by Jane Feather
Chapter 4
RIDING THE TIDE OF HER INDIGNATION, Cornelia stalked into the kitchen, where she knew she would find the others. “Who was that at the door, Nell?” Livia asked, backing out of the inglenook where she’d been examining the chimney, directing Morecombe to push a broomstick up as a high as he could to dislodge any birds’ nests.
“That, my dear, was Viscount Bonham,” Cornelia informed her. “And a nasty piece of work he is.” She exhaled noisily. “Arrogant, insulting, presumptuous. He informs you that he will be calling upon you tomorrow to discuss a matter of urgent business.”
“Dear me,” Aurelia murmured, coming out of the pantry with a dusty armful of jars of preserves. “Lord knows how long these have been there.” She set her burden on the now-scrubbed deal table and dusted off her hands. “So you didn’t care for the gentleman then, Nell?”
“Is it that obvious?” Cornelia said with a sardonic smile. “He took me for a servant, addressed me as his ‘good woman,’ and demanded to see my mistress!”
Aurelia went into a peal of laughter and was joined by Livia. “Look at yourself, Nell,” Livia said. “You look like a servant. We all do.”
Cornelia examined her friends, both of them dusty, swathed in grimy aprons, hair tucked away beneath protective scarves, faces smudged with, in Livia’s case, soot, in Aurelia’s, cobweb residue. She glanced down at her apron, put a hand hesitantly to her headscarf, then burst into laughter. “You’re probably right. But even so he had no right to make assumptions. And no right at all to his manner. People should be polite, and most particularly to servants.”
“What d’you want done with these, mum?” One of the twin retainers gestured to a box of china she’d just put on the table.
Livia peered at the contents of the box. “They’re all mismatched, but look at this.” She lifted out a sauce boat. “It’s Sèvres, look how lovely it is.” She carried it to the wide sink and poured water over it from the jug. “I wonder if there are any more pieces.”
Aurelia went to examine the box. “Where do they come from…uh…Mavis?” she hazarded.
“It’s Ada, mum,” the woman corrected stolidly. “And they’re all bits o’ broken sets. Lady Sophia wouldn’t throw any of ’em away, but she’d never ’ave an unmatched set on her table neither.”
“That explains it.” Livia came back to the table. “Let’s see what else we’ve got. Oh, look, there’s a paper knife at the bottom here.” She took the slender knife out and held it up. “It’s bone I think…oh, my goodness.” She peered closely at the blade. “Look at the engraving.” Her eyes were wide as she held the object out to her friends. “It’s positively indecent.”
Cornelia took it and gazed closely at the engraving. “It’s scrimshaw, I think they call it. The kind of carving that sailors do to pass the time on long voyages. But, oh dear, this poor sailor must have been feeling very deprived of some of the comforts of home. The mermaid seems to be engaging in some very friendly activity here.” Her voice trembled with laughter as she showed the paper knife to Aurelia.
“What on earth is such an object doing in a spinster’s kitchen?” Aurelia murmured as she examined the cavorting figures. She glanced across at Morecombe and the twins, who maintained a steadfast silence. “I think we should put it back where it came from. I’d hate to have to explain what’s going on to Franny, and you know she’ll ask if she sees it.”
“I’ll keep it in the desk in my room,” Livia said, taking the knife from her. “I think it’s ivory not bone.”
“Well, please keep it away from the children,” Aurelia begged, shaking her head with amusement, as she returned to her preserves.
The kitchen was beginning to look usable again, Cornelia reflected, but it was still cold. There was a draft coming through the window that was opened at the bottom, and she went across to close it.
“Eh, madam, don’t you be shuttin’ that,” Morecombe declared. “Tis fer Lady Sophia’s cat. She needs t’ come in an’ out like. Her ladyship insisted on’t.”
“Well, maybe she did,” Cornelia said firmly. “But I’m still closing it. If the cat wants to come in, she can jump on the sill and let us know.” She was about to slam the window closed when the cat jumped like a shadow from the dank darkness, through the narrow aperture, and into the kitchen.
“Too cold for you? I don’t blame you,” Cornelia said, bending to stroke the cat. “What’s her name, Morecombe?”
“Oh, Lady Sophia jest called ’er Puss,” the man responded. “But I tell you straight, ma’am, that window stays open at night. She likes t’ go ahuntin’. ’Tis agin nature to expect a cat t’ stay in at night.”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Cornelia said pacifically. “She’s in now anyway.” She closed the window firmly and turned her attention to an ancient pottery flour barrel that could be put to good use again. She peered into it with a grimace of disgust. “This flour’s full of weevils.”
She hefted the barrel and upended it into the sink. Something chinked against the porcelain. “What’s this?” She delicately sifted the flour through her fingers, closing her mind to the wriggling grubs. “Well, would you look at this. This kitchen’s full of surprises.” She held up a thimble. The light from the now-clean window above the sink caught and held a sparkle of silver through the flour dust. She wiped the thimble on a corner of her apron and held it up again. “It’s most unusual. Look at the design.” She chuckled slightly. “It’s fascinating but not as much fun as the engraving on the paper knife.”
Aurelia and Livia abandoned their china treasury and came over to her. They examined the thimble in turn. “It’s obviously silver, and the design is such an intricate piece of engraving. A very skilled silversmith had a hand in this,” Aurelia commented.
“But what’s it doing in a flour barrel?” Livia asked.
“Well, the flour’s been in there since the last century, judging by its condition,” Cornelia said, taking the thimble back. “I’d guess some long-ago maid forgot she was wearing it when she delved into the barrel for a cup of flour or something and it just slipped off.”
“It doesn’t look like something a maid would use,” Livia said doubtfully.
“Well, perhaps the lady of the house was doing some baking of her own,” Cornelia said with a careless shrug. “Anyway, you may as well ask what a lewd paper knife is doing in a box of rejected china.”
“Fair enough,” Livia agreed. “Let’s see what else we have in the way of china.”
“I’m going to explore the cellar,” Cornelia said, slipping the thimble into her apron pocket. “Do you have the key, Morecombe?”
“Aye, mum. Haven’t been down there in a while,” he said, pulling his broomstick out of the chimney, bringing a fine cloud of soot with it. “Lady Sophia weren’t much fer wine. She took a small glass o’ port of an evening, but that was about all.”
“Is there anything worth drinking down there?”
“Oh, aye, reckon so.” He pulled a ring of keys from the pocket of his britches and fumbled through them, holding each one up to his eye for closer inspection. “The old earl, Lady Sophia’s brother that was, kept a good cellar.”
“How long ago did he die?” Cornelia asked somewhat doubtfully.
“Oh, twenty year at least,” the old man said, and shuffled across the kitchen to the door that led down into the cellar.
“Ghoulies and ghosties,” Cornelia said with a mock shiver. “If no one’s been down there in twenty years, what do you think I’ll find?”
By evening they had the kitchen functioning, cooking fires lit, and the twins were engaged in some form of cooking although Cornelia and her companions had little confidence in the outcome of their efforts. But at least the children had been given a supper that met with Linton’s approval, and they were ensconced in the nursery suite in relative warmth.
“Fire’s lit in Lady Sophia’s parlor, Lady Livia,” Morecombe announced, coming into the kitchen where the three women were tak
ing stock of their achievements. “And I’ve opened a bottle of that burgundy you wanted brought up, m’lady.” He nodded towards Cornelia.
“Did you fill the decanters too?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said.
“There was a butt of quite passable sherry down there,” Cornelia said, as they left the kitchen. “And a pipe of port, barely breached, and another cask of Madeira. The old earl knew what he was about. At least we’ll be able to warm the cockles even if we don’t get anything palatable to eat.”
“I wonder what they cooked for Aunt Sophia,” Livia commented as she opened the door to the only room in the house that had borne any signs of recent habitation. “I don’t think she left this room in years.”
It was an overstuffed, shabby parlor at the rear of the house, and that morning it had had the rather unpleasant aroma of old dusty fabric, overlaid with an odd stale flowery perfume, candle wax, and ashes from the cold grate. A day with the windows open had freshened the air, and the grate had been black leaded, the furniture polished with beeswax, and the carpets and upholstery subjected to a vigorous carpet beater. It was not a room one would ever call elegant, or even warmly comfortable, but it was a tolerable refuge.
Cornelia poured sherry, and the three of them sank down into sagging armchairs with small groans of relief. “I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard in my life,” Livia remarked. “I ache from head to toe.”
“I would love a bath,” Aurelia murmured, taking a long sip of her sherry. “But it’ll take far too long to heat the water, then who’s going to lug it all the way upstairs. Morecombe doesn’t look as if he could carry a tray, let alone enough water for a bath.”
“We’ll tackle that issue tomorrow,” Cornelia said, kicking off her shoes. She stretched her feet to the fender and wriggled her toes in the fire’s warmth with a little whimper of pleasure. “And talking of tomorrow, Liv. Will you receive the uncivilized viscount? I wouldn’t,” she added. “I’d send him off with a flea in his ear.”
“Don’t you want to know why he’s so keen to buy the property?” Aurelia asked, fetching the sherry decanter to refill their glasses. “He must have some reason…to offer all that money, and for what?” She gestured liberally at their surroundings. “Putting this place in shape will cost a small fortune.”
“Well, I might as well receive him,” Livia said comfortably, holding out her glass towards Aurelia. “Just to see what a barbarian he is. Oh, and Aunt Sophia’s solicitor, Masters, the one who first wrote to me, he’s going to call as well. Some papers I have to sign apparently.”
“Well, you’ll be busy,” Aurelia said. “What’ll we do, Nell?”
“Oh, you have to be here as well,” Livia said, sounding alarmed. “This is a joint enterprise…and particularly when it comes to the viscount.”
“Nell, what are you thinking?” Aurelia demanded seeing her sister-in-law’s flickering smile. “You’re up to something.”
“Well, I was just thinking…”
The arrival of Morecombe and one of the twins carrying trays prevented her finishing her thought.
“There’s potato soup,” Morecombe announced, setting his tray on a gateleg table in the bow window. “An’ bread and cheese and a bite o’ ham.” He stood aside as the twin set down her own tray of china and cutlery. “Should I pour the wine, m’lady?”
“Yes, please,” Cornelia answered since the question was clearly directed towards her.
“Thank you, Morecombe.” Livia rose from her chair and came over to the table. “You and Ada and Mavis have done wonders with so little. We’re really very grateful.”
“Eh, as to that Lady Livia, we do what Lady Sophia told us. Take care of the house an’ all her things. An’ that’s all…jest doin’ our duty.” He stepped to the sideboard and took up the bottle of burgundy.
“Could I ask…” Aurelia said hesitantly. “Ada and Mavis are sisters, I believe.”
“Aye, that we are,” the present twin agreed. It was unusual for either of the twins to volunteer a comment, and Aurelia was emboldened to continue.
“Have you worked here with Morecombe for long?”
“Eh, bless you, ma’am, Morecombe married our Ada thirty year ago,” Mavis, it was now clear that it was Mavis, declared. “An’ where our Ada goes, I go too. Always been like that.”
“I see.” Aurelia smiled. “And did you marry too, Mavis?”
The woman shook her head with an expression of disgust. “Men,” she stated. “Never could abide ’em. Dirty, messy things stompin’ their mud all over the house.” She tossed her head with something approaching a sniff and left the parlor.
Morecombe, apparently untroubled by this wholesale condemnation of his sex, nodded to the women in a semblance of a bow and followed in Mavis’s wake.
“So, as I was saying,” Cornelia continued as the door closed, “I was thinking it might be amusing to teach our viscount a salutary lesson in manners.” She dipped her spoon in her soup.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Give him the opportunity to treat me as a servant, let him get in really deep, and then introduce him to the Viscountess Dagenham.” She smiled wickedly over the lip of her glass. “What do you think?”
Chapter 5
IN THE MORNING ROOM OF HIS HOUSE on Mount Street, Viscount Bonham was breakfasting before the fire and contemplating his upcoming interview with Lady Livia. Apart from his rather fearsome great-aunt, the duchess of Gracechurch, his experience with elderly ladies hitherto had been confined to his grandmother and two maiden aunts. Since they had all doted upon him in his boyhood, very little effort had been required to persuade them to do anything for him. He could reasonably expect that Lady Livia would not give him this advantage. But there must be some lever he could pull.
He cut into his sirloin. If he knew a little more about her and her circumstances, it would help, but Masters had had almost no information beyond the address on the letter. He’d somehow fixed upon a mental image of the lady as an elderly, reclusive, country spinster, but what of the children? They didn’t fit the image at all. But surely, if there was a husband on the scene, Masters would have known of it. Could she be a widow?
He reached for his coffee. Presumably all would be revealed at his first meeting with the lady, and he would adapt his approach according to the circumstances he found.
He finished his breakfast and went upstairs to his bedchamber. His valet was brushing specks of lint off a coat of dark green superfine. “Nasty weather, m’lord,” he observed, gesturing with the clothes brush towards the dreary prospect beyond the window. It was a typically filthy English winter morning, rain sheeting down from leaden skies that bled all light from the day.
“A few spots of rain could ruin this coat,” he added almost sotto voce. “I’d be taking a hackney m’self.”
Harry hid a smile. His valet knew perfectly well his master would never take a hackney except in the direst emergency.
“I’m driving, Carton,” he said gently. “I’ll be wearing a driving coat.”
“That won’t protect your boots,” the man muttered. “Spent hours polishing them, I did.”
“A little rain never hurt anyone,” Harry declared, slipping off his brocade dressing gown and putting his arms into the sleeves of the coat that Carton held for him.
The valet closed his lips tightly and smoothed out the set of the shoulders. The coat fitted like a glove as the tailor had intended. Light gray doeskin britches and gleaming top boots completed the viscount’s ensemble.
Harry checked his reflection in the long cheval glass and nodded. There was nothing about his appearance to remind the old retainer of the somberly clad man with a muffler up to his ears, a hat pulled down over his eyes, and a hoarse voice, who a week or so ago had come to inspect the contents of the house for probate. And been turned away empty-handed for his pains. But this time he would at least gain entrance to the house…as long as that insolent maid or companion or whatever she was had tak
en his card to her mistress and delivered his message.
He dropped a dainty jade snuffbox into the pocket of his coat, took the voluminous driving coat and hat proffered by Carton, and went lightly down the stairs, almost relishing the prospect of a confrontation with the blue-eyed guardian of the gate.
“Send to the mews for my carriage, Hector,” he instructed the butler, and turned aside into the library.
“Now, let’s see what we can find to dazzle the viscount with.” Livia bounded energetically to the armoire in Cornelia’s bedchamber. A sullen fire in the grate did something to take the damp chill off the air, but not enough to render the room welcoming. “You mustn’t look remotely like the woman he mistook for a skivvy yesterday.”
“That won’t be difficult,” Cornelia remarked. “I only need to look clean to achieve that.” She chuckled suddenly. “I’ve thought of an interesting twist to this little plot of ours.”
“Oh?” Livia turned from the armoire to look at her.
“You’ve got that look of the devil in your eye, Nell,” Aurelia accused with a tiny laugh. “What are you plotting?”
“Well, I just thought that it might be more amusing if the viscount is initially led to believe that the woman he insulted yesterday was actually Lady Livia Lacey herself,” Cornelia said. “He’ll ask for Liv at the door, and Morecombe can simply show him into the parlor where I’ll be waiting, and he’ll assume I’m Liv, which is bound to embarrass him even more. I’ll let him dig his own pit for a few minutes, then at some point introduce myself.” She grinned. “What do you think?”
“I think I’d be very careful not to put your back up in future,” Aurelia said.
“Exactly,” Cornelia agreed with some satisfaction. She stood beside Livia and peered into the armoire. “The problem is I don’t have anything that isn’t most dreadfully countrified. When did we last look at any of the fashion magazines? I don’t even know what’s modish these days, but I’m sure it’s changed in the ten years since our last and only foray on the town.”