“So, Mr. Taber is there alone,” Kate remarked.
“Well, not exactly,” Mr. Higgleton explained. “He has his young granddaughter there with him to do the cookin’ and milkin’. See to his needs. But usually the house is packed full of bodies,” he told his guest, who was obviously concerned about the old man’s welfare. “Old man Taber will live another one hundred years, or my name ain’t Horatio Higgleton!” He laughed. “Now, I’ll be seein’ about that dinner you’re waitin’ fer.”
For what seemed an endless minute, there was silence in the room after the door had closed on the busy figure of Mr. Horatio Higgleton. But when a log fell with a loud thud, Teddie Waltham found his tongue. His consumption of spirits had not yet rendered him insensible, and he could still voice his suspicions.
“What’s this about some high-and-mighty duke?” he demanded with a belligerent tilt to his chin. “And what are all of these questions about His Grace’s children and some old man? Back in London there was never no mention of a duke,” he told the veiled woman accusingly, whose continued silence irked him even further. “Playing tricks on a duke, of all people, was never mentioned to Teddie Waltham,” he repeated.
“Did I really neglect to inform you of that small detail?” Kate remarked casually, while her fingers tapped out a melody of growing irritation on the tabletop. “Are you quite sure I didn’t? I’m sure I must have. Perhaps you were a bit fuddled that evening, as indeed you are most nights.”
“Never heard nothing about no duke,” Waltham repeated firmly. “Ye never said nothing about it ’cause ye knew I’d have nothing to do with fooling around with one of them dukes. They got powerful friends, m’lady,” Waltham said, trying to reason with his employer. “I’d take me chances in the colonies before crossing one of them fellows.”
Kate snorted in disgust at this lily-livered cur sniveling in his bottle. “A good dose of courage is what you need, Mr. Waltham, not more brandy. But you needn’t work yourself up into a sweat, for I’ve everything planned out. Nothing shall go wrong, that I promise you.”
Waltham rolled his bloodshot eyes heavenward. “Aye, I’ve heard that before, and mostly from men one step short of the gallows. I went along with ye only ’cause I never thought ye’d be foolish enough to tangle with a duke, but, m’lady, ye be daft. And Teddie Waltham values his neck enough not to be sticking it out too close to the block. I’ve enjoyed me stay in the country, but I’m growing homesick for the soot and grime of London, so…” Waltham allowed his words to trail off as he shrugged. “I’m thinkin’ of headin’ back to familiar surroundings.”
Kate said something in a sharp voice, and even though Waltham couldn’t understand the foreign words, he was smart enough to know he was the object of them. A moment later he found himself being held a foot off the floor by a giant hand that had snaked into his collar.
“Let me down, ye big lumbering ox!” he choked out, his face turning red as his collar tightened painfully around his stretched out, very vulnerable neck.
“Rocco responds only to me, Mr. Waltham,” Kate told him as she relaxed in the chair, enjoying the predicament Mr. Edward Waltham now found himself in. She allowed a small chuckle to escape. “My dear, dear Mr. Waltham, you are not only a coward but a fool as well. You are in this thing with me, and there is no going back to London until I say so. I’ve hired you to do a job for me, and I expect you to do it or,” she paused thoughtfully, a sad note entering her voice as she continued, “you might not care for the way I would exact punishment for your failure to please me.”
Waltham was kicking aimlessly, trying to connect with the big man’s shin, but it was to no avail. He coughed, struggling to answer as he felt the world spinning around him. “Aye, aye. Let me down! I’ll do as ye wish. Let me down before ye’ve got a dead body hanging up here. Then nothing will get done.”
Kate signaled Rocco, who dropped the squirming Waltham into a gasping heap on the hardwood floor. A couple of shiny coins fell with a jingle, one rolling unnervingly close to the big man’s feet. Waltham sniffed, wiping a hand beneath his nose as he risked a glance upward.
“That should sweeten your stay a bit,” Kate told him in a cold voice that sent shivers up Waltham’s spine. “However, as I’m not one to overstay my welcome,” she continued in a more conversational tone, “I have made plans to leave and return to London by no later than tomorrow afternoon. Does that suit you, Mr. Waltham?”
Teddie Waltham nodded, his hands soothing his sore neck where the rough material of his coat had rubbed painfully against the tender skin. Aye, he thought, it suited him just fine, and as soon as he saw the familiar cobbled streets of London, he would seek his freedom from this madwoman. He could only hope it wouldn’t be too late to save his skin.
* * *
A pale crescent moon was slicing through a layer of silvered clouds as two riders entered the farmyard of Stone House-on-the-Hill. It was late. Far too late, in fact, for visitors. But these were uninvited guests, and they weren’t there for a friendly visit.
Kate slid off her horse’s back, her knees buckling slightly as her booted feet touched the ground. God, but she was getting old, she thought, swearing beneath her breath as she flexed her stiff fingers. She could feel in the aching of her joints every bone-jarring step that nag had taken between The Merry Green Dragon and Stone House-on-the-Hill.
Kate glanced around at the deserted yard, her eyes drawn to the pool of light pouring from a small mullioned window set deep in the stone wall of the farmhouse.
“Silenzio!” Kate hissed as Rocco came trudging up behind her, his feet scraping noisily against the loose stones of the path. She sighed in exasperation, wondering if this night would ever come to an end. She would gladly have left Rocco back at the inn had she thought she could do without him, but if there were difficulties, his strength would be useful. But he was certainly no horseman, and he had trailed behind her and slowed her down ever since they’d left the stables nearly an hour before. Nor had it added to the evening’s success when he had been knocked from his horse’s back by a low-hanging branch, leaving her to chase after his runaway mount.
Kate took a firm hold on his big arm as she made her way toward the lighted window; she preferred to know exactly where Rocco was. The gusting wind blew coldly against Kate’s caped figure as she peered into the house, her veiled face looking like the disturbed shadow of a tree branch being blown by the storm.
She stepped back into the darkness and leaned against the side of the house as she stared thoughtfully around her. Inside, sitting in the warm light from the fire in the kitchen hearth, a young girl was sound asleep. In her lap, equally dead to the world, was a curled-up pup, while on the flagstone floor at her feet was a large basket holding the rest of the pups that had been rescued that afternoon. Also positioned around the girl’s chair were several dogs, all of them lazily snoring away. They were obviously watchdogs that the softhearted old fool kept in on a cold night. The girl must be Mr. Taber’s granddaughter, Kate guessed, then wondered where the old man was. She really would prefer not to disturb the granddaughter, but if she got in the way…
As Kate stood silently contemplating her next move, she suddenly became aware of a tuneless whistle drifting to her on the wind. She gazed toward the darker bulk of the barn on the far side of the yard; then a slow smile curved her lips as she caught sight of a sliver of light shining out beneath a poorly fitted door. With a new purposefulness in her step, Kate quickly crossed the yard, following the beam of light. A curse directed against the old man, whose meddlesome ways had forced her into taking this action, trembled on her lips as she carefully pulled open the door. Everything would be ruined if he remembered who she was and then blabbed the news to half of the valley. And talk he would, especially with a pint of ale in his hand and an inn full of gossips gathered around, and then it wouldn’t be long before the news reached the attention of the Duke of Camareigh.
&n
bsp; All would be lost if he found out too soon that she was back. She must, at all costs, protect her anonymity, she told herself as she slid into the barn, her black figure merging with the deep shadows filling the cavernous room. She paused, her eyes pinpointing the bent figure illumined by the glow of a single lantern.
“Aye, aye, I’ll be along shortly, Janey,” the old man spoke over his shoulder when he felt the cold draft of air that blew in from outside. “Ye git yerself back t’house, now. ’Tis too cold fer ye out here,” he told her, his gnarled hands never stopping their careful, assured measuring of various liquids into a dark amber bottle. “I’ll have this liniment for Haverstoke’s prize bull finished before ye can get back to that warm fire.”
When the silence continued, with no sound of anyone leaving, Mr. Taber glanced up, peering into the shadowy darkness. A frown formed on his wrinkled face as he stared hard at the indistinct figure moving closer.
“Janey? T’ain’t ye, is it now? Who be ye?” he demanded as he corked the concoction he’d been preparing for Haverstoke’s prize bull. Then, wiping his hands on an oily rag, he straightened up. “Who be ye, I’m askin’?” he repeated, his hand reaching out for his knobby cane.
“’Tis only I, Mr. Taber,” Kate replied softly.
“Ah,” the old man sighed, relaxing his grip on the cane. “One of the twins.”
Kate sucked in her breath in amazement, never having really believed he would remember her—but he had! Damn him, she fumed silently.
“Aye,” the old man chuckled. “Ye didn’t think I’d be rememberin’ ye, did ye now? I told ye. I never forget a person. Remembered ye at supper, I did,” he told her proudly. “So ye be the strange woman stayin’ at the Dragon? Heard about ye, I have.”
“Have you indeed,” Kate commented, moving closer.
“Aye, a bit odd, that. Might be wonderin’ why ye wasn’t stayin’ at Camareigh, except that I know there be bad blood between ye and His Grace, and that brother of yours,” the old man said matter-of-factly. He strained his eyes past Kate, to where Rocco was standing silently by the door. “Now, tha’s not young Rathbourne, unless he’s gone and growed a couple of feet. Is he here with ye, then?”
Kate’s clenched hands tightened as she answered shortly, “He’s dead.”
“Is he now?” the old man said, voicing little regret at the gentleman’s passing. “Come t’bad end, did he? Always suspected he would.”
An uncontrollable hiss escaped Kate’s lips as she glared at the complacent old man who had, in a carelessly spoken comment, dismissed her beloved Percy like so much garbage.
“I won’t be lyin’ t’ye, Miss Rathbourne,” the old man continued. “I never cared much for ye, or tha’ brother of yours. Ye’ve a mean streak in ye, both of ye had it, and I’ll never be forgettin’ the way ye put the whip to tha’ sweet little mare of yours. Dove was her name,” he said with a reminiscent look on his face.
Kate gave a strangled laugh of incredulity. “You actually remember the name of my mare. Lud, but I don’t even remember that!”
“Oh, I remember her, right enough,” Mr. Taber said, now with a grim look as he eyed the veiled woman. “Treated her poor bruised flesh time and time again, I did. But ye never learned ye lesson, did ye? Stubborn and hardheaded, you was, until finally ye took little Dove out and broke her leg. ’Twasn’t necessary, that. No, sir, t’wasn’t necessary a’tall. Said so at the time to the old duke.”
“Yes, you did, didn’t you?” Kate recalled. “Since we’re indulging in old memories, I recall you carrying tales and lies to my grandfather. Because of you I was forbidden the stables. You caused me a lot of trouble, old man. You always were an interfering busybody.”
Old Mr. Taber nodded his white head. “Ye never did care to be crossed. Always wanted your own way, you and t’other one. I always did think ’twas ye who put him up to most of the mischief. Remember, too, when ye and that brother of yours ganged up on His Grace. Scarred him good, didn’t ye? Never thought ’twas an accident like ye said to the old duke. ’Twas cruel of ye to do that.”
“He got his revenge, old man,” Kate told him grimly, her skirts rustling around her as she moved ever closer.
“Aye, been a long time since ye was here in the valley. Strange, ye comin’ back now. His Grace never mentions ye. And ye say ye’re not stayin’ at Camareigh. Right strange, that.”
A deep, throaty laugh came from Kate. “Poor Mr. Busybody. You don’t know everything, do you? There are still a few secrets that haven’t been ferreted out by you and that long nose of yours. You’ve lived so long, old man, you think you’ve seen it all, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen enough to satisfy me, m’lady. Ye be right. I have lived a long time, and I know I’ve not much longer left,” the old man replied, and even though he was bent over because his spine had curved under the weight of age, and his features were wizened, he possessed a simple and undeniable dignity that Kate knew she herself could never aspire to. “I don’t want to know about you. Your kind is bad. Ye be rotten to the core, and I don’t want my last days to be tainted by ye. I’m goin’ to die soon, I can feel it in me bones, so I don’t care what I say to ye, missy. And I’ll warn ye now,” he added harshly, his voice trembling. “If ye be up to mischief, then ye’ll be comin’ to grief. His Grace is a fine gentleman, and much loved around Camareigh, as is his family. And the Tabers of Stone House-on-the-Hill have served the Dukes of Camareigh for centuries, so ye’ll not be findin’ any allies around here for your mischief-makin’.”
Kate smiled unpleasantly. “I do believe you are prophetic, old man. Although I suspect you will die sooner than you counted on,” she murmured, her gloved hand reaching out to fondle the short handle of a mallet lying on a shelf beside her.
“Now I’ll be askin’ ye kindly to leave,” Mr. Taber told Kate as he turned his back to her and began, with shaking hands, to put up his special blends and potions for mixing up liniments and poultices.
Mr. Taber of Stone House-on-the-Hill never saw the blow that felled him, nor heard the satisfied sigh that followed. He would have been touched, though, by the despairing moan that came from Rocco when he saw the old man fall to his knees against the wooden bench.
Kate felt nothing, however, as she stared dispassionately at the sprawled figure. “You’ve lived far too long, old man. You should have died years ago. You really should have.”
Kate glanced up in surprise when she felt Rocco come to stand beside her. “What the devil are you blubbering about?” she demanded as she heard his sniffing and caught the glisten of tears in his eyes. “God help us! You’re a fool to waste your tears on him. Don’t you know the old goat would’ve seen us swinging from the gallows just as easily as he’d have said good morning. Now come on,” Kate told the weeping footman, “we’ve got to get back to the inn before our fine Mr. Edward Waltham discovers we are gone. I don’t want him slinking off just when I may need him the most. And do try and stay on your horse this time,” she warned him in irritable impatience, her mind already on her next move. “We have quite a lot of work to do in preparation for the morrow, which promises to be a very fine day,” she predicted as she carelessly tossed the bloodied mallet into a thick pile of straw.
* * *
Thursday morn dawned bright over Camareigh, with an exuberant cock crowing the hour, despite the hint of rain threatening in dark gray clouds hung low over the horizon. The sounds of awakening spread with increasing volume across the estate as servants and guests alike stirred from sleep and began the preparations for the day’s work, or play, as fortune might have it.
From the stables drifted the sounds of barking dogs greeting the stable hands, who were yawning and rubbing cold hands together while counting off the minutes until breakfast. Their chores of watering and feeding the horses, as well as mucking out the stalls, seemed endless in the chill morning hours. But in Butterick’s book, the horses always c
ame first.
From the kitchen wing of Camareigh the clang and clatter of pots and pans rose to a deafening din as Mrs. Peacham organized her sleepy staff of assistants. The scullery maids scurried about under the threat of a large wooden spoon that was being brandished like a sword by the diminutive cook, who took no less pride in her kitchens than Butterick took in his stables. Fires were stoked in the large fireplaces of the kitchens, bringing the contents of several black pots hanging low over the flames to a fragrant bubbling. A couple of kettles were letting off steam as they bided their time over the heat. Copper and brass saucepans of varying sizes with hardwood handles, pottage pots, fish kettles and pudding pans, as well as frying pans with half-hoop handles, were being selected for breakfast duty, while the slow-burning charcoal braziers were being made ready to keep the prepared food warm for the table.
Soon the aromatic odors of roasting coffee beans, fried sausages, and eggs blended with the appetizing smells of freshly baked turnovers, tarts, and buns. A quarter of veal was already being basted as it turned on a spit over the coals, and a plump ham was baking in the oven—both were destined for luncheon. Across a wide table sitting squarely in the center of the kitchen, fresh vegetables were being scrubbed and peeled, pared and sliced, to accompany the meat as side dishes.
The delicate tinkling of fragile china and glass was added to the clamor of the kitchens as trays were prepared for their journey upstairs. Most of the guests who stayed at Camareigh enjoyed a light breakfast in their rooms as they dressed for the day’s activities, many completing their toilette just in time for luncheon. The family, however, breakfasted together: Her Grace liked to see her children before they disappeared on the various pursuits and entertainments, which always kept her wondering what they were up to next.
* * *
“…you should have waited for me,” Lord Robin was saying between mouthfuls of egg. “I wish I could have seen that footman. Was he really eight feet tall? Even bigger than Will and John Taylor?”
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 16
