Although Oliver’s brow rose at her comment, he let them leave without a word and when she was far enough away she let out a relieved breath. George turned back. “Good night, sir.”
Beth quickly glanced over her shoulder and was surprised to find Oliver had followed th
em as far as the doorway. He nodded and Beth pulled George all the way down the hall until they reached their rooms. “There will be no more sneaking off to the east wing. Is that understood?”
“But I’m not in the way there,” George protested. “I’m always in the way belowstairs and you don’t want me in the public rooms like the library.”
Beth pinched the bridge of her nose. “You cannot play in any part of the abbey you choose. It isn’t fair, but that is the way of things.”
“He doesn’t mind.”
“Who doesn’t mind? Oliver Randall?” Beth choked on a laugh. “How can you tell if he’s happy to see you or not?”
George grinned. “He’s happy to see me. Happy to see you, too. He just doesn’t talk as much as everyone else, but I figured him out.”
Beth folded her hands over her chest. “Assuming Oliver Randall cares for anyone is always the first mistake. Try not to be too disappointed when you discover he doesn’t. It can be a painful lesson to learn. Trust me on this.”
Chapter Eleven
“YOU’RE GETTING IN the habit of absconding with my servants,” the duchess grumbled to Oliver as she stepped into the chaos of his new apartments. Maids and footmen worked together to give the room a thorough cleaning and the mice had all been chased into hiding. He probably should have asked Elizabeth to assign the servants, but she’d appeared much distracted by the arrival of Henry Turner and it was far quicker to just arrange it himself.
“They were needed,” he said, glancing about him at the improvements made so far to the room. One chimney had been cleaned and a nice fire burned in the hearth, casting a fine glow over the polished wood and chairs placed before it. The rugs were still out being beaten, but he anticipated their return by the end of the day along with fresh linen for the bed.
“So I hear. I would have preferred to have heard your plans from your own lips. If it’s not too much trouble, that is.” The duchess’s sarcasm was palpable in her last statement and Oliver tried to hide a smile as he worked. The woman did not like to be ignored. She must always be at the center of everything. An attitude that he resisted pandering to.
Oliver stacked another full trunk against the wall. Now that he had the space, he had also made an impressive beginning to his departure. The items that Beth had moved yesterday had already been transferred here and as he looked about him, a feeling of contentment trickled through him. Everything was coming together as he’d hoped.
A housemaid hurried past, bobbed an unsteady curtsy to the duchess, and fled into a bedchamber. His new bedchamber where he would sleep tonight in blessed isolation. Since his return to Romsey his family had hovered, surreptitiously checking in on him when they thought him asleep. His time at Skepington had taught him to sleep lightly. Tonight he would lock the east-wing doors, wander the rooms for as long as he cared to and sleep well past the rising hour if he felt like it.
The duchess cleared her throat. “I also understand that you gave Eamon Murphy leave to be absent from his duties yesterday.”
Oliver nodded. “Eamon has a knack for ferreting out fact and fiction.”
“About what?” Her Grace’s hand punched one hip. “Must I wring that information from your lips, too?”
Oliver frowned. Even gossip took time to spread. “There is nothing to tell yet and to speculate without further enquiry would be unwise. Eamon will return shortly.”
“So you are investigating Henry Turner?”
Oliver shrugged. “Perhaps I am. I am curious about him.”
“Why? Do you not believe him truthful about his life in America?”
Oliver paused. He had no concrete notion of why Henry Turner’s answers bothered him so much, but the more he reviewed them, the more practiced they appeared to be. “He’s a skilled conversationalist.”
The duchess moved a pile of papers and settled herself on the chair. “So are many people of my acquaintance, but that doesn’t mean I distrust them because of it.”
“He wasn’t when I knew him before and he leaves out specifics in his answers. Who are these great friends of his in America? He’s yet to say one fellow’s name.”
The duchess tapped her fingers on the table impatiently. “So you are doing this out of idle curiosity alone?”
“Of course.” He frowned, baffled by her question. “Why else engage in the study of another person and their affairs?”
She sat forward in her chair. “I thought perhaps you were concerned about Mrs. Turner going so far away,” she said softly, casting a swift glance at the servants around them to see if her voice had carried. “You did seem a little startled when she said she would go, so I imagine you will be pleased that she is no longer the housekeeper of Romsey. I thought it best to free her time from the responsibilities of the position so she might have time to reconsider her decision to leave. Perhaps you could exert some of that Randall charm and convince her of the advantages of staying.”
He blinked. No one had ever suggested he was charming, not once in his life. Annoying, exacting and self-absorbed were the most frequent charges. How could he convince Elizabeth to stay if she wouldn’t listen to him? “She was far too good for the position, in my opinion, but I doubt she will listen to me.”
A sly smile crossed the duchess’s face. “Perhaps if you ask her the right way, ask the right question, she would have a reason to remain.”