Honor's Players - By Holly Newman Page 0,31

the dining room with more rags in hand.

Elizabeth frowned, though she ignored Atheridge’s words. He dumped the rags at the foot of the ladder, scowled up at Thomas, and turned to shuffle out of the room.

She and Thomas exchanged speaking glances. Throughout the morning, her doubts and concerns about the butler and housekeeper had magnified. She found them trying to hinder everything she desired to do. Atheridge only went to secure the help she needed to clean the manor after she threatened to go herself. Mrs. Atheridge tried to claim a lack of proper buckets and cleaning utensils until Elizabeth suggested she go to the stables, collect the unused buckets there, and proceed to scrub then until they were fit to carry clean water. Miraculously four buckets were found within the house. Though her blood boiled at the obvious duplicity, Elizabeth pretended a delighted surprise which she was far from feeling. What puzzled Elizabeth was the reason for their obstructive actions. Despite the lack of cooperation from the Atheridges, the work commenced.

The shadows were lengthening, and it was near teatime. By this hour Elizabeth knew the shelves and cupboards in the kitchen and the fitted stone floor had been scrubbed, and all cobwebs swept away from dark corners. Fresh, simple foods had been fetched from the village and filled clean pantry shelves. The dining room, though not completely clean as yet, no longer revolted her appetite. The rotted drapes had been removed revealing beautiful mullioned windows. The furniture, while unfashionably heavy and dark, took on a rich warm hue when cleaned and oiled. Elizabeth was convinced that once cleaned, the chandelier above would sparkle and cast rainbow lights into the room. If the restoration of the master bedroom and the library were going half as well, she would be pleased. She should check on the workers’ progress since it was time to send them on their way. She hoped they would return on the morrow.

Elizabeth drew the back of her hand across her forehead, brushing an escaping lock of dark hair out of her eyes. She was bone-tired, yet strangely it felt good. She had worked beside the village help, pulling down musty curtains and wall hangings, shifting furniture about, attacking cobwebs. She had been too busy to think about her marriage and St. Ryne’s actions, which suited her perfectly. A brief frown creased her brow. He would most likely be returning soon, if he hadn’t run from his mockery of a marriage as he had from their conjugal bed, a circumstance, she admitted, not without favor. Her stomach rumbled. She clamped a hand to her middle as if to still the vulgar sound while she watched Thomas carefully take apart the chandelier.

St. Ryne stood quietly in the doorway of the dining room. The manor was a veritable beehive of activity. It would appear half the village had come to help clean Larchside, undoubtedly out of curiosity more than any other reason. Were they sated? What stories would be passed over a mug of ale, in the shops, and on the road? He watched Elizabeth directing the efforts of a strapping young man removing the chandelier. She was concentrating intensely and a small frown played across her features. The hem of her gown was black, the large cook’s apron she’d tied on over her dress was streaked with gray, and a smudge graced her cheek-bone. A hideous kerchief covered her glorious hair, though a few wisps escaped to curl and cling to her damp brow. Shadows were lengthening, and it would soon be too dark to work. St. Ryne felt a curious tightening in his chest as he watched her. Was this his shrew? His Katharine?

He saw her press her hand to her middle. Was she not well?

“My lady.” His voice sounded rusty and harsh to his ears.

She whirled around to face him, a slight flush creeping up to stain her cheeks. He cleared his throat, but the tightening in his chest seemed to have affected his voice as well.

“St. Ryne?” she queried, a watchful wariness in her voice.

“It appears all the dirt of Larchside has been transferred upon your person.” He managed a slight smirk to cover his confusion.

Elizabeth stepped toward him, a self-mocking smile upon her lips. “It is not to be surprised.”

“How so? Are there not servants to attend to the manor?”

Her smile vanished. “Nay, sir, there are not! These are good village folk, come to help clean this wretched sty, and come more out of curiosity