“You’ll make yourself ill with all of this striding about.” Bessie adjusted Maggie’s chip bonnet, settling it more firmly on her head, and retying the cornflower-blue ribbons in a jaunty bow at her chin. “And don’t pretend you’ve recovered. You forget I was your nurse. I can see when you’re overexerting yourself.”
“Don’t fuss, Bessie.” Maggie swatted her maid’s hands away. “I haven’t time for it today. I told Mr. Entwhistle I’d call on him at one o’clock precisely.”
Maggie had sent the note round yesterday. Mr. Entwhistle had replied at once, seeming to understand her need for discretion. If Fred knew she desired to visit the old steward, he’d insist on accompanying her. Which is exactly why Jane had contrived to enlist him as an escort into town this morning.
She’d departed earlier, along with her aunt, and the Beresfords. Fred had ridden alongside their carriage on horseback. Maggie had watched them go from her bedroom window.
Looking up at her from the drive, Fred had touched his riding whip to the brim of his hat in a brief salute. He believed she was overtired. Too ill, in fact, to endure the exertion of an outing.
It was the first time Maggie had ever used her ill health to her own benefit. She wondered that she’d never thought of doing it before. “If they should chance to return before I do, tell them—”
“I’ll say you’re sleeping and can’t be disturbed,” Bessie replied. “They shan’t get past me, Miss Margaret. And as for Mr. Beresford’s valet…” Her expression turned fierce. “He won’t be poking about today. Not if me and Mrs. Wilkins have anything to say about it. Nor will that hoity-toity maid of his mother’s.”
Maggie couldn’t conceal her relief.
It was bad enough that Lionel Beresford and his mother must be kept occupied every minute of the day to prevent them from snooping, but their busy servants must be kept occupied as well. The two of them seemed to work as malicious extensions of their employers. Like scent hounds or terriers, set loose at Beasley Park to sniff out and dig up whatever secrets they could find and carry them back to their masters.
Indeed, Mrs. Beresford’s lady’s maid always seemed to be lurking about the halls, and Lionel Beresford’s sly, sallow-faced valet was forever popping up in the oddest places. More than once Maggie had had the unsettling suspicion that he was watching her. Following her, even.
Thank goodness for Bessie and the housekeeper, Mrs. Wilkins. With their help—and with the help of Jane and Aunt Harriet—Maggie had, thus far, managed to keep things under control.
She flashed a parting smile at Bessie over her shoulder as she made her way down the front steps to the drive. Mr. Entwhistle had a small cottage on the estate. It wasn’t too far of a walk. Not if one knew the landscape of the park.
And no one knew it better than Maggie did.
She cut across the wide expanse of manicured lawn and down through a thicket of trees. Wildflowers were blooming, and bees buzzing about in the sun to drink their nectar.
Her half-boots crunched on the grass as she followed the winding path that ran along the edge of the stream that flowed through the grounds. Ahead, the gently sloping banks were covered in a familiar wash of blue.
Years ago, she’d lain there with Nicholas Seaton, upon a bed of forget-me-nots. She’d held his hand, her young heart so in love with him it was fit to burst.
She’d heard nothing from him since leaving London. She hadn’t entirely expected to.
But no matter. She didn’t have time to pine. Her guests had kept her busy.
Too busy, frankly.
With any luck, the Beresfords would soon grow tired of their stay in the country and head back to town, taking their equally nosy servants along with them. None of them appeared to be enjoying themselves, Mr. Beresford least of all. He wasn’t much for shooting or other country pursuits, not as far as Maggie could tell. She’d rarely seen a man so out of his element.
“Miss Honeywell!” Mr. Entwhistle hailed her from the garden gate of his stone cottage. A thin, balding gentleman with a stooped figure, he’d been the steward of Beasley Park for as long as Maggie could remember.
She smiled at him in greeting. “Good afternoon, Mr. Entwhistle.”
“A pleasure to see you, ma’am. But what’s this? I expected you’d come in the carriage.”
Her smile dimmed. Goodness, the way he looked at her, one would think she was on her last prayers.