard of any Lady Georgiana, m’lady. His niece, did you say?”
“A newly discovered addition to the family, I believe. Allthree girls are arriving together tomorrow. Now, show me which bedchambers you think they will like.”
Mrs. Moffat sent a message to the village to send up anyone who wanted a day’s work, and in less than an hour her workforce had doubled. Under Mrs. Moffat’s supervision Emm set some housemaids to scrubbing and polishing the girls’ bedchambers, airing their bedding, washing the curtains and beating the rugs on the floors.
Meanwhile she gathered every able-bodied man available and set to work on the great gloomy hall. She ordered the removal of all the grisly weapons and animal heads and banished them to the attic. The portraits of grim-looking ancestors she had removed to the portrait gallery, a place she’d been told of but hadn’t yet inspected.
Heavy curtains covered the windows, shutting out the daylight. Emm had them taken down to wash, and when they shredded with handling, she sent them to be burned. The room lightened considerably without them. She would commission some new ones in a lighter, less oppressive pattern.
She set two men to washing the mullioned windows, and another two rolled up the carpets—fine axminsters—and took them outside to be beaten. There wasn’t enough time to wash down the walls—the family would no doubt use this room for general gathering at night—but she had the floor mopped and polished and, after a good culling of all the most uncomfortable furniture, had the rest waxed.
A few hours later, Emm stepped out into the garden for some fresh air and to see whether there were any flowers or greenery she could cut for the house. The rigid formality of the interior had been quite gloomy and oppressive. Greenery would freshen and soften it.
Hearing the sound of hoofbeats, she glanced up in time to see her husband riding out with a man who was presumably his estate manager. Her husband—could she call him Calbourne, or Cal, or would he insist on Ashendon, or even my lord?—was mounted on a powerful black gelding. He rode well, as if born to the saddle. Which he probably was.
She watched him disappear into the distance, feeling atrifle wistful. She would have loved to ride out and see the estate.
Nonsense, she told herself. She had no reason to feel wistful. She’d been givencarte blancheto make whatever changes she wanted. He couldn’t have made it plainer. Her duty was to the girls and the house, and if she wasn’t to have a honeymoon, well, it wasn’t a love match, after all.
She wasn’t about to complain. She was very lucky to have this beautiful old house to work on, and the prospect of the girls’ company when her husband returned to Europe. She was her own mistress. She was much better off here than at Miss Mallard’s.
And when Lord Ashendon was cold and dismissive, when he treated her as some kind of superior servant, well, that would serve as a good reminder. She had a foolishly tender, susceptible heart, and his coldness would remind her to reserve her love for her children. And for the girls.
She gathered an armful of greenery and returned to the house.
Chapter Fourteen
Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.
—ALEXANDER POPE, “ODE ON SOLITUDE”
“The whole household is excited at the prospect of your sisters returning,” she told her husband at dinner that evening. He’d arrived home just on dusk and hadn’t apparently noticed any change in the house. Emm was simultaneously relieved and irritated. “According to Mrs. Moffat, it’s been several years since they were here. It surprised me, since we aren’t very far from Bath.”
He shrugged. “My father probably didn’t want to be bothered with them.”
“Not be bothered with his own daughters?” She tried to hide her outrage.
“He disliked children.” There was no resentment in his voice. He sounded quite matter-of-fact. Emm thought of the boy who’d been sent away at seven and had rarely come home again.
“They’re hardly children now.”
He snorted. “Possibly not, but they’re still brats.” He cut himself another slice of chicken pie. She’d consulted with Cook and Mrs. Moffat and arranged for some of his lordship’s favorite dishes to be served.
“None of the servants seem to have even heard of your niece, Georgiana,” she probed.
“She only came to light after Henry’s death. Turned outhe’d made a secret marriage when he was very young. Amesalliance, so he kept the girl hidden.”
“How—how unfortunate for her.” She’d been about to roundly condemn his brother, but her husband was obviously trying to be pleasant, so it wouldn’t be tactful to insult his brother. Yet.
