Change of Address (2 page)

Richmond bowed briefly to her before mounting his perch at
the front of the carriage.

She tried to call out “thank you”, but the sound that came
from her lips was little more than a hoarse whisper that was soon carried away
by the December wind. Before she knew it, the carriage had faded to a dark spot
on the clay road. Then it was gone entirely.

She sniffed and wished for a handkerchief. Though later they
might eventually need to use it for a towel or tablecloth, for the moment, at
least, her collection of personal linen was still available for its original
purpose, if she could only find it. She turned and headed to the house.

* * * * *

Charlie Hilliar heard an alarming
crack
as he lifted
the enormous basket to which his sister had just affixed a note. “Dash it, Iz,
are we distributing bricks to the tenants this Christmas?”

His sister Isabel laughed. “That must be one of the baskets
with the hams.”

“Hmmn.” Something in the basket clinked like a collection of
decanters. “It sounds as if it were a breakable ham, then.”

“There are crocks of preserves in there, as well.”

“Preserved cannonballs?” he guessed, hefting the basket to
gauge the weight.

She smiled. “No, those did not grow so well this year. I
think it must be cabbage, or no, wait, turnips. Cook has urged them at every
meal since October. I think our garden must have produced enough to feed half
the county.”

“Was it necessary to put them all in the one basket?”

“I see you’ve gone soft over Michaelmas term—could it be
that you actually sat down to your studies on occasion now that you’ve entered
your final year?” She reached out as if to take the basket from him. “If it is
too much weight for you to manage…”

“Ha. I’d like to see you try.” He held it out to her.

“No,” she laughed again as she shook her head. “I will wait
for Oliver to come back and take it out to carriage for me.”

“He must have carted out half a dozen of your overloaded
turnip baskets already. I may as well take this last one.” Placing his hand
underneath the basket to support it on one arm, Charlie opened the door and
stepped outside.

A glance at the sky showed that the cloudy winter day had grown
considerably cloudier since his morning ride.

But the dark clouds were funneling upward in a pattern that
looked more like smoke than storm clouds. He stepped around the back of the
coach to gain a better perspective.

And from there it looked so much worse.

“Where are you—”

He waved his sister to be quiet as he shoved the basket into
the arms of the surprised footman who had just stepped out of the vehicle. “The
Puckett’s house has caught fire! See if we’ve anything that will hold
water—bring the lap robes.” Then he started to run down the hill at full
speed.”

“Wait, Charlie!” his sister called from behind. She said
something about the Pucketts, but he didn’t wait to hear what it was. He knew
that by cutting straight across the fields rather than following the winding
road, he could reach the Puckett house before the coach and assess the
situation.

If Mary Puckett was still inside the house, they could wet a
lap robe and use it as a shield against the flames to get her out. If her
drunken lout of a father was inside, Charlie was inclined to leave him to his
fate. Mary’s sisters were all out in service now, her uncle was dead and her
brother had left, so she would be the only one home in danger from the fire.

The grass was heavy with moisture and he had to check his
progress to keep from slipping down the steep grade. Though he could see no
flames coming from the house, smoke poured out the open front door and drifted
up from the behind the building as well. The pungent aroma of burning rotten
wood filled his lungs as he drew closer.

“Mary?” he called out, hoping she was out in back of the
house.

There was no answer.

“Mary? Mary Puckett?”

He stopped for a moment, wondering whether to look around
outside but decided to go inside before the fire grew any worse.

He saw no sign of Mary or any flames in the smoke-filled
kitchen or parlor, so he charged up the stairs. Puckett may have been smoking
his pipe in bed and set the straw ablaze. “Mary!” He could imagine tiny little
Mary trying desperately to wake her drunken father or using all her weight to
drag him from the—

His pace slowed as he realized there did not seem to be any
fire upstairs. The first chamber he glanced in was empty of everything save a
few trunks. And when he stepped inside the chamber next to it, he found more
trunks and a young lady of uncommon beauty standing next to them with her back
against the non-flaming wall, eying him warily.

“I think you must have the wrong house.” She spoke in a
deliberately slow and calm voice, as if trying to soothe an excited horse. But
shaking in her hands and the trepidation in her expressive gray eyes showed
that she was plainly afraid of him as an unknown intruder. “There is no ‘Mary’
here, sir, so please be on your way.”

“I was looking for Mary Puckett, the girl who lives here,”
he said stupidly. Obviously this striking blonde incomparable was not Mary or
even vaguely related to her. The young lady’s speech, manners and dress plainly
revealed gentle breeding. But why was she here? The Pucketts had lived in this
old house as long as he could remember.

But now that he thought about it, Isabel had mentioned
something about new tenants somewhere. If he’d realized who the new tenants
would be, he would have paid more attention.

“I’m sorry, I…” He really could not think of how to
apologize properly for his shocking intrusion.

When she nodded for him to leave, he immediately bowed and
stepped out of the room, but despite his wish not to frighten or offend the
young lady any further, he could not resist the urge to peek into the last
bedchamber.

“She said to be on your way!” From behind the door came a
screaming banshee wielding a handful of sticks which she used to swat him on
the side of his head. The banshee couldn’t have been much more than Mary’s age
but she had obviously enjoyed a healthier diet over the course of her life
because she was as stout and strong as a ploughman.

“Ouch! There are thorns in—” His words were cut off by
another swat from the banshee’s bundle of branches.

“Out, vile intruder!” the girl demanded in an imperious
squeak. “You have no right to invade our home.” She raised her weapon to strike
again but this time he was ready and was able to intercept the blow, grab the
bundle of sticks and twist them out of her hands.

“Hey!” she protested. “Those are mine.”

“No, they’re mine, actually. And I do have the right to be
on the premises. We own the land here and everything on it.” He glanced down at
the bundle in his hands. “Including the thorns.”

“Oh,” said a hard feminine voice from behind him. “I suppose
we must apologize, then.”

He turned to see the young lady he’d seen initially, an
older and more refined version of the blonde banshee who’d hit him, glowering
at him with an expression as dark as her face was fair. It was without a doubt
the single most unapologetic apology he’d ever received.

“Are we to expect visits such as this on a regular basis?”
She eyed the bundle of sticks as if she wished to seize it for her own use.

“What?” Charlie shook his head. “No, of course not. I
thought the house had caught fire.”

All at once her face lightened as if the sun just emerged
from a bank of clouds. She laughed. At first, she kept the sound and expression
demure and polite but she soon erupted into a full, very unladylike explosion
of glee, her full mouth open to reveal unusually straight, white teeth.

“I take that to mean that it has not.”

“No.” She shook her head, trying unsuccessfully to regain
control over her laughter. “As much as I might perhaps wish it.”

“Wish it? You wish my house to burn down?”

She nodded and her laugh faded to a close-lipped smile.
“Yes.” Then with a sigh, she reluctantly shook her head. “No. I do not wish for
our
house to burn down. Or yours. Since your family owns it but we have
a leasehold, it is fair to say that it belongs to us both, does it not? At
least for the term of the lease.”

“Y-yes,” he agreed, somewhat taken aback by her ready
understanding of the law of property.

Her expression and voice grew very matter-of-fact. “The
chimneys are clogged and our attempts to light fires in the fireplaces resulted
in a fumigation of our belongings, but no sustainable fires. I do not know
whether it is the responsibility of the landlord or the tenant to hire a
chimney sweep.”

“Er…”

“However, if we cannot light a fire to keep warm and we need
to move into the parish poor house to obtain heat, then you will have the
expenses of our upkeep added to your taxes and you do not want that, I’m sure.”

“What? No.” He realized that as she spoke, he was watching
the way her eyes sparkled with mischief as if she were almost speaking in jest
but daring him not to believe her. A loose strand of honey-colored hair
threatened to come unpinned at any moment and he longed to reach out and tuck
it back into place.

Her face settled into a smile. “I’m glad you agree. You will
instruct the sweep to knock before
he
comes into our house, of course.”

“Of course.” He realized that somehow, at her urging, he was
moving toward the stair landing.

“The agent informed us that the house was furnished and as
you can see, it is not. So we will be decreasing our rent payment accordingly.”

He nodded. The loose bit of blonde hair would probably
tumble down if she nodded in return. But instead she started down the spiral
stairs and he had no choice but to follow.

“I did not remember to ask,” she continued, “whether it was
customary in this vicinity to include the delivery of coal in the rental
payment, but I know that is standard practice in some places, so if you could
arrange for that we would be very grateful.”

He started to nod again but when he reached the bottom step
he stopped. Something she’d just said made no sense.

He looked around the empty parlor, its emptiness a little
more obvious now that the smoke was clearing away. “This house used to have
furniture in it.”

“Perhaps it did but unless it was furnished for wee fairy
folk who perch on acorn cups, then the furniture is no longer in evidence.”

He walked over to peer into the kitchen and found it equally
devoid of furnishings. “And what happened to the Pucketts?”

“They left and took the furniture with them?” she guessed.

“I shall ask Isabel. And she will see about replacing the
tables and whatnot.”

“Very good. And don’t forget to send the coal.”

“What?” He stopped. “We don’t supply coal to tenants.”

“Well then we will expect the chimney sweep promptly.”

“Try again for the coal,” the younger girl whispered in a
voice that was a little too loud.

The gray-eyed beauty shook her off.

“Whom should I tell the sweep to visit?” he asked, glad to
have such a ready excuse to ask her name.

“Mrs. Castling.”

All at once the light seemed to have gone out of the room.
This bright, engaging, handsome young lady was married? “
Mrs.
Castling?”
he repeated somewhat forlornly.

“Yes. Mama has a theory about where an animal’s nest is
located in the kitchen chimney so the sweep should speak with her before he
begins.”

“So
you
are not Mrs. Castling?”

“No, I am Amanda Castling and this is my sister, Honoria.”

He bowed to each of them in turn. “It is a pleasure to meet
you Miss Castling, Miss Honoria Castling.”

They waited, as if expecting something more from him.

“I shall see about the sweep straightaway.”

Still they waited.

“And I shall send Isabel around to speak to you about
furnishings.”

The sisters were posed as if ready to make a curtsy, Miss
Amanda with grace as if waiting to step into a dance and Miss Honoria coiled
with tension as if ready to set off after a brace of hounds.

He cleared his throat. “And she will issue dinner
invitations and so forth.”

Still they waited.

“Well, good day to you, then.” He reached up to touch his
hat and realized he wasn’t wearing one, so he bowed again before walking out
the door.

He was surprised to see the family coach parked just outside
and his sister staggering forward with a dripping lap robe.

“You’ve put out the fire already?” she guessed.

“Er, yes.” He saw no need to admit how badly he’d
embarrassed himself on that score.

She nodded toward the coachman who stood in stocking feet,
holding his boots in his hands. “Thank you, Oliver. Now that the fire danger
has been averted, you may empty your boots of water and replace the cover on
the well.”

Charlie straightened his cravat, which had come seriously
askew during his run to the cottage. “We’ve a new tenant, did you know?”

Isabel dropped the sopping wet blanket on the ground and
wiped her hands on his coat sleeve. “Yes, I told you at dinner the day you
arrived back but obviously you weren’t paying attention. I’ve not yet met Mrs.
Castling. I gather that you have?”

“She has two daughters, both delightful.” He frowned at the
memory of being pummeled with thorny branches. “Well, the younger is a bit
rough ’round the edges but the older is…” Somehow “delightful” did not seem the
right word for a scheming young lady who’d tried to convince him to provide
free fuel. Really, he should not find such boldness appealing at all, despite
her beauty.

“I gather you find the older one rather attractive,” his
sister surmised.

“No—” He started to deny, but really it was such an
egregious lie as to send him straight to Lucifer if he were to be struck dead
any time soon. “Well, whether I do or not is beside the point. It is just that
they are neighbors and…” He struggled to put his thoughts into words. Miss
Castling was not afraid to speak her mind and reach out for what she wanted and
that bravery was rather exciting but he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit that to
his older sister.