47. Chapter 47

Chapter 47

Cassandra was aware of the change at once. Wherever she went, the younger footman, Martin, was sure to go. She was pleased Jethro had listened to her and not assigned some stranger to follow her about, and it did not prove as irksome as she had feared. If she was honest, she rather liked the added consequence it gave her—especially after the livery she had chosen arrived.

She had been so used to managing on her own, when finances at the rectory had become strained, that she had forgotten how pleasant it was to have someone always there to open doors for her and carry her parcels.

The other alteration in her routine brought even greater satisfaction. Jethro spent more time in her company, reading aloud to her in the drawing room after dinner, while she worked on her embroidery, and occasionally accompanying her for a walk.

Cassandra took longer over her appearance, hoping to elicit one of Jethro’s rare compliments. She knew it was vain, but in the absence of any warmer sentiments, admiration was the best she could hope for.

One morning, she sat at her dressing table daydreaming while Mary Ann pinned up her hair. What was it Jethro had said to her once? That caps suited her. Which one of her myriad of lacy confections had she been wearing that day?

She had a sudden yearning to find it. If Jethro had admired her in it once, perhaps he would again. Cassandra opened the bottom drawer of her dressing table and rummaged through the contents, but she could not locate it, and was forced to abandon the search, or be late for breakfast.

She continued looking later that morning. This time, she was more thorough. She scooped out the entire contents of the drawer onto her lap, running her hands along the back and sides to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind.

As her fingers ran against the wood at the back of the drawer, they touched on something cold. It was small and hard. What was that? It was definitely not made of ribbon or lace.

It felt like a key, but it was stuck. With a wiggle and a yank, she pulled it free and laid it on the lacy pile in front of her.

How strange. Why would there be a key hidden at the back of the drawer? Could it be something to do with Jethro’s mother? The dressing table had once been hers.

But why would she have hidden a key there? For there was no doubt she must have secreted it away on purpose—in a place where Jethro would not find it, until after her death, if at all.

Her pulse quickened. Could it be the key to the locked drawer in her bureau? But what did it hold that was private—so personal—that Jethro’s mother didn’t want her son to see?

Cassandra was determined to find out.

She hurried downstairs to the drawing room, went straight to the desk, and slipped the key into the lock.

It fitted, just as she guessed it would. With a single turn, the lock clicked, and Cassandra pulled open the drawer. She examined the contents—two bundles of letters, tied up with ribbon, and a miniature portrait of a gentleman, which she withdrew for a closer examination.

Who was this man? His hair was dark, his features striking rather than handsome, except for a pair of deep grey, almost black, eyes. Was he a relation? She turned the miniature over in her hand and read the inscription on the back.

For Sarah Jane. With love. Granville

Cassandra gasped. Could this man be Jethro’s father? It seemed likely. But why was it locked up inside his mother’s desk? Had her grief been so severe she had hidden away every remembrance of him—even from Jethro? Would the letters shed any light on the mystery ?

She untied the bow securing the top bundle, but before she had a chance to unfold the first letter, the door opened, and Martin announced that a Mr Rowson was here about the position of butler.

“Does Mr Hunt know?”

“Yes, madam. He’s busy at the warehouse and requested you see the man.”

Cassandra felt absurdly pleased that Jethro had not only listened to her wish for a butler but had also delegated the task of assessing the man’s suitability to her.

“Please show him into Mrs Timms’s room. I’ll be down shortly.”

With a last look at the miniature, she slipped it back into the drawer. Perhaps it was as well she had been interrupted. Her curiosity had overcome her better judgement. She had no right to pry. It should be Jethro who looked through these things—not her. She would tell him about her discovery later.

Cassandra locked the drawer and slipped the key underneath her writing tray. That should ensure its safety until she could retrieve it. She didn’t want to keep Mr Rowson waiting.

With a lightness to her step at this fresh sign that Jethro trusted her judgement, she made her way to the housekeeper’s room. As she descended the servants’ stair, her senses were assailed by an aroma of cinnamon. Licking her lips, she resolved to go in search of the source of that glorious smell just as soon as she had assessed Mr Rowson’s capabilities.

The man came with a letter from Jethro’s solicitor, who had already investigated his background. Rowson brought with him the highest of recommendations, and would add to the consequence of their household, having previously been employed as first footman in the Duke of Wessex’s Weymouth home.

A brief conversation was all that was required for Cassandra to confirm Mr Curtis’s assessment of the man, and she engaged Rowson on the spot.

Once the matter was settled, Cassandra followed her nose to the kitchen, where Mr Oliver was cooking. She hovered at the door until he came over with a trayful of biscuits, which he begged she would sample.

As she took a bite of the warm biscuit, it melted in her mouth, leaving a taste of cinnamon mixed with honey on her tongue.

“Mr Oliver, you are a genius,” she said. “Your best confection yet. I shall have the whole town swarming here to pay morning calls to sample your cinnamon biscuits. ”

The cook disclaimed, but it was clear he was pleased.

With the sweet taste still in her mouth, Cassandra thought of her husband. She was eager to tell him about the contents of the locked drawer. Would the biscuits give her excuse enough to visit him so she could share her discovery now instead of waiting until he came home?

“It seems a shame Mr Hunt should miss out on this treat because he is too busy with his work. Please wrap half a dozen in a cloth and pop them in a basket for me. I shall take them to him whilst they are still hot from the oven.”

“A wonderful idea, madam. Your husband is a fortunate man to have such a wife.”

Cassandra wondered if Jethro would agree.

Basket in hand, she returned to the drawing room and retrieved the two bundles of letters and the miniature, which she tucked next to the biscuits .

Followed by Martin, carrying the basket, Cassandra made her way to the warehouse.

As on her previous visit, Mr Crowley opened the door to her, and showed her up to Jethro’s office.

“Are you certain it won’t be an intrusion?” she asked, climbing the stairs behind the manager.

Mr Crowley laughed. “It will be—but a welcome one, I’m sure. We’ve no shipment due in for a day or two, so I doubt Hunt has anything pressing to attend to.”

Cassandra held back, suddenly doubting she should have come. What if Mr Crowley was wrong, and Jethro sent her away?

The smell of the biscuits reminded her of her mission, and she took the basket from Martin and nodded to him to knock before she could change her mind.

She heard Jethro’s voice bid her enter and turned the door handle.

Her husband rose from his seat at the sight of her. “Cassandra! Is all well?”

“Quite well,” she said, shutting the door on the interested footman, and begging Jethro to sit down again. “I brought you some biscuits. They’re still warm from the oven.”

Jethro shook his head, as if he could not believe her words. Cassandra tensed, fearing she had overstepped the mark and was about to receive a set-down.

Instead, he laughed. That joyful, chortling laugh, which she had heard once before. “You brought me biscuits? How thoughtful. ”

She put her basket down beside her and unwrapped her gift, watching intently as he took his first bite, closing his eyes to savour the flavour.

“I brought you something else as well,” she said as he finished the biscuit, handing him the letters and the miniature.

“What are these?”

“I found them in your mother’s desk. In the locked drawer. The key was hidden away in my dressing table. Do you think the picture is of your father?”

“It seems unlikely,” Jethro said, barely glancing at the miniature before laying it aside. “Why would she have kept his portrait to herself?”

“What about the letters?” Cassandra asked, somewhat disappointed at his lack of interest.

Jethro undid the bow on the first bundle and spread open the top letter. After a brief glance at the contents, he hastily refolded it.

“As I thought, not from my father. The date is far too recent.”

“Then who is it from?”

“I don’t know, and I will not pry. If my mother locked these things away, it’s reasonable to assume she didn’t want me to find them. I have no wish to delve any further.”

He shoved the letters and the miniature into a drawer and turned back to her.

“Enough of that. You are distracting me from the very important task of sampling Mr Oliver’s latest creation,” he said, helping himself to another biscuit.

Cassandra longed to examine the letters, to see if she could solve the identity of the gentleman in the portrait, but perhaps he was right. It would not be pleasant for him to learn something that would discredit his mother, and if the nature of the correspondence was innocent, why was it hidden away? It was better to leave the past alone.

Jethro let out a satisfied sigh, drawing Cassandra’s attention back to the present.

“Quite the best thing Mr Oliver has produced, don’t you think?” she said.

“Indeed, I do. He deserves a medal. These biscuits are delicious, but not as delightful as the woman who brought them to me.”

Cassandra glowed at the compliment, and stored it away inside, hugging it to herself all the way home.

It was far more meaningful than his admiration of her appearance. A bud of hope that something deeper was growing between them.

She prayed nothing would destroy it while it was so young and tender.