by Joan Smith
“I’ll just put on the kettle while you have a look around,” she said, and bustled off to the kitchen.
Cressida looked about the house, where the servants had been busy with turpentine and beeswax. The woodwork glowed. There was not a mote of dust to be seen anywhere. A quick tour showed her a lofty Blue Saloon with a view of the sea beyond the front windows, a dining room that would seat a dozen, a small library, and large study. She climbed the broad, stately staircase to discover eight handsome bedchambers. Every new elegance made her more determined to remove to the cozy little cottage.
She was tired of elegance; she wanted to rusticate like Marie Antoinette at the Petit Trianon, perhaps buy a cow and play at being a milkmaid. It seemed hard that such a simple request should be denied her when Lady Dauntry had promised her the cottage. She returned below when she heard a commotion in the hallway. Miss Wantage and Beau had arrived, the former pale and frowning, propped up by the latter.
Miss Wantage was that unfortunate creature, the poor relation. To add to her woes, she was an aging spinster. She made her home in Bath with Mrs. Barnstable, another cousin, but no one could endure her for twelve months of the year. For six months she was palmed off on anyone who would have her, in three-month leases. Cressida’s turn had come. It was either have her for the summer, or be lumbered with her in autumn for the little Season. Knowing that Miss Wantage was an ardent foe of any sort of entertainment, Cressida had opted for the summer.
It was a mystery how Miss Wantage, whose second claim to fame after her religiosity was that she never ate, had grown to such ample proportions. Her face was as wide as a platter. Her blue eyes bore the glow of the religious fanatic, and her lips the accompanying pinched look of disapproval. Her pale brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun and covered with a plain muslin cap. Adornment was abhorrent to the Lord, and certainly to Miss Wantage. Her blue cambric round gown had no ornament save a simple silver cross worn on a black shoelace.
“I am rattled to a heap,” she said weakly. “I should have gone with you in the phaeton after all, Cressie. At least I would have had fresh air, even if I had been blown to pieces by the wicked sea gales. Just show me to a litter or a truckle bed, and I shall lie down out of your way.”
Cressida accompanied her abovestairs. “I have put you in the Green Room,” Cressida said. “It is the best room and has a lovely view of the sea. I shall have Mrs. Armstrong bring you something to eat.”
“I could not eat a bite! You can send her up to me. Perhaps a bit of black tea and some toast, to settle my stomach. My, it is chilly in here!” she exclaimed, shivering. “Odd you did not have a fire laid, but there. You are young and healthy and would not have thought of it. Pay no heed to me.”
“I shall ask Mrs. Armstrong to light the fire while she is here.”
Miss Wantage felt the bed, found the feather tick lumpy, and when she had changed into her nightie (after first asking Cressida to just step outside for a moment) detected a wicked draft from the windows. “Perhaps if you would just close those dusty old window hangings, it will cut down on the wind,” she suggested, and climbed into bed, drawing the counterpane up to her chin.
Cressida finally escaped to return below to welcome Beau, after first sending Mrs. Armstrong up to Miss Wantage. Beau Montgomery was actually her first cousin, but he had spent summers at Tanglewood after his parents died and was like a young brother to her. Just down from Oxford, he was enjoying a summer of leisure before taking over his estate in Kent, close to Tanglewood.
Despite his long, lean build and interest in matters of toilette, he had no air of the aesthete. His ruddy complexion and bright eyes spoke of a love of the outdoors. The bane of his existence was a crown of golden curls. He wished for black hair, straight for choice, to lend him an air of diablerie. Looked like a dashed girl, with that curl forever tumbling over his forehead.
“This is the last time I undertake a trip with that whiner,” he said with great feeling. “We had to stop every mile while she settled her stomach. If it was not hartshorn, it was taking her medicine, which had a decided aroma of rum, I might add. If you want my opinion, it was the macaroons she never stopped eating that was turning her stomach.”
“She is a sad trial to be sure, but never mind.”
“I say, Sid, this is something like!” he exclaimed, looking out at the marbled hallway and around the Blue Saloon. “I was afraid the cottage you kept prating of would be a dumpy, moldy little place.”
“This is not where we are staying, Beau,” she said.
“Let us have tea and you can tell me all about it,” he said as Mrs. Armstrong came through little door bearing a loaded silver tray. The tantalizing aroma of fresh gingerbread rose from the tray.
“I have sent Jennet up to deal with your cousin,” Tory informed Cressida.
Cressida discovered that the drive had given her an appetite, and enjoyed a good tea, starting with hot buns, clotted cream, and strawberries, and working her way through to the gingerbread.
“How did you find this place?” Cressida asked Beau.
“I went to the castle. Lord Dauntry directed me here.”
Cressida put down her teacup with a clatter. “Lord Dauntry? What was he doing there?”
“Your wits are gone begging, my girl. He owns the place.”
“But he said he had to leave at once for a meeting of the parish council. He could not even wait to accompany me here.”
“He must have got back sooner than he expected.”
“There has not been time. He never left. He was lying to me. There is something strange going on here, Beau. He said the little cottage I want is falling apart. I stopped there. It is in perfect repair, and with such a sweet little iron table and chairs on the balcony.”
“You are better off here, if you want my opinion. A dashed bargain. The place is a toy castle.”
“I don’t want a castle!” she said petulantly. “I want the cottage—and I mean to get it.”
“Well, if that ain’t just like you, Sid, wanting what you can’t have. You are becoming spoiled in your old age. All the attention you have been getting in London is going to your head. That is half your trouble. Why, we shall be merry as grigs here. The Sea Dog is on her way. Before the week is out we shall be out on the bounding main. I’ll teach you to sail.”
This was something to look forward to. Cressida knew she would not find any cottage to suit her better so late in the season, and had decided to remain at the dower house—until she removed to the Swiss cottage.
“Have you decided how many of your servants you’ll need?” he asked. “Muffet is fighting it out in the kitchen now with Mrs. Armstrong.”
Muffet was Lady deCourcy’s butler, and in a pinch, general factotum. It had been decided that he was the only servant who would accompany Cressida to the cottage. Miss Wantage insisted she would act as lady’s maid, for she liked to make herself useful. Lady Dauntry had offered the service of a few servants who were familiar with the ways of the cottage, its stove, washing dolly, et cetera.
“Mrs. Armstrong seems capable. I believe I shall leave my housekeeper at Tanglewood to keep an eye on things there. She will need the maids, as there will be a deal of dust and muss with the repairs going forth.” And when she removed to the smaller cottage, she would need fewer servants.
“Let us go and settle in, then. I want a ride to look over the place before dinner.”
“Ride past the cottage and see if there is anyone about,” Cressida said. “I saw a man there earlier. Lord Dauntry said it is not occupied. I should like to know what a bottle of wine and two glasses were doing on the table.”
Beau left and Lady deCourcy went abovestairs to speak to Miss Wantage. She found her propped up in the bed with a fully loaded tea tray before her. Miss Wantage hastily drew the sandwich she had been devouring under the coverlet and sighed.
“I feel I owe it to you to try to eat a bite to build up my strength,” she said. “I wonder if you would just bring t
hat water basin by my bedside, in case I cast up my accounts. I fear I am a notoriously poor traveler. The faintest jarring of the coach upsets my stomach. But I will be better in a day or two, Cressie. Just leave me in peace and quiet. Who is to get out your night things, I’m sure I don’t know, for the girl who brought up this tray is as close to an idiot as makes no difference. And you accustomed to so much waiting on. You will have to send to Tanglewood for staff.”
“I can manage, Miss Wantage. Just rest. Is there anything else you would like while I am here?”
“Nothing for the moment, dear. Just toast and tea at bedtime. I shall call this little snack tea and dinner.”
“I shall let you get some rest, then.”
“Oh, rest! Small chance of that. I can still feel the wheels of your carriage moving under me. Beau would encourage John Groom to set a reckless pace. But there, we were all young once.”
Cressida escaped to her own room, where she found a mouse of a girl in a mobcap and white apron unpacking her trunks. “Tory told me to do for you until your woman is up and about,” she said apologetically.
“Thank you. What is your name, my dear?”
“Jennet.”
“Is that your first or last name?”
“Yes, milady.”
“I beg your pardon?” Cressida said in confusion.
“Just Jennet, first and last. That’s all they call me.”
Miss Wantage usually exaggerated to no small degree, but it seemed that in the case of Jennet, she was telling the truth. Jennet was a simpleton. “What is your papa’s name?”
“I don’t have no pa, nor never had. My ma’s name is Mary. She’s upstairs maid at the big house.”
“Mary Jennet?”
“Yes, milady. And I’m Jennet.”
“I see. Well, I shall wear that jonquil gown for dinner this evening, just Jennet.”
“That’d be the yaller one, milady?”
“Yes.”
There seemed no point quizzing such a witless girl about the cottage, so Cressida went below to speak to Muffet. His usual slug-like complexion had deepened to livid with frustration.
“She has barred me from my own kitchen!” he declared, then, recalling to whom he was speaking, apologized. “Pardon me, missy, but it is more than humankind can bear, to be spoken to in such a way by a servant.”
Muffet had been deCourcy’s butler so long that he considered himself one of the family. He never could remember to call his mistress “milady,” but continued to address her as missy, as he had in years gone by.
“You are referring to Mrs. Armstrong, I take it? What, exactly, is the trouble?” Cressida asked.
“I asked to see the silver; she said it had been polished well enough to please Lord Dauntry, and she didn’t need checking up on, thank you very much. She was chopping up carrots. I told her you had a particular aversion to carrots. ‘She’ll like mine,’ the hussy said. We must send for Mrs. Hammond at once, for we’ll have no peace from that harpy.”
“Oh, dear, could you not get along with her, Muffet? It is only for the summer. You know I want Mrs. Hammond to remain at Tanglewood to look after things there.”
“Then you must speak to her, missy, and let her know who is in charge here.”
"Yes, it might be best to get it settled in the beginning,” Cressida said, and rang for Mrs. Armstrong.
Before long, her red face and white hair appeared at the door of the saloon. “You wanted me, milady?” she asked, sparks flashing in her blue eyes.
“Yes, Mrs. Armstrong.”
“I’m called Tory, milady. Everyone calls me Tory.”
“Tory. We seem to have a little problem here.” Cressida had been virtually in charge of running Tanglewood since she was in her teens, and had learned a little something about handling recalcitrant servants. She would try oil first, and if that did not work, then she would issue a decree.
“Muffet has been with me forever. You know how old retainers become set in their ways,” she said, smiling and inviting her listener’s understanding.
“Croker never had to check up on the silverware at the castle.”
“What was your position there, Tory?” she asked pleasantly.
“I was in charge of the entire upstairs—eighty bedrooms, with a dozen girls under me.”
“I see, a very responsible position. The next step up would be housekeeper. This summer will be good practice for you. Getting along with the butler is a very important part of housekeeping.”
Tory’s blue eyes looked sharp at this news. “If it’s about them carrots—”
“Muffet is only looking out for my welfare. Between us, we shall keep the peace, eh, Tory?” She gave a conspiratorial smile.
Tory thought a moment, then said, “I’ll give him the keys to the wine cellar. Her ladyship—-Lady Dauntry—said you must use what is in the cellar here until you make arrangements for yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, about your groceries, milady. I hope old Muffet won’t be trying to tell me where to buy them, and me born and bred here on the coast.”
“Muffet does not interfere with the meals. You and I shall handle that. We shall meet each morning after breakfast to decide on menus. I quite depend on you to tell me where the best food and bargains are to be had.”
“Just ring for me whenever you’re ready, milady. And if you’ve any fault to find with how I run things, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me yourself, and not old Muffet.”
“That is my custom.”
Cressida saw that from henceforth Muffet would be known as Old Muffet. She foresaw plentiful rows to come, but for the moment she wanted only a glass of Lady Dauntry’s sherry to calm her nerves.
“What time will you be wanting your dinner, then, and how many of you will there be?” Tory asked before leaving.
“Just two of us. Miss Wantage is not feeling well enough to come down. We dine at seven-thirty.”
Tory’s face puckered in dissatisfaction. “They dine at seven at the castle. I put the roast in—”
“Seven this evening, then, and in future, seven-thirty.”
“I’ll make a note of it, milady.”
Tory bustled out, feeling she had got the better of that round. Cressida sighed and poured herself a glass of sherry, for she did not feel like facing Muffet again so soon.
Chapter Three
The carrots were not served at dinner. Asparagus and peas took their place. Cressida read this as a sign of Tory’s eagerness to please and made a mental note to thank her in the morning. With a long evening to be got in, Beau decided to give Cressida her first lesson in sailing. Within an hour her head was reeling with unaccustomed jargon. Beau spoke of “luffing” and “tacking” and “wind on her beam” and something called the “Beaufort scale,” which appeared to feature largely in this sport. He drew little sketches of the Sea Dog, fully rigged, with arrows denoting the wind coming at it from various directions, and other twisting arrows showing how each sail should be set.
“You want a light trysail, for a heavy one will be impossible to handle during a gale, with your storm jib tossing about,” he said, tapping one of the sails on his drawing.
“Perhaps I shall buy a rowboat or have a canoe sent from America,” Cressida said.
“You will get the hang of it in no time,” Beau assured her. “If I can do it, anyone can. I hardly ever tip her nowadays. Of course, you must learn to swim before we go out, for there is no counting on a cork jacket to get you to shore if a howler should capsize us in mid-Channel. We might drift about for days,” he said merrily.
This ominous speech quite determined Cressida that she would buy a good wide rowboat. But she was interested in learning to swim. She had her costume already made up, and with the privacy the cove provided, she need not fear being watched.
She was about to suggest a game of cards when the door knocker sounded. Although she would not have admitted it for a wilderness of monkeys, the knock was music to her
ears. There was such a thing as too much solitude. Her spirits were further improved when she recognized the firm accents of Lord Dauntry in the hallway. Perhaps he had come to give her the cottage!
Her smile could not have been more charming when he was shown in. Cressida observed the exquisite tailoring of his jacket and the broad shoulders beneath it, the intricacy of his immaculate cravat, and noticed how becomingly even a small smile softened the severity of his visage.
Dauntry stopped a moment at the doorway, impressed in spite of himself by the baroness. Cressida, as he thought of her, really was a charmer. Society’s spoiled darling looked most alluring with that tousle of crow black curls caressing her cheek and her green eyes glowing with pleasure. Even in the country, she was turned out in the highest kick of fashion, in a jonquil gown that reflected a golden glow on her ivory complexion. He mentally preened himself at her joy in seeing him. He had expected pouts and sulks, and he’d intended to tease the baroness a little.
He made his bows and was shown a seat. “We were just about to have tea,” she said, pulling the bell chord to summon Muffet. “Beau has been telling me all about the Beaufort scale.”
“Three cheers for Admiral Beaufort,” Dauntry replied, apparently familiar with the scale. “I don’t know what we did before Frank analyzed the wind velocity for us. He deserves a medal. Do you sail, ma’am?”
“I am learning,” she said. She was not one to make little of her accomplishments.
Beau did that for her. “I am trying to teach her. Ladies don’t seem to have the knack for it. Sid threatens to send off to America for a canoe.”