Where Dreams Begin(84)

However, there was one bit of unfinished business remaining. Ascertaining that Holly had taken Rose out to the garden, Zachary went up to her bedroom. The blond maid, Maude was there, her arms stacked high with folded garments as she walked from the armoire to the bed. She jumped a little as she saw him standing at the entrance to the room. “S-sir?” she questioned warily, setting the folded clothes in the corner of a trunk.

“I have something to ask of you,” he said curtly.

Clearly puzzled as to what he wanted, Maude turned to face him. He sensed her discomfort at being alone in the same room with him. This room, particularly, with Holly's clothes and possessions spread everywhere. There was a pile of objects on the bed: a hairbrush, a set of combs, an ivory box, a small frame covered in a leather case. He would have thought nothing of the frame, except that Maude discreetly tried to nudge it out of sight as she approached him. “Is there a chore I might do for ye, sir?” the maid asked uneasily. “Something I can fetch or mend or—”

“No, nothing like that.” His gaze strayed to the frame case. “What is that?”

“Oh, it's…well, something personal to Lady Holly, and…sir, she wouldn't like it if ye—” Maude spluttered with dismayed protests as Zachary reached over and plucked the frame case from the pile.

“A miniature?” he asked, deftly shaking the object from its leather casing.

“Yes, sir, but…you shouldn't, really…oh, dear.” Maude's pudgy cheeks reddened, and she sighed in patent discomfort as he stared at the little portrait.

“George,” Zachary said quietly. He had never seen a likeness of the man, had never wanted to before. It was only to be expected that Holly should carry a portrait of her late husband, for Rose's benefit as well as her own. However, Zachary had never asked to view a likeness of George Taylor, and Holly had certainly never volunteered to show him. Perhaps Zachary had expected that he would feel a pang of animosity at the sight of Taylor's face, but as he stared at the miniature, he was conscious only of a surprising feeling of pity.

He had always thought of George as a contemporary, but this face was impossibly young, adorned with sideburns that amounted to a bit of peach fuzz on either side of his cheeks. Zachary was startled by the realization that Taylor couldn't have been more than twenty-four when he died, almost a full ten years younger than Zachary was now. Holly had been wooed and loved by this handsome boy, with his golden blond hair and untroubled blue eyes, and a smile that hinted of mischief. George had died before he'd barely tasted of life, widowing a girl who had been even more innocent than he.

Try as he might, Zachary couldn't blame George Taylor for trying to protect Holly, arrange things for her, ensure that his infant daughter was taken care of. No doubt George would have been anguished at the thought of his wife being seduced and made miserable by the Zachary Bronsons of the world. “Dammit,” Zachary whispered, shoving the miniature back into its leather sheath. Scowling, he set the object on the bed.

Maude stared at him warily. “Is there aught I can do for ye, sir?”

He gave a single nod and reached inside his coat. “I want you to have this,” he muttered, extracting a small bag weighted with gold coins. To a servant of Maude's station, it amounted to a fortune. “Take it, and promise me that if there is ever anything Lady Holland needs, you'll send for me.”

The maid's face was blank with surprise. She took the bag, felt its weight in her hand, and stared at him with wide eyes. “Ye don't need to pay me to do that, sir.”

“Take it,” he insisted brusquely.

A reluctant smile curved her lips, and she dropped the little bag into her apron pocket. “Ye've been a good master, sir. Don't fret about Lady Holland and Miss Rose, I'll serve them faithfully, and send for ye if any trouble arises.”

“Good,” he said, and turned to leave. He paused and looked back at her as a question occurred to him. “Why did you try to hide the miniature from me, Maude?”

She blushed a little, but her gaze was direct and honest as she replied, “I wished to spare ye the sight of him, sir. I know how ye feel about Lady Holland, ye see.”

“You do?” he said neutrally.

The maid gave a vigorous nod. “She's a dear, gentle lady, and a man would have a heart of stone not to care for her.” Maude lowered her voice confidentially. “Betwixt ye and me, sir, I think that if my lady were free to choose any man for herself, she might well have set her cap for ye. 'Tis plain as day that she's fair taken with ye. But Master George took most of her heart with him to the grave.”

“Does she look at his miniature often?” Zachary asked, keeping his face expressionless.

Maude's round face puckered thoughtfully. “Not so often since we came to live on yer estate, sir. To my knowledge, she hasn't taken it out at all in the past month or so. Why, there was even a bit of dust that settled on it.”

For some reason the information comforted him.

“Farewell, Maude,” he replied, taking his leave.

“Good luck to ye, sir,” she said softly.

Returning from the garden, Holly went to her room and found her main sorting through a pile of carefully folded stockings. “What progress you've made, Maude,” she commented with a wan smile.

“Aye, milady. I'd be even further along except that the master came to the room and interrupted my chores.” The words were spoken casually, and Maude continued busily with her task.