Chemistry of Magic: Unexpected Magic Book Five (Unexpected Magic #5)(26)
She had no bell to summon a servant, not that Bessie or John was likely to perform the duty of a housekeeper. She assumed the task herself, leading the way to the butler’s pantry. Indicating the kitchen door, she prayed Mrs. Peacock wasn’t a silver thief. “Mrs. Wiggs will be along tomorrow. The food deliveries should arrive this afternoon. You are welcome to look around, although I fear there is not much you can do yet.”
“Don’t you worry, m’lady. I’ll have the place in hand in no time. It will be a pleasure to see other than my own four walls of a change.” Mrs. Peacock sailed down the steps like a captain entering his ship without mentioning what her compensation might be, should the week be successful.
Remarkable. She’d just hired her first staff. Almost.
At a loss as to what to do next without her notes and equipment, Emilia set out in search of her husband. She found him in her grandfather’s cluttered study, leaning one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, and examining the jumble. She had to admit that Devil Dare was a fine figure of a man. She couldn’t help a small thrill at the ridiculously proprietary notion that she had been the one to capture him, and he was all hers.
“Is there an attic to carry this to?” he asked, gesturing at old saddles and boxes of dusty tomes. “This probably ought to be the office we use for interviewing staff and keeping the books.”
We. She had never been part of a we. It was a trifle scary. He might be strong and handsome now, but learning to rely on him would be a mistake. Still, he had earned the right to carve a place for himself—in her house and her life, but not her heart. She had to shield her softer impulses if she were to survive her gift.
“There’s an attic,” she said, “but I suggest we sort what needs to be thrown out first and wait until we have a footman to carry up the rest.”
“Our funds aren’t unlimited,” he warned. “Once they are used to purchase my mother’s house, the investments will produce significantly less income than they do now, so we should economize while we can. How much will your cook cost us?”
Emilia wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t used to thinking of cost, except when it came to buying her equipment from her allowance. “I have no notion. We didn’t discuss it. If she lives in the cook’s quarters, that should be part of her compensation, I think, but if not. . .” She sighed. “She will undoubtedly want utensils we do not possess. But we cannot go on without a footman and a maid.”
He surveyed the clutter and looked grim. “If I thought I could live just two more years, my own investments would be complete and productive,” he said. “But there is a great deal of work to be done between now and then, and I fear failure. I hate to leave you on limited funds.”
That was honesty. Emilia swallowed and tried to summon her own courage to be equally blunt. She needed to tell him that she might possibly extend his life. “If you will allow me to help. . . I cannot make promises but—”
Dare straightened and made a dismissive gesture. “I cannot allow you to do more than you have. I’ll take a look at the outbuildings, see if one will be suitable for my workshop.”
He walked away, leaving her hard-to-find words to sputter and die. There was a reason she had never married—men never listened. If he’d only let her try. . . She still couldn’t promise that he’d live two years.
Stepping out the back door, Dare fought the grinding in his gut which the ugly conversation with his bride had exacerbated. He hated talking about his imminent demise, but he had to make Emilia understand her diminished circumstances. She didn’t seem much inclined toward financial matters, so it would be up to him to set boundaries.
He hated that too. He would shower her in roses and beakers, if he could, but he was not a wealthy man. His father had seen to that. In a few years, with the railroad running and his other ventures turning a profit. . . then he might buy anything she liked. Time was running out, however.
Not one to dwell on regrets, Dare rattled the locked door to a long, low shed he’d been eyeing as possible work space. He’d have to go back to the house and find the keys. Turning to leave, he noticed a garden gnome leaning over the stone fence around what was presumably the kitchen garden. Wearing a nondescript coat, baggy trousers, and a grimy cap, the gnome presented a toothless, withered crabapple face as Dare approached.
“Shame to let ’at garden go,” the creature said through missing front teeth. “Taters and onions still growin’. Summat ’em herbs the lady likes under ta weeds. Reckon you need a gardener?” he asked with little hope in his voice.
A gardener. Emilia wanted gardens. He had a blasted estate now which needed tending. Watching coins fly out the window, Dane leaned his hip against the wall and tried to see food in the overgrown greenery. He wouldn’t know a potato from an onion. “Were you Sir Harry’s gardener?”
The gnome bobbed his head. “Name’s Artur. I’m old, but I can do ta work.”
“You were let go when Sir Harry died?” One more task on his list—find out what the hell had happened here.
“Not a’til dey said ta place was bein’ torn down. Sorry I was to see such a grand place go, but I hear tat’s changed now?”
Finally realizing the old gent couldn’t pronounce th, and that his name was probably Arthur, Dane nodded. “We have no intention of tearing it down. Do you know where to find the fellow who told you otherwise?”