“Did you know that Jolie predicted the thunder?” Leigh asked, nervously twisting the ribbons of her bonnet as she held it in front of her.
“Always does,” Stephen replied, unimpressed by Jolie’s omniscience.
“She said it was angry spirits,” Leigh added, watching him closely.
Stephen snorted. “More likely she felt it in her big toe. It’s been achin’ her somethin’ fierce of late.”
Leigh frowned. “You really think so?” she murmured, breathing easier.
“Now, Miss Leigh, what’re you goin’ to eat fer breakfast?” Stephen asked, his thoughts returning to more important details as he held out a chair for her at the long mahogany table and patted the green satin seat encouragingly.
“I just want a muffin, or one of these sweet rolls,” Leigh replied, reaching out for one of the flaky caramel pecan pastries piled high in a silver basket in the center of the table. She was more worried about what had happened to the buckskins than what she would eat for breakfast. Jolie had told her last night that she would hang them up in the kitchens, close to the hearth so they would dry faster. She had to retrieve them before anyone else saw them, and then get out to the stables before her mother and Jolie returned to the big house.
“Now, Miss Leigh, you know I’m not goin’ to let you leave this house till you’ve eaten a proper breakfast. What would Miss Beatrice Amelia say? An’ my papa? Mon Dieu! That’s what he’d say if he was alive today, Miss Leigh, an’ I don’t want to disturb his restin’ peaceful. An’ I know if I let you sashay out of here with a couple of sweet rolls you’d be feedin’ those two beasts of yers instead. An’ don’t look at me like that with those big blue eyes, Miss Leigh, ’cause I’ve already seen you swipe two apples from the table when you thought I wasn’t lookin’. Took me near an hour to arrange that so pretty like,” he mildly rebuked her as he stared at the silver epergne with its lovely arrangement of fruit.
“You’ve been playin’ possum, Stephen, but you’re as wily as a fox. And you haven’t slowed down that much yet that you can’t still catch me,” Leigh said with a laugh, for she and Stephen had been playing their sleight of hand game since she’d been a child.
“It’s not that I’m fast, Miss Leigh, I’m just experienced where this family is concerned,” he said, his eyes crinkling around the corners when he smiled.
Taking the two apples out of her pocket, Leigh shined them on her skirt before she replaced them. Unfortunately, she knocked a couple of cherries onto the fine damask tablecloth when she tried to squeeze the apples into the silver dish already crowded with bright red strawberries. But she quickly caught the errant cherries before they rolled onto the rug and tucked them in beside a clump of dewy grapes artistically draped to dangle just above a grouping of blushing peaches and dark purple plums that were arranged around a pineapple in the center.
Stephen stood silent for a moment, then nodded as he angled the grapes in his masterpiece more to his satisfaction. “Now, we’ve got some nice baked eggs, just the way Miss Althea loves them with her buttered toast an’ marmalade. I don’t know, but I’ve been thinkin’ she doesn’t have too much of an appetite in the mornin’s anymore, so maybe she’s goin’ to give Mister Nathan a son this time. Been real worried, her not givin’ him more than one child. One of these days real soon they might be movin’ back to Royal Bay. Doesn’t seem to me that Mister Noble is his ol’ self anymore. Came callin’ the other day in a carriage, Miss Leigh,” he said, shaking his head. “Could just as easily have been a hearse the way Mister Noble was sittin’ there all stiff like. Never thought he’d get himself down out of that carriage, what with Miss Effie tryin’ to help an’ pushin’ him first this way an’ then the other way an’ cluckin’ over him like a mother hen. An’ I don’t see those folks of his gettin’ that Mister Adam to do anything proper when the time comes.
“You like yer eggs scrambled nice an’ fluffy, Miss Leigh, so we have them that way. An’ we’ve apple fritters, fried potatoes, an’ bacon slices fer Mister Guy. He’ll be hungry ’cause he’s been talkin’ ’bout ridin’ over to the Canbys, though, he just might be walkin’ this mornin’ so we’d better fill that boy up. Those Canbys, ’specially one in particular, will be pleased to see him even if he is all hot an’ dusty,” Stephen predicted with a wide grin as he imagined the young gentleman giving his short legs a little stretch down the road.
Leigh shook her head in disgust. “I just hope Guy is smarter than he acts at times. He always manages to worm his way out of trouble. But if he thinks he can sweet-talk one of the Canbys and not get caught, with the rest of the Canbys falling over each other listening outside the parlor door, then he’s more of a fool than we all think he is. One of these days he is going to meet his match, and then the lady he’s been smiling so sweetly at and making promises to that he has no intention of keeping will have his ring on her finger and one through his nose. Or she might even have the intelligence to have nothing to do with my handsome, insensitive brother. He thinks he can have any girl in the county eating out of the palm of his hand, then slap her away when she becomes too demanding. It would certainly destroy his self-esteem to be spurned by the lady of his affections. But until then, it wouldn’t hurt if he had longer legs, then he could outrun Sarette Canby, because she won’t lose her chance to catch Guy.”
“That Miss Sarette sure is a mighty healthy lookin’ young miss. Bet she puts away a real good breakfast each mornin’,” Stephen said.
“I just hope you won’t have to serve her breakfast each morning, and I won’t have to sit across the breakfast table from a sister-in-law I detest, and who detests me even more. She has probably already packed her bags, ready to move into Travers Hill, now that Stuart James has Willow Creek and Papa is hoping Guy will want to run the farm. She’d have poor Mama and Papa off visiting distant relatives in England. And since I am unwed, she would have me working my fingers to the bone doing all of the sewing for her menfolk. And she would probably try to marry poor little Lucy off to that brother of hers. She knows I’ll have nothing to do with him. I’ve never seen anyone sit a horse as poorly as John Roy. And I’ve never seen Sarette on horseback at all. She sits over there at Evergreens like a fat tabby, just waiting to sink her claws into Guy, and other unsuspecting folk.”
“There’s no Canbys, nor other folk, ’ceptin’ fer the Braedons, good enough fer the Travers family,” Stephen said, and they both knew he included Stuart James’s wife, Thisbe, among those not so privileged.
“I suspect there aren’t enough good folk left who’d dare take on the whole family,” Leigh retorted, thinking of the wild stories that went the rounds at every racing meet, barbecue, and fish fry about what Stuart Travers and his family had outraged the county by doing this time.
“I have no worries as long as Jolie is here watchin’ out fer this family. Nothin’s goin’ to happen that shouldn’t. Leastways, it’s not goin’ to be something I’m expectin’, since I know this family an’ how to keep most of them out of trouble,” Stephen said with a warning glint in his eye.
“Now, we’ve got some fried oysters an’ spoon bread here fer Mister Nathan,” he said, lifting the lid to another chafing dish. “Said he wanted to ride out with Mister Stuart to the sawmill this mornin’. How about some of this panfried ham an’ redeye gravy, just the way yer papa likes it. I’ll fix you up a plate of it, Miss Leigh, with a little helpin’ of grits, pipin’ hot, an’ some biscuits fer soppin’. Hmmm, fergot the mint,” he said with a startled expression on his face. “I’ve never done that before,” he muttered. “Better get some before Mister Stuart gets up. He does like my juleps, an’ if he’s got to ride out this mornin’ he’ll be needin’ somethin’ coolin’. Sun’s hardly shown his ol’ face an’ it’s already hotter ’n yesterday noon. Made up a batch of punch earlier, but I better bring up another couple of bottles of brandy from the cellar, ’cause Mister Nathan said Mister Adam might ride over to escort them back to Royal Bay, an’ he might have some of his gentlemen
friends with him,” Stephen added as an afterthought as he eyed the crystal decanters of wine, Madeira, sack, and stronger spirits that were grouped together at one end of the sideboard. A big silver coffeepot and teapot on a matching silver tray, a hot water jug on a lampstand, a short, stocky porcelain pot for hot chocolate, and stacks of cups and saucers were crowded together at the other end of the sideboard.
“Now, I know you like waffles, just like Miss Lucy. An’ I’ve some maple syrup fer you, ’cause you don’t like that sorghum. Colonel Leigh always had sorghum on his biscuits. He was a good man, yer gran’papa. Real glad he let ol’ Jolie come out to Travers Hill with me. How ’bout some blueberry batter cakes? Jolie said we have to have them fer Miss Noelle. That sweet little gal does like them so. Jolie was fit to be tied, ’cause yer mama didn’t have time to eat any of this omelette. It’s plumb full of mushrooms, with plenty of that spicy sauce on it. It was yer Gran’mama Leigh’s favorite. She was a fine lady. Never heard her raise her voice even once. Not even when the colonel was shot in that duel. Never seen so much blood comin’ out of a body, an’ the colonel, he wasn’t all that big a man. Thought fer sure the colonel was goin’ to meet his maker that night. But Miss Louise tells him he’s goin’ nowhere till she finds out why he was duelin’ with that no-good Creole fella. Made her so mad him duelin’ with a fella who wasn’t a gentleman. Nearly got himself killed fer no reason. A gentleman doesn’t dirty his hands with trash. So she kept the colonel talkin’ an’ explainin’ himself the whole night so he never had time to up an’ die.
“An’ we’ve sweet raisin bread an’ sausages, just in case Mister Palmer William arrives earlier than expected. Got more in the kitchens if he’s brought home some of his friends again. An’ we’ve some yams left over from last night, an’ some chicken hash, an’…”
Patiently, Leigh watched Stephen making his way along the sideboard. Dressed in the hunter green livery he wore with such pride, she knew it would be useless to say anything, because he would just continue from the place where he’d been interrupted. “All right, you win, Stephen,” she said when he finally paused to catch his breath. Glancing at the clock on the mantel she was surprised at the hour, and if she was delayed any longer, then the rest of the family would be arriving and she would never get away—and certainly not without an explanation.
“Now, you sip this tomato juice while I get you a warm plate an’ serve you up something tasty, Miss Leigh. We’ve got to put a little flesh on those bones,” Stephen said with a stern look in his dark eyes as he eyed the pale slenderness of her arm. “Got to fatten you up like Miss Julia. She’s a plump little miss. Should be married with a couple of little ones by now,” he said, adding another spoonful of egg to the plate he’d taken from the serving table and was now filling with special care.
Leigh was glad Julia wasn’t sitting at the table to hear Stephen’s opinion, even if a complimentary one in his eyes, for it would have ruined her appetite and then she would have been grumpy until luncheon. Everything had worked out perfectly, Leigh thought, blessing Jassy for eating too much catfish the night before. But she conveniently forgot about the thunder and Jolie’s premonitions of disaster, thinking she wouldn’t have to worry now about getting away from Jolie, or having to explain her early rising to her mother. And Stephen thought she was going down to the stables to help Sweet John with Rambler—not knowing that she’d been down there the night before—so there would be no questions about her disappearance at breakfast when the rest of her family came down. Now, all she had to do was find the buckskins, and with the leather pouch she’d retrieved from the blanket chest and distastefully tied around her waist when putting on her petticoat, she’d ride back to the pond and return the stranger’s property to him—although not in person. She would prefer not having to take a groom with her. She rode faster when alone. But Sweet John would be no problem, Leigh was thinking with a slight smile curving her lips as she formulated her next plan of action.
Lost in her preoccupation, she wasn’t aware that she had been served breakfast until she glanced down at the plate Stephen had just placed before her.
Two golden waffles floating in melting butter and thick maple syrup, a mountain of fluffy scrambled eggs, several sausages, browned until tender, a mound of fried potatoes and crisp apple fritters, and a couple of corn muffins, sitting precariously close to the floral-edged rim, filled the plate until she thought the fine porcelain must crack from the weight.
Leigh opened her mouth to complain, but upon meeting Stephen’s pleased, expectant smile she put a forkful of egg into her mouth instead. Nodding his grizzled head contentedly, he turned and busied himself at the sideboard, glancing over his shoulder every so often just to make certain the food piled on the plate was disappearing at the speed he thought proper.
A moment later, he placed a cup of steaming, fragrant tea before her. Then he moved a delicate pot of amber honey closer, then the cut-crystal dishes of jams and preserves, before returning to the sideboard and tunelessly whistling his favorite melody as he patiently double-checked the breakfast courses one last time.
“Now, I’m goin’ to have to leave you, Miss Leigh,” Stephen said regretfully, eyeing the half-eaten waffles with a sigh, but at least she had eaten most of the eggs and a good bit of the fried potatoes. He glanced upward, hearing the squeaking of floorboards upstairs. He had every intention of being back in the dining room by the time the rest of the family appeared for breakfast. It would be scandalous if there was no one here to serve them, and he was the only one he could trust to do it properly. He had hoped to train Sweet John to replace him one day as majordomo at Travers Hill, but Sweet John had always been happier out in the stables with his horses, knowing better how to clean out a stall than set a proper table. If it hadn’t been that the master was so pleased with Sweet John, swearing by Sweet John’s handling of his prized bloods, then he would have been disappointed in his only son. But Sweet John had done them proud even if he hadn’t become majordomo, or even a valet, Stephen admitted, although he had never admitted as much to Sweet John. “I’ve got to go into the cellar an’ bring up another couple of bottles of brandy, then fetch some more mint from the gardens out back. Now, you goin’ to be good an’ clean yer plate, honey?” he asked, staring down at the young miss with fatherly concern.
“I will, Stephen,” Leigh replied, spearing a juicy piece of sausage and dipping it in syrup just to set his mind at rest, then glancing down in dismay at the big, sticky drop of maple syrup that now stained her bodice.
She was glad she had worn her old calico, Leigh thought as she dabbed ineffectively at the spot with her napkin, and she did have to admit she felt far more capable of completing her task since she had eaten so hearty a breakfast under Stephen’s watchful eye. But as she heard the jingling of Stephen’s big ring of keys fade down the hall, she pushed back her chair, leaving the rest of her breakfast uneaten. She hurried from the room, leaving two corn bread muffins sitting in place of the shiny apples she had just reclaimed from Stephen’s masterpiece.
Leigh found the buckskins where Jolie had promised she would leave them: hanging to dry in front of the great fireplace in the kitchens. Ignoring the curious stares and sly giggles from several of the maids, Leigh, with a nonchalant tilting of her chin, took possession of the disreputable pair of buckskin breeches and fringed shirt as if she had every right to do so. She couldn’t quite hide her dismay, however, when she escaped outside and stared down at her prize. The buckskins were half-stiff and half-limp, the wet patches contrasting darkly against the light patches that had dried, making the stranger’s clothing look far worse than before. If she tried to fold them into a neat bundle, they would most likely break in two, but she had no choice. Carefully, she took each stiff leg and bent it in two places, wincing at the loud crackling noise before she tucked the long lengths of buckskin beneath the seat of the breeches. Still slightly damp, the shirt was soft and easy to fold.
Determined to waste no more of her prec
ious time, she hurried across the greensward toward the stables. Even at this early hour, the stable block was a hive of activity. The fires in the forge were already glowing with red-hot coals, the blacksmith’s hammer sounding a steady beat as he shaped and welded the malleable iron against the anvil. Inside the stables, the stalls were being cleaned out of wet and soiled bedding from the night before and spread with fresh, dry straw. Most of the horses had been watered and fed lightly with hay before being let out for exercise.
The Travers Hill stables were as spotless as the kitchens in the big house, with the heaps of manure stored in a field nearby bearing evidence of that cleanliness. The oldest pile of manure, packed down and well-rotted, and mixed with cow manure, fish fertilizer, and bone and cottonseed meal, was bound for Beatrice Amelia’s rose gardens. And any guest to Travers Hill, interested enough to inquire, was given careful instructions on how to blend the manure for the best results. And Beatrice Amelia’s roses, famous throughout the county, convinced any doubters to accept the sample bag of manure so graciously offered by the mistress of Travers Hill.
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