“Woulda needed to work fast ta get all this done before Mr. Timony got back. It is too bad he didn’t just drag the fellow along, but Mr. Timony isn’t as strong as he once was.”
“I won’t fault his priorities,” Sebastian commented. “He took Miss Doyle to safety first. Who knows what might have happened had he tried to move her attacker on his own? With the tracks covered and even what little evidence there is becoming quickly covered with snow, it is hard to say how many people were here.”
“True enough,” the hounds master stroked his generous beard, then nodded ponderously. “That is true enough. Well, I’ll patrol with the lads twice a night now. They should flush out anyone hiding on the grounds.”
The “lads,” a motley assortment of variously colored hounds, sat on the ground beside the hound master and wagged their tails.
“I’ll triple the patrols, Your Grace,” the guard master added. “I’ve sent John Gardner down to the village to chat up some likely lads. The inn is still open, no later than it is. Miss Doyle is well-liked, especially since she’s been going to the ladies’ sewing circle, so’s not likely to have any shortage of volunteers. ‘Specially if there’s some pay involved. Work is hard to come by this time of year.”
“Indeed. Could this have been the result of some disgruntled villager whose wants are not being met?”
“Don’t hardly think so, Your Grace. You did like the Good Book says an’ put by corn during the fat years, so we ain’t feelin’ tha lean year like some places.”
“Could it have been someone from some other village, hoping to hold her ransom?”
The guard master said, “Guess it could have been, but since the chapel doors are almost always open and there are almost all the time vitals and clothing for them as needs it, don’t hardly seem likely. Brother Timony, him as is older brother to grounds keeper Timony, spends most ever’ day, all day seein’ to there bein’ whatever is needed.”
“Havin’ said that,” the hound master added, “They’s almost always somebody who thinks that what they’s got iddn’t enough, an’ they should have what the other fella’s got. ‘thout more to go on, Yer Grace, I’m stymied. The hounds can’t even pick up a scent in all this snow.”
“Welladay,” Sebastian sighed. “Let’s go in and get warm. There is no sense in standing about in the cold and snow if there is nothing more to be learned here. Mr. Dubany, be sure to rotate the guardsmen often so that no one is outside too long tonight.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the head guardsman responded. “I’ll be sure to do that. We might be pressed a little thin that way.”
“Better that than men with frostbite. It is truly bitter out here.”
With that said, the group of men all went inside. Once there, they dispersed to their various duties. Sebastian went up to the schoolroom to check on Miss Doyle and his brothers.
He found them roasting chestnuts to go with the mulled cider. “Have some with us, Seb,” Nick pleaded. “I know that Miss Doyle would feel better if you sat with us a while.”
Since he, himself, would feel more secure about them all if he stayed with them for a while, Sebastian acquiesced without protest. Miss Doyle insisted on ensconcing him in one of the wingback chairs that sat before the fireplace, while she settled down in the middle of the couch where she had been reading to the youngsters.
“How was the man?” she asked.
“Gone,” Sebastian said. “We could see where the snow had been ruffled, but all tracks were brushed away and were sprinkled over with wet snow so the dogs couldn’t get a scent.”
“Then I guess Mr. Timony didn’t kill him.”
“Unlikely. Dead men don’t usually brush out their tracks.”
“Perhaps he was a ghost!” Luke exclaimed, eyes wide and round.
“Don’t be silly,” Nick chided. “Then Mr. Timony’s shovel would have gone right through him and hit Miss Doyle.”
“Oh. Right.” Luke frowned at the thought. “What could he possibly want with Miss Doyle anyway?”
“That is the question of the day,” Sebastian said. “Miss Doyle, if you have any idea at all about who might have done this, please send me a note or come to my study yourself. The sooner we can identify the fellow, the better. Did you recognize him?”
Lillian shook her head. “I didn’t get a very good look at him, but I’m positive it wasn’t anyone from the main staff here or anybody I’ve known personally. He was athletic, or a farmer, or something like that, because his muscles were hard.”
“You struggled. I could see that from your clothes when you came in. Were you able to mark him in any way?”
“He was very strong,” Lillian said. “But I might have bruised his hand, because he put it over my mouth and I bit him.”
“Good for you!” Nick shouted. “Never give in!”
“Hush, Nick,” Lillian said. “We never use our parade ground voice when speaking in close quarters.”
“Sorry,” Nick said. “But you did great, Miss Doyle. Mr. Dubany says that biting someone is shocking because civilized people don’t do that.”
Sebastian thought of some of the tales he had heard about battlefield behavior, and decided not to dampen Nick’s enthusiasm. Besides, in the general run of things people didn’t go around biting each other. “We can watch for a man with a bandaged or bruised hand, then.”
“Yes,” Lillian said. “He might be limping, as well. I gave him a good kick in the shins.”
“An’ he should have a good, big knot on his head from where Mr. Timony hit him,” Nick added excitedly, although in a quieter voice than he had used earlier. “Cause if Mr. Tim knocked him out, he must’ve hit him pretty hard.”
“I believe you are right,” Sebastian approved. “And thank you for speaking quietly indoors. At some time, your life might depend upon speaking in a low voice, even if you are feeling agitated.”
“Speaking of agitation, there is a big day planned for tomorrow. If you hope to enjoy it, Nick and Luke, you need to go make ready for bed.”
The lads grumbled a little, but went away in good order to get into their night shirts.
When they had gone, Sebastian asked, “Are you all right, Miss Doyle? You’ve had quite a fright.”
“I do not mind admitting that I was frightened, and I still am a little. But I believe we will be safe enough with guards posted at the door.”
“I can sleep in the schoolroom, if you wish.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary, Your Grace. Unless you are worried about your brothers?”
“A little, perhaps. But as you say, this is the third floor and there will be guards posted at your door and beneath your windows throughout the night.”
“Good night then, Your Grace. If I am to be in good form tomorrow, then I need to catch what sleep I can.”
“Of course.” Sebastian rose, and gave her a bow. “Good night, Miss Doyle.”
Lillian stood, and gave him a graceful curtsey. “Good night,” she said.
“I think we said that already,” Sebastian commented. “Sleep well, Miss Doyle. I hope to see you in fine fettle tomorrow.”
Sebastian went out and closed the door behind him. He heard the click of the door being locked and the rattle that indicated that the extra chains he’d had installed in the hope of helping Nana keep the boys inside the nursery at night had been engaged.
Would those chains be effective should someone try to break in? To Sebastian, the most precious things on the whole estate were in that room: his young brothers and their governess. He had to admit that she was somehow beginning to mean more than a woman who has been engaged to care for two lively youngsters.
He sighed, and turned away from the door. The guardsman stationed there said, “We’ll keep them safe, Your Grace.” Inwardly, Sebastian shuddered that there should be a need for guards and locks on a door that was usually open for all to enter and leave at will.
“Thank you,” was all he said.
Chapter 13
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Stirring Up Sunday dawned bright and cold. The night had passed without incident. Because it was a special day, everyone rose early and dressed in their very best. For Lillian and most of the household, this meant woolens were pressed and brushed, collars and cuffs starched and white. For family members, the Duke and his two younger brothers, it meant putting on their Sunday best.
Martha Louisa had stitched new cuffs and collars for the boys since they were terribly hard on anything white. They were neatly dressed in matching navy-blue jackets and long pants, the latter of which they were exceptionally proud. Their older brother wore his London court trousers and coat over a new shirt, as well as new collars and cuffs.
The pudding would have the place of honor at the high table. Not only were the family and the staff gathered for the occasion, but members of the community had braved the cold and were gathered for the ceremonial stirring of the pudding. Church services would be held in the hall today, because it was larger than the small church and likewise warmer.
Sebastian Hughes and his brothers would not stir all of the pudding, of course. They would stir a representative bowl that would be served to the family as part of their Christmas feast. The guests from the village had either stirred their own puddings before attending or they would stir them upon returning home, according to the custom of each household.
It was an amazingly powerful moment for so simple an act. Mrs. Buskins brought out crisp, white butcher aprons for the three who would do the stirring. The Duke stood with a special wooden spoon in his fist, the bowl of the spoon pointing straight up. The boys stood on either side of him, faces solemn.
When their aprons were ceremonially tied on, a hush fell over the crowd as two strong footmen carried in the enormous bowl of pudding mix. A tense silence hung over the gathering as the Duke lowered the wooden spoon, which represented the humble stable where the Christ Child was born, into the dough. Moving the spoon clockwise to symbolize the journey of the three wisemen as they traveled from the East to the West, he stirred the bowl three times around. Next, the spoon went to Luke, as the oldest, and he also gave it three stirs. Then Nicholas took his turn. Finally, the Duke took back the spoon, and an assortment of silver charms were stirred into the batter and the huge bowl was taken away to the kitchen where the dough would be divided into amounts that would cook more easily.
The Duke politely then stepped aside for the village parson who began service with the traditional Collect 1549 from the Common Book of Prayer, “Excita, quæsumus, Domine,” he intoned, “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord . . .”
When he had completed the traditional words, the good gentleman preached a magnificent sermon that focused on generosity, providence, and the good fortune that they all had to live in a place where their Duke was not only forethoughtful, but kind and generous. Others assured Lillian that it was a wonderful sermon, but Lillian had not heard a word of it. Instead, the words of the Collect kept tunneling around in her head. Stir up …the wills of thy faithful people…Wills . . .Why were they still looking for her? More to the point, how had that awful man found her here?
Was she endangering Sebastian Hughes and his young brothers by being near them? Plenteously bring forth good works . . . but when had she ever done anything different from that? Nor had Charles been an evil man.
Oh, he was not Sebastian’s equal in kindness or generosity, but he had met his obligations to his household and with donations to the poor alike. Why, then, had anyone wished to harm him? She was a little ashamed that she did not miss him more, but the truth was she had given him what he required out of a sense of duty rather than from any feelings of real affection.
Sebastian . . . she savored the name in her thoughts, although she would not address him in any way other than “Your Grace.” To do so would be disrespectful.
She almost laughed aloud as she tried to imagine Charles romping down the halls with the boys as the three of them kicked a leather ball back and forth on the floor. No, Charles would never have been so undignified. But Sebastian . . . she nearly sighed aloud. Her apparent station in life would come between them. There was no hope that he would be more than kind.
She looked down at her Prayer Book, and a tear trickled down one cheek.
“Are you all right?” Luke whispered.
“Just a memory,” Lillian whispered back. “I will be all right.”
And she would be. If she needed to leave here . . . a lump rose in her throat at the thought . . . but if she needed to leave, Sebastian would give her a good reference. That is, providing she was not accused of murder.
Another traitorous tear followed the first. Luke offered her a handkerchief that was already much the worse for wear, even though it had been spotless when the boys dressed that morning.
Lillian smiled at him, and dabbed at her eyes a little before handing the abused piece of linen back to him. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered. “Just a little memory, that’s all.”
Chapter 14
Days passed with no further untoward events. Lillian began to feel as if her life in London had been a surreal nightmare, and her current life was the real one.
December 6th was St. Nicholas Day. Although the holiday had fallen out of fashion in London, here on Parkforton Estates it was still celebrated with small gifts for the children and charitable assistance to families that were struggling. This particular winter, it was especially important. The small gardens behind the village cottages had been hard put to even produce a few salad greens, the root crops frozen in the ground. They would have been worse off, but the Duke had insisted that a percentage of the crops that could be preserved in previous years be put by for just such harvest failures. But no one could have predicted such a summer as came to them in 1816. Without those stores, both the folk at the castle and the villagers would be starving.
As it was, the Duke declared a week of hunting. He firmly declared that only bucks were to be slain, imposing a stiff penalty on anyone caught killing a doe. “Does are the future,” he carefully explained to Luke and Nicholas during the lecture on estate keeping that had become a weekly event. “Kill a doe at this season and you are likely to be killing a fawn as well as the mother.”
The Duke had taken a sip of his tea. “On the other hand, if too many deer are allowed to inhabit an area, they will graze down not only the vegetation, but the buds on the young trees. Soon they will become diseased and they will fight among themselves for what little edible items remain.”
The boys had both nodded solemnly. The adventures of Emmy Sue and Mr. Fusty Britches had shown them clearly what happens when mice are overcrowded in close confinement. Discovering Mr. Fusty Britches eating Emmy Sue’s last brood had been a salutatory lesson in keeping the two mice separated, no matter how eager they might seem to be together.
In fact, the mice had prompted the boys’ older brother to send Miss Doyle down to the kitchen for a quiet tea with the cook while he explained the ways of human reproduction and the responsibility of young gentlemen toward their staff. Sebastian Hughes was determined that there should be no by-blows engendered by his younger brothers, or at least not if he could help it. He did not so indulge himself, but he had seen the misery heaped upon serving girls in other houseswhere sons were allowed to act upon their whims.
Now, Mr. Fusty Britches and several of his sons occupied their own cage while Emmy Sue and her daughters resided in another. The smith had laughed when Lillian had gone down to the village to make the request. “Wondered how long that would take,” Tink Littlesmith had said, his white teeth gleaming with a wide grin beneath a mustache heavily blackened with his morning labors.
His appearance reminded Lillian of an old folk song, the Twa Magicians, which featured a blacksmith. “. . .Black as any silk . . .” ran the description. Tink Littlesmith in all ways resembled the name that he had as descendant of a long line of smiths. He also had a way with metals that the Duke described as nothing short of miraculous. That he chose to remain at Parkforton
and was willing to create mouse cages for the younger Hughes boys said a great deal about his kindness and the care he took of the folk who lived in the village and in the castle.
In short order he had devised two larger cages for the growing mouse population, and had recommended that unless she wished to provide food for the castle’s many cats and terriers, it would be best to separate the offspring as well as the father mouse. Lillian forbore telling him that they had already thought of that.
Since the boys were unlikely to view having Emmy Sue’s offspring become lunch for the kitchen cats with any sort of equanimity, the mice were duly separated into adjacent cages where now they lived as if they were members of that strange sect, the Shakers. Fortunately, the Shakers had removed to the Colonies before the rebellion, and before Lafayette had returned to assist the new government in France. At least aberrant religious sects were not among the things she needed to explain to two inquisitive lads who were soon to be nine years of age.
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