The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  “Good to see you as well, Old Dawe. You are looking fit enough to keep up with the dogs’ antics. And they appear hideously spoiled as usual.”

  A small man past his sixtieth year and fiercely loyal to Freddie, Old Dawe smiled. “One must love dogs to serve at Oatlands.” He turned to the maid, indicating she could leave.

  “Tell me, has there been any word from Robinson?” I asked.

  Old Dawe shook his head. “No, sir, but I shall send him to you immediately upon his arrival. Now that I have brought your dinner, is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  Old Dawe bowed his head and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Chakkri had already begun his meal. He has a great fondness for roasted chicken in wine sauce, and thus relished the serving given him. He turned his nose up at the artichokes, but licked the olives and nibbled at the potatoes, which had been boiled, beaten with cream, butter, and salt, and placed into scallop shells.

  Savouring my own meal, I smiled when I noted that Freddie had ordered Chakkri’s food served on floral-designed china rather than her regular service made by Flight and Barr. The latter is a deep yellow and white with gold trim, and sports panels of dogs painted in shades of brown by John Pennington, the artist famous for his canine figures. How like Freddie to be so considerate of Chakkri’s sensibilities.

  After Chakkri and I finished our meals, he began the long, meticulous process of cleaning himself. He licked his right paw well, then used it to wash around his whisker pad. I approve of his fastidiousness.

  I alternately paced, tried to settle down and read a copy of The Gentleman’s Magazine, and gazed out the window looking for Robinson until it grew too dark for me to see.

  Feeling like a prisoner—my bars being the wrong set of clothing—I finally could not stand being away from Freddie any longer. Judging that dinner would be long over, I decided to see if the Royal Duchess had returned to her chamber. Well, actually, to her private sitting room. Not even I would dare hazarding Ulga’s wrath by attempting to visit her mistress’s bedchamber.

  Leaving Chakkri, his belly full of chicken, comatose in the exact centre of my bed, I exited the room, closing the door firmly behind me. I did not want to risk the cat wandering the house and falling out of an open window, or embroiling himself in a skirmish with one of the dogs. He cannot abide dogs.

  Standing outside my door, I peered down the long corridor. Not a soul was in sight. Freddie’s private sitting room and chamber are at the very opposite end of mine. In between are several other guest chambers. I expect you can imagine why the Royal Duchess feels the need to put so much distance between the two of us.

  At any rate, I began walking down the dimly lit hall and was almost halfway to my goal when suddenly I had to throw out my hands and grasp the corner of a narrow table placed against the wall to keep from falling. Peering down to see what had tripped me, I saw Humphrey, stretched across the carpet looking up at me with a woeful expression. Now that the sun had set, he had abandoned his position near the drawing room window in favour of the corridor. I had disturbed his sleep. One thing you can always count upon at Oatlands is tripping over dogs in the most unlikely of places.

  Concerned the toe of my boot might have hurt the canine, I bent and petted him, receiving a thumping of his tail on the floor as reassurance that he had not been offended. I rose, about to continue on my way before Humphrey could favour me with a bit of dog drool, when my attention was caught by the sounds of a heated argument coming from within the nearest guest bedchamber.

  “ ... You will, Cecily, and that is my final word,” a male voice pronounced.

  “Roger, only listen to me,” a quavering female voice pleaded. “There was an understanding between Connell and me once. I did think he would marry me, though there was never a formal betrothal. You know all that changed when the Marquess of Kendrick suffered a fatal heart seizure after his elder son’s tragic death, and Connell unexpectedly inherited the title. Connell has all but turned his back on me since then.”

  “Then you must find a way to engage his attention! Damnation, sister, what’s the matter with you? You’re pretty enough in your own way, I suppose. Have you no feminine wiles? Oh, for God’s sake, stop twisting your hands that way. Put them to better use, on his lordship’s person for example.”

  This last was said in a scornful tone, especially the words “his lordship’s” that, along with the rest of his speech, made me take an instant dislike of the man I could not see. I knew I should not linger and listen to any more of what was clearly a private conversation, but, alas, I am only human.

  All right then, I am someone who has an insatiable need to know about my fellow members of Society. I am no gossip, as Gossip is a known Liar, but rather I am a gatherer of secrets, scandals, and salacious bits of information. Satisfied? Beyond my bon vivant exteriour, I do care about people, some more than others.

  “Roger, my dear brother, if only you could see your way clear to giving me a Season, I shall try to find a proper husband. I know you frequent London yourself, so why cannot I—”

  “Cecily, try not to be such a ninnyhammer! Crops have been bad. I’ve hardly had enough money to throw the dice with my friends. I’ve only been to the races at Newmarket twice so far this year. This coat I’m wearing was made last spring, for God’s sake. I can’t afford the cost of a Season in London for you. The rooms we would need to let, the gowns and fripperies you’d need. No, it’s out of the question.”

  “If you are so anxious to align our families, why not marry Connell’s cousin, Lady Ariana? She loves you.”

  “Marry that ghost of girl? I most certainly won’t,” he said with contempt. “No, Cecily, it is up to you. We’re lucky to be neighbours to the Royal Duchess and of good birth, else we wouldn’t have been invited to this party. And, listen to me closely, this party is your last chance to make Connell—his lordship—I should say, pop the question.”

  “Wh-what do you mean my last chance?”

  Chapter Three

  Roger’s voice turned sly. “I have received an offer for your hand from Squire Oxberry.”

  Cecily gasped. “Squire Oxberry! Roger, you cannot be serious. That is like something out of a gothic novel!”

  “The matter is in your hands, sister. I need the money marriage settlements would bring. The Squire has named a generous sum. Besides, when you marry, that bequest from Grandmama will finally be released. Face it, Cecily. You must wed, and you have two choices: Connell, Marquess of Kendrick or Squire Oxberry.”

  “No, I don’t believe you would do this to me, Roger! Squire Oxberry is as old as the Royal Duchess’s elderly footman. His teeth are almost all blackened. Dear God, you are serious. Please, Roger .... “She dissolved into tears.

  “Cease your crying,” her brother said coldly. “And make your decision. Bring the new marquess to the point of proposing, or marry the Squire. I’m going out for a walk.”

  “Wait! Th-there might be someone else. A worthy gentleman. He has not declared himself, but I believe his affections are true. I find him most admirable.”

  A burst of sarcastic laughter met my ears. Roger said, “The county doctor? Is that of whom you are speaking? Try not to be so stupid, Cecily. The man is beneath your station in life. No one but a fool marries beneath themselves.”

  A fresh bout of tears followed this assertion.

  Her brother paid no attention to the show of emotion though, as before I heard the slamming of a connecting door within the chamber, he said, “I’m warning you, Cecily. You must make the Marquess of Kendrick propose during this house party no matter what. You know the consequences if you don’t.”

  More weeping, muffled now as if the young lady was crying into a pillow, was the only sound coming from the room.

  I hesitated outside the door, my hands busy adjusting a painting that needed straightening. Roger Cranworth’s thinking needed straightening as well.

  As I
walked down the hall to Freddie’s sitting room, I could not help but feel a strong sense of outrage at Roger’s tyranny, followed by a rush of pity for Miss Cecily Cranworth. Gothic or not, her predicament echoed that of many a young lady in Society. Fathers, brothers, uncles, and guardians were in control of a female’s fate. Many abused the power.

  I made up my mind to closely observe the siblings during the house party, and if there was any way I could be of assistance to Miss Cranworth, it would give me pleasure to do so. Her bullying brother needed taking down a notch if what I had just heard was any indication.

  I wondered too about the new Marquess of Kendrick. From what Miss Cecily Cranworth had said, it seemed that there had been an alliance between them before “Connell” became Lord Kendrick. Perhaps now that he had the title, his lordship wanted to cast his net out to see if he could land a titled wife rather than one of the landed gentry.

  I heaved a sigh. Ah, the machinations of Society never fail to fascinate me. Freddie was right. I could not continue to sit in my house in Bruton Street grieving for lost friends. I needed to be amongst people again even if it meant meeting those of Roger Cranworth’s ilk.

  However, Beau Brummell could not be seen in anything less than his usual immaculate grooming and flawlessly appropriate attire lest he be toppled from his invisible throne at the head of fashionable Society and flung back to the outside of nowhere. Which meant I needed my valet and my clothes.

  Frowning, I paused when I reached Freddie’s sitting room door. I admitted to myself that it was not just Robinson’s skills in taking care of my person and clothing, valued as they are, that I cared about.

  As unfashionable as it might be to think of one’s servants as anything other than invisible entities who looked after one’s needs, the truth is that, well, I have grown accustomed to having Robinson round my house. His moral character is just what it should be, he has a sharp eye for the cut of a coat, he is intelligent, and by God, I like the man.

  Oh, by the way, never tell him I said these things, I beg you. He would only use my words against me in his never ending battle to send Chakkri back to Siam.

  I raised my hand and knocked firmly on the sitting room door. Freddie would need to send men out to look for Robinson at once. My initial irritation with the valet’s absence had progressed to apprehension, especially now that night had come, leaving the countryside shrouded in darkness.

  What fate had befallen Robinson?

  Ulga’s scowling face met me at the door to Freddie’s private sitting room. She effectively blocked the portal. Her Prussian features reflected her usual feeling toward me: disapproval.

  Which just goes to show you the woman has no taste.

  I steeled myself. “Ulga, inquire of the Royal Duchess if she can spare a moment to speak with me.”

  “Her Royal Highness is occupied at the moment,” Ulga informed me in a voice which still retained a Prussian accent.

  “I shall wait.”

  “Her Royal Highness vill be retiring for the evening soon.”

  “I must speak with her before she does so. Kindly inform her I am here.” This last I said with my normal cool composure, but I said it through gritted teeth.

  Ulga and I locked gazes. I would have preferred to lock her in a remote cottage and throw away the key.

  “Her Royal Highness should not have a second guest in her private sitting room at this hour.”

  Casually, I raised my pocketwatch and looked at the time: ten of the clock. Replacing the timepiece, I said, “Who is with her now?”

  “Mr. Fishe.”

  “Ah, well, we are safe then. Fishe is the jolly fellow who looks after the dogs’ needs. I, on the other hand, am a gentleman, and therefore the only one to be considered a ‘guest’ to the Royal Duchess.” Nothing she could say to that, the old dragon.

  With a show of great aversion to doing so, Ulga turned from the doorway to apprise Freddie of my presence. To further annoy the Prussian behemoth, I followed her unbidden into the room.

  “George,” Freddie said. “How glad I am to see you. I was about to send Ulga with a message for you to join me.”

  I raised an eyebrow at the maid, who turned without looking at me and sat in the corner, busying herself with her knitting.

  “You remember Fishe, do you not, George?” Freddie asked.

  “Of course; how are you, Fishe?” I said.

  Fishe is a man past fifty who is the only contender for Freddie’s dogs’ affection. He brushes them, bathes them, keeps them free of pests, nurses them through minor illnesses, makes sure they have heaps of toys and plenty to eat and drink. They love him with slavish devotion.

  Fishe himself is one of Freddie’s “strays,” having been rescued by her from the workhouse. Unlike the well-fed dogs he takes care of, Fishe is skinny and bald, and one of his eyes is considerably larger than the other.

  Fishe touched a place on his head where a forelock would have been had he any hair. “Happy to see you, Mr. Brummell, sir. But unhappy I am about Phanor.”

  I racked my brain trying to remember which dog was Phanor, but failed. “What is wrong with Phanor?”

  “I’m not rightly sure, sir. That’s why I’ve sent for Doctor Wendell.”

  Freddie sat in a gold velvet chair, her hands clasped in her lap. “Doctor Curtis Wendell is our county physician, George. He is a good man who often looks after our animals as well as our people. We can rely on him to come to Phanor.”

  “If it pleases your Royal Highness, I’ll just step along downstairs to the sickroom. I don’t like to leave Phanor for long,” Fishe said.

  “Thank you, and please keep me advised of any developments. I shall visit Phanor before I retire for the evening.”

  “Yes, your Royal Highness.”

  Fishe bowed himself out of the room, and I seated myself in a chair near Freddie. I wondered if Doctor Wendell was the very same man that Miss Cecily Cranworth had been speaking about, the county doctor her brother deemed unsuitable for her.

  But my thoughts quickly turned to Freddie’s distress over Phanor. “My princess,” I said, ignoring the exaggerated clunk as Ulga set down her bag of yarn on the table next to her, “forgive me for not remembering, but is Phanor very old?”

  “Not so very old, George, just never in good health,” Freddie said sadly. “I am worried about him, as he is one of my favourites. Well, that is not precisely true, because I cannot name a favourite amongst my darling dogs. Perhaps if you will excuse me, dear, I shall go see Phanor—but no, you have come to tell me news of Robinson. Has he arrived? What delayed him?”

  “Freddie, I am afraid he has not come yet. I believe it would be wise to send someone out looking for him.”

  Her blue eyes rounded. “Of course we must! Goodness, what could have happened to him? We shall go at once and organise the stable hands to search down the London road.”

  She rose and made as if to leave the room, but I stood and detained her by placing my hand on her arm. “No. You see to Phanor, and I shall enlist Old Dawe’s help in organising the men. I cannot like seeing you overset like this, and only came to ask permission for your men’s aid.”

  She managed a weak smile. “You are so very kind to me, George. I daresay I do not know what I would do without you. The way you are able to anticipate my needs, to know my very thoughts, is always a source of wonder to me.”

  I reached for her hand, raised it to my lips and pressed a warm kiss against her knuckles. “Go to Phanor then, and I shall—”

  A commotion from the hallway interrupted us. Ulga rose from her chair with surprising speed for someone of her size and flung open the sitting room door.

  The sight that met us threw my emotions into confusion and sent my eyebrows soaring to my hairline. Next to me, Freddie let out a gasp. No doubt it was one born of a mixture of despair and delight.

  “Robinson! For the love of heaven!” Freddie exclaimed.

  “Good evening, your Royal Highness,” Robinson said, entering t
he room with great dignity considering his shockingly disheveled appearance. He bowed low. Turning to me, he continued in a long suffering tone, “Here is the item you asked I bring to Oatlands, sir. What shall I do with it?”

  I hesitated, my gaze taking in the valet’s demeanor, then I said, “Give it to me.”

  Robinson sighed heavily, but obeyed.

  Freddie’s eyes gleamed with excitement when she looked upon the contents of my arms, but her innate concern for a fellow human caused her to focus upon Robinson. “What has happened to you? Your clothes are torn and dusty, and—oh!—is that blood on your cuff?”

  She left out the part about how Robinson’s blond hair, which he carefully combs into the fashionable Brutus style, was pushed back from his forehead and standing up like wheat in a field. Dirt smudged his left cheek, there was a small cut on his right cheek, and indeed, dried blood on his right cuff and his hand.

  “Good God, man, where have you been? A pugilistic contest?” I asked, balancing the article I held in the cradle of my arm.

  Robinson stood with his Martyr Expression firmly fixed in place. He spoke in a deceptively calm voice, the tone he employs when he has been tried to the maximum, survived the ordeal, and now wishes to convey the news of his heroism.

  “A pugilistic contest?” he answered, his lip curled. “Certainly not, sir. I have only been following your directions to convey the Royal Duchess’s birthday gift here, along with our clothing for our stay at Oatlands. A few miles short of my destination, the coach I rode in was set upon by a highwayman.”

  Robinson paused to savour the effect this statement had on us.

  Indeed, Freddie’s jaw dropped, Ulga clutched her knitting to her chest, and I know my face reflected my shock. “A highwayman? In this part of the countryside?”