The cook, a thin woman with bright red cheeks and wisps of brown hair escaping from beneath her cap, looked up from her pastry. “Oh, my lady! Are ye lost?”
“No, I’ve come to see the village boy. Tickell said he was waiting to speak with me.” Rosalind searched the smoky room, but the only child visible was the one stacking logs beside the hearth. He tossed a log on the blazing fire, the vigorous flames sending off sweltering waves of heat. An older boy was turning a spit bearing a large joint of beef. A chubby maid measured ingredients into a large bowl.
Tickell stalked from the butlers’ pantry to direct orders at another maid plucking a chicken. When silence fell in the kitchen, he turned. “Lady Hastings, there you are.” His vexation at her appearance was evident in his straight shoulders and compressed mouth.
Rosalind smothered a smile. “Where is the boy?”
“Outside.” A pained inflection filled his voice this time as he glanced at the door leading to the kitchen garden.
Rosalind betrayed none of her annoyance. “Has he eaten?”
Tickell allowed a slight sniff. “Yes, my lady.”
“Very well. I would like a pot of chocolate and two cups, please.” Rosalind noted three stools in the far corner near the door. “We will have our chocolate over there.” She swept past Tickell and across the uneven flagstone floor to summon the boy.
Outside, a grubby boy scrambled to his feet. His nut-brown eyes widened until they resembled the round buttons on her best cloak. As she studied him, he swallowed audibly, but stood his ground despite his unease.
She smiled. “Hello. I understand you wish to speak with me on a matter of grave importance.”
The child swallowed again.
“Come inside. I have sore need of a cup of chocolate. I expect you’d like one too.” Rosalind made her way back into the kitchen, past the disapproving Tickell and the gaping cook to the group of stools. The hesitant footsteps behind told her the child followed as instructed.
“Sit,” Rosalind said to the boy, promptly following her own instruction. “Ah, here is the chocolate now.” She smiled encouragement at the young maid. A footman arrived with a small wooden table and the maid set down the tray with the chocolate pot, cups and a plate of jam tarts.
“What’s your name?” Rosalind asked, once the maid left them alone. She poured the chocolate into the two cups and, after sharp words from Tickell, the routine in the kitchen gradually resumed. She added a spoonful of honey to sweeten the chocolate and handed the cup to the boy. She placed two tarts on a plate and passed it to the child as well.
“Billy.”
“Well, Billy, how can I help you?”
The boy’s hand trembled. To give him time to gather his courage, Rosalind picked up her cup and took a sip.
“’Tis my brother,” the boy mumbled. He chose a jam tart and took a cautious bite.
“Is something wrong with your brother? Is he sick?”
Billy nodded vigorously while stuffing the rest of the jam tart in his mouth. He swallowed loudly then coughed.
Rosalind hid her smile. “Take a drink before you tell me more.”
A slurp sounded as Billy did as she suggested. Then he placed his cup down and leaned toward her. “Bin shot,” the boy whispered.
Rosalind drew in a sharp breath.
“In the leg. He can’t work at his job in stables. Ma cries. I heard how you be a healer.” Billy looked at her with childish hope. “Will you come?”
Shot. Rosalind glanced over her shoulder to see if any of the servants were listening. Satisfied none were close enough to hear, she whispered, “Who shot your brother?”
“Excise men chasing the smugglers.”
“Smugglers!” Rosalind slapped a hand over her mouth. Another glance reassured her no one had overheard. “Your brother is involved with the smugglers?”
“Aye, my lady.”
Hawk. “I’ll come and see your brother. Finish your chocolate while I collect my bag of medicines.” Rosalind stood. “Wait for me here.” It would offer the perfect opportunity to ask questions about Mary’s disappearance and the mystery man, Hawk.
A loud grinding rumble sounded without warning. The ground shook beneath her feet. Billy gasped, his eyes huge in a terrified face. A scream from the cook echoed through the kitchen. The rumbling increased. Copper pots and stoneware thumped to the ground. Iron pans clattered across the floor before rattling to a noisy halt on the flagstones. The stack of logs by the fire toppled over.
“Lord save us!” a maid screeched.
Rosalind heard another praying at the top of her voice. A footman tripped over a log and cursed.
Tickell shouted for quiet. His hand lashed out, striking the nearest maid across the face. Her piercing screech subsided into noisy weeping.
Rosalind grabbed Billy’s upper arm. “Run outside. Wait in the garden and don’t come back inside. Hurry!”
Billy stood, but hesitated. Impatient, Rosalind shoved him in the middle of the back. “Hurry, Billy.”
The floor shook again and the flagstones lifted like a pot of stew bubbling on the fire. The beef roasting on the spit toppled into the fire. The meat hissed. A shower of hot embers shot out onto the hearth.
Dust and smoke filled the air, partially obscuring vision, making her eyes water. Another piercing scream rent the air. Rosalind whirled to see a maid disappear from sight. Her scream echoed eerily for a long time after she vanished through a hole in the floor.
“Tickell!” Rosalind grabbed hold of a sturdy table and inched toward the butler. “What’s happening?”
The floor shifted, sending Tickell lurching. An iron hook tumbled from the table where a maid had left it, striking him on the head. Blood gushed from his temple. At Rosalind’s shout, he glanced up, his face full of dazed confusion.
“Tickell, go outside into the garden. Take Cook with you.” Rosalind grabbed a sobbing Cook and shoved her at Tickell. “Go.” Her words were a sharp order and the butler obeyed without hesitation.
The rumbling ceased. A nerve-wrenching groan from one of the remaining maids sounded to her right. Rosalind edged closer to the huge, gaping hole that had appeared in the kitchen floor. When the dust cleared, she saw the sparkling blue of the ocean.
Rosalind patted the maid on the shoulder, intending to comfort her. Instead, she relived the maid’s memories of her friends toppling into the hole. Horrified, she wrenched her hand away. Her breathing sounded harsh and loud to her ears, the fearful image replaying in her mind.
Fretful cries and hysterical sobs galvanized her to action. “Are you hurt?” she demanded of the nearest maid.
“No, my lady.”
“Go and find Lord St. Clare or Mr. Soulden. Tell them I need their help.”
The maid sniffed and wiped a dirty hand across her tear-stained cheek. “Yes, my lady.”
Rosalind rushed to the side of the scullery boy, who lay on the floor, his skinny legs protruding from under a butcher’s slab. She felt for his pulse and swallowed. The poor child was dead. She moved on to the next. This time she felt a tiny, unsteady pulse beat.
Lord St. Clare burst into the kitchen. “Rosalind, child. What has happened?”
Charles followed a few seconds later. “What’s wrong? I couldn’t make sense of the maid’s blathering. She said the bottom had fallen out of England.”
Rosalind attempted a smile, but the sally wasn’t enough to overshadow her shock. “Not England. Castle St. Clare. The floor has collapsed and a maid has fallen through. We need help. Some of the servants are badly injured. We must move them in case more of the floor disintegrates.”
“Rosalind, child, let Charles and I deal with this. You go outside with the rest of the servants.”
“No. I can help. I’m skilled in healing. You need me here.”
“She’s right.” Charles assisted a pale, shocked servant to her side. The girl’s arm hung at an unnatural angle. “This girl is hurt. Where’s Tickell?”
“He’s injur
ed. I sent him outside with Cook.”
The earl’s face paled in shock. “Good God, Charles. Look.”
Charles edged toward the gaping hole. Rosalind inched forward too, even though gazing down the crevice made her dizzy. The chocolate inside her stomach swirled in agitation, but awed horror propelled her to look. Far below, wicked rocks glistened with the sea spray. A briny tang filled her nostrils. The lifeless body of a maid floated in the water, hitting against the razor-sharp rocks with each fresh surge of the tide. Another body—the footman’s—draped over an out-hanging rock.
Rosalind squeezed her eyes shut. The sick sensation in her belly intensified. She didn’t want to look, but she had to. It could have easily been her down there.
Charles glanced over his shoulder. “Rosalind, we’re going to need help. Summon the stable lads and send a servant to bring Mansfield. He knows the coastline well. It may be easier to climb up rather than risk dropping ropes down.”
***
The meal that night was a simple one. Rosalind gazed down at her plate and wondered how the others were able to eat. The thought of it made her ill—all those poor servants.
“Summon Tickell,” Lady Augusta said, after slurping the last spoonful of game soup from her bowl.
“Tickell is ill,” Rosalind said. “I sent him to his quarters to rest.”
“But I want more soup.”
St. Clare sighed, looking old and tired. “Augusta, let the servants be. They have lost friends today.”
Rosalind laid down her spoon and stood. She stepped past Charles, their guest Mansfield, and St. Clare at the head of the table.
“Where are you going?” Lady Augusta demanded. “We haven’t finished our meal.”
“You wanted more soup.” Rosalind reached for the tureen sitting near Lady Augusta’s right hand. “One spoon or two?”
Charles chuckled. Mansfield grinned, but Lady Augusta let out a screech of horror. “Put that down,” she snapped.
Rosalind filled Lady Augusta’s soup bowl despite the woman’s consternation. “Anyone else?”
“I’ll have some, child,” St. Clare said. “Augusta, stop your snarling. The child is right. The servants who are unharmed have enough to do at present.”
The soup served, Rosalind slipped back into her chair. One thing preyed on her mind. Mary had burbled endlessly of the treasure but hadn’t mentioned any tunnels running beneath Castle St. Clare. “Did you know of the tunnels beneath the kitchen? Have they always been there?” Her voice wobbled a fraction as she thought of her missing maid. If only she’d return. Even her chiding would be welcome at this point.
St. Clare stared at his soup. “There have always been rumors handed down through the family of tunnels and lost treasure. I searched as a young lad, as did these two scamps along with Hastings when they were younger. None of us found a hint of a secret passage. I thought the stories of the lost St. Clare treasure were just that—rumors.”
“You didn’t find any concealed passages when you were looking?” Rosalind scrutinized their faces closely.
Charles shrugged. “Not a thing.”
“We did find the priest’s hole,” Mansfield said.
“That’s right,” Charles said. “I’d forgotten about that.”
Lady Augusta chuckled. “I remember how disappointed you were when you found it led nowhere.”
Doubt and a hint of suspicion rose in Rosalind. How could none of the family be aware of the labyrinth beneath the castle? She peered at each of the men. Was one of them responsible for the cave-in? “Someone knows about the passages. The digging is fresh. Our servants died because someone ordered the tunnels extended.”
“Rubbish,” Lady Augusta said.
“I think,” Rosalind continued undaunted, “that someone believes the rumors, and they’re searching for the St. Clare treasure. What are we going to do about it?”
***
Three days later, all those injured in the kitchen tragedy were resting peacefully and no longer required her presence. Rosalind hurried into the outer garden, her bag of medicines tucked over her arm. She’d discovered a shortcut to the village earlier in the week and intended to visit Billy and his family and search for Mary. After a swift glance over her shoulder, she quickened her pace, almost running in her haste to escape.
At least Hastings wasn’t here, demanding she take an escort.
“Going somewhere, Lady Hastings?”
Rosalind bit back a squeal of fright, but a tiny squeak emerged anyway. Heat filled her cheeks as she pulled her nose away from Mansfield’s snowy white shirt. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.” She took a rapid step back and saw Charles was with him.
“Deep in thought, were you?” Mansfield tapped his pipe on a tree trunk to knock the ash from the bowl before tucking it away in a pocket. “Perhaps thinking of your husband and his return?”
“Of course not,” she said so quickly that Mansfield grinned.
Charles inspected his cuff and brushed a speck of dust from the blond lace. “You shouldn’t try to fib to Mansfield. He has oodles of younger sisters, you know.” He looked up from his handiwork, amusement in his twinkling eyes.
“I am going to the village to search for Mary.” Her shoulders stiffened as she waited for one of the men to reproach her for wasting her time. No matter what they said, she intended to hunt for her maid.
“You should take a footman with you,” Charles said.
“The footmen are busy with kitchen repairs. I didn’t think it was right to take them from their duties. They have enough to do without me adding to their workload.”
“Rosalind’s right,” Mansfield said. “She won’t come to any harm down in the village. My sisters go all the time.”
Charles frowned but added no further protests. Rosalind decided to flee before he demanded she remain at the castle. “I’m going straight there and back.” She waved and set off without looking back.
Ten minutes later, she spied Billy and some other children collecting wood on the outskirts of the village.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come earlier.”
The boy shrugged. “You couldn’t, lady. The servants needed you.”
“How is your brother?”
“Sick. He’s worse.”
He led her along the busy village street, skirting two wagons and, to Rosalind’s silent approval, a row of tethered horses. The scent of freshly baked bread filled the air long before they reached the baker’s shop. Billy looked longingly at the loaves of bread cooling in the window, but instead of stopping, he turned down a concealed lane behind the baker’s shop. They walked for a further five minutes, dodging muddy holes and puddles of water, passing a pile of rubbish that made Rosalind want to stop breathing. The stench clogged her nostrils and made her stomach roil. The cottages became increasingly dilapidated, and Rosalind began to understand why Billy appeared so grubby.
“This is where I live.” He came to a halt beside the last leaning cottage in the row. He opened the door, and Rosalind followed him inside.
The reek of rotting flesh was the first thing to hit her after her eyes adjusted to the dim light. A groan and the rustle of bedding had her stumbling toward the occupant of the pallet bed.
Her patient didn’t seem much older than Billy. A well-mended sheet tangled in his legs as he tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable position.
“Hello.” She set her medicine bag on the floor, stripped off her gloves and laid her hand across her patient’s forehead. The boy’s flesh scorched her hand. He moaned softly, scarcely aware of her presence. She tugged the sheet away from his legs. “Billy, how long has your brother been like this?”
“Since Tuesday.”
Almost four days. His leg was red and swollen in the dim light. Probably shiny too, but it was difficult to see with the wound covered.
“Can you make Harry well?” Billy asked.
Rosalind heard hope in the boy’s voice. She wanted to lie, to say all would be well. “I’m n
ot sure, Billy. I’ll do the best I can for him. First, we need to boil water to cleanse the wound.” A quick glance confirmed there was no fresh water available. “Could you fetch a bucket of water for me?”
“Aye.” Billy collected the bucket and left without another word.
She unwound the blood-streaked bandage. Harry winced, letting out a pained whimper.
“There now, I’ll try not to hurt you.”
The lad’s eyes popped open. “Mother?”
“Shh. Lie still.” Rosalind peeled the bandage from the wound. The stench stole her breath, and she knew the likelihood of the boy’s recovery was remote. Not that she’d stop trying to cure him.
In her mind, she went through the steps her grandmother had shown her many years ago. She glanced at his face. His eyes had closed again and he’d drifted into unconsciousness. Probably the best thing. Billy had said they’d removed the bullet, but it was possible a foreign substance remained embedded in the wound.
As she opened her bag and pulled out a sharp dagger, she wondered how the boy had become injured. She glanced over her shoulder, listening for Billy’s return, but heard nothing except Harry’s ragged breathing and the creaking of the cottage. She placed her hands on his forehead. At first, there was nothing, then a full-blown scene exploded inside her head.
Rosalind gasped and jerked her hand away. But the colors, the smells, and the bloody gore of the scene filled her mind. Bright red blood, screaming men, panicked horses. The pungent scent of gunpowder hung on the air along with smoke from a fire. Sweat. More blood. Harry’s horror screamed through her mind, the white-hot pain in his leg bringing tears to her eyes.
A clatter, followed by footsteps, jerked Rosalind back to the present. Her breasts heaved while she rode out the pain shooting through her tense body. Calm, she reminded herself. Calm.
Billy placed a bucket of steaming water by the pallet. “The baker gave me some hot water, just off the fire, my lady.”
“Thank you.” Rosalind pulled a length of clean cloth from her bag and dipped it in the water. She worked deftly by instinct, cleansing the boy’s wound, intent on the image returning to her mind.
The Spurned Viscountess Page 13
