Salt Redux

by Lucinda Brant

  He had not coped well. He drank to excess, and enough wine and spirits to drown thought. He neglected his family, most shamefully his now orphaned niece and nephew. He squandered his burgeoning career as a diplomat, and lost all pretension to one day being an Ambassador. In an alcoholic haze, he staggered about society, making a fool of himself and becoming a nuisance. One day he went too far. To his eternal shame and the disgust of others, he arrived drunk at a recital hosted by the Earl and Countess of Salt Hendon. Before upwards of fifty people, he had a blazing row with the Earl’s sister, the Lady Caroline, hurling accusations that were best left unsaid. He caused the sort of scandal his cousin the Earl abhorred and had avoided with Diana’s banishment.

  He wondered if the blood in his veins also coursed with insanity. He not only humiliated himself and Lord and Lady Salt, he devastated the hopes and dreams of the only woman to whom his heart truly belonged. For that he would never forgive himself. Could he blame Caroline for hating him? Was he surprised when she refused to see him before he set off for the Russian Imperial Court? Then one day, he discovered for himself, while reading a month old English newssheet, that the Lady Caroline Sinclair, only sister of the Earl of Salt Hendon had married The Right Honorable Stephen Aldershot. The love of his life was now Lady Caroline Aldershot and beyond his reach forever.

  It was just as well he was sent packing to St. Petersburg. It was as far as the Earl of Salt Hendon could banish him without pushing him off the edge of the known world. True to type, he was drunk when he presented his diplomatic credentials as Minister Plenipotentiary at the Russian Imperial Court. If not for the friendship of Prince Mikhail (Misha) Ivan Knyazhevy-Yusupov and his lovely sister, the Princess Ekaterina (Katya), he might have stayed that way. If not for the princely couple, he was certain he would have drunk himself to death. What he owed Misha and Katya was immeasurable, for he literally owed them his life. With their support and encouragement, he picked himself up out of the cesspit of self-loathing and pity, sobered up, and now considered St. Petersburg his home. What did he have to go back to England for anyway?

  The previous evening an imperial serf delivered the fateful letter to his apartment.

  He had returned from his fencing match with Misha to find Katya fanning herself with the sealed letter. She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, naked. He tossed the unopened letter aside, forgotten, until many hours later when he happened to find it amongst the crumple of bed sheets in the cold, dark hours of morning. He read the letter from the unknown apothecary unwittingly informing him that “Lady Salt” had departed Castle Harlech and was on her way to reunite with her husband, the Earl of Salt Hendon.

  His mad sister had escaped her fortress prison, and his life was again no longer his own.

  He had no choice. He must leave St. Petersburg at once and return to London.

  The squeak of a door hinge drew Sir Antony out of his thoughts on how best to break the news of his departure to Misha and Katya. The panel in the painted wall opened and his sleepy-eyed majordomo poked his head around the servant door.

  “Is everything—I heard your lordship up and about…”

  Sir Antony beckoned him into the room.

  “Tea, Semper.”

  Semper peered keenly at his master. He asked the question, though he prayed he knew the answer. Sir Antony had not touched a drop of alcohol in two years. “Your lordship hasn’t—You’ve not taken something stronger?”

  Good God! How he wished to drink something stronger! If ever there was a time and a good reason to break his vow and return to the bottle, this was it. A bottle of claret and one of cognac and he would be well on his way to numbing his mind of his sister. But he shook his head and said evenly,

  “No. Just tea. Perhaps bring some of those little macaroons Her Highness favors so much.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Master and servant locked eyes.

  “If ever I lapse,” Sir Antony said softly, “you know what to do.”

  “Yes, my lord, I do. I will not fail you.”

  Sir Antony briefly closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll have the fires relit,” Semper said to change the topic and to lighten the mood. “And have your bath drawn.”

  When his master nodded, Semper signaled to the open servant doorway and the serfs lingering in the darkened passageway scurried into the room. A dozen or more scattered soft-footed throughout the rooms of the apartment and went about their duties. The presence of so many servants had at first bothered Sir Antony upon his arrival in Russia. When he tried without success to decrease the number considered necessary for his comfort, the Princess enlightened him that serfs were owned body and soul; every one had a task, however menial, and to remove the task was to diminish the value of that serf.

  Sir Antony said no more about it and left the battalion to Semper’s organizational skills. His majordomo was directing them now. Two serfs to the fireplace, while another two padded into the bedchamber to see to the fire there. Three went through to the bathing room to ready his bath, while the rest disappeared back into the blackness of the servant passageway to fill the silver samovar full of boiling water, prepare the two porcelain teapots and return wheeling a trolley laden with all the necessary tea things for the English lord’s morning tea ritual.

  “Will your lordship be wanting to bathe first?”

  “Tea first.”

  Semper bowed, and with a glance at the fireplace to see the serfs busy at the grate, and another glance into the bathing room, he turned to leave, but was called back.

  “Semper…”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  Sir Antony tossed the folded letter amongst the clutter of crystal jars and silver and ivory personal grooming accoutrements on the dressing table. With a heavy sigh, he wrapped the silk banyan closer about his body as he rose and said,

  “I recall that when I told you of my decision to remain in ’Petersburg you were not at all miserable at the prospect of never returning to England. In fact, you grinned.”

  “Yes, my lord, I did.”

  Sir Antony raised an eyebrow. “That grin had something to do with your sudden love of all things Russian and because you had formed a particular attachment to one of the Princess’s serfs?”

  “Yes, my lord. She’s your serf now, a needlewoman, and takes care of your wardrobe.”

  “My serf? When did these servants become mine?”

  “Her Highness gifted you fifty serfs at Christmastime.”

  “Gifted?” Sir Antony did not like the idea at all. He found human enslavement of any kind abhorrent.

  “Yes, my lord. They belong to you now. Ten speak French as well as their native tongue, which has been a great help to me in managing their time.”

  “I had no idea you’d been put to so much bother.”

  “No bother at all, my lord.”

  “Remind me of my needlewoman’s name.”

  “Nina. Her name is Nina.”

  “Not the possessor of the lovely posterior one hopes,” murmured Sir Antony, recalling the bawdy tavern ditty, adding quickly at his majordomo’s frown of incomprehension, “I suppose it is a rhetorical question to ask if you love Nina?”

  The valet smiled sheepishly. “It would, my lord…” Yet, when Sir Antony again sighed heavily, he gave a start. “She’s not—She’s not being sent back to the estate, is she, my lord?”

  “I’ve no idea. No. Not that I am aware. Why would you think that? Didn’t you say the Princess gifted me fifty serfs? If Nina is one of them, then is she not mine to do with as I wish?”

  “That is true, my lord. But…”

  Sir Antony waited for him to continue.

  Semper glanced over his shoulder, at the serfs building a new fire and then at the open servant door, as if fearing to be overheard. It was an unnecessary action, because in these, the most intimate of Sir Antony’s rooms, he had delegated the menial tasks to native speakers, ensuring his master’s privacy. The only plac
e he did not look was over Sir Antony’s shoulder into the darkened bedchamber. This was noted.

  “The Princess does not understand English,” Sir Antony remarked with a wry smile. “Though I am very sure Her Highness is straining to hear every word of our conversation.”

  “It was some time ago, but I asked your lordship to have a word with Her Highness about Nina and me—The possibility of us marrying.”

  Sir Antony was grim faced and apologetic. “I did. Coward that I am, I hadn’t the heart to tell you her response was to laugh in my face. It’s beyond her comprehension why you, a free man and a foreigner, would want to lower yourself and be the object of ridicule by marrying one of her—um—slaves. It’s just not done.”

  “I’m not lowering m’self and you know it, my lord!”

  “Yes, you and I know that, Ralph,” Sir Antony agreed calmly, “but we are Englishmen living in a foreign country. Russia, as we have discovered, is more foreign than most. ’Petersburg may appear a European capital, with all and sundry practicing their French language skills and aping French mannerisms to the point where if we blinked, we could very well think ourselves back at Versailles, but that’s just a façade. So, too, is the unsettling fact that our Russian friends crave all things English, from our dogs to our coal! Yet, drive five miles out of the capital in any direction and it’s beards, bare feet, and cabbage soup! And as much as it sets the hairs up on the back of our necks, slavery surrounds us. You know people are commodities, listed in an owner’s inventory, just like that chair over there or that tapestry on the wall. You said yourself I was gifted fifty serfs at Christmastime, as easily as if you had said I’d been given fifty pairs of stockings. You might as well say you want to marry my settee, and you’d get the same laughing response, and not just from the Princess but from any Russian you cared to meet—low or highborn.”

  “Aye, I do know that, my lord,” Semper grudgingly conceded. “I was just hoping Her Highness would be different from her kind because she shares your bed—”

  “Steady, Semper,” Sir Antony cut in very low.

  “There’s no harm in hoping, is there, my lord?” the majordomo continued to argue, mechanically scooping up discarded linen small clothes, white stockings and diamond-buckled shoes from the night before. He dumped these into the arms of a passing serf with a sharp word that sent the staring servant scurrying away with a low bow and gaze to the floor. “Her Highness has an odd sense of morality, if you ask me!”

  “I didn’t ask you, Semper.”

  “Laughs at a free man wanting to do the honorable thing by a serf, your serf, my lord,” the majordomo continued with an insolent grumble as he brushed down the sleeve of a midnight blue velvet frock coat embellished with silver embroidery on upturned cuffs and skirts. “And yet she has no compunction in sharing your—”

  “Enough.”

  Sir Antony flushed red and stared at the mulish Ralph Semper. The man had been in his employ for seven years, four as valet and then, since coming to Russia, had taken on the onerous task of majordomo of his considerable household. They had been through some tough times together—well, Semper had, dealing with a master who, at his most inebriated, had sunk lower than a sewer rat. But never had he been insolent. Sir Antony could only think Semper’s deep-seated feelings for the serf Nina was the cause of such outrageous disrespect, and thus he would forgive him this insulting outburst. He ran a hand over his short-cropped hair and said in a low voice,

  “Practice what you preach to my servants, Semper, and be as one blind to the presence of the Princess. If not, you are free to leave my service with a month’s pay.”

  “My lord? Leave?” The majordomo’s jaw fell open and it was his turn to color up. He bowed to his knees. “Forgive me. I was—I was—I have no wish to leave your service, my lord.”

  “Good. That makes two of us. So, for God’s sake, have a care. If these lackeys understood English—if Her Highness did—you’d be strung up quicker than I could get an interview to plead your case. I can’t save you from yourself, dolt. As for Nina, if she is one of the fifty serfs gifted to me by Her Highness, then it is for me to consent to you marrying her, or not. Am I in the right?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Semper agreed with a hesitant smile that grew into one of dawning wonder. “Yes! Yes, you are, my lord.” He frowned. “Though it would be prudent to ask the permission of Her Highness as a matter of form…”

  Sir Antony suppressed a smile. “Thank you, Semper. I will put your case to Her Highness today…”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Ralph Semper replied. “Again, I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I do,” Sir Antony quipped.

  Semper saw the Princess hovering in the bedchamber doorway and made certain to keep his gaze on his master’s chiseled features, not least because every feminine curve and more was evident through the gossamer silk of her dressing gown and shift. He managed to flash a warning at Sir Antony by opening wide his eyes, which was noted.

  Sir Antony strolled across the room towards his majordomo, hands deep in the pockets of his silk banyan, and said very quietly, so only Semper could hear,

  “If Mr. Church is not up, rouse him. He has a long day of travel preparations ahead of him. We leave for London as soon as it can be arranged.”

  “London?” The majordomo blinked in surprise. He kept his voice to a whisper, despite the Princess being unable to decipher the English tongue. “Are we banished, my lord?”

  Sir Antony’s lips twitched at the use of the plural of the personal pronoun. Yet, there was no humor or warmth in his voice when he confided,

  “No. We return to London because the lives of a little boy and his mother—perhaps others—are in danger. I only pray there is still sufficient time…”

  “What do you mean to do when we get to London, my lord?”

  Sir Antony was grim; his eyes, dull.

  “To keep them from harm? Whatever it takes.”

  TWO

  SALT HALL, WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND

  MR. RUFUS WILLIS, the Earl of Salt Hendon’s estate steward, paced the cobbles under the arch that led to the stables. Twice he stepped out into the sunshine to look up at the large round clock face set in the arch and note the time, a pointless action. However, it calmed him knowing the Earl was returning to the house. An alert chimney sweep had spotted his lordship and his small party riding across the vast parkland in direction of the house.

  Pregnancy and birth scared the steward witless. Women died in childbirth and from its attendant complications all the time. His wife Anne had given him a healthy son and her second pregnancy was progressing just as smoothly. Yet, it was not Anne who set his heart racing, and taken him from his office in the main house to the stables in search of his employer, it was the Countess.

  The Earl had set out very early, accompanied by his godson Ron St. John, Mr. Hoskins, the head gamekeeper, and three of the assistant keepers. In the Earl’s saddle, sitting up before him and holding the pommel with undisguised delight, was his lordship’s pride and joy, Edward Aubrey Magnus Sinclair, Viscount Lacey, heir to the earldom of Salt Hendon—known by everyone as Ned.

  The gamekeeper had promised Ned a look at a real live stag, and so when the opportunity arose, off they rode to the far wood to see this magnificent beast with its herd of deer. It was not the most convenient day, and the Earl was intent on postponing the half-day excursion, until the Countess said he could not disappoint their son by breaking his promise, whatever the circumstances. She assured him the pains she had been experiencing since the night before did not mean she was in labor. By her reckoning, there was still two weeks until that happy event. To satisfy the love of her life, and to ensure he took their son on the promised excursion, the Countess agreed to have the physician summoned, Lady Caroline woken early, and a footman sent to the gatehouse lodge to fetch Mrs. Willis. Two hours after the Earl reluctantly set off, Jane, Countess of Salt Hendon gave birth to a healthy child—her third.

  To
take his mind from the worry of the Countess and her newborn, Rufus Willis leaned against the smooth sandstone wall of the elegant arch and withdrew a letter from his frock coat pocket to reread it. The letter had accompanied a small parcel addressed to Diana, Lady St. John, at Harlech Castle and had been redirected to the Earl of Salt Hendon’s estate. While it confused him as to why a parcel meant for the incarcerated Lady St. John had been forwarded to Salt Hall, it troubled the steward more that the accompanying letter was not from her guardian, but from an apothecary attached to the castle.

  Willis had not received the monthly report on Lady St. John from her guardian and had yet to discover the reason for the man’s tardiness. Perhaps the guardian had taken ill and the apothecary was writing on his behalf? But as no mention was made of the guardian, Willis was left none the wiser. He also wondered why the apothecary had forwarded on Sir Antony Templestowe’s parcel, meant for his lordship’s incarcerated sister. More perplexing was the fact the apothecary ended his letter by wishing Lord and Lady Salt all the very best in their reconciled happiness.

  Reconciled happiness? What did it mean? Why had the apothecary written to the Countess as if she knew him when Willis would stake all that he held dear that the Countess had no idea the man existed? Why hadn’t Sir Antony’s parcel been delivered to his sister? Willis had more questions than answers. He also had a deep foreboding that there was more to the apothecary’s letter than could be deduced from its contents. But Willis would not trouble his lordship with such a letter today. This of all days should be one of joy and celebration.