by Rose Lerner
He smiled, startled and a little amused, as if he’d assumed she saw her home as a noplace too. Why, she knew a dozen girls who’d come up to Lively St. Lemeston from the countryside, and opened their eyes as wide to see a ball at the Assembly Rooms as Sukey would at ships sailing up the Thames.
“You’re a snob,” she said. “But I forgive you. You couldn’t help it, growing up in a grand house like Tassell Hall.”
“Likely not,” he agreed. “Very well, last month I saw an English opera about fairies, adapted from one of Shakespeare’s plays.” It wasn’t easy, but she did get him to talk, at length with genuine enjoyment. Lightning flared outside, the thunder lagging behind by several seconds now. For the first time today, Sukey felt only the excitement of a thunderstorm when you were safe inside, the small thrill of uncontrollable power, no different than the blacksmiths firing their anvils.
* * *
John hadn’t forgotten Sukey’s story about the clinker through Mrs. Humphrey’s window. When he heard drunken caterwauling in the back garden that evening, and drunken pounding on the kitchen door, he hurried downstairs to make sure there was nothing dangerous about this little St. Clement’s Day procession. It would be easy enough to find an excuse for crossing the street and ensuring no one offered Sukey any disrespect.
But what he saw reassured him. The two blacksmiths—one of whom was a stout widow woman of fifty—and their journeymen, children, apprentices, and assorted grubby assistants appeared boisterously drunk but well disposed towards their fellow men, not inclined to take liberties with person or property.
Therefore, after they trooped out of the kitchen, John went to a nearby cookshop and purchased two bottles of wine. These and a glass he carried upstairs, intending to get drunk—and perhaps imagine a more agreeable sequel to Sukey in his lap than her taking refuge across the barn from his awkward erection. He hoped he hadn’t frightened her.
Surely not. For the space of a moment last Friday, she’d thought to give him her virginity in the kitchen. Christ, he wanted to take it. He wanted her to trust him with it, when she’d trusted no one else.
She wasn’t careless or fearless; he’d learned that today. She was only full of bravado, and if she talked him out of his objections with a saucy tilt of her head, it would mean she’d weighed the risk and thought it worth her while. He yearned to bring her to such a pitch of desire that she demanded he deflower her, that she swore never to regret it.
She hadn’t thought him worth the risk yet. Why should she ever? John drove in the corkscrew with a savage twist, yanking the cork free and pouring himself a glass with such haste that wine spattered his cuff.
Abashed, he set the glass down without tasting it. Wine should be allowed to take flavor from the air. He could wait a quarter of an hour to be drunk.
Suddenly he was annoyed, that in lieu of such cheerfully bawdy imaginings as filled engravings discreetly bought in printing offices—the sort he had entertained about Miss Grimes just a week ago—she had somehow inspired in him this brutal yearning. The moon gazed in the window, pale and sad and very, very far away.
He gulped a mouthful of wine and shut his eyes, resolutely conjuring the memory of her slight, maddening body curled against his. He reached down for his already stirring cock, ready to make believe his own hand was hers.
Footsteps rang on the stairs. Heavy, booted footsteps. What the devil? And damn, damn, damn.
John crossed to the door and opened it, shocked when the boots turned a corner and revealed themselves to be carrying Stephen Dymond, Lord Lenfield, up the stairs two at a time.
His lordship broke into a smile. “It’s good to clap eyes on you, Toogood. I hope I’m not in the way.” His pause was no stratagem. If John said he was, he would turn and leave again with no hard feelings.
“Naturally not, Lord Lenfield. May I offer you a glass of wine?”
Lenfield’s eyes lingered on the two bottles, unfortunately the one thing in the room clearly illuminated by the candle beside them. “You’re sure you’re not expecting guests?”
John kept his face blank. Of all the people he would have preferred not to see him preparing for maudlin drunkenness, Lord Lenfield topped the list. “I only just returned from the Full Pot, my lord.”
Lenfield sprawled into the only chair. “In that case, I could use a drink.” He ran a hand through his hair. It was a habit John deplored, the primary reason he had always kept his master’s hair cropped short, so it could not be too far disarranged. His hands itched to fetch a comb and bring order out of chaos, but he wasn’t Lord Lenfield’s valet any longer.
He fetched a clean mug instead and poured wine into it. “It is not quite orthodox, my lord, but it will do for this vintage.”
Lord Lenfield swirled the mug anyway, sniffing it absentmindedly. Then he gulped it down without tasting it. “Thank you, Toogood. How do you do?” His eyes bored into John’s, full of the concentrated Dymond concern that, liberally aided by their wealth, had made his family patrons of a good part of West Sussex.
“Very well, my lord. And yourself?”
He leaned back in the chair, helping himself to another mug of wine. “Oh, Mama’s on a rampage. Not that I blame her. I’ve spent all day trying to make Nick see that you can’t simply stop speaking to your mother because she vexes you, and he—well, he’s being Nick.”
John was glad he was not expected to express an opinion. While he himself would certainly never give his father—who could rival Lady Tassell for vexatiousness—the cut direct, he was disturbed at his own lack of censure for Mr. Dymond’s behavior. He detected, even, a hint of envious admiration within his breast of which he was decidedly not proud.
“It’s going to be a grim Christmas without Nick or Tony. I thought this year, with Nick back from Spain…” Lenfield sighed, his blue eyes fixing on John again. “I’m damned sorry you’ve been caught up in this mess. I’d hire you back if she were merely angry, but her heart’s broken. I want her to know I’ll stand by her. It’s hard on you. Hard on me too. I was looking forward to having beautiful linen again when Nick was back on his feet.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. John knew he was conscience stricken. Dymond concern, as far as it went, was genuine.
“I was not wholly surprised by this turn of events,” John said gently. “I shall manage.”
Lenfield’s mouth formed a thin, tight line. “Once again, Nick considers no one but himself.”
“Perhaps he was considering Mrs. Dymond.”
Lenfield tapped his fingers on his mug and then, unexpectedly, laughed. “I never took you for a romantic, Toogood.”
Mere silence, when being teased, would be interpreted as affront. John made a slight show of amusement. What an incongruous notion! I, a romantic!
“You might have saved yourself a lot of trouble by writing to my mother to warn her of Nick’s infatuation.”
John nearly asked, Would you have? He honestly didn’t know. The way Lord Lenfield managed his mother was complex. But a lifetime’s habit prevailed, of silence whenever possible before a Dymond.
“Whatever Mother says, it does your loyalty credit.” Lord Lenfield’s mouth quirked up. “If not your common sense.”
John did not quite like the idea of his actions being taken for those of a—loyal retainer, as Sukey called it. He had merely kept his own counsel, as was every man’s right. Growing up as the butler’s son at Tassell Hall and finding his friends among his father’s underlings, John had learned early to shrink from any appearance of tale-telling.
As a young footman, he had worked closely with his parents, as Lord Lenfield did with his, and been continually obliged to weigh his loyalties and what he ought to divulge to whom. His father had wanted him to continue on at home and one day succeed him as butler, but unlike Lord Lenfield, John had declined to fall in with his parents’ wishes for his future. Now his loyalties were his own affair, and h
e liked it that way. Lady Tassell controlled his wages, but that did not make his conscience her property.
Lady Tassell hadn’t lived with Mr. Dymond in London. She hadn’t woken her son, cooked his breakfast and placed it within easy reach when he could barely summon the will to sit up in bed and read a book. She hadn’t made sure to leave the lid off the chocolate pot so the smell wafted to him. She hadn’t coaxed him to shave, changed his dressings, or laid hot and cold compresses on his wounded thigh. She hadn’t taken off his boots, pretending not to notice it was an agony to him because the poor boy’s pride couldn’t have borne that. Neither had Lord Lenfield, for that matter. John had.
For months Mr. Dymond hadn’t wanted anything but to be left alone. Until he met that impoverished widow.
“Thank you, sir,” he said at last, and left it there.
“I did ask around the town after employment for you. Unfortunately I don’t think many people leave their posts this time of year. The vicar is in need of a new butler, but he was adamant that only a married man would do.”
“Mr. Summers, my lord? I was not aware he supported the Tassell interest.”
“No, he’s been a Tory all his life. But I think he’s softened in his old age. He was loyal as a rock to Lord Wheatcroft, but now that Wheatcroft’s in the ground, he was quite ready to be friendly.”
The vicarage was a handsome, modern house of brick with white trim, and John had always liked Mr. Summers despite his Toryism. His sermons, while making little effort to be profound, were consistently both entertaining and full of good sense, which rendered them remarkable in John’s experience.
Mr. Summers was old, and when the living fell, a new vicar might want new servants, but until then the position would likely be a secure one. A steady, quiet one too, with a modest staff and no traveling. No more sleeping on cots in dressing rooms or pallets on hotel floors.
John had never wanted to be a butler, but a small house was different from a great one. There could not be more than five or six servants in all. How much more difficult than valeting could it be?
He was seized with a desire to manage that neat brick house, akin to the senseless but overwhelming lust inspired by a beautiful object in a shop window. “I take it he requires a new housekeeper as well? I could inquire among my own acquaintance.”
Lord Lenfield shook his head. “No, he specifically wants a married fellow. I gathered the previous incumbent was turned off for persecuting the poor maidservants, and he hopes a staid paterfamilias will suit better.”
“Did he say how much the position pays, my lord?”
His lordship frowned. “Forty pounds per annum, I believe. Why, Toogood? Have you been hiding a wife?”
John smiled. “No, my lord.”
Lord Lenfield chewed at his lip, hesitating. As John had refrained for four years from remarking on his master’s uncharacteristic dithering at the mirror before a certain political salon—a connection, by the by, of which Lady Tassell would decidedly disapprove—it was only justice when his lordship did not pry. “Well, you might pay the Reverend Mr. Summers a visit and have a go at talking him round yourself. Meeting you ought to make further recommendation superfluous, but I’ve written you a reference. If you really want the position, you may tell Summers I should be grateful to him for considering you.”
This, from one of the acknowledged patrons of the town, was a promise of great practical value. John bowed his thanks. Lenfield fished two sealed letters out of his pocket and laid them on the table. “The other is from your mother.”
“Thank you, my lord. Was she well when last you saw her?”
“Quite well.” Lord Lenfield pushed himself to his feet. “Your father…”
John’s heart raced unpleasantly. He knew his father must be ashamed and angry at John’s disgrace. “Yes, my lord?”
“He’s growing forgetful and irritable,” Lenfield said at last, reluctantly.
John swallowed. Such a decline would be so hard on his father’s pride. “I see.”
Lord Lenfield paid minute attention to the fall of his greatcoat sleeves over his gloves. “I thought you ought to know.” A button on one cuff dangled loose. John shut his mouth tight and said nothing.
He didn’t see what he could do. He couldn’t make his father younger—or make him do anything else, for that matter.
“If you wished to visit him, I would help you to arrange it when my mother is from home.”
Oh. Of course. Visit him.
He could imagine his father’s mortified fury at having to sneak his son in and out of his beloved mistress’s house when her back was turned. “Thank you, my lord. That is very kind of you.”
“Well, I shan’t impose on you any longer.” The loose button wobbled as Lord Lenfield held out his hand. “You know where to find me. Should you be looking for a position again in future, please write. Mother’s too fair-minded to hold a grudge forever.”
John thought the odds were even on that question. But he gave a small, warm smile back and shook his former employer’s hand.
Chapter Five
The back door to the vicarage was opened by a woman of about thirty, who introduced herself with a faint, unfamiliar accent as Nora Khaleel, the cook. She was tall and very pretty, with large dark eyes, warm brown skin, and a commanding nose. When John explained that he had come to inquire after the butler’s position, her friendliness turned wary. “And is your wife with you, sir?”
“I am a bachelor, madam.” John tried to sound deferential but firm.
Her mouth set.
The previous butler had treated the female servants ill, Lord Lenfield said. How ill? It wasn’t pleasant to know she was looking him over for signs of depravity, but he supposed it was still less pleasant for her.
“Larry,” she called over her shoulder. Leaning against the jamb, she watched him in silence, waiting until he was safely under the eye of another servant. John silently commended her care for the security of the house. In the absence of a butler, management of the household must fall to her, as Mr. Summers kept no housekeeper. He would have liked a glimpse of the kitchen, to see if she kept it clean.
Presently a heavyset footman poked his head in, wig askew. “Yes, Mrs. Khaleel?” The youth—blond, to judge by his eyebrows—would not have found employment in a grander house, being a few inches under six feet, but with his breadth he made an impressive sight in rose-and-gray livery. The gold facings might be dull and the silk stockings spotted, but those were minor infractions. And he spoke respectfully to the cook, addressing her properly as “Mrs.” as befitted her position.
“Mr. Toogood, this is Larry, our footman. Larry, kindly escort Mr. Toogood upstairs and inform Mr. Summers that he is here to inquire after the position of butler.”
Larry frowned. “Where’s his wife?” He looked at John as he said it, with nearly a glare. Protective of the female staff; a point in his favor.
Mrs. Khaleel raised her eyebrows. “That’s for him to discuss with Mr. Summers.”
Ducking his head, chastened, Larry realized his wig was loose and hastily straightened it. “Sorry, ma’am. If you’ll follow me, sir.”
The hallway to Mr. Summers’s study supported the conclusion John had already formed: the servants here did their work just well enough. Everything was clean and in good condition, but like the scratched heels of Larry’s buckled shoes, it could use a good polish. There were more servants than strictly necessary in a household of this size—not unusual in the homes of widowers with married children—and that bred laxity.
That was promising. There was something for him to do, and as yet he had met no one with whom he would dislike to share a household. In fact, he found himself taking a liking to Mrs. Khaleel’s shrewd gaze and Larry’s goodwill.
It was a snug, comfortable house. Even the churchyard a stone’s throw from the door seemed…like a home, remindin
g him how long people had looked to this house for help and guidance. John’s senseless lust for this position was only growing. He tried to rein it in, reminding himself that first impressions often lied. Perhaps he was overlooking the telltale signs of discord, cold drafts and mildewed cellars.
He did see dust and scratched, dull wood in the study, but as Mr. Summers’s papers and belongings were scattered everywhere, the servants were likely not to blame. The vicar himself bent over his blotter, scribbling away with great crossings-out and mutterings to himself. But when Larry gave him John’s card, he took off his round glasses and straightened with a welcoming smile. “Ah, yes, Lord Lenfield’s valet. Thank you, Larry, that will do.”
John had never seen the vicar so near. He was perhaps seventy years of age, thin lipped, the skin around his deep-set eyes faintly purple. With the silver hair that remained to him cropped so close that John was impressed at his barber’s skill, he resembled nothing so much as grinning Death in an allegory, wearing the same expression of shrewd cynicism and good humor.
John liked him at once. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Summers. Your preaching is remarkable.”
The vicar folded his hands. “You flatter me, but I thank you,” he said with a hint of a smile. “Lord Lenfield recommended you very high, but as he must have told you, I have determined to hire a married man. I regret to have wasted your time.”
No. This interview could not be over so soon. “A married man may be a rogue as well as a bachelor, sir,” John pointed out, with all the sincere respect at his command.
“Mm.” The cavernous eyes crinkled. “But I find that nothing illuminates a man’s character so effectively as observing him with his wife.”
“Very wise, sir.” John, momentarily distracted by guessing what strangers would think of his father after watching him with Mrs. Toogood, searched for arguments that wouldn’t reveal that Lord Lenfield had shared details of Mr. Summers’s domestic affairs.