Page 16 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
He stood and paced across the study, trying to sweep his mind clear of its tangle of lust and confusion, but all he could think of was Turner and the disappointed look on his face when he had left. It seemed that after two weeks of working together all hours of the day and night, Turner’s absence was even more distracting than his presence. He kept looking over at Turner’s desk, expecting to see a dark head bent over tidy stacks of papers, expecting to hear the methodical scratch of Turner’s pen.
As pacing was doing precisely nothing for his state of mind, Lawrence attempted to work instead. He sat at his desk and absently reached for the latest letter from Standish. Somehow, the paper was where Lawrence meant for it to be, exactly where he put his hand, even though Lawrence was quite certain he hadn’t put the letter there himself. Usually, finding Standish’s latest letter involved a great deal of tedious weeding through unrelated correspondence, if he even found it at all. It was Turner’s doing. Turner always knew what Lawrence required and saw that it was done.
And wasn’t that just the worst of it, how the man had made himself indispensable. Turner really was a very good secretary, even though Lawrence was doubtless unpleasant to work for. All his fussing and interference resulted in Lawrence being less frustrated. Calmer, even. Certainly more productive. Which was somehow even worse than if Turner were simply a shiftless nuisance.
He found himself dreading the day when Turner finally realized what a bad idea it was to live in close quarters with such a man as Lawrence. Because the fellow eventually would realize it, and then Lawrence would be less productive, less calm.Alone.
It was a mystery how a man like Turner had found his way to Penkellis in the first place. Surely he belonged in London, among men who were fashionable and powerful, among ladies who would properly appreciate his good looks and fine manners. Then again, perhaps fashionable, powerful men didn’t care to employ secretaries with dubious backgrounds. Likely Lawrence ought to object as well, but he found he didn’t care in the least where Turner came from.
The fact that Lawrence was now willing to do what it took—including grovel, apologize, or throw himself at Turner’s feet—to keep him at Penkellis meant Lawrence was no better than his father or brother. They had always put their whims ahead of all else, including the safety of innocent people. Lawrence was determined not to be mad in that particular way. He would make it easy for Turner to leave Penkellis, and he would delay the onset of madness for just a bit longer.
“Never in all my years.” Mrs. Ferris shook her head. “I never thought I’d see the day when a gentleman interfered with my kitchen.”
“I’m not really a gentleman, if that makes a difference.” Georgie unloaded the contents of his basket onto the broad, scarred table. “I fancy an omelet and figured I’d make it myself rather than put you to any trouble.”
Mrs. Ferris clucked disapprovingly. “If you’ll put those eggs down, Janet will see to them.”
Janet made a sound of protest.
“Tsk,” Mrs. Ferris scolded. “When was the last time you lifted a finger?”
Georgie took a knife out of the block and tested its sharpness on his finger. It was sharper than he would have expected in a kitchen that saw hardly any cooking. Someone had taken this blade to the whetstone. Likely the same someone who kept this kitchen in an immaculate state of cleanliness.
“I know it’s most irregular, but it’ll take a quarter of an hour, and I’ll scour the pans myself,” Georgie said, arranging the mushrooms before him in a straight row. “I just can’t face another ham sandwich.”
Janet snorted, and Mrs. Ferris glared in her direction. “I can’t blame you,” the cook said. “It’s no way for a man to live. Never a hot meal, always the same thing day after day.”
It occurred to Georgie that the earl’s insistence on an endless succession of ham sandwiches meant these women might not get much else to eat either.
He felt the older woman’s gaze on him as he placed the onion on the chopping block and started to peel off its papery skin. On a hunch, he cut the onion into several oddly sized chunks. Before its pungent aroma had even reached his nostrils she was by his side.
“No, no. What are you about? Chop the onion fine, like this.” She took the knife from his hand and held up a paper thin slice of onion for his edification. “Each piece the same as all the others. Janet, melt the butter in that saucepan. Mr. Turner, you slice the mushrooms.”
Mrs. Ferris took charge of the operation as if she had been longing to oversee the preparation of a meal. If she had gone into service intending to be a proper cook, she might be bored off her chair in a house where there was nothing to do but bake bread and slice ham. No wonder the kitchen was spotless.
Twenty minutes later, the three of them shared a mushroom omelet in Mrs. Ferris’s parlor.
This was the coziest room Georgie had yet seen at Penkellis. There was neither dust nor mice, the windows were reasonably clean, and a fire burned high in the little hearth. On the chimney piece was a row of carefully arranged knickknacks—a braided lock of hair, a small whittled animal of some sort, a sketch of a very young man.
“Who’s the woman in the whitewashed cottage with all those yellow-haired children?” Georgie asked. “She’s the one I bought the eggs from.”
“That’d be Maggie Kemp,” Janet said around a mouthful of eggs.
“What’s this about Lord Radnor stealing her caul?”
Mrs. Ferris paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “You know how these people are,” she said. “Superstitious.” Georgie noticed that she avoided meeting anyone’s eyes.
“Of course,” Georgie agreed. He didn’t mention that the child had said Mrs. Ferris herself had blamed the earl for the theft. Instead he decided it was time to ingratiate himself with the servants. “It seems a waste to keep an experienced cook and not have her do any cooking.”
Mrs. Ferris sighed. “His lordship wants his ham and bread and won’t hear otherwise. That’s the way he is. Of course, I told him, years ago, back when he still came down to visit the kitchens, that a man needs more than that to live, but he’s set in his ways. So it’s ham and bread, and apples when they’re in season.”
Georgie realized that if the walnuts he had seen Mrs. Ferris shelling on the night of his arrival were not intended for Radnor, they must have had some other purpose. Presumably she sold them and kept the proceeds for herself. It seemed strange that Mrs. Ferris would profit from the sale of Penkellis’s walnuts but not avail herself of the fortune’s worth of silver and china littering the house. But Georgie knew the lines people drew for themselves. Stay on the right side of the line, and it wasn’treallywrong. Georgie had those lines too, only they never seemed to stay in the same place for long. One moment he felt quite above reproach, and the next he was telling young Ned Packingham that he ought not let his aunt invest in a certain fictitious canal company.
Georgie tried to steer his attention away from the swamp of regret and shame that was the Packingham job. “Does he not let you clean?” he asked Janet.
“His lordship doesn’t like to be disturbed,” Janet said primly. “Getting on his bad side is more than our lives are worth.”
“Is that why the other servants left? Because they feared getting on his bad side?” Georgie had a hard time imagining Radnor actually harming anyone. This morning Georgie had watched in astonishment as Radnor rescued a spider that Georgie had wanted to kill.
