As the household gradually came to life and the fires were set, Serafina’s duties shifted from the manor to the kitchen stoop. She and two of the youngest footmen cleaned and polished the women’s shoes and gentlemen’s boots, as many as fifty pairs if there were guests. When these were finished, she polished cutlery and silverware. The two boys, both aged thirteen, would snigger and whisper as they worked alongside her. Serafina suspected they talked about her, but she did not bother to find out.
At four o’clock each afternoon, the staff was summoned by the ringing of a large bell. They gathered at two kitchen tables opposite the main stove. The larder was behind one locked door by the men’s table, the sugar storeroom by the women’s table. When Mrs. Marcham had discovered that some of the younger lads were being jostled and kept from eating their fill at the men’s table, she made room for them at the women’s table.
There was a general rush for places, as the tables were not large enough to seat all fifty-one of the household staff. Those who came late, including the men summoned from the farthest fields, either sat on benches lining the wall or squatted in the doorways. But there was always enough food for everyone. Mrs. Marcham saw to that. Several times Serafina heard the servants talk of how the lord kept a good table, all watching Mrs. Marcham as they said it. This was as close as any came to praising their mistress.
Their afternoon dinner consisted of a large dish of stew or a big joint of cold beef or lamb or pork, served with bread and cheese. On Saturdays the pastry cook brought out steaming trays of fruit cobbler and clay jugs of fresh cream to pour over each portion. After dinner the senior staff returned to their chambers and dressed for the dinner service. When he was well enough, the lord often entertained guests from nearby estates or up from London for a visit to the English countryside. Serafina did duty as a dishwasher. She was rarely in bed before midnight. The hour before dawn, it started all over again.
If she started to enter a great room and heard talk, she quietly backed out unseen. She had never even met the lord of the manor. The wife she had seen occasionally and once been introduced to her by the cook. But it was unlikely the frail woman even noticed Serafina. She had been preoccupied with that evening’s meal, as one of their guests was to be a Cabinet minister. Serafina worked through her days with her eyes downcast.
Her duties were so overwhelming she rushed about in a haze of constant fatigue. Her body ached horribly the first week, but gradually she grew accustomed to the chores and the strain. Serafina’s greatest difficulty was her hands. Carrying the heavy baskets rubbed them horribly. Harry showed her how to wrap her hands with rags to cushion them against the basket’s chafing, and this helped some. Yet washing dishes softened the hands and opened the blisters. In truth, she did not mind either the pain or the chores. They kept her mind occupied and away from the ache at the core of her being.
She had Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings free. She spent most of these hours in bed, sleeping with the same desperate insistence of a starving woman being offered extra food. Her exhaustion became almost a friend, for it held back the nightmares. But she often woke with her face streaked by tears and her heart’s wound reopened by dreams she could not remember.
Serafina spoke hardly at all. She had no friends among the staff. The other servants accepted her silence as simply her most obvious trait. That and her beauty. She could feel the men watching her sometimes. But as she was Mrs. Donatella’s niece, they left her alone.
She occasionally caught a glimpse of the young lord of the manor. Whenever Serafina spotted him, she slipped away as quickly and unobtrusively as she could. Occasionally she had the feeling he was stalking her—taking his time, moving with the calm patience of a predator who had marked his prey. She was frightened of him but did not know what else to do besides flee.
On her free afternoons and mornings, Serafina awoke from her comatose slumber and went to the kitchen. Staff were permitted to stop by for bread and cheese and tea on their half days, so long as they stayed out of the cooks’ way. Serafina took her chipped mug and her slice of fresh-baked bread and wedge of good Cheshire cheese into the corner between the front entrance and the tunnel stairs. She stood and watched the red-faced kitchen staff move in easy concert, their heads wreathed by smoke from the fire or steam from the great stew vats. They worked as hard as any of the staff, yet seemed to always have time for a nice word. When she had made her tea last as long as she could, Serafina went for a visit with her aunt.
Twice each week she visited Aunt Agatha, who had been given a pair of rooms on the ground floor of the old manor. Several times Serafina had intended to speak with Agatha about her concern over the young lord. But the older woman was never alone. She had many friends among the staff, and they were constantly dropping by for a chat. Agatha showed a stern visage toward her niece, a silent warning for Serafina to remember her place at all times, particularly in front of the other servants. Serafina’s worries remained unspoken.
She wondered whether she should mention her fears to Beryl Marcham. But what was Serafina to say? That the young lord often appeared around unexpected corners, or she found him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, leering at her? That he drawled out words that might have been lewd invitations but were spoken so softly she could flee and pretend not to hear them? That some evenings she turned from bending over the ballroom fireplaces and was certain she had been observed, even when she saw nothing but an empty room? She knew how the implacable housekeeper would respond. That unless Serafina had something specific, something definite, there was nothing Beryl Marcham could do. And if there was indeed trouble, it all would be viewed as Serafina’s fault.
Thursday afternoons were young Harry’s time off. The groundskeeper’s son used this time and all day Sunday to hunt on the grounds. Mrs. Marcham gave him an extra half day at the groundskeeper’s request because Harry was the best shot among the staff and kept down the number of vermin. Those afternoons were particularly difficult for Serafina, as she was left to fill all the kindling bins alone. By the end of her duties, her legs could scarcely hold her upright.
On this particular Thursday, by the time she had finished all but four fireplaces, Serafina was so weary she paid no attention to where she placed her feet. She had made the journey from the house’s back entrance to the woodpile so often she did not need to look where she was going. There were new guests occupying several of the apartments. Houseguests meant more fires, and more fires meant more trips to refill the kindling bins. The bell for dinner had rung long ago, and hunger gnawed at her middle. But Mrs. Marcham had made it abundantly clear that she could not eat until the last fireplace had been seen to.
She was so tired she staggered as she rounded the outside wall of the kitchen. Two more journeys and she would be done. The shadows and her half-closed eyes made her stumble. Only this time there were strong arms waiting to catch her. “Have a care there, lass.”
She responded to the voice as she would to the burning of an open flame. But when she tried to jerk herself loose from his grasp, the young lord held her fast. He pulled her back behind the huge woodpile before she could shape a response.
“You dare not scream.” Though she kicked and struggled, the young lord maintained his languid tone. Stewart Drescott’s grip was painfully strong, no doubt from handling horses. “It’d merely be my word against yours, don’t you see.”
“No. Please. You mustn’t—”
“Ah, but I must. You’ve kept me waiting long enough, don’t you think?” He released one hand long enough to strip the kerchief from her head. “Let’s have a look at you, now.”
“No! You—”
“You’re as lovely a ripe peach as ever I’ve seen.” Though the voice retained its languor, his features pulled back into a feral mask. “Smile for me now.”
She found herself looking into the face of the fever beast in her worst nightmare. “I’ll scream.”
“We’ve been through all that. You won’t, you know
. Now smile. I do love a pretty girl’s smile.”
Suddenly she was weeping and so tired she could not think. She hated the sense of weakness, the fear, the helpless defeat.
“Oh well, if you won’t smile, then you won’t.” His hands wrapped themselves about her neck. “But you will kiss me, won’t you. Oh yes.”
He bent toward her. She ducked her head as much as his grip allowed. She felt the fingers tightening their hold. She screamed then, but softly. For truly she felt as trapped as she had ever been.
As suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.
Her sudden release left Serafina crumpled upon the earth. Her arms felt branded where he had gripped her. She shielded her face with both of her arms and wept a plea of denial.
“Are you hurt?”
It was a stranger’s voice. The fact that someone else had joined them gradually sank through her terror.
The young lord’s voice was reduced to a hoarse groan. “Unhand me!”
The toe of a boot nudged Serafina. “You’re safe now, lass. Look up here.”
Reluctantly she uncovered her face enough to see above her, silhouetted against the sunset’s trailing edge, a giant of a man. “Did the man hurt you?” he asked.
“N-no.”
“Can you rise?”
Slowly Serafina forced herself back to her feet. The stranger was broad of shoulder and possessed an astonishing strength. He held the young lord suspended by one hand, gripping his jacket and shirt. Feebly, Drescott struck at the stranger’s hand and forearm, but he might as well have been striking a tree trunk.
“This man attacked you?” the stranger asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s a lie.” Stewart’s air was constricted by the huge man’s grip upon his collar. His voice was a coarse growl. “I’ll have you horsewhipped.”
“Will you now.” The man seemed utterly unfazed by the words. “I suppose that means you’re something like a highborn gentleman then.”
Serafina shakily confirmed, “H-he is the son of the duke.”
“Which duke would that be?”
“This is his manor. Harrow Hall.”
“So. I come upon a defenseless maidservant being attacked by a man of wealth and power. Someone who believes he can do with others as he pleases. Is that right?”
Stewart Drescott sought to bend the fingers back but failed. The toes of his boots scrabbled across the ground. “L-let me go!”
The stranger turned so as to face Serafina, giving no notice to the young lord’s feeble attempts to free himself. He asked gently, “Has he done this before?”
“H-he has only spoken to me.”
“And you haven’t been leading him on.”
“No, sir. N-nothing.”
Drescott protested, “That’s a lie!”
“If I see him, I run away,” Serafina went on. “But he—”
“She’s a harlot, I tell you!”
The stranger tightened his grip. “Go on, lass.”
“He follows me. He says things.”
“Me? A lord? Follow a belowstairs strumpet about?” The words were scarcely more than a rattle now. The man’s face was swollen and red. “What utter rot!”
The stranger inspected her for a moment longer, then turned back to the young man. “Be still.”
Though the words were quietly spoken, the threat was clear. The young man choked, “I’ll have you driven from the estate.”
“Aye, you might at that. But here’s something for you to think about.” He raised his free hand and formed a fist the size of a mallet. “Take a very good look at this. I have broken a man’s neck with one blow.”
Stewart beat upon the stranger’s forearm. “You don’t frighten me!”
“Ah, but I should.” He lifted the young man a few inches higher, until his boots were clear of the earth. The arms and legs windmilled and his eyes bugged out with the effort of drawing breath. The giant continued, “You should be very scared indeed.”
“You’re choking me!”
“Just as I suspect you were about to do to this young maiden.” But he lowered the young man until his boots touched ground once more. The leather toes kicked up dust as Drescott sought to relieve the pressure upon his neck. Both hands struggled to release his collar.
“Now, the next time you see this young lady, tell me what are you going to do.”
“I’ll have the dogs put on your—”
The stranger tapped the young man’s cheek with the side of his open palm. The hand traveled less than a foot in distance. Even so, the power was enough to rattle the young man’s vision. His eyes traced about, his hands went limp.
“Pay attention.” He shook the young man, waiting until the eyes came back into focus. “What you are going to do is this. You’re going to run.”
The lord started to protest once more. But the hand came back up in preparation for another open-palmed blow. Stewart flinched and remained silent.
“Now tell me what you’re going to do the next time you see her.”
He muttered something.
“Louder, now. I can’t hear you.”
He croaked the word. “Run.”
“Good lad. And here’s one other thought to carry away with you.” The stranger re-formed his fist and tapped the young man gently upon the temple. “If you speak rudely of this young woman, if you sully her name in any way, if you make any trouble for her, you’ll feel this. Now tell me that you understand.”
“I understand.”
The stranger abruptly released his grip. Stewart crumpled to his knees. He coughed once, twice, rubbing his neck where the starched collar had bitten deep.
“Now get out of my sight.”
The young lord rose unsteadily. He started to lift his gaze toward Serafina. But the stranger anticipated it and stepped between them. He made the fist once more and swung it to within an inch of Stewart’s face. “And you best remember what I’ve said. Because I meant it, every word.”
The young man stumbled away.
The stranger turned back to Serafina. Now that the danger was passed, she felt ready to collapse once more.
Her weakness must have been evident in her features, for the man reached for her. His grasp was strong, yet he held her in the most gentle of manners. Suddenly she was sobbing. She could hardly breathe for the strength of her crying.
“Shah, now. It’s passed you by, the danger. The storm came close, but you were saved. By the grace of all that’s right in heaven above, it’s safe you’ll stay as well.”
The relief mingled with the terror, and the closeness of her peril left her nauseous. She clung to his arm. He drew her closer still, but there was no threat to his manner. He smelled of dust and manly strength. “What were you doing back here alone, lass?”
“M-my d-duties . . .”
“You’re done with your duties for the night.”
“No, sir. Th-there are still four f-fireplaces—”
“They won’t be seen to tonight, and that’s final. Have you eaten?”
The simple concern left her unable to speak. She shook her head.
“Best clean up first, else there will be talk.” He steadied her with the same arm that had held the young lord and walked her to the horse trough by the side of the nearest stable. “I don’t know this house, but I know people, and a pretty lass like you will have tongues wagging if you give them half a reason. So this will stay just between us, right?”
He gave her his kerchief, which she dipped in the water and used to cleanse her face. He left her leaning against the stone trough as he went back to the woodpile and returned with her head scarf. He watched her fumbling efforts to retie the scarf. He motioned for her to lean forward, and he did it up himself, tying it up snug against the nape of her neck. “Never done this for a lass,” he murmured. “But many seamen wear the same manner of headdress.”
It was strange how one man’s touch could scald her with fear and loathing and another’s be so comforting. “
Wh-who are you?”
“My name is John Falconer.”
He had a most astonishing scar. She only saw it now, running across his cheekbone. He could easily be mistaken for a man of deadly peril. “I owe you my life, John Falconer.”
“You owe me nothing, and that’s God’s truth.” The evening light was dimming fast, but he might have flushed at her gratitude. “I am but God’s servant, called to do what little I can for the bruised reeds in this world.”
She did not understand all that he said, but the underlying comfort was clear enough. “I am Serafina.”
“A name as lovely as the lady herself.” He motioned toward the kitchen. “Let’s go see if we can’t find us both a morsel of supper.”
Chapter 18
Falconer rose at his customary hour and for the usual reason. He washed and dressed and left the male servants’ corridor, taking the rear staircase. Outside he walked the house’s perimeter in the predawn gloom. Falconer assumed there was no risk of danger yet. Even if the attackers from Georgetown had managed to find another vessel immediately, taking a similar northern route with the same following sea, Gareth and his family had a few days’ respite. A week at most, Falconer reckoned. He followed the gardener’s route around the home, not so much to check for danger as to get a lay of the land. And to make some sense of the confusion in his head.
The customary lingering nightmare was this morning matched by another image. One of a lovely face surrounded by hair so fine it captured the light of dusk.
Falconer had journeyed far on several continents and found that most young lovelies were able to spark certain hungers, attracting young men like a siren’s song. They were strongest in innocence when their power was unfiltered and magnetic. Any young man would dance his courtship ritual, displaying whatever was best and finest about himself.
One brief encounter, however, was enough to assure Falconer that Serafina was a much rarer breed. To Falconer’s mind, Serafina held a quality so refined as to place herself ever beyond reach. She belonged to some princely realm. A place where mere mortals like himself might never enter.
Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive Page 18
