Had she been flirting? Best not to push your luck. But some people are like the best fruit or the finest wine.
He whistled happily as he kneaded the bread, and set the loaves ready for baking in the morning.
Some people do not need to do anything to make a room brighter, a day better, or the general prospect of living more attractive.
Mrs. Swinton was like that. Any time she came down to the kitchen, his day was a little bit brighter, and his work a little lighter. Tonight, he almost felt as if she might return the feeling. But it was far too soon to hope. After all, she was still in half-mourning for her husband. By all accounts, the fellow had been a fine man who had worked as hard as he could until his illness became too much for him.
What privations she must have suffered, with neither of them earning any money, the doctor to pay, and medicines to buy.
Yet, here she was cosseting an exacting elderly Duchess, and going about her work as cheerful as any might be.
Just thinking about her made him smile. “Wake, wake you drowsy sleeper,” he sang softly as he scrubbed down the wooden table where he kneaded the bread and cut the vegetables, making it ready for preparing food on the morrow. Did he dare to try to wake his little sleeper, wake her from the wall of dutiful cheerfulness she had built around herself?
“Unkind,” he chided himself. “She has bought herself a little peace. Who am I to take that from her?”
He took out his notebook, made of sheets of foolscap stitched together, and began to make notes about the day’s meals. Before long, his pencil slowed, and he stared into space. A smile curved around his lips. It was not strawberries or clotted cream that filled his musings. Rather, it was the way Mrs. Swinton’s soft brown hair escaped her widow’s cap, and curled about the lace edgings.
It was thus Jemmy, the potboy, found him when he came in to take over the late night kitchen chores. “I say, Mr. Rudge,” he said respectfully. “Perhaps you should toddle off to bed. It’ll be cock’s crow before you know it. Mr. Sparks has been abed this last hour or more.”
“No doubt you are right, Jemmy,” Mayson said. “I’ve set the bread to rise. Have a care with it when you fire up the ovens in the morning. Remember, it needs a slow heat to be at its best.”
“I remember,” Jemmy said. “I’ll be careful of it, Mr. Rudge. ‘Specially if I can have a crust when it comes out. You does bread to a fine turn, you does.”
“I think there will be enough for you to have a bit in the morning,” Mayson smiled at the boy. At seven-and-ten years, Jemmy was a lanky youth. Like many such youngsters, he seemed to be hollow inside. It seemed no matter how much he ate, he was still hungry. “More than that, I think there might be a little something to go on it. But mind the heat for the oven, else there will not be any for anyone.”
“Have no fear, Mr. Rudge,” Jemmy said respectfully. “I’ll be very careful, an’ not just so’s I can have a crust.”
“I know you will,” Mayson said, clapping the boy lightly on the shoulder. “I will be up to help with breakfast.”
With that, Mayson went off to his small room behind the pantry. But when he was stretched out on his cot, he found it hard to make himself comfortable. As he lay there, half dreaming, he imagined dancing with Mrs. Swinton. She would be feather-light in his arms, of that he was sure. Her green eyes would sparkle, then she would say something like, “Mayson Rudge...” But before he could imagine what she would say, true sleep claimed him. Yet, the pretty companion danced with him in his dreams, even if she would be unlikely to do so in life.
Chapter 6
Leroy Rutley surveyed the lawn with a sour expression. He was tempted to plow the plagued thing up and plant it in oats. At least he could then realize a return on it. Instead, he now had ten stalwart farmhands moving across it confidently, employing their scythes. Once this was done, there would be the cricket field, followed by the bowling green. As an economical measure, he had done away with the custom of having the men, followed by maids, to rake up the grass, certainly an unnecessary extravagance. Whatever had his uncle been thinking?
“Move it along there,” he bawled, as one of the youngsters slacked his steady back and forth movement.
“There is a snake, Mr. Rutley,” the young fellow called back. “That science fellow is offering tuppence for each one caught, and a shillin’ iffen its rare.”
Leroy perked up. The young man was speaking his language. “Keep an eye on it. Somebody, run for a sack and fireplace tongs.”
One of the house servants hastened forward. “Right here, Mr. Rutley. Brought ‘em down on purpose ‘cause tha mowin’ always brings ‘em out.”
Leroy took the sack and the tongs, then advanced to where the brave young mower was keeping the snake’s attention with flourishes of the blunt side of his scythe. Leroy nipped in, grasped the snake with the tongs, and held it in the air. It immediately created a foul odor that had most of the company backing up hastily to get away from the stench.
“Faugh!” Leroy grunted in disgust, dropping the wriggling creature into a bag. “Common grass snake. Still, tuppence is tuppence, and you shall have your share, young man.”
Leroy fished in his waistcoat pocket where he always kept a few coins and fished out a haypence. “For your vigilance,” he said.
The young man looked slightly disappointed. Probably he had hoped for the whole tuppence for himself. But coins were scarce and even a haypence was to be hoarded. No doubt the youth was courting one of his village neighbor’s daughters. This little coin would be added to the fellow’s growing hoard.
“Look sharp,” Leroy called out to the mowers. “Where there was one, there are likely to be more.”
Encouraged by the immediate reward, the mowers returned to their labors with renewed vigor.
Leroy mused sourly on the circumstances that forced him into competition with the hired hands and staff for bounties on snakes. He had been genuinely fond of his older brother, Barnard Rutley, but simply could not abide that sniveling little brat of a nephew.
Leroy had tried his hardest to be rid of the boy after Barnard’s passing, making little or no secret of his personal dislike of the youth. He first sent him to an especially tough military boarding school, but that merely led the unlikely little fiend to enlist when Napoleon made his moves.
There had been some hope with that enlistment. Military officers in France were notorious for becoming cannon fodder. But against all odds, young Rutley had come home without so much as a scar to show for his adventures.
There had been some hope when the boy evinced a liking for mushrooms.
Tricksy things mushrooms, one wrong one in a pot, and off you go without so much as a by-your-leave. But apparently his stay in France made him conversant in all the types of mushroom and their flavors.
Leroy was truly astonished the day that the staff had come to him, wringing their hands, and saying that the young Earl’s hat had been found beside a brook that in the spring freshets had turned into a raging river. A hat, a creel of rancid bacon, and a broken fishing pole were all that remained of the boy.
Such a tragedy!
Unfortunately, with no body at hand, the disappearance of the Earl of Hillsworth did little for Leroy. The courts required a corpus delicti or other proof of death; or Leroy would have to wait long enough for his nephew to be declared legally dead.
Yet, in the absence of its rightful lord, Hillsworth still required maintenance and oversight. Moreover, it required it with no more funding than the day-to-day produce of farm and field. Barnard had been remarkably improvident, focusing on marble statuary, strolling lawns, cricket fields, and bowling greens.
Why could he have not been more interested in raising sheep, like our countrified neighbor?
Tolware certainly seemed to be thriving.
Three more snakes were frightened out of their hiding. Two of them were grass snakes, but the third was an adder. The science fellow seemed particularly interested in adders. While one did wonder why, a shilling for
a viper was not to be sneezed at, so long as one did not get bitten by the creature.
With the mowing done, and the snakes collected in a covered pail—thoughtfully fetched by another servant—Leroy felt a little more cheerful. After paying the day laborers and giving the bonuses for the snakes, he scarcely broke even. But to show his own disappointment would be to brand him as common management, rather than as a sporting gentleman who enjoyed the excitement of snake catching.
I am common management. The principle is all tied up and beyond my reach until such time as it is proven beyond doubt that young Lord Hillsworth is dead. Such a bother. But it would never do for the villagers or the help to realize that such is my status.
That evening, Leroy pondered his plight as he dug into a simple meal of boiled beef and neeps. He’d never been overly fond of neeps, but they took on the flavor of the beef. With a dash of India spice, it was edible. The flavors grew more tolerable as he washed his repast down with several cups of small beer.
Just as he gave a mighty eructation brought on by the gaseous nature of his meal, inspiration came to him.
How had the mower found the fellow who wanted to buy snakes? He had found him listed on a broadside tacked up in the village square.
The very thing! He would have several broadsides with a description of his nephew posted around the country, along with a reward for finding him. It was completely in character with a right-minded uncle, frantic with grief and despairing of finding his nephew.
Yes, this would work. It would work very nicely, because if there was anything he had learned by being the steward of Hillsworth, it was that coins were extremely persuasive. Now, just how much could he put up as a reward? For sure as betting apples to cheese, the claimant would expect to get paid. Since that could very well involve some of the shadier members of society, Leroy had no desire to fall afoul of them by welshing on the reward.
These pleasant thoughts accompanied him all the way to the old study beside the library, where he had his brandy. Thus fortified, he chuckled softly to himself as he submitted his person to his valet, before retiring for the night.
Lying awake on his pillow, instead of thrashing around in frustration as had been his wont of late, he stared up into the darkness, imagining what it would be like to truly be in charge of Hillsworth Estate.
The first thing I would do is get rid of all those silly statues. Then I would plant oats on the lawn. But I would keep the cricket field and the bowling green. I do rather like a good game of bowls. Horses. I would start a fine stable, horses love oats. And I would...
Moonlight slanted across the floor in Leroy’s room, casting a soft glow over everything. As it did so, a very odd silhouette cast a shadow from the window.
Leroy’s eyes widened as what appeared to be the shadow of a hand moved across the window. The shape of a crescent moon shown through the wrist of it.
Leroy let out a shriek, and bolted from his bed. He grabbed an old sword from the mantle where it hung as a decoration, and charged toward the window. He heard a sort of breathy shriek, then someone said, “Owe!”
Someone else giggled, and a childish voice said, “Shush! He’ll hear you!”
Leroy flung open the window just in time to see two youthful figures leap down from the veranda railing, and go pelting across the newly mown bowling green in the moonlight.
“I’ll turn you off without references!” Leroy shouted.
“Don’t work for you,” a boy’s voice shouted back. “An’ our mum and da don’t neither. You canned ‘em last week, you old sourpuss. Serves you right to get nuffin’ but bully beef and neeps for dinner.”
“W’at he said,” another voice called. “Hope a snake bites you.”
Then the two running figures disappeared into the wood, leaving Leroy standing on the veranda, holding a rusty sword in his hand.
Leroy stumped back into his bedroom, and used the mantle striker to light the candle standing next to it. Taking up the decanter, also on the mantelpiece, he poured two fingers of brandy into the glass he had used just before going to bed.
He gagged down the fiery liquid, then stared at the glass in his hand.
Why had the servants not cleared it away?
He had finished with it. It should have vanished.
Uneasy, he splashed some more brandy into the glass, and sat down in the wingback chair that sat before the cold fireplace.
Something is very wrong here. Very, very wrong.
He took another sip of brandy, hoping it would burn through the mental fog he was feeling. Even as he sipped, he was fairly certain this was not the right approach, but he had no idea what he should do.
In the end, he finished two more splashes of brandy in his glass, made his uncertain way to the window, and locked it. He then wobbled his way back to his bed and lay down to let the brandy do its work. He watched the moonlit ceiling miserably, as his stomach protested the liquid he had ingested. At length, he fell asleep.
Chapter 7
The tea table was set with the best linens, her wedding crystal, and a single red rose. It was Adelaide’s wedding anniversary, an event both bittersweet and precious. She watched as Mrs. Swinton artfully arranged the silverware at two places.
Since the late Duke was unable to attend, for obvious reasons, his son would sit down at table to this special tea. It was a commemorative occasion for both of them. The red rose symbolized the attendance of the late Duke, who, until his death, never missed a single anniversary, birthday, Christmas, or any other excuse to give a gift to his precious bride.
Fortunately for family peace, he gave just as enthusiastically to his son.
Adelaide had dressed carefully for the occasion. She wore a dove gray gown, with only the merest hint of black at collar and cuffs. Her hat was a new one, capably constructed by her companion’s nimble fingers. Say what she might about millinery and suitability as a companion, Lady Carletane was never turned out in such good taste and elegance as Adelaide. Or at least not since Mrs. Swinton had become her companion.
What had I ever done without the capable little widow?
A soft knock at the door announced that her son had arrived. Adelaide surveyed him with pride as he handed off his hat and cane to the butler, along with a bottle of red wine. He frowned a little when he saw that only two places were set at the table.
“Will Mrs. Swinton not be joining us this afternoon?” he asked.
“Not today, my dear,” Adelaide replied. “This is a commemorative occasion, so it will be just the two of us.”
An expression, too fleeting to be called disappointment, flitted across his face. “Very well,” Darrius said, “I shall endeavor not to disappoint.”
“You never do, dear,” his mother replied. “You are everything that George and I could have wished for in a son.”
“I am glad to hear that I am satisfactory,” Darrius commented.
“Oh, you,” Adelaide chuckled, as she extended her hand to be kissed. “You know very well that you are the apple of my eye. And fear not, Mrs. Swinton will wait upon our table tonight so that we will not have the servants intruding upon us.”
“That seems ominous. Is there a particular reason why we shall have such an intimate tête-à-tête?”
“Only that I am a foolish old woman, and I wish to pretend for a short while that your father is merely away on business and might come walking through that door at any moment.”
“Egad! I hope he shall not. After being dead nearly ten years, I do not believe that seeing him arise from his grave would be a pleasant experience.”
“Dreadful boy! You know very well that is not what I meant.”
Darrius softened his expression and sat down at the other side of the table. “I do know, Mother. But I could not help but tease you a little. I have noticed that you enjoy a bit of levity in your conversations with Mrs. Swinton.”
“Oh, indeed I do! Such a relief it is to find someone with whom I can converse without being afraid that she might
hack up a toad or have her hair fall out due to our topic of conversation.”
“Hack up a toad? Mother, whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, you know,” Adelaide waved an airy hand. “Toadeaters. Cough up a toad. In shock, as it were.”
Darrius gave a brief bark of laughter. “Good heavens, Mother. If you are going to carry on like that, no wonder you do not want the servants attending on us. Goodness knows what sort of idea they might get.”
Adelaide leaned toward her son. “Exactly. But getting ideas is one of the things I wanted to speak to you about. It seems to me that I have perceived a growing coolness between you and Blanche.”
Darrius twiddled with his pickle fork for a moment, then laid it back down. “Mother, even though we were occasional playmates in childhood, I do not believe that Blanche and I have ever developed a great deal of warmth toward each other.”
Before I Was Yours, My Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 4
