The Christmas of a Countess (The Holidays of the Aristocracy Book 1)

by Linda Rae Sande

  Milton’s plan certainly assured her they would be leaving the capital for a time. Perhaps for a month or more.

  Northumberland? she repeated at hearing his rather cavalier suggestion.

  Indeed. The Torrington earldom is there, and I usually go there for Christmas. Now that we’re married, I figure it’s time I bring my bride.

  Although she recalled blinking at the suggestion, she thought it a good one. She was the Countess of Torrington, after all. The least she could do was meet those who worked for her husband.

  Adele moved to her vanity and took a seat. The light from the candle lamp bathed her face in a golden glow, a rather flattering color given her pale complexion and blonde hair. Although gray hair could be found amongst the blonde strands, they hadn’t yet taken over her coiffure. With any luck, they wouldn’t be evident for a few more years.

  Hopefully after the children were born.

  Despite her husband’s frequent visits and attentive nature, she wasn’t yet pregnant. She wondered if she was too old, or if Milton was too old. She shook the thought from her head. The queen was still having children, and she was far older than Adele!

  Adele settled onto the small cushioned chair and gave a sigh. She rather liked having a few minutes alone every night. A few moments to reflect on the day’s events and wonder how those to whom she was related were faring—her nephew, Will Slater, a commander in the British Navy; her niece, Hannah, now the Countess of Gisborn; her brother, William, no doubt in bed with his marchioness; her other brother, Donald, up in the northernmost regions of the country making scotch and probably bedding every willing tavern maid in the county.

  A knock on the bedchamber door had her giving a start. “Come,” she called out.

  Simpkins entered, her labored breaths a testament to her having hurried to reach her mistress’ bedchamber. “I apologize, milady. Bernard insisted I help with the dinner service below stairs. Don’t know how that man keeps his position,” she complained as she rushed to the fireplace and worked at lighting several lumps of coal.

  “It’s only fair you take your turn at the servants’ table,” Adele replied as she regarded her reflection in the vanity mirror. “Besides, I don’t have need of your services this evening,” she added with a wan smile.

  At Simpkins’ look of disbelief—the older woman looked as if she might have a coronary at any moment—Adele gave her a shrug. “Go to bed, Simpkins. Get some sleep, and I’ll see you no earlier than ten in the morning.”

  Simpkins’ eyes widened at hearing her mistress’ words, but she quickly curtsied and hurried from the bedchamber, the only words loud enough to be overheard having to do with the horny earl who had wormed his way into Worthington House.

  Rolling her eyes, Adele found she couldn’t agree more.

  But Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, was her horny husband, and she could think of no one else she would welcome into her bed.

  Or her house.

  As for Simpkins, there might just be one servant who would be dismissed. And it wouldn’t be because of the weather.

  Chapter 3

  A Valet and His Master Discuss a Certain Someone and a Situation

  The following morning

  Milton regarded his reflection in the cheval mirror, rather impressed his valet had been able to repair the tear in his favorite breeches. He’d been a bit too hasty in how he unbuttoned the placket—he had actually torn it open—during dinner the night before. Even if he’d had to replace the breeches, the brief tumble with his wife at the dining table had been worth it.

  What other woman of the ton welcomed such attentions before the meat course?

  Well, he could think of at least a couple of others. But other than Adeline Carlington, Countess of Morganfield, and perhaps her daughter, Elizabeth Bennett-Jones, Viscountess Bostwick, he rather doubted there were any in London. He was sure he would have heard about them at White’s.

  “You’ve once again impressed me with your sewing skills, Banks,” he said as he turned to regard his valet. Although the man was about his age, Banks had held his position as a valet to the Earl of Torrington longer than Milton had been the earl. Although he could have chosen to keep the valet who served him during his years at university, he had instead elected to keep his late father’s last valet, Alonyius Banks.

  There was much to be said for experience.

  He knew his former valet would have failed at fixing the breeches. The man was all thumbs when it came to a needle and thread.

  In the case of Banks, Milton now knew why the man was so good at his position. Although he hadn’t worked in service from the time he was old enough to walk, Banks had grown up as the son of a textile manufacturer in Yorkshire. Not particularly wealthy, the valet’s father, Marcus Banks, had carefully modernized his business over the years, making sure to retain the best employees to do what the machines could not. Expanding the mill to include lacemaking meant employing other, less-educated workers. As result, the Luddites hadn’t yet targeted Banks Textiles.

  Marcus Banks hadn’t been able to keep his youngest son in Yorkshire, however. Although Alonyius Banks understood how the machines worked and could read and write and even keep the business ledgers—he was meant to inherit the business along with his older brother, Thelonius—he had absolutely no interest in the concern.

  His mother, a former lady’s maid, had instilled in him the value of working in service, however, teaching him skills he would need should the servants suddenly leave their employ. For some reason, she had never trusted her husband’s business acumen enough to embrace the life of middle-class wealth and leisure. Or perhaps the spectre of Luddites had her thinking the mill would be burned to the ground, immediately ending their source of income.

  In any event, when the opportunity to serve as a valet in a London household presented itself, Alonyius packed a valise, accepted his mother’s gift of one-hundred pounds, and left Darlington in a stagecoach.

  That had been three-and-twenty years ago.

  In the meantime, Marcus Banks had died. Although Alonyius’ older brother, Thelonius, was running the firm, word had come by way of Milton’s cousin, Gregory, that the man’s health was failing. I invested in Banks Textiles years ago, Gregory had explained at White’s the night before, just after Milton arrived for his pre-dinner drink. The oldest heir has been running things with the help of his aged mother, his cousin had explained. He doesn’t have an heir, and I rather doubt he’ll make it to Christmas.

  At first, Milton wondered why Gregory Grandby saw fit to tell him about Banks Textiles, and when he finally asked, Gregory gave him a quelling glance and shook his head, as if he thought the earl was a candidate for Bedlam. Because your valet will inherit the concern, of course, he had responded with a roll of his eyes.

  He remembered blinking a few times. And then two thoughts had Milton reacting with a bit of shock.

  No, make that three.

  Alonyius Banks hadn’t been involved in his family’s business for over twenty years. How could he be expected to simply step in and pick up the reins?

  It was rather doubtful Banks Textiles could be run from London. A textile mill required oversight. An involved owner. A manager of some skill and experience. Which meant Alonyius Banks would have to relocate to Darlington and either relearn the business or hire a manager.

  And the last thought was the most selfish.

  I’ll lose my valet.

  Well, he supposed valets were replaceable. He had just never thought he would lose his, especially because the man was the only heir to a textile manufacturer!

  Milton’s reverie was interrupted when he realized his valet was regarding him with an expectant look. “Good work,” he stated with a nod, wondering how he might bring up the situation of Banks Textiles. He had to hope the valet was already aware of his brother’s situation.

  “Thank you, milord,” Banks replied with a nod. “Did you wish to wear those again today? Or change into the doeskins?” He waved to
ward the bed, where a pair of doeskin breeches were spread out.

  Milton bobbed his head from side to side. “Oh, the doeskins, I suppose. I doubt it will snow today, so they shouldn’t get wet,” he reasoned. Although the doeskin breeches were a good fit, and he had the body to display them properly, they were nearly impossible to get off when they were damp from rain or snow. The earl likened them to peeling a banana when attempting to remove them.

  The banana being his body.

  “Very good, milord.” The valet assisted his master in removing the wool breeches and pulling on the doeskins, his deft fingers employing a tool to fasten the closures.

  Milton watched in fascination as the man completed his task, and then considered the other duties his valet had had to perform over the one-and-twenty years he had been his servant. Although there had been nights when he was too deep in his cups to undress, Banks had seen to it his boots were removed and his cravat pin unplucked from the folds of his neck cloth and safely stowed in the jewelry box. There had also been nights when he arrived home so late, it was nearly morning, yet his valet was there to see to undressing him.

  Banks never complained. Never seemed disappointed or distraught or angry or... Milton shook his head, realizing his valet had never given him a reason to wonder if he had made a mistake in keeping him on. “Do you like your position?” he asked suddenly.

  Having completed his task, Banks stepped back and regarded the earl with a raised eyebrow. “I certainly don’t dislike it, my lord,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “You’ve never put voice to a complaint,” Milton accused.

  His head jerking back as if he’d been punched in the face, Banks blinked. “There’s been nothing about which to complain, milord,” he replied. When he realized his master was expecting him to say more, he added, “The food is good, the company of the other servants is congenial. The butler is one of the best in London. And my master is generous and of good character.” This last was said with an arched eyebrow, as if he dared the earl to counter his claim.

  He countered his claim.

  “Good character, huh?” Milton repeated with a teasing grin. He could remember a time many years ago when he might have been accused of being a rather bad character, especially when it came to bedding women. Time and the experiences of others had taught him that widows were generally safe lovers and to stay away from married women and debutantes too young to know better. “I admit, I am better these days. Marriage does that to a man.”

  Banks didn’t offer a reply but instead held open a waistcoat.

  Milton slipped his arms into it and turned so the valet could button it. “Have you ever been married?”

  Banks shook his head. “No, my lord.”

  “Are you courting anyone?”

  “I am not,” Banks replied as he completed buttoning up the waistcoat.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re getting a bit long in the tooth. Should you ever want bairns, you need to be thinking of taking a wife,” Milton suggested, his words sounding rather gentle.

  Straightening, the valet regarded his master with a look of shock. The two of them had never discussed his love life. Or rather, lack of one. Although he had at one time carried on an affaire with a lady’s maid in a nearby household, he’d had to end it when she insisted they marry and move to the country.

  Alonyius Banks had no intention of living in the country.

  “I cannot say as how I have ever considered bairns, my lord,” he replied.

  “Then you must at least have a lover,” the earl reasoned, just before his eyes widened, as if another possibility came to mind.

  Was his valet a molly?

  Banks cleared his throat and gave his master a quelling glance. “I have enjoyed the pleasures that can be found in a marriage bed many times, I assure you, my lord. I just haven’t...” He paused, realizing he hadn’t done anything about finding a woman with whom he could spend an occasional night since ending his last liaison. Lea Hopkins had been a delight for a time, but she had been after a husband.

  And a life in the country.

  What would he do in the country? He had always been and would always be a valet. A valet for the Earl of Torrington. As for what he might have to do instead, he hadn’t yet given the matter enough thought. His mother’s most recent letter had ended with a plea for him to come home.

  “Haven’t?” Milton prompted, apparently determined to learn about his valet’s love life. Or lack thereof.

  “My last lady required marriage and a life in the country.”

  Milton recoiled, as if he’d been struck in the face. “Och, that wouldn’t suit you,” he agreed with a shake of his head. “Anyone else strike your fancy?”

  Frowning, Banks had half a mind to tell the earl his question was inappropriate, but the man did have a point. He hadn’t found another woman with whom to share his bed.

  Or hers.

  “Not yet,” he hedged. “I had my eye on a maid from the Norwick household, but I discovered only last week that she is married to a footman from Chamberlain House.”

  The earl shook his head again. “I suppose all the good ones are spoken for.” He slipped into the navy top coat Banks held for him. “Tell me, how do you find the servants in this household?”

  Relieved at the change in subject, Banks angled his head to one side. “I admit to a level of surprise at just how well Mr. Bernard runs the house,” he stated. “Lady Worthington’s late husband apparently hired him when it was under construction. He’s been here ever since.”

  “A bit on the dour side, but I suppose that’s to be expected,” Milton said as he allowed the valet to button the top coat. Weren’t all butlers dour? Or stoic? Or proud? “What about the others?”

  Banks stepped back to regard his master’s appearance, frowning when he realized the mail coach knot in the cravat lacked a pin. He moved to the jewelry box and extracted a diamond-tipped pin. “Word has spread that you won’t be firing any servants, so the pall that has settled over most Park Lane households is not present here,” he stated as he threaded the pin into the cravat.

  Secretly pleased his news had reached his valet—the footman must have told everyone in the household—Milton allowed a grin. “So, everyone’s happy now?” he asked with a bit of hope. The last thing he wanted was a dissatisfied staff. Other aristocrats might not realize it, but the great houses were great because of their staff. A happy staff meant a happy household.

  A great house.

  Banks seemed to give the earl’s query some thought. When he hesitated too long, he took note of the man’s expectant look and allowed a sigh. “Not everyone,” he admitted.

  Milton blinked, stunned by the words. “Who is left unhappy?”

  The valet shook his head. “I do not believe she ever thought it possible she would be fired, so Lady Torrington’s maid seems to suffer from some other malady, my lord.”

  Milton blinked. And blinked again as he considered his valet’s words. Adele hadn’t mentioned her lady’s maid being unhappy. Did she not know?

  “Do you know why she’s not happy?” he asked, hoping Banks could share some insight. The longer he kept the man engaged, the easier it would be to bring up that other matter. The matter of him not being his valet any longer.

  “I do not,” Banks replied with a shake of his head. “I overheard the cook claim she used to be rather content. Her dissatisfaction seems to have developed over the past several months.”

  Milton considered the timeline. He had moved into Worthington House seven months ago, just after he and Adele had married. Did his presence have something to do with her lady’s maid’s discontent? He was about to put voice to the question when Banks sighed again.

  “Perhaps she has simply grown older and has no one in her life, my lord,” he suggested. “No family. It’s rather common among those of us who have reached a certain age.”

  Milton furrowed his bushy eyebrows. Although his valet’s words held merit, he kn
ew they didn’t apply to him. The man had an ailing brother. An aging mother. He wasn’t sure they applied to his wife’s lady’s maid, either. Alice Simpkins had been without family for far longer than the time he had been married to Adele. There had to be another reason for her unhappiness.

  And when that reason seemed to hit him upside the head, the thought was so powerful he actually jerked his head back. “Good God, Banks! She just needs a good lay,” he claimed suddenly.

  It was Banks’ turn to blink. “Pardon, sir?” he whispered in shock, unable to believe what his master had just said.

  “She probably hasn’t been laid in...” Milton paused, not quite sure how long it might have been since Simpkins had participated in a tumble. “Probably since I moved into Worthington House,” he ventured, his attention on something not in the room. “She’s been my wife’s maid... for the entire time Adele was married to that other man,” he claimed, determined not to mention Samuel Worthington by name. The very thought of that man was never pleasant.

  “She has an impeccable record, my lord,” Banks agreed. He moved to the bed and picked up the short top hat. He offered it to his master.

  Milton absently took the hat, his attention suddenly on Banks. “We’re going to Torrington Park for the holiday,” he stated. “I expect we’ll stay at the usual inns. Can you see to making the arrangements in advance?”

  Banks gave a nod before putting voice to the inns he had in mind. “The Black Bull, Angel Inn, Crown Hotel, and The George?” They were the coaching inns the earl’s party usually stayed in when they made the trip to Torrington Park. Evenly spaced along the Great North Road, the towns of Alconbury, Grantham, Boroughbridge, and Darlington made for the best locations at which to spend the nights. Other coaching inns along the way, such as the Bell Inn in Stilton and the Red Lion in Epworth, offered a change of horses and a suitable parlor in which to take a luncheon or have tea.