The Hourglass

by Barbara Metzger

  “She told me of the circumstances surrounding her betrothal, yes.”

  “Did she tell you she stole Elgin out from under her own sister’s nose?”

  “She told me of being sent outside to find her sister’s lost reticule, wearing Miss Lorraine Hopewell’s distinctive shawl against the night, at that same sister’s insistence. Did you ever listen to Miss Imogene Hopewell’s side of the story?”

  “What for? The deed was done. They were seen by everyone, thanks to her screams to draw attention.”

  “Not screams for help?”

  “Pish-tosh. Past history.” Lady Cormack tried to squeeze out a tear. “Now he’s dead, my poor brave boy, because of her.”

  “My wife was not the one who sent Macklin to the army. I believe you and your late husband were responsible for that.”

  “We thought it best to get the dirty linen out of sight.”

  “No. It is best to wash dirty linen clean. Instead, your son rolled in the muck. He was never a proper husband to a young, innocent girl. He left her in the middle of a war!”

  “My son was a hero,” she persisted. “He died saving his men!”

  “He died before the battle, leaving his men with no officer to lead them but a raw recruit.”

  “Ardeth, do not,” Genie begged.

  “She never listened to you or your pleas. She deserves to hear the truth for once.” He turned back to the baroness, whose fat jowls were quivering in outrage. “Your son’s men were slaughtered.”

  “That is a lie!”

  “Do you want to speak to the woman whose bed he was in when her officer husband found them? That hothead died in the battle, at least, so the army was spared a murder trial and a court-martial.”

  “Another lie. I would have heard of such goings-on.”

  “I ensured that no one would. I spoke to the general, and I found the woman, who was left as destitute as Mrs. Macklin.”

  “Then you should have married that light-skirt.”

  “I was already promised to Imogene, who needed me more. But I do have that widow’s deposition, and I paid for her return home, and her silence. She was nothing but a wanton, yes, but your son’s wife was a real lady.”

  “If she never played Elgin false, then the child is a Macklin and belongs with us.”

  “Not by law. I consulted the best barrister in London. If an infant is born to my legal wife, and I do not renounce him, he is mine.”

  “Others know,” Genie reminded him. He’d been sure his relatives would have heard, and would challenge any claims to Ardeth’s title and estate.

  “They will not speak of it.”

  Genie wondered how he was so confident, but she would not disagree with him in front of Lady Cormack. “The army tried to hush the scandal, and my sudden marriage gave everyone something else to replace that gossip, so they could ignore the facts. And so many men died then.”

  The baroness started to blubber in earnest. “You and your sister ruined both my sons. My Roger could have wed a rich wife with better breeding. My Elgin is gone.”

  Ardeth handed over a monogrammed handkerchief. “Cry pax, madam. I am sorry for your loss. And sorrier for the manner. I would hope the new baron and his bride have reconciled themselves to the match and find happiness with each other and their son. But I will not permit my wife’s future to be destroyed. Nor my son’s.”

  Genie looked at him with relief and wonder. He was really going to claim the boy. The child, that is, for she might still have a daughter. Her reputation was still blown to smithereens—she’d wedded less than a week after the child’s father died, or had an affair with another man before that. They would discuss it later. For now, the babe was safe from Macklin clutches.

  Lady Cormack could see that she had lost. She could not castigate the female while Ardeth was present, nor could she raise the next baron. Botheration, she could not even besmirch the harlot’s name among her own friends. She did not doubt for a minute Ardeth’s threat to expose Elgin’s little contretemps. That would be a worse reflection on the family name and on Roger, who was seeking a cabinet post.

  She stood again, this time headed for the door. She could not resist a parting shot, however: “You are a fallen woman either way, Countess.” She spoke the title with a sneer. “No one will associate with you. You will never be accepted among polite society.”

  “But I never wished to be,” Genie said. “I expect to live quietly at my husband’s country property right after the prince’s reception for the foreign dignitaries.”

  The last tea cake must have gone rancid, for Lady Cormack felt a pain in her gut. “The prince’s?”

  “Yes, we were invited. Shall I see you there?”

  Not unless Lady Cormack could bribe or browbeat a coveted invitation out of someone.

  “I shall not dance, of course,” Genie went on, seeing her former mother-in-law’s pained look.

  “But she will be greeted with respect,” Ardeth said, a statement and a warning. Then he excused himself a moment and came back with an hourglass in his hand.

  “Please accept this as a token of our esteem,” he said as he escorted the woman from the room. “And a reminder that life passes too quickly to be spent in regret and bitterness.”

  Lady Cormack clutched the elaborate gold and jeweled device to her greedy breast. “Oh, I agree.”

  And Genie agreed that was the perfect way of getting rid of the most garish, tasteless hourglass in the collection.

  Chapter 9

  Dragon slaying—or dowager flaying—was fun, Ardeth decided. In fact, being alive was generally far more amusing than being Death. Other than the occasional grave joke, there’d been nothing to laugh about in his past existence. He’d thought this time, for his brief six months, he’d have to be equally as grim—see? He’d just made a Reaper pun. He’d set out to be moral, honorable, conscientious about being good to atone for being so bad. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to this humanity business than he remembered. Like now, with a sumptuous meal at his own table, warm candlelight gleaming off the silver utensils he remembered to use, and his wife’s red hair, how could a man not feel lighter, freer, unbowed by bygone sorrows and worrisome tomorrows? He touched his heart and felt something stir. Maybe he was a little closer to his goal. Maybe he was just hungry.

  With no butler, Ardeth had a footman set the platters on the table. He and Lady Ardeth would help themselves in privacy. Tonight would be the first time he and Genie had been alone in days, or taken a meal together. She had eaten nothing but dry toast in her bedroom in the mornings, and he had been gone on business for most of the days. Tonight’s food was delicious, the finest he had tasted in centuries. He savored every swallow of sea turtle soup, prawns in oyster sauce, eel in aspic, and asparagus in lobster.

  Genie’s appetite was quite gone, her digestion too uncertain, especially after the tea with her former mother-in-law. The only reason she had come down to dinner was that she and the earl had a great deal to discuss that night.

  She wanted to talk about the prince’s coming fete, and how she would be a blight on Ardeth’s enjoyment.

  Ardeth was glad the woman was not so afraid of him that she was fearful of arguing, but the meal would have been far more pleasant, he decided, without their going over the same rough ground. To think that just a few weeks ago he could have touched her lips and silenced her, touched her head and have her forget ever seeing him. He would not, if he still could, for that would be an insult to her intelligence and independence. Then again, that way he could eat his meal in peace.

  “Come, my lady, do not ruin the dinner with fretting. Have a bit of this excellent macaroni dish. I do not remember any finer.” He did not remember any, period. Did they have tomatoes in his lifetime?

  She would not take the plate, or the bait. “You’ve seen my own family’s attitude. Others will be even less forgiving.”

  Ardeth reluctantly set his fork aside. “I still feel that self-interest will win out over sno
bbery. And we agreed, a prince’s invitation is not to be sneered at. You will be formally presented as my wife, whether anyone likes it or not. You will just have to see.”

  “See? Are you blind? Our own housekeeper disapproved of me!”

  He looked longingly at the platter of beef and Yorkshire pudding, untouched at Genie’s end of the table. “Then I am doubly glad she is gone.”

  “But—”

  “Enough, madam. We are sounding like an old married couple.”

  “Which we are not. We are barely married, by anyone’s estimation.”

  He did not want to discuss that, either. The beef and Yorkshire pudding were not half as tempting as his wife in black silk, the tops of her snowy breasts showing over the low neck of the gown. Her hair was gathered at the back of her head tonight, with long reddish curls left to brush forward on her shoulders.

  Gentlemen did not drool, he reminded himself, reaching for his napkin. He tried to get her to discuss who else would be at the fete, and precisely what constituted a formal presentation to royalty. “Remember, I do not know your world as well as I should. I need your assistance.”

  “You speak as if I was ever at court. A squire’s daughter does not make her come-out at the queen’s drawing room. I cannot help you. You have to understand that.”

  He understood fear. He’d seen it often enough. “You will help by being at my side. Furthermore, once you are acknowledged by the prince, my own relatives cannot show you disrespect when we travel to Ardsley Keep.”

  “I did not know you had family living there.”

  He’d prefer not to talk about that, either. He helped himself to a serving of stewed vegetables, not his first choice, but close at hand. The vegetables were like glue, from sitting. He warmed them a bit with a touch to see if that would help.

  Genie ignored the steam suddenly rising from the bowl her husband held. “Are there many? How are they connected?” she persisted.

  “Enough, and distantly. They are more caretakers and hangers-on than true family.”

  “Will they resent my child if it is a boy and you claim him, as you told Lady Cormack?”

  He decided he liked potatoes better than carrots. He might like dining alone better, too, but a knight could not be rude to a lady. “I am not certain of their expectations at this point. Certainly they were aware of my existence and that I might have an heir of my own. We shall just have to wait and see about that, too. Do you want me to inquire about hiring a new butler or do you want to handle it?”

  Genie had shredded her roll and moved the peas around on her plate to build a small green mountain. He could hire Beelzebub himself to be butler for all she cared. He’d told Lady Cormack that if he declared the babe his, the child would be considered legally his. The problem was, he’d also told Genie that he might not be around in six months, to make that declaration. The other problem was that he might not be around at all. How could she eat? “I would like a further explanation.”

  “I would like a serving of syllabub. Would you pass the platter?”

  Exasperated, Genie got up and brought the dish to his side. “I shall leave you to your syllabub, then your port and cigars.”

  “I do not smoke cigars.”

  “A pipe, then.”

  “No.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I thought I smelled smoke about your clothes.”

  Ardeth decided he’d been so used to the stench of Hellfire that he could not smell it on his person anymore. “I must have been standing too close to the fire. Getting warm, you know.”

  The house was so hot, even with all the windows open, that Genie had forgone a shawl. “You might need a better valet to air your clothes.”

  His clothes were all new. “Oh, the smell is fading with this warmer weather and my acclimation.” As were his skills to influence people. Ardeth had been experimenting, where it would cause no harm, of course. That was why all of his favorite dishes were on the table at once. Cook was very susceptible. The departing butler was not, or the prig’s wig would have caught fire. A bit of steam on the vegetables was all Ardeth could manage.

  In a way the earl felt more like a mortal, that his plan was working; in another way he felt the waning of his talents as a frightening loss of power, of his identity. That was what he wanted, though, wasn’t it?

  That was why he needed Genie to come to the peace celebration, while he could still make sure she would be treated well, and she could make sure he did not douse any fires. Thinking she would be easier to convince on his own, without a speck of spectral doing, he rose from the table, too, to follow her out. A willing wife was more desirable than dessert.

  —

  “What do ladies do,” he asked, “while the menfolk are left behind to indulge?” He already knew the men behaved like beasts in the field. It was ever thus.

  “They gossip, or sit with their sewing, play at the pianoforte or sing—”

  “Ah, music. Do you have a good voice?”

  Genie laughed. “Barely passable. Do you?”

  Ardeth had no idea. When had he occasion to sing? He’d heard the best—nothing could surpass the Heavenly Choir—but thought he might enjoy Genie’s singing as he followed her to the music room. He already enjoyed watching her rounded bottom sway and the sound of the silk gown swishing as she moved.

  She sat and played a few simple pieces at the pianoforte before beginning a country ballad she could sing.

  Ardeth sat back and closed his eyes in contentment. How domestic, he thought, how simple, how lovely. How much she sounded like the crow.

  —

  Genie spent the next few days trying to hire new senior staff. If there was a guidebook on how to be a proper lady, she was positive, selecting perfect servants must rate a chapter for itself. She was the countess; it was her job to see that the household ran smoothly. Without that guidebook, however, she had no idea how to go on.

  She had never hired anybody in her life. What few servants her parents had at the manor were chosen by her mother. During her marriage, Elgin’s batman served as man-of-all-work, including the cooking. They had not been able to afford a maid, so Genie had taken care of her own needs and the cleaning. When she taught the Portuguese grandee’s children, she was little better than a servant herself. Now she was expected—no, she expected it of herself—to produce reliable, honest, experienced staff. Her husband was busy inspecting sites for orphanages and veterans’ hospitals, forming alliances for reforms in Parliament, and studying where the most improvement could be made in most people’s lives. He seemed to enjoy walking the streets days and nights, seeing how all classes lived. Despite his offer, Genie would not bother him wim nonsense that a real lady could accomplish blindfolded.

  By the second day she wondered if those duchesses and viscountesses actually did don blinders and pick a name out of a hat. The task seemed impossible.

  Campbell found a highly recommended placement agency, which sent scores of applicants for the two positions. Word of mouth brought scads more. She dutifully interviewed each, realizing that she should have hired a secretary first, to read the references and thin the lines of job seekers. A secretary could help with the hourglasses, too. The dratted things kept multiplying like rabbits, all needing to be cataloged for Ardeth’s inspection, then returned, paid for, or shelved.

  But she had advertised for a butler and a housekeeper, so Genie felt obliged to continue the interviews. None of the men or women seemed right. Most seemed pitiable, not hirable. She felt sorry for the ancient butlers, hard of hearing, bent over with rheumatics, who had been replaced by younger men. She worried about young men who would not be hired without experience, yet could not gain the experience without positions. Worse were the women who were displaced by the mistress’s poor, unpaid relation, or dismissed when the master acted poorly.

  Genie knew what it felt like to be out of work and out of money, so she listened. She gave a coin to each unemployed applicant, except the ones who felt themselves superior t
o her.

  There were many of those, too.

  Genie did not read the gossip columns in the newspapers. Why should she, when she knew so few people in town? Why should she when her own name might be there? Nor did she listen to rumors trickling from the servants’ grapevine through Marie’s backstairs cronies. Many of the job seekers must have.

  One woman’s nostrils flared when she stepped over the threshold of the hourglass room, where Genie was conducting interviews so she could arrange the timepieces between appointments. One would-be housekeeper would be affronted to work for a woman of chancy repute. Another wished to speak only with the master. As for the butlers, one started to inform her of his rules concerning proper conduct, as if she were one of the undermaids, and another told her he would not have come to such a house at all had there been other opportunities. A few smelled of spirits; a few smelled of unwashed bodies. A few could smell smoke and demanded the chimneys be cleaned before they slept in such a fire hazard. One seemed to smell money, and shifted his eyes from gold hourglass to valuable painting to priceless statue.

  A few of the more qualified butlers acted as if they were interviewing her. Would the earl be coming back to London during the next parliamentary session? more than one asked. Genie knew they were concerned that if the house sat empty, they would receive no vails from visitors, no bribes from tradesmen. Most wanted to know if they were expected to travel to the—gasp—country with the family. If not, would they be paid their full salary?

  Genie devised a winnowing process for possible, passable candidates. She asked the prospective butlers to introduce imaginary callers: a duke, a merchant, a female who would not give her name. Some could not understand the notion of playacting. Others felt such efforts were beneath mem. Two announced that anyone without a title was not worth presenting; that would be a footman’s job.

  Genie felt more qualified to interview prospective housekeepers. After all, she’d had to maintain her own quarters for herself for many years now. Even in her mother’s home, she’d had chores. So she knew when a house was clean. She tested the women by asking the formula for beeswax polish, and the best way to remove stains from upholstery. One refused to answer, or to work for a mistress who was going to “interfere.” Another found the house too cluttered for her taste, with too many fragile pieces for maidservants to break, which could be laid at the housekeeper’s door. Genie still felt guilty over the vase she herself had broken, so could understand the trepidations.