by Louise Allen
Chapter Three
Giggling faintly, and without a second backward glance, Antonia walked down the drive as though she owned it. Once through the gates she stopped laughing. That was verging on reaction, she realised, not humour. I’ve been manhandled, insulted and kissed by a duke. And now she must hurry. She began to walk fast, almost running, conscious that it must be a good two hours since she had parted from Donna and she would be becoming anxious.
The wind through the bare hedges was turning sharp as the afternoon drew in. However pleasant the day had been, it was still only March and she was without her pelisse and bonnet.
Suddenly the neatly cut and laid hedges and sharply defined ditches gave way to a raggle-taggle of overgrown bushes and choked muddy puddles. Through one of many gaps in the boundary she caught glimpses of an ill-drained field with clumps of dead thistles here and there. This must be Rye End Hall land. The fruits of her father’s and brother’s neglect were only too evident. No wonder Allington had chided her about her tenants.
Here, at last, was the entrance of the Hall, rusted gates hanging crazily from the tall posts. The lodge houses were empty, their neat little gardens, which she remembered from her childhood, now lost under brambles and nettles.
As she hurried up the drive Antonia constructed a light-hearted version of her adventures to tell Donna. Nothing about that insolent, exciting kiss. Donna might be small in stature and a gentlewoman to her backbone, but she would have no compunction in marching round to Brightshill and telling the Duke precisely what she thought of his behaviour.
The front door opened as she approached and Donna came out onto the step, an anxious frown lifting in relief. ‘There you are, my dear. I was just trying to decide whether I should go in search of you.’ She broke off as Antonia came close enough for the other woman to take in the full awfulness of her appearance.
‘What have you been doing? There is blood on your face – are you hurt? Have you fallen in the woods?’ She almost pulled Antonia inside as she spoke, hurried her through the hall and into the kitchens at the rear of the house.
‘No, no, I’m not hurt. It is pheasant blood, not mine. I have had quite an adventure, Donna, and another encounter with our infuriating neighbour the Duke.’
‘Infuriating, dear? Oh, bother this fire, it will never get the water warm if I cannot get it to draw better.’ She raked at the smouldering logs in the grate to little effect.
With a groan Antonia sank onto a settle and stared round at the dereliction that was the kitchens. The walls she had always remembered as lime-washed twice a year were begrimed with smoke and hung with cobwebs. The chimney crane and jacks were rusted and the wide shelves and dressers were either empty or heaped with filthy piles of chipped crockery. Miss Donaldson had obviously found a broom because the flags in front of the hearth and settle had been swept, which only served to reveal the ingrained grime of the floor beneath.
‘It can’t have become so squalid in a mere six months, surely?’ Antonia said despairingly. ‘No wonder the lawyer advised against our returning here. Well, perhaps this is the worst room. If Father hired some slattern of a cook…. No? Are they all as bad as this?’
Donna came and sat next to her on the settle and took her hand. Antonia was not certain who was comforting who. ‘Perhaps the kitchen seems worse because you remember it bustling with activity, all bright and clean in your dear mama’s day. l have not looked into every room, but those I have seen are filthy and there is hardly any furniture remaining.’
Antonia took a deep breath and ruthlessly quashed the strong desire to burst into tears and run pell-mell down the drive to take refuge in the inn. This was their home now, and they were going to have to make the best of it. ‘It is getting dark and we must find candles, heat water and have something to eat before we go to bed. It is too late now to try and improve matters.’
Faint steam was at last rising off the kettle. Antonia poured a little into a bowl and washed her face and hands while Donna fastidiously brushed off the surface of the table, spread out a cloth she had brought in the food hamper and began to unpack their provisions.
It was a simple supper but after the day she’d experienced it looked like a feast, Antonia thought as she scrubbed two plates. There was potted ham, cheese, apples, bread and butter and a fruit cake. Donna made tea, after scouring a cracked teapot she found on a shelf, and they drank it, grateful for its warmth.
As they ate, Antonia related the heavily-edited tale of her afternoon’s adventure. Even that version was enough to make Donna shudder and exclaim at intervals.
Antonia sat back and pushed out her feet towards the faint heat from the range. She was full, she was more or less warm and they had a roof over their heads. That was a lot to be thankful for. ‘Let’s simply leave everything as it is until the morning. We cannot see to do anything, and we have had a long and wearisome day.’ Even as she spoke, there was a rustling and a scuttling from behind the dresser. ‘Oh, that’s the last straw – mice.’
‘If we are fortunate,’ Donna said grimly, packing the food back into the wicker hamper as she spoke. ‘I did not like to tell you, my dear, but when I first entered the kitchen I fear I saw a rat.’
‘Urgh! Well, that means tomorrow’s first task is to find a rat catcher and a large cat. Let’s see if we can find a bedroom fit to sleep in.’
A dispiriting survey by candlelight revealed a series of dismal rooms, only three of which contained beds. They finally decided on the chamber that evidently had been occupied by the housekeeper, before she had finally been driven out by Sir Humphrey’s outrageous behaviour and total unwillingness to pay wages.
Made up with their own linen, the bed was at least clean, if not particularly comfortable. But even the pervading smell of damp was not enough to keep Donna awake. Antonia heard a soft snore, tried to keep her own eyes open while she planned the next day and felt herself drift off as soon as her head touched the pillow.
By seven o’clock the next morning they had already breakfasted and Antonia was attempting to make a list on a piece of paper retrieved from the study, along with a blunt quill pen and a pot of thick brown ink. ‘I will put down some ink on the list first of all.’
‘I don’t know how you can be amused by it, dear. Any other young lady of our acquaintance would be having a fit of the vapours by now. I know you will cope with this disaster of a house and not allow it to break your spirits, but I really do not see what you have done to deserve the burden.’
‘There’s no point in repining.’ Antonia tapped the quill on the crusted neck of the ink bottle. ‘Things can only get better. We need to make a list of provisions and one of us must walk into Rybury and see what we may purchase there. No doubt young Jem from the inn would be willing to fetch the rest from Berkhamsted for a small consideration. He seems a reliable lad, don’t you think?’
A furtive scrabble in the wainscot reminded them of another pressing need. ‘And send up the rat catcher,’ said Donna, with a shudder. ‘There must be a woman in the village who will come up to scrub, don’t you think?’
‘Let us hire two, if we can. It will take more than one woman and our own efforts to set this place to rights.’ And it might provide some much-needed employment for at least two of the neglected villagers. They were on her conscience. Badly. ‘I do believe the sun is shining, although it is hard to tell through these windows.’
Donna blew out the candles and crossed the kitchen floor to throw open the back door. It let in a flood of spring sunshine and the smell of damp earth along with young Jem, cap in hand and pink with the importance of his message.
‘Good morning, and begging your pardon, Miss, but my ma says, do you need some things fetching, or any help, like?’
‘Jem, you are a godsend.’ Antonia beamed at him, making him shuffle in confusion. ‘Come in and sit down while we finish this list of provisions. And tell me, Jem, are there any women in the village who would come and clean for us?'
‘Oh yes, M
iss.’ He wriggled, obviously embarrassed about something. ‘Well, that is, er…’
‘For a proper daily wage, of course,’ Donna said firmly and lifted an eyebrow at Antonia. They knew enough of Sir Humphrey to realise why Jem was doubtful. ‘And a rat catcher.’
‘That’ll be Walter Armitage, so long as he’s over his rheum,’ Jem said helpfully. ‘And what about a cat, Miss?’
‘That would be perfect, Jem, if you can find one. Now, here is the list. Do you remember everything we need?’
‘Provisions, rat catcher, cat, charwomen,’ Jem recited confidently. ‘And would you be needing a boy, Miss, for odd jobs, like?’ He stood twisting his cap in his hands and looking hopeful and, although it was a stretch, almost innocent.
‘We will,’ said Antonia. His cheerful open face, which was as clean as one could reasonably expect of a fourteen-year-old, broke into a wide grin. ‘But will your father not be requiring you to help around the inn?’
‘I can do all my chores by ten, Miss, and then be up here directly. I’ll have to be back for ’bout five, a’cos of the stage.’
‘Very well, Jem.’ Antonia settled on a daily wage which, although very modest, made the boy’s eyes gleam, then he shot off through the back door, the list clutched tightly.
‘That was fortuitous,’ Donna said. ‘And the first thing I am going to do when that boy gets back is to send him up the kitchen chimney to get rid of the birds’ nests.’ She unfurled a vast white apron, wrapped a cloth around her neat coiffure and, hands on hips, regarded the kitchen.
‘If you begin here,’ Antonia suggested, ‘I will attack the bedroom, then at least we can eat and sleep in comparative comfort.’
She dropped yesterday’s wrecked dress into a tub of cold water in the faint hope that, once clean, some of the cloth could be saved, swathed herself in an apron and marched upstairs.
She scrubbed at the misted glass hanging on the bedroom wall until she could see her own reflection in it and twisted up her hair under a turban like Donna’s. Really, her coiffure was a disgrace. The unruly brown curls needed the attention of a hairdresser regularly if she were not to look a complete romp, but just now she had neither time nor resources for such fripperies.
At least today’s sprig muslin dress, although faded, had no rips or tears. Antonia rolled up the sleeves, flung open the casement and set-to with a duster on a stick to knock down the cobwebs that swathed the walls. As one large spider after another was dislodged from its eyrie and scuttled for the open door, she gave thanks that the light the night before had been so poor.
By mid-morning the room was swept, dusted and aired. The hangings were in a heap on the floor for the washer-woman and only the bed remained to be attacked. It was a relief to find the mattress not as fusty as she had feared, once the sheets were removed. Even so, it, and the pillows, needed a thorough shake and air to refresh the flattened goose feathers. She dragged it to the window and draped it over the sill. It was too heavy to shake, so Antonia hung over and pummelled it vigorously with her hands.
There was an indignant shout from the path beneath as a shower of dust and stray feathers rained down. Startled, red-faced and still folded in two across the sill, Antonia raised her head to find Marcus Allington beating the dust from his coat.
‘Oh, He– , I mean I am so sorry…’ Even upside down as she looked into his face, he seemed amused rather than annoyed. She bit her lip, half-regretting the instinctive apology to a man who had treated her in such a cavalier fashion only the day before. It was bad enough to be manhandled by his keepers, but to have him force his attentions upon her and then arrive at her house unannounced was the outside of enough.
‘Were we expecting you?’ she enquired. ‘Perhaps you are missing a pheasant or two?’
‘I would not know, Miss Dane. I leave counting my birds to my keepers. And after your very convincing explanation of the circumstances yesterday, I would not dream of looking for them here in any case.’ The Duke seemed very cheerful this morning, and quite unperturbed both by her coldness and the unconventional circumstances. Antonia was visited by the sudden insight that, beneath his conventional exterior, Marcus Renshaw was a man who enjoyed the unexpected.
A strangely comfortable silence ensued. Then she realised his gaze was resting appreciatively on the quite appalling amount of cleavage she was displaying in her upside-down position.
Hastily she scrambled back over the sill, pulled the gown up at the neck, then, with as much dignity as she could muster, looked out again. ‘If you follow the path round to the back of the house you will find my companion, Miss Donaldson, in the kitchen.’
The Duke bowed rather ironically before sauntering off round the comer, hat still in hand. Antonia watched him, his tawny hair ruffled by the breeze, the breadth of his shoulders even more impressive seen from above. For goodness sake, pull yourself together, woman! Antonia put up her hands to remove her turban, then stopped. No. Why should she titivate herself for him when he had coolly arrived without a word of warning or a by-your-leave?
She shook out her skirts and apron and sailed down the stairs, only to discover as she reached the hall that her heart was beating uncomfortably fast. Well, he had caught her at a disadvantage, hanging out of the window in an unseemly manner, entirely inappropriate to her status as a gentlewoman. Anyone would be flustered in such circumstances. She would have felt just the same if it had been the vicar's wife.
Antonia plastered on a cool smile and entered the kitchen with the firm intention of treating Marcus Allington as if yesterday, and that kiss, had never occurred. She found Donna uncharacteristically flustered by being discovered standing on a chair, duster in hand.
‘Do allow me to hand you down, ma’am,’ the Duke was saying in a tone that suggested he was used to assisting middle-aged gentlewomen from kitchen chairs every day of his life.
‘Thank you, Your Grace. I am most grateful.’ Donna’s cheeks were pink as she hastily tossed the duster behind the settle. ‘Will you not take a cup of tea? Oh dear, I do wish I could suggest you took it in the drawing-room, but really, it is not – ’
‘ – fit for habitation,’ supplied Antonia, kicking the duster even further out of sight. ‘Good morning, Your Grace. How kind of you to call, I do trust you have had a pleasant ride over from Brightshill. I regret to say there is at least one dead pigeon – ours and long-dead, I hasten to add – in the drawing-room, so I feel you would be more comfortable here on the settle.’
‘Good morning, Miss Dane.’ He did not appear in the slightest put out. ‘I felt I should look in on you and reassure myself that you had recovered from yesterday’s excitements.’ His eyes met hers, a mischievous gleam in their dark brown depths. ‘You will, I know, forgive me for the informality of not leaving my card first.’
‘So kind. Allow me to introduce my companion, Miss Donaldson. Please sit down,’ Antonia said repressively as she went to help Donna with the tea things.
The Duke, politely unwilling to sit whilst the ladies stood, glanced round the kitchen. ‘Have your servants not yet arrived, Miss Dane? Allow me.’ He took the cups from Donna and set them on the now-clean table.
‘We have – ’ None, trembled on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it, remembering his great house and the number of staff he must employ. To admit that she and Donna were of such limited means that employing a maid and one or two charwomen was the only prudent course open to them was suddenly insupportable.
‘The London house is still being closed down,’ she said airily, hoping that implied a multitude of menservants and maids busy with dustcovers and the packing of trunks. ‘And with this house being in such a state, I thought it best to leave it a while before deciding how many to engage.’ Beyond him, she glimpsed the look of pained shock on Dona’s face at this barefaced deceit.
‘Meanwhile, young Jem from the inn has gone to hire us some charwomen in the village. London servants would take one look at Rye End Hall at present and turn tail immediately.’ A
ntonia managed a light social laugh. ‘You know what servants are – or perhaps not? Perhaps the Duchess deals with all such matters?’
His lips quirked in acknowledgement of such a blatant piece of fishing and Antonia saw Donna roll her eyes. ‘I very much regret to inform you, Miss Dane, that I find myself without a wife at present.’ He crossed his booted legs, quite at ease on the hard settle, his eyes narrowed with amusement, his tone totally lacking the regret he professed to feel.
Antonia felt herself colour at her own boldness. ‘That is a pity, Your Grace. I had hoped to find a congenial neighbour. More tea?’
‘I hope you will find that I fit your description, Miss Dane. I am generally reckoned to do so.’
‘A duke will always be considered above criticism.’ His expression became quizzical so she added, without thinking, ‘But women are different.’
‘How very true, ma’am. I have often observed that to be the case. As to more tea, I must decline. I am on my way to see Mr Todd. I believe you are acquainted with our curate?’
‘Yes, certainly. We were travelling together yesterday.’ Please go away. Now. ‘Good morning, Your Grace.’
He stood and looked at her until she could feel her face heating. ‘Do call me Renshaw, Miss Dane, I implore you. Good day to you both.’
Donna hardly waited for the door to close behind him. ‘Antonia. I had never dreamed you capable of such gaucheness. And such dissembling about our supposed servants… I do not wonder you blush so. What will the Duke think when he discovers the true state of our affairs?’
‘I suspect he already knows,’ Antonia replied ruefully. ‘There is not much escapes His Grace’s – Renshaw’s – sharp eye, I suspect. I know I behaved badly, Donna, but he aggravates me so. And he wants Rye End Hall to add to what he bought from my father. He will be asking to buy more land soon and, if he realises just how badly things stand with us, the offer will be very small.’
