Truly Beloved by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes [Burrowes, Grace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grace Burrowes Publishing

Chapter Ten

Reuben Anderson was kept awake by a guilty conscience, and as was his habit on such increasingly frequent occasions, he took the spare quilt from his bed and climbed into the deep sill of the dormer window.

The quilt was thick and new that winter, because Lady Daisy took care of her staff. Reuben also owned stout boots made for his own two feet, thanks to her ladyship. His livery—a dark suit, just like Proctor wore, no stupid wigs and knee breeches—fit him like a glove, his wages were paid on time, and he ate better at the Grange than he’d ever eaten as the oldest of nine crammed into the rooms over his father’s stationer’s shop in Portsmouth.

He had half days, and because Lady Daisy knew his family was yet dear to him, she always made sure he was sent with Proctor on the quarterly trips to the coast for household provisions. Each time, her ladyship gave him a basket full of delicacies for his mother, and her ladyship probably knew Mum sold on half of the treats in the family shop, so precious was each extra penny to the Anderson clan.

Lady Daisy had, in fact, been responsible for Reuben’s promotion to first footman. He’d been at the Grange for two years prior to her arrival, a gangling youth new to service and quite at sea.

“Come to bed,” murmured a voice from beneath the blankets.

As first footman, Reuben had his own quarters, and that luxury, more than any other, would have had him enduring far worse tribulations than service at the Grange had ever caused him.

“It’s a pretty night,” Reuben said. “Moonlight on snow, a sky full of stars.” Also cold as hell and mighty bleak.

Covers rustled, something about the sound impatient. “If you’re feeling so romantic, then get back in here where you won’t catch your death.”

Death was a delicate subject with Reuben. He had yet to decide if he was grieving Squire Fromm’s death, or relieved at his passing.

Probably both. “Go to sleep,” Reuben muttered, gathering his quilt closer.

A movement of a dark form against the moonlit snow caught his eye. A man descended the terrace steps and strode around to the side garden, passing from sight. The fellow hadn’t been in a particular hurry, hadn’t kept to the shadows as a sneak thief would have. The height and top hat proclaimed the nocturnal caller to be somebody other than that snake MacVeigh.

“Reuben, come away from there.”

“Soon.” Perhaps MacVeigh had sent somebody to purloin Fromm’s valuables, for the late head of the household had been quite well fixed, and MacVeigh was desperate to gain control of Fromm’s possessions. Reuben had already searched the squire’s bedroom and estate office and found no diaries or journals that might have been used by MacVeigh to cause trouble.

Reuben owed her ladyship that much loyalty, and more.

“You miss him,” said the voice from the bed. “I cannot believe you actually miss him.”

“I miss his coin,” Reuben said. The squire hadn’t been generous enough to cause resentment from the rest of the staff, but he’d passed Reuben the occasional vale.

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