Darrius suppressed a sigh. His mother had not liked the book. She thought she was concealing her distaste, but her face had that bland innocent look that declared that she was lying through her teeth.
Nothing he did pleased her, no matter how he tried. Since his death, the late Duke of Tolware had risen to the level of sainthood. His virtues were greatly magnified, his faults glossed over and hidden away.
Well, there was nothing for it but to make the best of a sorry situation. “I am glad that the book found some small favor,” he said. “But since I have already read it, do carry on with the account of your day at Hillsworth. I recall that Father found it most memorable.”
“Oh, indeed he did,” his mother remarked happily. “Mrs. Swinton, be a dear and ring for another cup and a fresh pot of tea so that Darrius can join us.”
Mrs. Swinton rose, went to the embroidered bellpull which had been placed conveniently within his mother’s reach, and tugged on it.
Darius noted that she looked trim in her widow’s black, and seemed to have a pleasing figure. Her day gown was supremely modest, with a high neck that gave the impression of her well-shaped head being mounted on a pedestal.
Within moments a maid, dressed in a dark wool uniform, crisp apron, and white cap, appeared at the doorway. “Yes, Your Grace?” she said, as she curtsied.
“A fresh pot of tea, and another cup,” the Duchess ordered, “Oh, and see if the cook has any of those small bubbly pies. Be sure to tell him to send up enough for my son, as well as Mrs. Swinton and me.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” The maid curtsied again, and disappeared down the hall.
“Now, where were we?” his mother queried of her companion. “Oh, yes, just as we were pulling up to the door of Hillsworth. Do continue, my dear.”
Mrs. Swinton took up the journal and continued reading. She had a surprisingly well-modulated voice, pleasant and clear. She made the scene at Hillsworth come alive as she read the description of rolling hills, small streams, unexpected fountains, and little grottos. Darrius could almost imagine having been there, even though upon that day he had been securely cradled inside his mother’s body, and the current condition of the estate was far from ideal.
Father always wanted Hillsworth. I wonder if Mother ever realized that his tender description of the estate next door was the covetous voice of envy? No, I rather doubt that she ever did. To his credit, Father never alluded to it when visiting with his neighbors. I wonder what will become of it now that the rightful heir has disappeared and his uncle has taken over? Well, that is certainly not my problem. I have quite enough to manage right here.
Darrius returned his attention to his mother and her companion. “—then we came back, and had the most wonderful tea. I had been craving fresh fruit, even though it was not in season yet. Those strawberries out of the hothouse were absolutely the best I have ever eaten, before or since.”
“We have our own hothouse now, Mother,” Darrius put in. “Father took great pride in it. I believe the strawberries are in full flower now, the first ripe berries picked, and it will not be long before we shall be able to have all the strawberries and cream we wish to eat without sending out for them.”
“Truly?” The Dowager turned her gaze upon her son, and smiled at him fondly. “You will remember to have some sent here?”
“Of course I will,” Darrius promised. “How could I not when you love them so? But I will own that with the new wing, while it is somewhat crass to say so, sales of our surplus will do well toward shoring up supplies for spring planting.”
“That is splendid,” Her Grace exclaimed, a half beat late. Darrius could see that her eyes were glazing over with the early warning signs of boredom. Father had always been the one to take interest in the estate’s accounts. He had been wont to remark that while many gentlemen eschewed dirtying their hands with details of the estate, there was satisfaction in seeing a place well run and producing a profit.
The companion, apparently sensing a familial breech of accord, leaped into the widening silence. “Indeed it is, Your Grace. Does the estate derive a great deal of its income from sales of produce from the hothouses?” Clearly Mrs. Swinton, having been raised in a shop-keeping family, felt no compunction about discussing finances.
“Not an extensive amount,” Darrius replied, pleased to have the discussion turned toward his interests. “We make far more from rents and from the sale of lamb's wool. But it adds a little to our coffers. More importantly, the hothouses add a great deal to the variety of foods available to our tables.”
“Lamb’s wool,” Mrs. Swinton mused. “I used to knit. I wonder if I might be able to purchase some from your herdsman for my own amusement?”
“Why, we shall do better than that,” Darrius beamed at her. “I will have him send down a fleece. I believe that they have just been washed and are being made ready for market.”
“You are very kind,” Mrs. Swinton replied, dropping her eyes modestly. “But it might take me some time to work up that much.”
“Think nothing of it,” Darrius waved his left hand as if brushing away flies. “Consider it a bonus for your excellent work here. Some of the maids can help you with the carding or whatever. You make Mother happy, so I am glad to assist with your amusement. Just do not let it become so much of a burden that you neglect your duties.”
“I would not dream of it,” Mrs. Swinton’s face came up, her eyes widening in shock. “That would be extremely unkind of me, especially since it is through your good offices that the wool would be made available to me.”
The Duchess intervened. “Have no fear, Darrius. I am far more likely to have to encourage her to take her half day off. I have never had such a person in my service. She is always writing letters, reading to me, or making small things to add to my comfort or to entertain me. It has surely been our good fortune to have such an industrious angel come to be with me.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Darrius said. “She did come highly recommended, and by the physician who attended her husband, no less.”
“And why should he not?” his mother said with some vigor. “It is not every wife who will stay by the side of a consumptive right until the end. Although I do hope that Mrs. Swinton’s duties here are much lighter since I am not an invalid.”
Mrs. Swinton blushed and dropped her eyes, clearly embarrassed to be the topic of conversation.
“There now, you need not color up, my dear,” the Duchess said. “You know that it is no more than the truth and I would speak it behind your back as readily as before your face. I do wish we had some of those berries here today. All this talk has made me quite hungry.”
“I had some sent down to the kitchens just this morning, along with several other fine edibles,” Darrius soothed. “No doubt the cook will have something made up to go with your dinner.”
“That is my good son,” the Duchess smiled with delight. “Come here and let me give you a hug.”
“A fitting end to my visit,” the Duke returned, rising from his seat.
He went over, leaned down, and kissed his mother on the cheek.
She patted his cheek gently, then wiped at an imaginary smudge on her son’s face. “You are my very dearest boy. Must you go so soon?”
“If I am to return here for dinner, I must,” he replied. “Perhaps I should stay over, and have breakfast with you as well.” His words were addressed to his mother, but his eyes were upon the companion.
“That would be lovely,” the Duchess said fondly. “Your intended will be paying a visit next week. Do you think the strawberries will hold until then?”
“I think they will be at their finest,” Darrius replied. “I shall quite look forward to seeing Blanche.”
“Then I will alert the cook. He does the finest things with the simplest ingredients. I can hardly wait to see what he might do with strawberries.”
“Do not plan anything overly grand,” Darrius cautioned his mother. “Remember, Blanche has a delicate appet
ite.” Blanche was slender to the point of emaciation, narrow-hipped and small-breasted, and possessed of a nervous disposition. Although they had known each other since childhood, and had always been aware that they were destined to wed, Darrius found that she was not always the easiest person to please.
“Oh, but no doubt her parents will visit also. Lord Carletane will more than make up for Blanche’s bird-like picking. Her mother also has an appreciation of excellent food.”
Darrius plastered a smile upon his face and replied, “Why, so they do, and, yes, they are likely to visit with her.”
How my father ever became friends with Carletane I shall never know. He is an abominable toadeater, and has the most encroaching ways. One good thing about this marriage is that I believe Blanche will be grateful to get away from her parents, and therefore perhaps be compliant to my desires.
Darrius said fondly to his parent, “I shall see you at dinner. Will you be there also, Mrs. Swinton?”
“Of course, where else should she be? Well, if you must toddle off, then so be it. I shall look forward to dinner,” his mother replied.
As the door closed behind him, Darrius heard his mother say to her companion, “Isn’t he the dearest boy? Surely you can see why George and I doted on him so much.”
Chapter 3
Mayson Rudge carefully slid the pies out of the oven using the long wooden paddle, and the leather fingerless gloves he always wore to protect his palms from the heat. They were a clever way to let him grab a hot kettle or pan by the handle without searching for an oven mitt or potholder, two things that always seemed to be elsewhere when needed in this particular kitchen.
Mr. Sparks, the undercook, was supposed to keep the incidental items in good order, as well as assist with the routine cooking, but he was getting on in years. Mayson often found it expedient to simply take care of Mr. Sparks’ duties as well as his own.
Two of the maids were nattering away in the hallway while they were carrying the dishes from the kitchen to the main dining hall and a few items to the servants’ dining hall. The servants’ meal would be served after the master, mistress, the companion, and guests had dined. This would be something of a feast, so there would be plenty of leftovers. But even when the meals were more modest, the Duchess always remembered that she was feeding more than the people at the head table, and had given him permission early on to plan proper meals for the help. Her son was generous, giving her an allowance over and above her established dowry so the household was never in want.
Good thing, too, for even as small an establishment as the Dower House required laundry maids, upstairs maids to take care of the bedrooms, downstairs maids to dust the library and the several sitting rooms, as well as kitchen maids, scullery, gardeners, and more. Mayson blessed all the hours he had spent with a certain dear old cook, who had been more than happy to teach a bored, lonely little boy the craft of cooking.
The pies bubbled appealingly, and gave off a delectable aroma. They were part of the bumper crop of strawberries from the Main House. With a judicious amount of rhubarb added, they were a feast fit for kings, he thought.
Mayson was listening with half an ear to the maids’ chatter. He had learned more than one thing happening around the neighborhood simply by opening an ear to their seemingly banal chatter.
“ —and they never found the body?” Betty, a young kitchen maid who had been a member of the staff scarcely more than a week, seemed astonished by whatever it was the maids were talking over.
“Never,” said Molly Sue, the older maid. Then she added in the tones usually reserved for telling ghost stories, “But they say that when the moon is full his ghost walks the grounds, and if you look just right, when the moon is only a crescent, you can see his hand held up in silhouette against it. And,” she added in a sepulcher voice, “you can see the birthmark in the shape of a crescent moon on his wrist.”
“Ah, go on,” Betty said skeptically. “You’re just tryin’ to scare the new girl.”
“No, really,” Molly Sue insisted. “Well, maybe not the ghost part. But the part about the birthmark an’ his body never found. Some folks think the uncle did away with ‘im, but nothin’ was ever proved.”
“Surely not his own kin, that way,” Betty protested. “I can’t imagine…”
The two maids disappeared down the hall, their voices trailing after them. Mayson sighed. One of these days he would have to speak to them about gossiping about their betters, but not today. The young master was in the house and the dinner needed to be perfect.
There was a light patter of slippered feet, and the new companion appeared in the doorway. “The Duchess would like to know… Oh, good. You made bubbly pies.”
“Indeed I did,” Mayson replied. “Strawberry-rhubarb because we all know that they are the young Duke’s favorite. I also made a tremendous roast, from which I caught the drippings to make a clear broth for the first course. There are three kinds of vegetables, including the boiled greens the Duchess’ physician recommended that she have with her dinner. There is a vinegar side topping which should make them more palatable for her.”
“Oh, thank you,” the companion replied. “She eats them, but not without complaint.”
“I quite understand,” Mayson replied. “I’m Mayson Rudge,” he added. “I didn’t quite catch your name, although I know that you are the new companion.”
“Mrs. Evelyn Swinton,” she replied. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She did not curtsey as one of the kitchen maids might have done, but dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I have heard a great deal about you, but have not had opportunity to come to the kitchen before now.”
A taking little thing, Mayson thought. She had soft brown hair that was covered discretely with a little widow’s cap made from black lace and ribbons.
She was dressed in black, a trim bombazine that fit her curvaceous form neatly. The fabric was not of the best, but the workmanship that put it together was meticulous. A close-fitting tall collar around her throat allowed a modest frill of black lace to cushion a delicate chin.
Above the chin curved a sweet mouth that seemed made for smiling, a well-shaped small nose, and bright, lively eyes the green of new leaves framed with long, curling eyelashes beneath perfectly arched dark brows. The black frill accentuated her rosy cheeks and clear complexion. Her color began to rise under his scrutiny, and Mayson realized that he was staring.
“I, uh, am also happy to make your acquaintance,” Mayson did not stammer, but felt far less than his usual assurance. “Would Her Grace like an advance tidbit?”
The lovely lips curled into the promised smile at that inquiry. “She would. How did you ever guess?”
“Because her son tends to eat whole pies at a setting, so I always make a small one just for her.” Mayson turned to a small cupboard and pulled out a smaller pie, one that was already cooling. He placed it in a little basket along with a small wedge of cheese and a bottle of cold tea. “Her Grace’s favorite tea. She will dine with the Duke at the usual hour?”
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Swinton replied. “And I must hurry now so that I can dress for dinner. His intended and her parents will also be in attendance.”
As she hastened away, Mayson wondered what “dressing for dinner” constituted for this companion. She was the fourth or fifth in succession since Mayson had been the cook. That would make it, oh, about one new companion every six months. The previous companion had always dressed to the nines when the Duke was dining with his mother. The Dowager Duchess had certainly noticed it, and had turned her off with only the most minimal references because of it.
Mayson returned to his cooking, stirring the glazed carrots, taking up the despised greens, and making sure that there was a cruet of spiced apple wine vinegar to go on the latter dish. With practiced skill, he turned out a seven-course meal that would not overwhelm six diners, yet would still leave them satisfied, but his mind was not on his task.
Rather, he kept remembering how Mr
s. Swinton’s perfectly shaped lips had curled into a smile, and how her eyes had crinkled at the corners. How had the Duchess persuaded such a gem to act as her companion? If her garments were any indication, Mrs. Swinton was a widow. From her age, and the lack of wear on her widow’s weeds, a fairly recent one at that.
As he watched the last dish go out of the kitchen in the hands of the chattering maids, he wondered if she would come to the kitchen often. She did not look like the midnight snacking sort of person, but the Duchess often liked a little something after hours and would send her companion to select a tidbit or two.
Mayson had quickly learned to keep small refreshments on hand for the Duchess’ midnight appetite. After a consultation with her physician, he had been leaning more toward fruit compotes or blancmange, rather than the heavier desserts the Duchess truly favored. So far, either Her Grace had not caught on, or she was allowing him to steer her midnight snack selections.
Before I Was Yours, My Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 2
