Madeleine Robins

by The Heiress Companion

  “And what do you intend to do today, Miss Margaret?” Bradwell asked solicitously. Margaret looked expectantly at Rowena.

  “I hadn’t thought. That is, if Lady B — your mamma — wishes to sleep today — well, I had hoped there might be some sort of chore about the house that I could do.”

  “Such as what, goose? Polish the bannisters? Black the kitchen range? Mend the drawing room curtain where that fat gentleman stepped through it last evening?”

  “That’s just it, Renna. I’ve no idea what one does in a great house if one is not a servant or in the nursery being fitted for dresses. Mamma talks of housewifery, but she never explains a thing.”

  “Whereas my mamma never talked of it, but showed me constantly how to manage a household. Mrs. Coffee and her people have the house well ordered now, though. What would you like to do? For once I am free of those odious lists and arrangements, and I can spend some time with you. Shall we descend to the kitchen and cast Cook out, and make some sort of mess ourselves?”

  Margaret looked a little startled at this original proposition, and Mr. Bradwell downright skeptical. “You mean, truly cook something?” Margaret asked, and:

  “Toss Cook out of her kitchen? Sooner face the dogs of Hades, Miss Cherwood,” Mr. Bradwell admonished.

  “Well, I have no doubt that the Regent is not going to hire me away from your mamma apurpose to set me up in his kitchens,” Rowena agreed sedately. “But I can cook any number of dinners and pastries. There were times when we could not rely upon local people to help us, let alone maid or cook for us, and sometimes, while Mamma was arguing with the poulterer in what she called Portuguese — though none of the people ever understood her — I would make supper, and Mamma and Senhor Algues would make up over the dinner.”

  “Very picturesque, Miss Cherwood; you really have lived a rather unconventional life.” It did not sound as if Mr. Bradwell was particularly interested in Rowena’s unconventionality; he turned to smile at Margaret again. “Would you mind” — the question was obviously aimed at the younger woman — “if I made myself a part of your party? I don’t think I’ve been belowstairs here since I was fourteen and hiding from my father’s wrath over some trifling thing.”

  It was Rowena who answered, assuring him that he was more than welcome, and suggesting that they reconvene in the hall at one o’clock. “That will give me time to discuss things more completely with Mrs. Coffee.”

  All three were agreed. Rowena, with a backward glance and a certain feeling of pity for Ulysses Ambercot, unable to defend his interest, left Margaret to an absorbing discussion of nothing in particular with Mr. Bradwell.

  Lady Bradwell, Miss Cherwood was informed, was fast asleep, and likely to remain so for some hours to come. After a short confabulation with Mrs. Coffee, Drummey, and the cook, Rowena was able to retire to her own room and change into a plain round gown which would not show the fatigues of an afternoon spent in the kitchen. The clock was striking one when she came down the stairs; Margaret was waiting, and Lyndon Bradwell joined them not a minute after.

  Descending into the well-ordered cavern over which ruled Mrs. Teggetbury, familiarly known as Cook, they found only Amy, the scullery girl, and Susan-Amelia, her sister, who were comfortably settled shelling peas for dinner. Both girls jumped to attention at this unexpected appearance by folk from abovestairs, and even Rowena’s assurances that they were not to trouble themselves could not bring the girls to relax. Finally, Miss Cherwood requested of Amy a general idea of where the stores were kept, and released the girls to play blindman’s buff in the kitchen garden. Bradwell, with an amused appreciation of this scene, asked Rowena what had possessed the chit to start and stammer as she had.

  “They’ve probably never been spoken to by one of the family, Mr. Bradwell. When Mrs. Coffee deigns to talk to one of them, that’s probably as close to the ‘upstairs’ as either of them has been. Come along, Meggy. What would you like to make?”

  Margaret, so applied to, could think of nothing, but when Mr. Bradwell suggested that he had always been fond of ginger nuts, she readily seconded the notion. Rowena, on her part, professed herself disappointed. She had been hoping for a test of her mettle. “But if it’s to be ginger nuts, then take this” — she handed him a vast apron — “so that you do not spoil your coat, and you may crack nuts and grate coconut and ginger for us.” Margaret was assigned to the task of Cook’s helper, outfitted with a similarly huge apron, and darted about discovering bowls and measuring trenchers. Rowena was stirring in the last of the flour, hands sticky with gingery dough, when Drummey entered the kitchen and coughed deprecatingly.

  “Yes?” Lyn looked up from his chopping board, trying to assume a sober mien despite the disadvantages of coconut curling in his cravat and nutmeats dusting his shoulder.

  “If you please, sir, Mr. Ambercot and the Misses Ambercot have called, asking to pay their respects to the family and to the Misses Cherwood, sir.”

  Bradwell’s face fell ludicrously. “Damme, discovered!”

  “Well, oughtn’t we to invite them in?” Rowena asked levelly. “After all, it would only be courteous, and truly, Mr. Bradwell, if you can stand the indignity of being discovered in your mother’s kitchen, I would like to talk to Jane and Lully.”

  Bradwell frowned fretfully at Miss Cherwood. “I know nothing of your reputation, ma’am, but I misdoubt that mine can stand the ignominy of being found doing violence to this coconut.”

  “But if we leave now, won’t that spoil the ginger nuts?” Margaret protested softly.

  Bradwell cast her a speaking look.

  “Cook would hardly hire you on as an apprentice scullrier, Mr. Bradwell,” Rowena observed, glancing into the bowl he held. “But I see nothing to be ashamed of in your work here. And Lully and his sisters were always in our kitchen with me, and I with them in theirs, plaguing the life out of their very patient cook. In fact, as I recall, Lully was partial to ginger nuts as well; he will be quite handy as a critic.”

  “Very well, Drummey. Admit our guests,” Mr. Bradwell said gloomily.

  “Meggy my love...” Rowena grasped her spoon and began to stir the dough again. “That is a charming dress, and I wish you will not stand so close to the hearth. It will scorch that way.”

  Margaret obediently moved a few inches away from the fire.

  “The Misses Ambercot and Mr. Ambercot,” Drummey announced despairingly as he ushered the visitors to the highly unusual scene before them. To his privately felt disgust, neither Mr. nor Miss Ambercot showed the least dismay at their surroundings. Only Miss Eliza Ambercot made a great deal of fastidiously lifting up her skirts and showing a rather surprising amount of ankle. And close behind the visitors stumbled Lord Bradwell, looking for all the world like a sleep-ridden puppy absurdly dressed in cravat and riding coat. Every few steps his lordship would stop, shake his head carefully, and assume a puzzled air before continuing. Loud noises seemed to distress him.

  “Damme, Renna, I might depend upon you to turn the place inside out,” Mr. Ambercot announced admiringly.

  “I don’t know why you say such a thing, Ulysses Ambercot, for I’ve done nothing of the sort. Do you still like ginger nuts? I require your opinion.” Rowena held out a spoon which Mr. Ambercot, all unconscious of the threat to his pantaloons, obligingly sampled.

  “First-rate. But it lacks something. One of those sweetish things — nutmeg or cinnamon.”

  These ingredients were sought anxiously, and when found and added to the dough, everyone in the kitchen sampled and opined upon it, with the exception of Lord Bradwell, who muttered that he was much obliged, and turned a pale green.

  “Now, stop, or we shall have none for tea,” Rowena demanded at last. “I hope you can stay?” she asked the Ambercots en masse. “And let poor Mr. Bradwell redeem himself by showing you how deedily he can turn himself out when he’s not encumbered by Cook’s apron?”

  Lully, who had introduced himself anew to Margaret’s notice (hardly necess
ary, as she had colored prettily, and followed him about with her eyes since his arrival) asked her if that was agreeable. Margaret eagerly assured him that it was, but added of course that her wish was nothing to Rowena’s and to Mr. Bradwell’s. And Lord Bradwell, too, of course. All their various encouragements were secured, and Margaret adjured not to speak such fustian, but to grease the pans, which were to receive the sweets. It required nothing more than that for Jane to remove her mitts and demand the butter and pans for herself, announcing solidly that she was due for a lark. Eliza watched distastefully: Even to catch Mr. Bradwell’s eye she could not bring herself to mess with a bowl of sordid batter. It appeared that neither her brother nor the Bradwells found the project entirely beneath their notice. Eliza began to feel neglected.

  The kitchen by now was the scene of general pandemonium; the unaccustomed nature of the exercise adding considerably to the hilarity of those involved. When the first batch of sweets was safe in the oven and the next laid out in tidy rows across the pan, there came a period of breathless anticipation, as everyone waited to see the product of their labors. Rowena saw Margaret, standing very close to Ulysses Ambercot, blush deeply and go to sit by the fire again. When by Mr. Bradwell’s watch and Rowena’s eye the proper time was gone, it was Miss Cherwood who exchanged the first pan for the second, and placed the hot pan on the rack to cool.

  Everyone pressed forward to look, since Rowena had strictly adjured them to leave the ginger nuts for teatime. Only Margaret hung back shyly and, when Ulysses Ambercot sent a glance in her direction, turned back to the fire so suddenly that, without noticing, the skirts of her muslin dress swept through the coals.

  In a second the skirts were smoldering, then blazing. Margaret gave a terrified shriek and would have run from the room but for Jane Ambercot, who efficiently grabbed up the kitchen rug, and without looking to her own danger, wrapped Meg up in it and stifled the flame.

  With a moan, Margaret dropped to the floor in a faint, and Jane fell with her.

  Chapter Five

  It took a moment for Rowena to realize that it was Eliza who was screaming; she moved toward the girl and struck her a quick, sharp blow across the cheek. Eliza retreated in sullen hiccups to watch confusion take over the denizens of the kitchen.

  Everyone seemed able to move again — Lyndon Bradwell and Ulysses Ambercot came forward at once, and would have scooped up both injured ladies to move then, but Rowena stopped them. “If one of you gentlemen will fetch the doctor as quickly as possible — thank you, Lully.” She was fumbling through the shelf Amy had pointed out as Cook’s personal place, discarding an empty gin bottle and a tuppence broadside, and came upon a bottle filled with a green, oily substance. Sniffing it once, she turned to the victims. “Mr. Bradwell, will you fetch a blanket or two, and tell Mrs. Coffee I shall require her? And bandages, too.” The tone and words were polite, but the voice one of absolute command, and Bradwell was surprised to find himself obeying instantly. “And Lord Bradwell...” she spoke to him sharply, for he was looking stunned, and greener than before. “Will you take Miss Eliza up to the morning room, please?”

  Lord Bradwell acceded a trifle dazedly, and shepherded the still-shaking Eliza from the room, Lyn Bradwell left to find the housekeeper, and Miss Cherwood liberally treated all the burns that she could reach with Cook’s marigold-oil salve. Margaret and Jane were taken to chambers abovestairs, where Mrs. Coffee and Rowena bandaged the girls as best they could and put them to bed.

  When Dr. Cribbatt arrived half an hour later, escorted by a nearly frantic Ulysses, he found the situation much in hand. Jane’s hands had been rather badly burnt, and the pain was such that he immediately produced a sedative draught to augment Mrs. Coffee’s tisane. As for Margaret, the doctor at first had grave fears for her, and said that in the least he expected her to be badly scarred. A little closer inspection, however, and consideration of what restoratives were available for such a case, made his prognosis a little more optimistic. The burns were not so extensive as he thought at first, and in the main were less severe than he expected; with attention and rest, Miss Margaret might avoid being seriously marked. He expressed dismay that such a dreadful accident had come of mere foolishness, prescribed a powder, laudanum, and frequent application of the marigold salve (with perhaps a touch of gillyflower or crushed wheat kernel in the preparation), and left, promising to return the next day, or to send his assistant, Greavesey.

  After seeing the doctor to the door, Rowena went in search of the rest of the party. Lord Bradwell had retreated to the gun room, and even the news that the ladies stood a good chance to recover did not improve his harried, shocked look. Mr. Bradwell and Mr. Ambercot, however, expressed their relief feelingly, and even Eliza, sipping tea and murmuring softly about her poor nerves, professed herself delighted that poor Jane and Miss Margaret Cherwood would be all right.

  “Of course, Jane ought not to move for a few days. Mr. Bradwell, do you think your mamma will mind...?” She trailed off.

  “What a ridiculous question. You know Mamma as well as I do, Miss Cherwood.”

  “I shouldn’t like to exceed my authority, Mr. Bradwell,” Rowena countered gently. “And Margaret — well, she will be laid up for several weeks at least, I’m afraid, but it seems that luckily I did the right thing in applying Mrs. Teggetbury’s salve. And now, I am going to look in again on both of them, and see if Lady Bradwell is awake. If you will excuse me?”

  “Rowena, for God’s sake, take care of her,” Ulysses murmured fervently.

  Leaving the room, Miss Cherwood was unsure whether it was his sister or Margaret he meant.

  o0o

  Once assured that her patients were sleeping as deeply as laudanum and their injuries would permit, Miss Cherwood went to look in on Lady Bradwell. Far from being asleep, Rowena’s mistress was sitting up, fired with curiosity and extremely irritated that no one had thought to advise her of the calamity — whatever the calamity was.

  “Hadn’t you thought to ring and ask, ma’am?” Miss Cherwood inquired mildly, after Lady Bradwell had done ringing a peal over her.

  Lady Bradwell assumed a face of injured virtue. “I didn’t want to trouble anyone.” She sighed heavily. If she had hoped to dismay Miss Cherwood with this, pronouncement she was disappointed. Her companion smiled a little ruefully and settled herself on the foot of the bed.

  “Well, to tell truth, Lady B, it’s been sixes and sevens with us all this afternoon, and I did hope you’d sleep off last night’s fatigues” — Lady Bradwell sniffed ungraciously — “before I had to trouble you with today’s disasters. I’m afraid you will have to surrender your invalid’s title for a while, ma’am. And worse, it really is my fault.” Rowena proceeded to tell her employer, in terms as level and undramatic as possible, just what had transpired in the kitchen.

  “Neither one is in danger?” Lady Bradwell asked at last.

  “The doctor swears that with proper care both of them will be right as tops in time. Jane’s burns are not too serious, although she sustained a shock. She’ll be wearing mitts for some time, I’m afraid. Poor Margaret — my God, ma’am, I don’t know if I shall ever forgive myself. If Jane Ambercot hadn’t acted to save her — I shall never forget that scene if I live to be ninety. I blame myself. If I’d not suggested that stupid game of making cakes in the kitchen —”

  Lady Bradwell would not allow her the luxury of self-reproach, however. “And if I had not gone to give Katie Lester’s child that blanket I should not have caught the scarlet fever that was in the village, and you would not be here at all, let alone messing in my kitchen, so the whole affair becomes entirely my fault. Silly child. Now, Rowena, I wish you will take yourself to your room and lie down for a while. And stop your fretting. It won’t do any good, and the Lord knows, with me only half on my feet, we cannot afford to have you working yourself into the vapors. Now go on,” she commanded briskly. “I vow I shall not worry you by reading in the dark or staring at the sun for half an hour on end.
All your patients are abed, Renna. Do you get some rest as well. And tell Lyn and Jack that I shall dine with you all this evening.”

  “Very well, ma’am. I think Mr. Bradwell may be along to see you sometime later, in any case.”

  “Send him along. And I wish you will call him Lyn, my dear,” the lady admonished from her bed, sinking again into the pillows.

  Rowena, musing that her address of the prodigal son of Broak Hall was certainly the least of her problems, gently shut the door and returned to the library. Lyn Bradwell was alone, making a poor attempt to read the sporting papers.

  “Ambercot went off to inform his mother that Miss Ambercot would be all right, and staying here for a short time,” he informed her. “And, I collect, to counteract Miss Eliza’s hysterics as best he might. Aside from the manner of a Tunbridge dowager, the chit has a habit of clinging. She’s thrown a dreadful crease into the sleeve of this coat.” He smiled, a little wanly, and flicked at an imaginary crease with one finger. “That was meant to be a pleasantry, you know,”

  “Thank you,” Rowena answered gently, and dropped with no further ceremony into a chair.

  “How do the invalids go on?”

  “They’re fast asleep, which Dr. Cribbatt insists is the best thing for them. And your mother wished me to tell you that she will dine downstairs with you this evening. If you wish to go up and see her —” Rowena left the suggestion hanging.

  “I collect you have already told her it was my intention to do so?” Bradwell asked dryly.

  “Do you mind, sir?”

  “Of course not. Thank you for reminding me, in fact. For a —” He hesitated.

  “For a Managing Female?” Rowena suggested helpfully. Bradwell had the grace to blush as he continued.

  “For a Managing Female, if you insist, ma’am, you are a remarkably able manager, and a light-handed one, too. In most cases.”