She could not even recall where the Grecian urn was.
Near the Gainsborough landscape of the cows drinking from a pond. What had Kesgrave called it? The Watering Place.
Very good, your grace, she thought in mild contempt, for knowing the name of the painting in no way helped her locate it.
As one direction seemed as good as the other, Bea decided to turn to the left and was rewarded almost immediately with a staircase. It was not, however, the one she had climbed the night before, for although it served the same function of returning her to the first floor, it deposited her in an entirely different part of the house. Taking a wild guess, she went to the right. One long corridor led to a slightly shorter one, which brought her to a charming music room with pale yellow wallpaper and a daunting number of percussion instruments. A stroll down another hallway took her past the work by Correggio—finally, a landmark she recognized—and she realized she was not very far from Kesgrave’s study.
It would be so very easy to abandon her plan to win over Mrs. Wallace and instead visit the duke. He would be happy to see her, she knew, and was most likely feeling as bereft in her absence as she felt in his.
But he was bracketed with Mr. Stephens, addressing the many estate matters he had let slip during the past week whilst he was dancing attendance upon her.
To be fair, identifying the man who murdered Mr. Hobson was not a trivial occupation, but just because he had been engaged in one worthwhile pursuit did not mean he could ignore all the others that demanded his attention. Fulfilling his obligations now meant he could devote himself exclusively to her later—a goal to which Bea heartily subscribed and the main reason why she did not wish to interrupt his meeting with the steward.
Well, that and the appalling cowardice reversing course would imply.
Staunchly, she turned in the opposite direction of the study and walked briskly past several tempting rooms, including a skylighted rotunda and a conservatory brimming with pink, purple and yellow flowers. The latter, in particular, caught her interest and she longed to inspect it further, both because it looked like a delightful place to read for a few hours and because close examination would postpone the inevitable.
No, you must earn it as a reward, she told herself, resolving to seek out the room again just as soon as she gained the housekeeper’s support with a promise to defer to her on all domestic matters.
I am not here, she would insist with all honesty, to upset your orderly routines or create chaos. All I want to do is ensure the continuation of the duke’s comfort, which you seem to have well in hand. Please let me know what I can do to assist you.
’Twould be easy enough to endear herself.
Oh, but would it really? she thought, her gait faltering as a new horrifying concern struck her. Mrs. Wallace oversaw not just any house but one of the grandest in London and she was employed by a notoriously high stickler. Possibly, those things were a source of great pride for the woman, who might hold in contempt a duchess who failed to display an equal fastidiousness. Rather than earning her respect, a pledge to cede control might secure her disgust.
Perhaps the better approach was to represent herself as a demanding mistress and make a series of outrageous requests such as…such as…
Alas, Bea was far too rational a creature to come up with an outrageous request on a moment’s notice. If she took some time to think about it, maybe in the lovely conservatory…
Before the appealing thought had an opportunity to take hold, she found herself standing at the top of a staircase leading down.
Very well, she thought, her right foot falling lightly on the first step as she began her descent. Her progress was steady, if a little slow, and although she moved with the sluggish pace of a turtle, she reached the bottom soon enough.
Anxiously, she examined her surroundings. The corridor was narrow and bright, with sunlight shining through the windows. She caught the wafting scent of baking bread, and it was an indication of her apprehension that it did not tempt her at all. In actuality, the familiar smell had the opposite effect, causing her stomach to lurch at the foolhardiness of her scheme.
Every gently reared woman in the kingdom knew the basement was emphatically the servants’ domain, and it was an unseemly imposition for the new duchess to wander its halls.
Months ago, in the Lake District, she had dared to visit the kitchens during the course of her investigation into Mr. Otley’s death, which had properly horrified the maids. At that time, she had been naught but an insignificant houseguest and still the women had trembled as if she were Queen Charlotte herself.
Wryly, she reminded herself she had wanted to come up with an outrageous request and it appeared she had stumbled upon the most shocking one of all: the insistence that Mrs. Wallace meet with the Duchess of Kesgrave in the housekeeper’s office. Naturally, the only proper way to conduct a conversation with the servant was to summon her to the drawing room. The courtesy was not only what her rank required but also what the gracious home itself commanded.
Standing there, at the bottom of the staircase, a beam of sunshine warming her hair, Bea felt an intense desire to yield to the dictates of status and architecture. Would it really be so terrible to submit to forces so much stronger
