“Shall you be all right walking down the lane by yourself?” Drummond said cheerfully to Dulcie, after seeing his boarders safely back to the parsonage.
“I do not quite understand you, Mr Drummond. Mama said I must stay with Miss Endercott until Polly returns.”
“Ah. Then how is the roast to be managed? I am very fond of roast mutton.”
“Can you not set it to cook yourself? It is quite ready to be set on the fire, I believe, for Polly helped me to prepare it. Oh. That is my task, is it not? I see.”
“I daresay neither of us knows much about cooking, Miss Allamont, but you have engaged yourself to take Jess’s place, and that means taking charge of the kitchens.”
“So… let me see if I have this aright. I am to go back to the cottage, alone, to prepare the dinner. And you will do… what, precisely?”
He sighed. “I do not wish to impose on the good nature of the Endercotts any further, and I must not impugn your reputation by accompanying you to the cottage, so I shall go to the Haddington and sit over a tankard of indifferent ale for two or three hours. It is not an appealing prospect, when my fellow patrons will be well in their cups by now, and I cannot even while away the hours with a book.”
“I suppose I should be comforted by the notion that you will be just as miserable as I shall be,” Dulcie said. “Yet I find it is not so. I am sorry you will have an unpleasant afternoon of it, Mr Drummond, and I shall do my very best to ensure the mutton meets your expectations.”
He smiled at her, the smile that almost made her forget how much she disliked him, bowed and then strode away to the inn. Dulcie walked on down Church Lane, past Mrs Lorne’s house and across the narrow field which separated the village from the woods and the cottage. The path was muddy in places after the rain, yet the air was stiflingly hot. She had on her oldest pelisse which was a little too tight for her, making it hard to breathe as she walked and that made her hotter still.
She sat on a tree stump for a while, but it was no cooler, so in the end she carried on, and hoped there would be some respite from the heat in the cottage. There was none, for her first task was to build up the kitchen fire, and then to set the mutton to roast. By the time she was finished, she was so hot she could hardly think straight. She filled a bucket with cool water from the well, and gratefully washed her face and hands. Then, desperate for a respite from the hot kitchen, she went through to the parlour, opened the window wide and practically fell into the enfolding arms of the wing chair. Within moments her eyes closed.
~~~~~
Alex sat in the quietest corner of the saloon at the Haddington Arms, but there was no escaping the noise from the other patrons, chattering away as they caught up with the week’s news with friends, or shared a joke or two.
The disadvantage to sitting alone, with nothing to occupy his mind, was that he inevitably found his thoughts wandering to happier times, when he had been Mr Alex Drummond of Wester Strathmorran, a man of consequence with a generous allowance, a multitude of social engagements and a fine hunter to convey him to whichever of them he was minded to enjoy. Of all the attractions of his lost life, the hunter was by no means the least of them, for he had loved that horse as much as a brother and it had grieved him beyond measure to see the beautiful creature sold.
And then there was Isobel. The Lady Isobel Dunnoull, to give her the full title. Living on adjoining estates, they had practically grown up together, the best of friends, but one day he had looked at her and realised that there was something more than friendship in his affection for her. To his astonishment, she had felt the same, but their betrothal had never met with her father’s approval. “No prospects, Alex,” he had said, shaking his head sadly. “How can Izzy marry a man with no prospects? Take up a sensible profession, and we might see about approving this match.” By the time Isobel had come of age and was free to marry as she pleased, Alex’s father had died leaving the family nothing but debts. Now the betrothal was formally at an end, and the Earl was actively recruiting suitors for his daughter.
But there was no point in repining. He felt her loss keenly, but lately a corner of his mind had wondered just how deep his attachment had been. He was not prostrate with grief. In some ways, he felt the loss of any possibility of marriage more deeply. It had long been his dearest wish to have his own establishment, with a loving wife and a nursery full of small versions of himself or his lady. He could envisage no greater joy in life than a settled home, with his family about him. He had been glad to imagine Isobel in that happy picture, but if not her, then another would, he was sure, have suited him almost as well. He was not hard to please. But now he could see no future for himself but bachelorhood.
As for Jess, he could hardly bear to think about her pitiable situation. So many wonderful letters from London, filled with her joyful anticipation of a happy end to their troubles — a wealthy husband for her, and a generous patron for Alex. Yes, it would have done very well. But now all her happiness was destroyed, and her health too, and although the reports of an improvement were reassuring, they did not entirely alleviate his concern.
With the thought of Jess, his mind naturally turned to Miss Allamont. Her promise to take over Jess’s role at the cottage was given in a moment of anger, and he fully accepted his own part in goading her into it. He had never expected her to fulfil her promise, nor to continue when, as was inevitable, she found it to be more taxing than she had supposed. Yet here she was, despite all difficulties, soldiering on. It was admirable, and he found himself taking pleasure in her every small triumph, whether it be the goat, the chickens or the porridge.
“Mr Drummond? What are you doing here?” The smiling face of Harry Turner, the carpenter, loomed over him, interrupting his thoughts.
Alex laughed. “Staying away from the cottage until Polly returns, in consideration of Miss Allamont’s reputation.”
“Ah, now, that’s just like you — so gentlemanly. No one thinks there’s anything havey-cavey going on, you know. It’s a wonderful thing Miss Dulcie is doing, to let Miss Jess go to the Hall to recover. Word is she’s a little better, and we’re all heartily glad of it. By the way, my father’s had to kill one of his calves that fell into a gully — should you like a little veal, when it’s ready?”
“That would be most acceptable, thank you! May I buy you a drink?”
“Very kind, but I am with my brothers. You are welcome to join us, if you will.”
And after that, the time passed in pleasant conversation, and Alex was made to feel like a part of the family. How he had missed that closeness, the ease of company where all may speak freely, in good fellowship. He was in a mood of some mellowness by the time he judged that Polly must have gone by, and left the inn. As he walked, he saw her a short distance ahead of him, and without much effort caught up so that they might walk the rest of the way together.
As they entered the cottage, their nostrils were immediately assaulted by heavy black smoke.
“Good God!” Polly exclaimed. “She’s set the place on fire!”
5: Letters
Dulcie woke to shouts, then, to her astonishment, someone slapped her face, hard. She could barely breathe, there was so much smoke everywhere. Waving her hands ineffectually to clear it, she dimly perceived Alex Drummond standing over her, shouting.
“You hit me?” she managed, her voice a dry croak. But it was too much effort. Her eyes closed again.
An exclamation of annoyance, then she was lifted up and carried. More smoke, then, abruptly, fresh air wafting over her face. She was set down on hard ground. The front path, perhaps. Despite the overpowering smokiness, there was waft of perfume from the roses around the cottage door.
“Miss Allamont? Dulcie? Wake up!”
“I’ve dealt with the fire.” That was Polly’s voice. “Just the fat from the roasting pan. The mutton’s black. A good bit of meat ruined.” Then, less harshly, “Is she all right?”
“I think so. Will you open all the windows and doors to
clear the smoke?” A pause, followed by the sound of windows sliding open. “Dulcie? Come now, Dulcie, you must wake up.”
She forced her eyes open, to see his face looming above her. “I burnt your mutton.”
He laughed. “You certainly did. At least you are safe, that is all that matters. You gave us quite a fright.”
“So sorry.” He was kneeling, one arm supporting her, his blue eyes gazing down into hers. “Thank you for rescuing me. Will you assist me to stand?”
“Are you well enough? You were quite overcome by the smoke.”
“I think… it was just sleep. I was so tired, and my eyes closed by themselves.”
He grunted. “You had a difficult day yesterday, and I daresay sleep was elusive last night.”
“I dreamt of foxes,” she said with a wry smile, and he responded with a smile of his own.
“Come, then, let me help you up.”
With his assistance, she regained her feet, although still somewhat dizzy, so that she was glad of his arm still around her waist, holding her upright.
Polly emerged from the cottage. “I’ll take her now, Mr Drummond. If you wish me to, of course.” She laughed, a coarse and unpleasant sound.
“By all means,” he said, ignoring the snideness. “Miss Allamont only needs a little support to ensure she does not stumble.”
With Polly’s help, Dulcie regained the cottage. This time, Drummond directed her into the schoolroom, which was almost free of smoke, the door having been closed. She sat, and he fetched brandy for her, and made her drink a little. Gradually she began to feel more her usual self.
“I have been looking at the mutton,” he said, “and I believe that something may be salvaged from it. One side is burnt and the other is barely cooked at all, so somewhere in the middle may be found some edible meat.”
“The vegetables aren’t cooked, since nobody set them on the range,” Polly said. “Meat alone’s not much of a dinner.”
“Can they be cooked in an hour? We can have a late dinner,” he said testily. “See to it, Polly, if you please.”
She snorted. “Ha! It all comes down to me, doesn’t it? She’s useless, her.” She stamped away to the kitchen in disgust.
Tears pricked at Dulcie’s eyes. Everything she did seemed to go wrong, and it was very lowering to discover how ill-suited she was for even such simple tasks as cooking.
“Take no notice of her,” Drummond said gently. “She was just as bad with Jess at the start. You are only as useless at these mundane chores as she would be at running a house full of servants and painting and embroidering and playing an instrument, and all those other accomplishments that ladies are so adept at.”
His understanding lifted her spirits. It was true that she knew only her own world, but she could learn. She would learn.
“I shall not let her upset me,” Dulcie said defiantly. “This is a challenge, and to be entirely honest, it is a far greater challenge than I had anticipated. Nevertheless, I am determined to do better. After all, I have mastered Greek and Latin, so surely the roasting of a piece of mutton cannot be beyond me.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You are not at all the feeble creature I had supposed when I first met you. We may have begun on a wrong footing, but I find myself quite in charity with you today. We shall unite to defeat Polly’s pessimism, and if we can salvage something to eat after our string of disasters, I shall be quite satisfied. Especially as Miss Endercott has sent a very good bottle of Madeira for us to enjoy.” And he winked.
~~~~~
The next day was Monday, and washing day. Unlike the Hall, the cottage had not enough linen to accumulate for a great wash, and some laundry had to be done every week. This provided another opportunity for Dulcie to demonstrate her lack of competence to Polly. In fact, she found it rather fun, so long as she ignored Polly’s constant grumbling about her ineptitude.
By the time all the laundry was scrubbed clean and hung out to dry, her arms and back ached and she was soaked from head to toe, but she felt as if some momentous task had been accomplished. It reminded her of her father’s insistence that she and her sisters should learn every single one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and who would have guessed that one man could write so many? Yet the satisfaction she had felt as she recited the very last one, number one hundred and fifty four, was tremendous. None of her sisters had managed the task. Even Papa, notoriously hard to please, had smiled in pleasure at her, and called her ‘an excellent little pupil’.
When she had changed out of her wet clothes, Dulcie had just sat down to begin on the vegetables when Mr Drummond put his head round the kitchen door.
“Would you mind going down the lane to meet Bertie’s cart, Miss Allamont, if you are not too exhausted? I have a couple of letters for him to take to the mail coach.”
“Of course.” Her heart skipped a beat in excitement. At last! A chance to put her plan into action. She put on her bonnet, but it was too hot for a coat or cloak, and she could not get her gloves on at all. Perhaps her hands had swelled in the heat, or from all her efforts with the wet washing.
The letters were waiting on the shelf in the hall, beside the candlesticks. She slipped them into her pocket next to her own letter, written in the quiet hour of Sunday morning before church. Outside, the air was humid but a slight breeze gave it a welcome freshness. The brambles still clawed at her, but she was growing more adept at evading their grasp. When she reached the end of the lane, she found a fallen tree in the shade to sit and wait for Bertie’s cart. Above her, the leaves rustled gently and insects hummed around the foxgloves and red campion nearby.
For perhaps half an hour she sat, not quite asleep but not properly awake either, until the rattle of harness heralded the arrival of Bertie’s cart. He gently slowed and then stopped the horses.
“G’day to ye, Miss Allamont. Are ye wanting me?”
“I have some letters for you to take to the mail coach station, Bertie. These three.”
“Be delighted. That Mr Drummond, ’e be a great one for ’is letters. And I ’ave one for him. Came in first thing, it did. Most of these are for the ’all, and a couple for Dyke Farm, but there be one for ’im in the bag. You can pick it out.”
Dulcie looked quickly through the letters still to be delivered. She saw one addressed to Mama, two for Connie, and several for the servants. Right at the bottom was one addressed to ‘A D Drummond, Esquire’. She recognised Cousin Isobel’s handwriting. “Ah, here it is. Have you never learnt your letters, Bertie?”
“Not me! That be for grand folk. I never needed to read nor to write neither, and I be too old to learn now. There now, that be the three Mr Drummond wrote safely stowed, and the one to ’im safely delivered, so I be on my way, Miss Dulcie.”
She waved him off down the road and, smiling, made her way back down the lane to the cottage. It was very convenient that Bertie could not read, for he would never know that one of those three letters was not written by Alex Drummond. Nor would he know where it was bound, or to whom.
She had barely gone ten paces towards the cottage when she heard girlish voices coming from the woods. Moments later the voices emerged, in the shape of Grace, Hope and Cousin Mary, followed at a short distance by Miss Bellows. Grace hailed Dulcie gleefully, and she waved and waited for them.
“What are you doing out without your gloves?” were Grace’s first words.
“Good morning to you too, sister,” Dulcie said acidly. “I trust I see you well?”
“Oh, fustian!” Grace said. “I can see you are well enough, although your hair is quite disordered.”
“At least mine has a reason to be wayward,” Dulcie snapped. “Whereas yours is always ill-behaved.”
“Girls, please,” murmured Miss Bellows.
“Grace would not be so rude about my hair if she knew the trials I have endured these last few days. But enough of my hair.” She forced a laugh. “Who cares? I do not! Are you going to the village?”
“We are,”
Grace said. “Mary is coming to see you.”
“I have only just heard of your wonderful gesture,” Mary said. “How good you are, Dulcie!”
Much as she would have liked to accept the compliment, honesty compelled Dulcie to demur. “My wonderful gesture, as you call it, was a moment of temper, and now I cannot back down because Polly would gloat so. She laughs at my every ignorant error, of which there have been a great many, I assure you, and if I were to surrender before the month is out, her triumph would be complete.”
Mary laughed at that. “I must meet this terrifying Polly. And you must tell me all your adventures, for I can see there is much to recount.”
Having arranged for the other three to collect her on their return, Mary walked down the lane with Dulcie. She was a handsome woman who had had many admirers over the years, but none had suited her. Being some five years older than Dulcie, it now seemed unlikely that she would ever marry.
“You are not riding today?” Dulcie said, noting Mary’s morning gown and spencer.
Mary sighed and shook her head. “Mama does not think it proper for a single woman to ride. For her, apparently, it is unexceptional, but I must not, and so she has commandeered my horse for herself. We cannot afford another, naturally. We can only keep the horses we have because Mr Burford generously stables them for us. I came here today with Belle in the carriage.”
“I am so sorry,” Dulcie said. “I know how much you love riding.”
“It was my freedom,” Mary said seriously. “There were many, many disheartening elements about life at Willowbye, even before Mama returned to our lives after all these years. We were always short of money, the boys were constantly in trouble, it was hard to keep servants, even the few we could afford to pay, but no matter how desperate times were, I could take Hercules out and gallop about the countryside. It never failed to lift my spirits. But now… if it were not for John and Belle, I would be dreadfully low.”
Dulcie (The Daughters of Allamont Hall Book 4) Page 5