“Ah!” Phyllis despaired, dropping her utensils in disgust. “What am I? The old witch? I’m the only one that cares, oh!” she began to weep horribly, letting anguished wails out through the dining room.
Neil stood up and gave a thrust of his head towards Betsey who led Kaitlin away, despite the child’s protests.
Mary-Anne had already begun to help Phyllis from her chair, coaxing her without words. Ruth came jogging up to help, and they brought Phyllis away, still sobbing uncontrollably.
Neil stood in the dining room, looking at the interrupted meal. Thomas came in and began to oversee the clearing of dishes. He and Neil exchanged sad glances.
“I’ll take brandy in my drawing room,” Neil said to him.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas said, following him out. As he left, he gave Oliver a look, as if to say, Don’t break anything.
Neil walked into the room, swinging his arms together in wide claps as a weak form of distraction.
“Your Grace,” Thomas said, entering with a bottle and glass on a tray. “Short or tall?”
“Tall, you know that.”
“Your Grace.” Thomas handed him the glass.
“What am I to do, Thomas?” Neil despaired. “She only grows worse! Nothing can be done! I’ve had every doctor between here and Edinburgh examine her, and all say the same. This is what becomes of us in old age. It hurts me, Thomas! I can do nothing for her!”
“I know, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “Such is the way with these things.”
“She thinks it is the year 1803, Thomas,” Neil said. “She thinks I am my father, and that a young me is going to go die in the war. What can I do? She has been insisting for days that we have to go see me off. What do I do with that?”
“You have already done much more than many others, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “It seems to help when you buy into her delusions.”
“For a time, until she finds another year to live in.”
“Well then, take her down to see you off.”
“She wants to see the royal navy haul a whole parade straight out of Whitehall and ferry them away. That is not a thing that I can make happen, Thomas.”
“She cannot see well, Your Grace.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Take her down to the shore, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “For a day or two, if she is well enough to travel. She will see the shadows of merchant ships and think she had seen you off.”
“The shore?” Neil had largely forgotten that he possessed a unique ability among the population of England. He could go where he wanted, when he wanted, and wherever he went, he never lacked for elegant accommodations. Such was the life of a duke, and he had avoided taking full advantage of it.
“Yes, Your Grace, that is my suggestion. But of course, you are free to make up your mind however you please.”
“The shore in late October?” Neil asked again, trying hard to realize that there was absolutely nothing to stop him from taking such a trip. “It will be all wind and rain and no sun. How can we go in that? You have seen the weather out of our windows.”
“You need only go for a day or two, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “Just so she feels she has had the full experience that she wants to relive. Then she will hopefully be satisfied.”
“Yet if we indulge her this, are we not committing to the re-enactment of all her delusions?”
“It is not so, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “She may well forget all about it anyway. It is simply something we have yet to try.”
“Yes, you may be right,” Neil muttered. Why not go? What was the worst that could come of it? A spell of rain? Nothing was stopping him except for himself, and he worked hard to acknowledged it. “The shore,” Neil mulled the thought over, chewing on it. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made, until he let out a great: “That’s it! Of course, why didn’t I think of it?” Neil shouted, excited. “What would I ever do without you, Thomas?”
“Well, Your Grace would struggle with his morning wardrobe at the very least.” Thomas smiled. “And perhaps his meals.”
“That would be an understatement, I think, Thomas,” Neil smiled widely at his valet. “I do not understand how anyone gets on without the likes of you around.” Neil took many things for granted having been raised the son and heir to a Duke, including the employment of a personal manservant. “You always seem to have the answer.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Thomas said, and Neil hoped that he felt truly appreciated. “It is my job.”
“For instance,” Neil said. “Whatever became of that old place that my Father bought when he returned from India, the one overlooking the beach.”
“Nothing, as far as I know, Your Grace,” Thomas said. “I believe it to still be fully furnished, although it will certainly be quite dusty. Nobody has been there for five years, save the groundskeeper, but he lives in a house nearby. Is he has done his job, he should not have disturbed the house at all.”
“Good,” said Neil. “Then we must leave as soon as possible, preparations provided.” He paced back and forth with an exciting step, clicking his heels on the tile floor. “Betsey must come to watch Kaitlin, and both Ruth and Emily to help Grandmother. We shall have to take two carriages! The thought of it! When was the last time I went to the shore, Thomas? Do you remember? I am not sure I can.”
“Seven years ago, Your Grace, if I recall correct.”
“I believe you,” Neil said, waving his hands. “I recall the beaches in Southern Portugal. They were unlike any shore I have seen in England.”
“You have been speaking more often of Portugal, Your Grace,” said Thomas. “Perhaps the memories do not disturb you as they once did?”
“Perhaps,” Neil said, not having taken a moment to think about it until then. “There is still horror there, Thomas, terrible things, yet I recall the land fondly. The mountains and beaches,” Neil trailed off momentarily losing himself to memories. “It was all very striking,” he said. “And I suppose its influence is not lost on me.”
“Perhaps Your Grace would consider a trip to Lisbon in the future?”
“Lisbon?” Neil blinked wide eyes at Thomas. The thought of traveling any distance of late had been daunting; the idea of traveling overseas to another nation was completely baffling. It just all seemed like so much to think about, to pay for, and to endure. “I had never thought about it. And perhaps for good reason,” Neil said, flashing back to a shattered retreat through the Pyrenees and the death of Sir John Moore. “The land is marred.”
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Thomas said, straightening his uniform. “I did not mean to offend.
“No, nonsense, Thomas,” Neil pined. “You have not offended. I just have not thought seriously on Portugal for many years. Regardless,” Neil switched his tone, trying to rally himself back into a state of energy.
“Come now, there is much to be done. A trip to the shore in October!”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Thomas said, rejoicing to see the Duke so exuberant about anything at all, especially the health of his ailing grandmother.
“The shore,” Neil echoed, standing straight and tall. He had nearly forgotten the smell of the sea air, or the cry of the gulls, or even the deafening sound of surf striking sand. The bright sand of Portuguese beaches washed through his mind, and he cracked a grin at his own memory; he ran to the water, stripping off his uniform alongside hundreds of soldiers, having finally reached the sea.
They had clawed their way, tooth and nail, out of Spain, across the winterized mountains, all the while being chased by French dragoons, harrying them while they slept.
His regiment sprinted down the dunes of sand, not caring about the temperature, and dove naked into the ocean, whooping and hollering at the resurgence of spirit — at being alive. He swam with them, laughing at their accomplishment, having survived the most disastrous British defeat since the siege of Yorktown. He had gotten them out of there, somehow, through sheer force of will, and
driven them past their breaking points, all to save their lives.
They started to chant then, all in unison, for their Major who had gotten them out of the mountains. “Arnold! Arnold! Arnold!” Neil smiled, laughed, threw back his hair, and rolled onto his back, floating blissfully in the Atlantic Ocean.
Neil was now standing tall in his drawing room, feeling the cold Atlantic on his skin, hearing the gleeful chanting of his battalion. He was Major Neil Arnold, The Duke of Rutland, and he was taking a trip to the shore.
Chapter 23
Thomas hurried through the long eastern hallway, picking up his feet distinctively to avoid scuffing the polished floor. He was doing everything in his power not to become frantic beneath the multitude of tasks that needed to be performed, but the stress of such an event was always trying on a man like Thomas.
Outfits needed arranging for each day they would be away. Best prepare three per day, for Phyllis, he considered. Hopefully, that will be enough to accommodate her.
The trunks had to come out of storage, and Thomas found them horribly dusty.
“Oliver!” he called down the hall.
“Yes, sir?” Oliver came scurrying at the sound of his name. He is turning out all right, after all, Thomas thought.
“These trunks must be cleaned — and thoroughly,” Thomas said. “Hurry now, we mean to leave tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Oliver said, moving to crouch down beside one of the larger, ornate trunks. The dust was noticeably thick and clung in layers to the end of Oliver’s finger. “How long since these were used?” He looked up at Thomas.
“Five years,” Thomas whisked. There used to be three more, but they had gone down with the carriage that dreadful night. “Hurry now! We must not delay!” Thomas clapped his hands, shaking himself free from the memory of Mr. Marton sprinting up the drive in a thunderstorm, hollering out about an accident. “Once you have them spotless, bring them round to the back staircase.”
“Yes sir,” Oliver said, shaking his head. “Five years of dust.” And he worked to clean the trunks with a rag.
Thomas left the young man to his task and pushed back the packing schedule in his mind to account for the time needed to clean the trunks.
“It should not take him more than an hour,” he said to himself, dashing back down the hall.
He walked purposefully through one of the doors leading to the garden, and then around to the carriage house where Mr. Marton was fussing with some leather straps against the side of the bridle.
“Mr. Thomas.” Mr. Marton grunted while ratcheting the strap into place. “What can I do for you?”
“You are preparing both post-chaises?” Thomas asked, nervously glancing around and seeing only one in front of him.
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Marton said. “Just like you asked.”
“Where is the other?” Thomas asked.
“Just in the back of the carriage house, sir,” Mr. Marton said with a bit of a sigh. “Where you wanted it for luggage.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Marton,” Thomas said, rubbing his hand over his face and catching a breath. “I feel so much anxiety about this trip. The Duke has not traveled, besides to London and back, in over five years. And when in the city he does nothing but wait to come home. Nothing should go awry, Mr. Marton, for if it does, I fear he will never leave the house again.”
“I know,” Mr. Marton said, facing Thomas and clapping him on the shoulder. “It will all go swimmingly. I sent some lads to make the house ready, as you asked.”
“Thank you,” Thomas said, looking the old groundskeeper in the eyes. Mr. Marton had been a part of the Rutland estate since before Thomas, but the two had known each other for a long time. “You have never let us down before. I do not know why I would fear it now.”
“Because you feel the full responsibility of this family,” Mr. Marton consoled him. “We’re all they have got. The fact is not lost on me. Ever since the Duke’s parents and wife were killed in that accident. That is the way of it, and you have done extremely well.”
Thomas was speechless at Mr. Marton’s high praise. It was rare for him to receive such a compliment, and when he did, it was odd to hear it from Mr. Marton. The old man was reasonably stoic, Thomas thought, and praise from him carried a great deal of weight.
“Thank you, Mr. Marton,” Thomas said, straightening his uniform jacket and wiping the single tear from his face. “Now I must be back to the house, for there is much to do.”
“Very well, Mr. Thomas.” Mr. Marton smiled back, and Thomas hurried away, again lifting his legs to avoid the muddy squelches of the garden walk.
Thomas rushed into the parlor, looking around frantically for Betsey. When he found her, he hailed her to halt and caught up to her with a red face. She was waddling down the hall with Kaitlin in front of her, her hands on the child’s shoulders.
“Mr. Thomas?” she inquired, glancing back down the hall.
“Hello, Thomas!” Kaitlin said gladly, and Thomas smiled at the joyful child.
“Hello, Lady Kaitlin,” he said to her, bowing his head. Then he turned to Betsey and asked, “Are her things prepared?”
“Of course, sir, stacked in on the spare bed for the trunks,” Betsey said, tucking a strand of Kaitlin’s hair back into place. “You just worry about the Duke, I’ve got the little lady,” she said.
“Who is the little lady?” Kaitlin asked, tilting her head back to stare at Betsey with an upside-down expression.
“Why, that’s you,” she cooed warmly. “Didn’t you know that?”
“Yes,” Kaitlin squealed, her smile lighting up the space. “I am the little lady!” and she endeavored to run down the hall at full speed, tearing away from Betsey’s grasp.
“She is a joy,” Thomas remarked, watching her duck away, her little shoes clicking on the floor with each short step.
“When she wants to be,” Betsey rebuked and jogged after the Duke’s daughter.
Thomas saw them off on their game of tag, cleverly spaced in between Kaitlin’s outfit selections for the journey, and her reading lessons. After he felt assured that Lady Kaitlin was entirely ready, he left to make up the Duke’s clothing.
He hopped over to the back staircase, tucked in between two walls off of the kitchens, and was delighted to find the assembly of trunks, cleaned and polished, sitting at the bottom of the stairs in neat stacks. Well done, Oliver, he thought, glancing at the kitchen clock. The boy had gotten it done in just twenty-three minutes.
Thomas called out for one of the kitchen servants to help him with the trunks, and they were carried upstairs to their respective rooms to be filled with clothes. Thomas spent a good amount of time appraising the Duke’s wardrobe and selected a number of items that befitted the shore, neatly packaging them in one very huge trunk with bronze clasps.
As he completed this task, great commotion sounded from the kitchens, and he rushed back down the back staircase, anticipating a terrible sight of untold destruction.
Instead, he found a celebration — all the servants congratulating each other on the first of the season’s smoked hogs coming out of the smokehouse. The massive side of pork had been laid out on the cutting table, and everyone stood around it glowing. Normally the further carving would be done at the butcher’s, but as it was the first hog, it had been brought into the house in celebration.
In the summer months, it was often too hot to kill a hog. Whatever meat was leftover would spoil in the heat before it could be properly preserved. So, when the fall came around, the first hogs were slaughtered, and much of their chosen remains were soaked in brine for days. The pork would then be rubbed down with a number of seasonings, and hung in the smokehouse for weeks, sometimes months.
Now, halfway into the month of October, the first of the winter meats were ready, and all marvelled at the sight of perfectly salt-crusted meat, radiating with the smell of the applewood smokehouse.
“Well done!” Thomas glowed at his kitchen team. “What a marvellous looking hog
!”
“Thank you, sir,” one of the servants said. “Came out alright, eh?”
“Alright indeed,” Thomas said, coming down the stairs to examine the side of pork. The smoky smell washed over him, and the aroma brought to his mind many memories of winter evenings, cutting into further pieces of roast, and feeling the nourishment of immaculately prepared pork.
“This is excellent,” Thomas said, clapping his hands. “Prepare a roast for tonight, perhaps the loin, and we shall take several to the shore. Have them wrapped and placed at the top of the larder.”
“Yes, sir,” the servant said, and the team began to go about their business, further dividing the meat, now ready to endure time on a shelf.
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