An Earl Like No Other by Wilma Counts Page B

next two days, he became aware of subtle—and some not so subtle—changes in the Hall. He noticed the smell first. Fresh air and beeswax chased away the pervasive mustiness. He had come into the library one afternoon to find the windows wide open and papers on his desk exactly where he had left them, but firmly anchored by a paperweight, an inkwell, and an intricately carved, fist-sized image of a buffalo, given to him after his first hunt with the Arapaho. A young maid was on her knees industriously polishing the legs of the furniture.
    â€œShould I leave, my lord?”
    â€œNo. Finish your task,” he said.
    â€œI’m near done. Mrs. Arthur, she wants it done proper-like. She wouldn’t let me touch the top o’ the desk none, though.”
    â€œGood,” he said firmly. His desk was messy—but it was sacred territory. He was glad the housekeeper realized that.
    He also began to notice what appeared on his plate at mealtimes. Suddenly, his meals presented not only an eye-pleasing variety of color and texture, but subtle blends of herbs and spices added to meats and vegetables enticed the palate. The second evening, he sent a footman for the housekeeper. She appeared in the dining room as he and his aunt were finishing the evening meal.
    â€œYou wished to see me, my lord?”
    He wiped his mouth with the napkin and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, Mrs. Arthur. We’d like to compliment you on the meal.” Well, that was true, he told himself, as he carefully ignored that he had also just wanted to see her. “It was quite fine.”
    â€œThank you. I shall pass your praise on to Mrs. Jenkins.”
    â€œ Mrs. Jenkins was responsible for this?” He gestured at his empty plate.
    â€œThis meal bespoke a hand other than that of Mrs. Jenkins,” Lady Elinor said.
    â€œWell, I do make an occasional dish. I love to cook and Mrs. Jenkins is kind enough to share her domain. I happened to notice the herb garden—it was quite overgrown. Also, I found an assortment of spices in a chest in the housekeeper’s rooms. I imagine Mrs. Jenkins simply did not know they were there.”
    â€œHmm,” the earl grunted noncommittally. His aunt merely nodded.
    â€œWill that be all, my lord?”
    â€œYes—uh, no.” He felt an inexplicable urge to keep her near. Later he attributed it to the fact that, other than Aunt Elinor—whose conversation centered on local gossip—there was no one else in his household he could engage in real, non–duty-related conversation. Only recently had he become fully aware of this lack in his life. In America, he had enjoyed the camaraderie of fellow fur traders in the wilderness, and during the months he and Willow spent in St. Louis, he had developed a companionable friendship with a local minister and a lawyer. All of those people had been his equals. Here, he was in charge—responsible—and it was hard to discuss philosophical or political issues with people whose very existence depended on getting along with him. Here was a woman who struck him as knowledgeable and conversant with affairs of the world—and she was decidedly easy to look at too. “How are you getting on?” he now asked the housekeeper.
    â€œQuite well, my lord. The staff have been most helpful.”
    â€œEven Wilkins?” he asked, not bothering to mask a shade of amusement and concern.
    â€œYes. Even Mr. Wilkins,” she replied with a smile.
    â€œVery good.” He felt they both knew they would not openly discuss the butler’s offended sensibilities unless it proved necessary to do so. “And have you had time to consider your duties overall?”
    â€œI have, my lord. And I have examined the household books. I believe we can manage as is—for a while, at least.”
    He raised a brow in surprise. “Indeed?”
    â€œYes, my lord.”
    Reluctantly, he let her go then.
    Leaving the