by Linda Banche
The cold water of the lady’s answer doused Kit’s heated response. He gritted his teeth. Another wrong first impression. He relaxed his clenched jaw before he replied. “The weather was clear last night when I left London on the mail coach. The rain started after we passed Amesbury. At Chiltern, one of the horses slipped in the mud. The driver reduced speed to prevent injury to the other horses. Unfortunately, these delays brought us to Wells long past seven instead of at two. After I found someone willing to drive me to Theale, we didn’t reach the village until well after nightfall.” I sat on the outside all the way, too.
“You could have stayed at the inn.”
“Since the house is only about a mile from Theale, I borrowed a lantern from the inn and gambled the worst of the storm had passed. I was wrong.”
“Well, then, I suppose we must allow you to stay.” She huffed in annoyance. “Since we did not know when you would arrive, we have not yet prepared your living quarters. We can move you tomorrow.” She stepped down onto the next tread. Her forehead puckered. “The blue room on the second floor is available, but there is no fire made up, and you are soaked.”
Bates cleared his throat. “Please do not concern yourself any further, Miss Stratton. I will attend to Master Kit.” He held out his hand. “Allow me to put your satchel in your bedchamber.”
“I will take it up myself, Bates.”
Miss Stratton descended the rest of the flight. “Very well. Mr. Winnington, please come with me to the kitchen until your room is ready. I will stoke up the fire, and you can dry out a bit.” She turned down the right hand corridor, her waist-length braid now swinging down her back. A whiff of violet perfume lingered in her wake. Without looking to confirm that he followed, she proceeded along the passage.
Bates gave Kit another welcoming smile before he trudged up the stairway.
Kit dropped the valise by the newel post. After blowing out the candle in his lantern, he set it by the satchel and then hurried to catch up to Miss Stratton’s wax light.
She reached the end of the corridor and opened a door. “The kitchen is on the lower level.” Still not looking back, she entered the stairwell.
Stephen ducked under the low lintel after her. “I last visited here four years ago, Miss Stratton. The building’s layout could not have changed much since then.”
Her back stiffened, but she didn’t reply.
Score one for me.
Widely placed sconces illuminated their way, so he didn’t need to glue himself to the back of Miss Stratton’s dressing gown. Not that he wanted to. He’d met friendlier people at a funeral.
At the bottom of the steps, the kitchen opened before them, looking much as he remembered. A long scarred oak table, several chairs pushed up to it, ran the length of the room. Pots and pans hung from wall hooks and garlands of drying herbs decorated the ceiling. The pungent aroma of roasted meat still permeated the air. Kit shook out his hat and hung it on a peg by the door.
A pleasant orange glow filled the hearth. After setting her candle on the table, Miss Stratton pushed the fire screen aside and picked up the poker to stoke the coals to a full, roaring blaze. In silence, she replaced the poker in its stand.
Kit resettled the screen before the flames, dislodging a wicker basket of rags beside the fireplace. Shivering, he shrugged out of his drenched duster and draped the garment over the screen. With a grateful sigh, he raised his palms to the heat of the snapping coals. Since he hadn’t received a warm welcome, he would enjoy the warm fire. “Ah, that feels good.”
The fire crackled and sparks flew up the chimney. The silence lengthened.
Kit cleared his throat. “What did you mean by ‘moving me tomorrow’?”
“You are to stay in the steward’s house.”
“But—” Kit caught a flutter of motion at the corner of his eye. Did the rags in that basket wiggle? “I see no reason—”
The rags in the basket shifted. Again. He hadn’t imagined the movement. “Miss Stratton, please step away from the hearth. Something is in those rags.”
The lady glanced at the basket. “Oh, nothing to worry about.” She plucked out one of the cloths and a brown duck’s head popped up. “Urania, there you are.” She removed another rag to reveal another duck, this one with its green head nestled under its wing. “And Ulrick, too. Sorry to disturb you.”
Urania emitted a low “quack” and settled closer beside Ulrick. Ulrick?—what a name for a duck—lifted his head, threw a bored glance at Kit, and burrowed back under his makeshift bedclothes.
“Mr. Holt said Aunt Augusta had pet ducks, but I never expected to find them indoors.”
“Oh, they are all over. Urania and Ulrick are mates, and like the kitchen. The others have staked their territories elsewhere.”
“But do you not also keep cats in the house?”
“The ducks and the cats have an agreement. The cats eat the mice and the ducks do not bite the cats.”
He edged closer to the basket. Neither bird moved, but examined him carefully with their black duck eyes. “These two are mallards. What of the others?”
“All the ducks are mallards.”
“A well-behaved lot, to judge by this pair.”
“Oh, yes. Lady Bridges and I made sure they understood the rules. No quacking at night, no biting us or each other—although I think they bite each other and the cats when I am not looking. And most important, no splatting indoors, or outside they go.”
Thank the stars. Nothing worse than a barn in the house.
For the first time, Miss Stratton angled her head to look at him. Her face was still stony. “Are you hungry? We have bread and cheese in the larder.”
Kit stifled a yawn. “Thank you, but no. Traveling is exhausting. I would like nothing better than to sleep. We can finish our discussion in the morning.” I will NOT move to the steward’s house half a mile away.
Her lips pressed together. “Very well. I will instruct the housekeeper to brush your coat and hat and return them after they dry.” She lighted a second candle from hers and handed it to him.
They retraced their route to the foyer, where Kit retrieved his satchel. As they ascended the rightmost branch of the staircase, they met Bates coming down. “Master Kit, your chamber is ready. I apologize for the delay.”
“Think nothing on it. If I were not so wet, I would not even need a fire. This spring has been devilish hot.”
“Indeed.” Bates turned back up the stairs. “If you will follow me.”
Miss Stratton set a palm on the butler’s arm. “You need to wake early tomorrow. I will conduct Mr. Winnington to his room.”
Bates’s eyebrows lowered. “I am not sure such behavior is fitting, Miss.”
“Oh, fustian. We are both on the same floor and all of us have been up much too late.”
The butler’s eyebrows remained drawn, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he relented. “Very well. I will inform the staff that Master Kit arrived at first light, so as to forestall any talk.” Bates smiled once more at Kit before he disappeared into the gloom below.
Kit frowned at the butler’s retreating back. “What talk?”
Miss Stratton waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing of import.”
Not quite sure he believed her, Kit let the matter drop. He followed her up the flight, his candle illuminating the lady’s shapely form. Quite a nice view. They climbed to the upper landing and then down a corridor lit by one sconce halfway down the passage.
She stopped at the third door on the right and pushed open the panel. “You can stay here tonight.”
“Thank you.” Kit stepped over the threshold. At one side of the chamber, a crackling fire jumped merrily in the grate, a well-stuffed chair on one side, a tall screen on the other. A candle shielded by a glass chimney gleamed on the table by the window. Set against the opposite wall was a bed wreathed in partially drawn curtains, and flanked by a night stand and a clothespress.
“Is something amiss?” came the acid comment fro
m the entry.
“Not at all. I was merely examining the room. Very comfortable.” After placing his candle on the night table, he gave his reluctant hostess a sardonic bow. “My thanks.”
Her lips pursed, Miss Stratton nodded. Without a backward glance, she turned and flounced out.
Kit stuck his head out the door to follow her progress to the far end of the corridor. The graceful sway of her hips did strange things to his insides. The lady was lovely. Too bad she was a termagant.
Yawning, he shut the door behind him. Enough ducks and prickly ladies for one day. After dropping his satchel by the bed, he dragged off his clothes and draped them over the chair back. He dug a nightshirt from the valise and donned the garment before he blew out both candles.
Bates had already drawn back the bedclothes. The counterpane was soft under Kit’s palm, and covered a featherbed. He grinned. By any chance, had they used the down from the pet ducks to stuff the mattress and pillows?
After tying the bed curtains back, he settled into the soft cocoon and laced his fingers behind his head. Tomorrow, he would have it out with Miss Stratton about the steward’s residence, but that was tomorrow. He fluffed up his pillow and turned onto his side…
“QUACK!”
A bundle of flapping, squawking feathers exploded from the depths of the covers and attacked him. Throwing his arms over his head for protection, Kit fell out of bed. He scrambled to his feet and bolted for the door, the thrashing, quacking explosion battering him. A serrated knife edge scraped over his upper arm. “Ow!” Batting at the avian attacker with one hand, he groped for the latch with the other.
The door swung open. Miss Stratton, her candle flame flickering, dashed into the chamber. “Esmeralda, you stop that right now!”
The feathered windstorm quacked once more and, in a graceful arc, fluttered to the floor.
Kit lowered his arms and gave a mental groan. A duck. He should have known.
Miss Stratton set her wax light on the night stand and bent to pick up the bird. She crooned—actually crooned!—to the noxious piece of fluff. “Esmeralda, what are you doing here? Tonight was your night for the drawing room.” The little speckled brown hen snuggled against her breasts.
Kit swallowed. Miss Stratton’s paper-thin nightdress did little to conceal her fetching curves.
The angry duck lifted her head and glared at him. Did his imagination trick him, or did that feathered menace smirk?
Miss Stratton gently stroked the surly hen’s feathers. Gentle was the last thing Kit would have been. “I apologize, Mr. Winnington. I had no idea Esmeralda hid here. Her habits are usually as regular as clockwork, and tonight she was due to sleep in the drawing room.”
He inched closer. Much of Miss Stratton’s tresses had escaped from her braid, and hung down her back in a fall of wheat-colored silk. Would her hair feel as soft as the counterpane? His hand rose as if to touch…
The belligerent hen squawked and lunged at him. Miss Stratton grabbed the bird before her bill could again connect with his arm and secured her more tightly against her breasts. “Bad duck. Mr. Winnington is a guest here.”
No, I am the future owner. Any soft feelings dissolved. “The duck does not take kindly to me evicting her.”
“Oh, she will survive for one night. After all, tomorrow we will install you in the steward’s house and the ducks do not frequent that building.”
We will see about that. He rubbed his sore arm. “She bit me.”
She glowered at the hen. “Esmeralda, you know you are not supposed to bite.” She peered at his arm. “Duck bites hurt, but they are harmless. In any event, I will take her with me.” She cradled the hen closer to her side. The material of her nightdress pulled against her breasts. He swallowed. She was a fetching woman. Why did she have to be such a harridan?
“Please check the rest of the room. I doubt any more of our feathered friends are here, but they tend to secrete themselves in the oddest places.”
Kit shook out the covers and looked under the bed. He checked the nightstand, inside the clothespress, and behind the screen that hid the washstand. “All clear.”
“Good.” Taking a more secure hold of the duck—Esmeralda?—with one hand, Miss Stratton picked up her candle with the other. At the threshold, she paused and turned back. “Good night.” She smiled, the smile once again transforming her into the angel of his first impression, and then she was gone. Soft quacking floated down the passage in her wake.
Kit shut the door and leaned back against the panel. He wiped perspiration from his forehead.
If Esmeralda’s response was typical of the other ducks, making the ducks happy might prove harder than he had expected.
****
A dull stick poked Angela in the side. Her eyes flew open as she jerked awake. Batting away the duck nudging her with its bill, she fumbled up to a sitting position. “Esmeralda, you bad girl.”
Angela yawned and cast her bleary gaze toward the window. Grey strands of light filtered between the folds of the drapes. “Dawn has barely come. You want to go outside now?”
The hen jumped down from the bed and waddled to the door. She stopped and cast an expectant look over her shoulder.
Angela groaned. “Give me a moment.”
An impatient Esmeralda pecked at the oak panel as Angela washed and then dressed in a faded blue gown. “Very well, you demanding little bird.” Angela opened the door and the duck flew into the corridor. “Now, we go outside.”
She gathered up a squawking Esmeralda from her landing spot on a table and made her way to the servants’ hall. As she passed through the kitchen, the smiling cook handed her a small bag of stale bread. Ulrick and Urania quacked and flapped in her wake as they exited into the kitchen garden, fragrant with lavender and roses. Angela spilled Esmeralda to the ground. “All right, my friends, go where you will.”
As if all three birds had the same thought, they formed a queue, Esmeralda leading. Paying no attention to the aromatic herbs, they waddled across the garden, trampling a few unlucky plants in their path.
They emerged into a clearing bounded on the near side by the house. A small gurgling stream that curved by the mansion and behind the barn, stable, dairy, and washhouse formed the far border. Midnight shadows clung under the trees in the woods on the other side of the watercourse.
Last night’s rain had washed the sky into a crystalline, polished blue. Wisps of fog clung to the ground and dampened Angela’s skirt hem as she brought up the rear of the procession. Robins chirped and red squirrels chattered. She greeted the land steward, Mr. Oliver Jones, as he led a horse from the stable. By the time they had exchanged a few words, the ducks had already disappeared into the passage between the barn and stable. After saying goodbye to Mr. Jones, Angela hurried after the ducks to their watery heaven of the stream.
With loud splashes, the ducks launched themselves into the midst of the ducks already in the waterway.
“Well, Felizarda and Alwyne, having a good time? And how about you, Ethelred and Busick?”
The ducks quacked in avian bliss.
Angela sank down onto a flat rock on the stream bank. Shivering a little from the cold stone, she broke her store of bread into bill-sized pieces and tossed them into the water. The ducks dove and quacked happily as they consumed the food. The sun topped the trees and flooded the clearing with golden light, striking sparkles from the iridescent duck feathers.
Angela sat back and inhaled a deep breath full of the scent of water, brown earth and growing plants. How she loved the quiet and peace here. Oh, why had Lady Bridges dreamed up this ridiculous contest?
She heaved a scrap of bread a little too hard and the morsel hit a duck on the head. The bird jumped. “Oh, sorry, Felizarda. I did not mean to strike you.”
The hen quacked in rebuke and ate the bread.
Drat, if not for this competition, she would have left after Lady Bridges’s death. She would have missed Apple Tree Manor and its security, but she would have
survived. Unfortunately, she now had hope of remaining here. And not just as a retainer, but as the owner. She released a long sigh. Sometimes, no hope was better than some.
She dusted the bread crumbs off her palms and stuffed the empty bag into her pocket. Often, matters did not work out as one preferred. She had a chance to own this estate she loved, and she would do her best to win the contest.
Standing, she fluffed out her skirt. “Well, my feathered friends, stay here and enjoy yourselves for as long as you like. I am for breakfast.”
The ducks quacked as if they understood and resumed their exuberant splashing and preening.
Retracing her steps, she made her way to the breakfast parlor. A casual glance through the open doorway brought her to an abrupt halt.
Mr. Winnington had already arrived. Her opponent. A surge of anger rose. As polite as he had been last night, she must never forget he was her adversary.
He sat at the table in profile by the east window. The early morning sun glinted off his short brown hair, raising golden highlights. His nose was a sharp blade between high cheekbones. As he looked down at his plate, his lashes formed dark semi-ovals against his face.
My, what lush eyelashes. She wished hers were that thick. His broad shoulders strained at the seams of his blue tailcoat.
Gracious, he was quite a well-favored man. Something she had never before felt tingled over her skin.
He reached for a scone on the serving platter in the center of the table. His coat cuff was frayed.
Her anger fizzled and died. He was not wealthy. Most likely, he needed this inheritance as much as she did. For a moment, sympathy for his plight welled up. With a wrench, she quashed the thought. She wasn’t rich, either, and she would not give up without a fight. She stiffened her resolve. May the better person win.
With a loud quack, a duck flew over her into the parlor. Startled, Mr. Winnington lifted his head and glanced toward the doorway. His gaze followed the duck’s flight until the bird landed on the floor on the opposite side of the table. Then, a smile teasing his lips, he stood. “Good morning.”
