The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden Page B
Authors: Elisa Braden
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and movement and progress delighted her industrious soul.
“Esther, we have done well this day. I can already see the gem this place will become.”
“Hmmph,” the maid replied. Clunk went her bucket onto the floor. Plop went her rag into the bucket. “Then ye have a different set of eyes, to be sure.”
Charlotte grinned and nodded, admiring the fleur-de-lis design of the carved marble around the expansive fireplace. True, it was blackened by smoke. And the massive space was empty of furniture. And two panes of the southernmost window were broken. But the color of the walls―deep, vibrant crimson―needed only a good dusting to be revived. She glanced up to the once-white ceiling, whose intricate moldings cast long, swirling shadows in the waning light.
“It is a magnificent room,” she sighed, rubbing the back of her wrist across her forehead. “A unique house, indeed.”
Esther harrumphed again and declared, “Light’s nigh gone. Best find our beds now if we’re to find ’em a’tall.”
“Indeed. Thank you for your tireless work today, Esther.”
The maid said nothing further, simply picking up her bucket and stomping out toward the kitchen. Charlotte glanced down at her pelisse. It was probably ruined, but she did not care. What was a little dust, after all?
Still smiling, she followed Esther down a set of stone steps to the lower-level kitchen. Of all the rooms that she and the maid had cleaned in the hours since their arrival at Chatwick Hall, the kitchen was the most distressing. Nothing was left. The crockery had all been stolen or shattered. The work table lay in two pieces, cracked down the center. Useless. However, the hearth was sound, and so they had gathered enough scraps of wood from the debris in the entrance hall and drawing room, and had built a fire so they could heat water. A small triumph, yes, but a triumph nonetheless.
Quickly, she ladled water from the steaming pot over the fire into a bucket fresh from the well. She then took a clean towel from the crates of supplies Mr. Booth had earlier purchased in the village, stacked in one corner of the larder.
After banking the fire, Esther grunted a reply to Charlotte’s “good night” as she retreated through the arched doorway. Charlotte, meanwhile, gathered up her towel and bucket and lit a candle before all but dragging her exhausted body up the stairs to find her bed.
The stairs squeaked loudly, but they held, just as they had earlier when she had gone up to explore the rooms on this floor. When she came to the chamber at the end of the corridor, she saw the same thing she had seen then—her husband, lying on one half of the only bed in the house. He hadn’t moved in hours. He was on his back, his face turned away from the windows, his left arm across his belly, the other by his side. He still wore his coat and cravat.
Gently, she set the bucket on the bare floor and gave her face, hands, and neck a cursory wash. The head-to-toe, sweat-caked dirt came off easily enough, but it quickly darkened the water. Or, perhaps that was simply the dwindling light. Sighing at the warm water’s relief, she unbuttoned her pelisse and folded it inside-out until the filthy parts were contained and she could use it as a pillow. She laid the garment on the empty half of the bed before taking the candle around to Chatham’s side.
He was pale. But she could see his chest rising and falling, and it eased her mind. Confusing man. Or, rather, the feelings he caused confused her—frustration, annoyance, disgust, all tangled wildly with sympathy and fascination and a strange heat. The odd sensations had intensified when he had lifted her from a pile of muck in the middle of Maddox Street, when she had provoked him and he had reacted not with temper but resignation. She had seen his weariness. She saw it now in the shadows beneath his eyes, when he was asleep and unable to distract her with outrageous flirtation and provocative words.
Slowly, so
“Esther, we have done well this day. I can already see the gem this place will become.”
“Hmmph,” the maid replied. Clunk went her bucket onto the floor. Plop went her rag into the bucket. “Then ye have a different set of eyes, to be sure.”
Charlotte grinned and nodded, admiring the fleur-de-lis design of the carved marble around the expansive fireplace. True, it was blackened by smoke. And the massive space was empty of furniture. And two panes of the southernmost window were broken. But the color of the walls―deep, vibrant crimson―needed only a good dusting to be revived. She glanced up to the once-white ceiling, whose intricate moldings cast long, swirling shadows in the waning light.
“It is a magnificent room,” she sighed, rubbing the back of her wrist across her forehead. “A unique house, indeed.”
Esther harrumphed again and declared, “Light’s nigh gone. Best find our beds now if we’re to find ’em a’tall.”
“Indeed. Thank you for your tireless work today, Esther.”
The maid said nothing further, simply picking up her bucket and stomping out toward the kitchen. Charlotte glanced down at her pelisse. It was probably ruined, but she did not care. What was a little dust, after all?
Still smiling, she followed Esther down a set of stone steps to the lower-level kitchen. Of all the rooms that she and the maid had cleaned in the hours since their arrival at Chatwick Hall, the kitchen was the most distressing. Nothing was left. The crockery had all been stolen or shattered. The work table lay in two pieces, cracked down the center. Useless. However, the hearth was sound, and so they had gathered enough scraps of wood from the debris in the entrance hall and drawing room, and had built a fire so they could heat water. A small triumph, yes, but a triumph nonetheless.
Quickly, she ladled water from the steaming pot over the fire into a bucket fresh from the well. She then took a clean towel from the crates of supplies Mr. Booth had earlier purchased in the village, stacked in one corner of the larder.
After banking the fire, Esther grunted a reply to Charlotte’s “good night” as she retreated through the arched doorway. Charlotte, meanwhile, gathered up her towel and bucket and lit a candle before all but dragging her exhausted body up the stairs to find her bed.
The stairs squeaked loudly, but they held, just as they had earlier when she had gone up to explore the rooms on this floor. When she came to the chamber at the end of the corridor, she saw the same thing she had seen then—her husband, lying on one half of the only bed in the house. He hadn’t moved in hours. He was on his back, his face turned away from the windows, his left arm across his belly, the other by his side. He still wore his coat and cravat.
Gently, she set the bucket on the bare floor and gave her face, hands, and neck a cursory wash. The head-to-toe, sweat-caked dirt came off easily enough, but it quickly darkened the water. Or, perhaps that was simply the dwindling light. Sighing at the warm water’s relief, she unbuttoned her pelisse and folded it inside-out until the filthy parts were contained and she could use it as a pillow. She laid the garment on the empty half of the bed before taking the candle around to Chatham’s side.
He was pale. But she could see his chest rising and falling, and it eased her mind. Confusing man. Or, rather, the feelings he caused confused her—frustration, annoyance, disgust, all tangled wildly with sympathy and fascination and a strange heat. The odd sensations had intensified when he had lifted her from a pile of muck in the middle of Maddox Street, when she had provoked him and he had reacted not with temper but resignation. She had seen his weariness. She saw it now in the shadows beneath his eyes, when he was asleep and unable to distract her with outrageous flirtation and provocative words.
Slowly, so
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