Agnes placed a gentle hand on the maid’s arm. “You’ve nothing to fear, Amy. Everything will work out as it should. You’ll see.”
“With all due respect, miss,” Amy whispered with a fervent glance at the waiting carriage and the driver who might overhear, “but there’s everything to fear. Whether or not you know it, Stephen’s much more observant than you believe. What if he tells Mr. Porter? I know I’ll be leaving soon, but I need my wages until then.”
Agnes stifled a laugh as she glanced at the older driver, who stood beside the carriage picking at his nails. Stephen might have the sight of an eagle, legs so long he nearly sat doubled in his driver’s seat, and less hair than a bald monkey beneath his black hat, but his hearing was worse than that of an earthworm. “I’ve paid him to keep quiet, so don’t worry,” she said with a wink. “Plus, he believes we’re here at Mr. Porter’s request.”
Mr. Thomas Porter had taken Agnes off the streets of London and welcomed her into his home as his ward four years earlier. Not only had he provided her with the basic necessities of a stable home, food, and clothing, he also had given her extensive education and training on how to be a lady. And most importantly, he had given her hope. Something she never possessed living alone on the streets and fending for herself.
Every summer since Mr. Porter had taken Agnes on as his ward, the two would leave London to stay at his country estate in Chatsworth. Those were the days Agnes loved the most. London had its own beauty—once one left the dirty and poor areas from where she had come—but nothing compared to the fresh air and cool breezes of the countryside.
This year, however, they would not return to London. At the age of five and sixty, Mr. Porter’s health was failing. Therefore, he was conducting the majority of his local business through the use of a courier. Thus, Agnes’s reason for waiting beneath the silver birch tree beside the entrance to Meadow Estate. This particular courier was bringing letters to and from one Mr. Phillip Rutley.
Mr. Rutley was a handsome man three years Agnes’s elder, and she had found an instant attraction to him when they had met the previous summer. As he was an acquaintance of her guardian, however, she had put off mentioning her interest in him and welcomed men of Mr. Porter’s choosing.
Yet, each was worse than the one before. Most were more interested in dandying themselves up than paying her any attention. If she was to marry any man, he would find her more interesting than himself. After her recent parting of ways with Lord Ezra Colburn, she had diverted her attention back to Mr. Rutley.
Amy continued her hand wringing. “I don’t know, miss. I think he’s pretending to be deaf. He’s crafty, Stephen is.”
Agnes sighed. “I’ll prove it to you.” She cleared her throat and raised her voice to a near shout. “Why, yes, I would love to drink a mug of ale unchaperoned with a gentleman.”
Amy gasped and clutched Agnes’s arm. “You shouldn’t say things like that, miss!”
Agnes, however, was clutching her sides with laughter. “You see? He’s oblivious to anything happening around him. You really shouldn’t be so worried.” Indeed, Stephen did not even glance up at her short tirade.
“You’re terrible, Miss Agnes,” Amy said. “It’s a good thing I’m leaving soon, or you’d have me turning gray earlier than I should!”
After giving the maid a hug, Agnes took hold of her arms. “Don’t worry. If Mr. Porter casts you to the streets before you’re married, I’ve friends who can help you.”
This had both women laughing, for Mr. Porter might reprimand her, but not Amy. Not when Amy had done nothing wrong. He was strict but fair, and although Agnes had changed much since becoming his ward, her mischievous ways remained in one form or another. After all, four years might be able to correct fourteen years of street living, but it would never be able to eradicate it.
And she suspected her early life lessons would always remain. Even if they were buried well beneath the surface of decorum and politeness.
A small trail of dust coming down the drive caught Agnes’s attention, and she flicked a coin into the air with practiced ease. William Yates, a young man in his mid-twenties with blond hair the color of beach sand beneath a brown hat and the courier for whom she had been waiting, rode up and stopped beside her.
“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” he said as he leaned over and handed her the letter he carried. “I feel like I’m taking part in some sort of crime.”
A whispered “Agreed!” came from Amy, followed by a clearing of her throat when Agnes raised a single eyebrow in her direction.
Turning her attention back to the courier, Agnes said, “I don’t understand why you must complain when I’m only making your work easier.” She held the coin in the tips of her fingers and turned it this way and that. Unlike Amy, and perhaps because of her own upbringing, the cold did not force Agnes to wear gloves. Even if she should. “Shall I keep it? At least then, you mightn’t be seen as an accomplice in this so-called crime.”
They had exchanged similar banter the last few times she had waited for him, and with a hearty laugh, he handed her the letter. With a quick bite on the coin, he flipped it into the air and placed it into his coat pocket. Then he touched his hat and dipped his head before trotting away.
“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Agnes asked, clutching the letter in her hand. “I meant it when I said I’m saving the man work. He carries a letter from my house to here—that’s what? Two hundred feet? He not only earns what Mr. Porter gives him, but he also receives a bit more for less work. If you ask me, he’s paid far too much!”
They returned to the waiting carriage, and Agnes said to Stephen, “Courtly Manor, please.”
“Yes, miss,” Stephen said with a wide grin as he opened the door for her. No, the driver would say nothing about this little escapade. He liked her too much.
Once the women were settled onto the plush bench, Stephen closed the door. Agnes glanced at the letter in her hand, and curiosity filled her. What could be inside? Although she intercepted the correspondences Mr. Porter sent to Mr. Rutley, she never opened them. Their contents were not what held her interest but were, instead, an excuse to see Mr. Rutley. Prying into someone else’s affairs was not something she enjoyed. But that did not mean her interest did not remain piqued.
Half an hour later, the carriage trundled up the drive to Courtly Manor and came to a stop. A white-painted, three-story house with black window frames and ivy creeping up its facade, Courtly Manor was a lovely estate Agnes admired. Far too large for a single man, it was better suited to a large family. Why should she not dream that she was the wife of that family?
Beside the drive stood an oak tree, one which Agnes had noticed on her previous journeys here. Mr. Rutley had informed her that it was well over a hundred years old. She walked up to it and placed a hand against the gnarly trunk. In the middle of the rough bark was a smooth surface where a large limb had been removed. Although many would see it as nothing but an ancient tree, Agnes saw it as much more. There was a wonderful history surrounding it. Or so she believed.
“I wonder how many secrets have been shared here,” she said before glancing at the maid. “Do you not feel something special about this tree? I know I do.”
Amy smiled and placed her hand against the bark. “I suppose you can say it’s regal in its way. What kinds of stories would it tell if it could talk? I imagine it has many. Many stories and many secrets.”
Agnes nodded and leaned in close to the tree. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered. “I refused to allow Lord Ezra to continue calling on me because I knew he loved theideaof me becoming his bride, but he loves no one but himself.”