It was dressed in this ensemble Sir Antony entered Salt House and offloaded greatcoat, hat, kid gloves and ornate sword to an attendant footman.
Nervous with anticipation, his head swiveled left and right and up and down as he followed the under butler across the wide expanse of the black and white marbled tiled entrance foyer, the grand entrance bespeaking great wealth and restrained elegance. From the Robert Adam double staircase that curved up to the heavens of a stained glass oculus from which was suspended an enormous chandelier of cut crystal, wood gleamed and crystal winked, polished to a high brilliance for the Earl’s and Countess’s return.
An interview with the noble owner of such a grand establishment would cause the uninitiated to quake in their stockings and shoes, opined Sir Antony, who, as favored cousin and one-time regular visitor under this roof, had not given these surroundings a moment’s notice. In disfavor and absent for many years, his eyes were opened anew to the symbolic significance such a grand house and its appointments must have on lesser mortals, particularly those currying the Earl’s favor.
“Poor wretches,” he muttered to himself, as the under-butler came to a halt at a set of double doors flanked by two liveried footmen standing to attention. When the under-butler faced him he said audibly, “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Four years new, my lord.”
“And Jenkins? Where is he lurking?”
The under-butler smiled thinly, catching the slight nervous edge to the tall handsome visitor’s voice rather than at the inference that any of the Earl’s servants would lurk. The previous butler he did not know personally, only by reputation, and said so, adding,
“Mr. Miller has been butler to his lordship for as long as I have been under-butler, my lord. Feeling a bit on in years to keep up the running of such a large establishment, Mr. Jenkins has taken on the role of butler at the Arlington Street townhouse.
“His lordship still use that address?”
At Sir Antony’s surprise, the under-butler replied with emphasis, “Yes, my lord, upon occasion, usually during parliamentary sittings. But now with this house reopened I suspect—”
“No one is interested in your speculations, thank you, Pratt,” said a deep voice full of foreboding that instantly closed the under-butler’s mouth and sent him into a bow. “I apologize for my absence, Sir Antony,” Miller said, glancing at the under-butler’s back as that servant scurried off across the hall. “His lordship is usually at home to visitors on a Tuesday, but this being the first Tuesday, and with his lordship’s family just returned to the city late yesterday, the house is not open to receiving visitors at this time. I therefore respectfully request you forgive Pratt his lapse, and ask that you kindly return—”
“Miller isn’t it? Well, Miller, his lordship will see me because I am not a visitor, I am family. So you can announce me or not, but I intend to see his lordship today.”
The butler paused and took a longer raking look at Sir Antony. The expensive cloth and tailoring, not to mention exquisite embroidery work of his ensemble, was starkly evident, and the stones in the shoe buckles were very possibly real diamonds, not paste. His upright posture, the deep smooth voice and the unblinking handsome blue-eyed gaze proclaimed the gentleman, not a parvenu. Additionally, the butler realized he could not afford to offend either this gentleman, if he were indeed a blood relative of the Earl, or offend his noble employer by turning away one of his kin, despite never having set eyes on this gentleman before. Sir Antony’s next sentence settled the matter.
“I’ve just returned from a posting to ’Petersburg and the four crates out in the entrance hall are filled with gifts. Have the servants take extra care with the largest crate as it is for her ladyship and contains a porcelain tea service from the Russian Imperial Manufactory. That and the three others I would rather you squirreled away somewhere for safekeeping before Miss Merry, Master Ron and the children see them and demand to know their contents. I will not be the one to deny them their gifts, but perhaps it would be best for Lady Salt to decide when my largesse should be distributed? What do you think, Miller?”
“Yes, sir, of course. I will see to it at once the crates are carefully stored out of harm’s way until I hear from her ladyship what is to be done with them.” He signaled to the footmen to open the double doors and then sent one off to stand guard over Sir Antony’s crates until such time as he could arrange and supervise their careful removal to his butler’s pantry. “Please step into the anteroom and wait here while I inform his lordship of your arrival. I do apologize for the fire—”
“Ha! No apology necessary, Miller,” Sir Antony replied cheerfully, yet shuddered as if suddenly faced with a chilled wind. “As I recall, the temperature in the anteroom could freeze water!”
The anteroom off the Earl’s book room was one room Sir Antony did remember well, and not fondly, precisely because it never had a fire in the grate and thus was always chilly. The marble floor, lack of adequate furniture and blue painted walls without decoration added to its unwelcoming coldness. Even when crowded with strangers armed with petitions, proposals and paper seeking the Earl of Salt Hendon’s patronage for this, that and every other thing imaginable, the room’s temperature never rose above freezing. It was a ploy to ensure only the most dedicated petitioner sought an audience with his lordship; the less hardy and half-hearted inclined to slink away before their bones seized up with cold and well before their name was called for their five minutes of the Earl’s precious time. Still, Sir Antony had considered such measures at crowd control draconian, and was always full of sympathy for the frozen wretches whenever he slipped into the warmth of the book room, unannounced and as often as he liked—one of the privileged few given unrestricted access.
How times had changed, he sighed with sadness, now he, too, required permission to see his first cousin and former best friend. Looking neither left or right but gaze locked between the butler’s shoulder blades, he followed the servant across the anteroom to another set of double doors and another pair of liveried footmen standing as sentries.
“If you will remain here, Sir Antony, I will inquire of Lord Salt if he is at home to—um—family.” The butler dared to give the hint of a smile, saying before disappearing into the book room, “Should you feel cold, my lord, one of the footmen will oblige by having a maid fetched to place more coal in the grate to make a more sizeable fire.”
It was only with the door shut on the butler’s back that Sir Antony realized he was not the least bit cold, and a look over at the large fireplace with its smoldering fire made him take a step backward. But what dropped his jaw and had him looking about in wonder was the anteroom itself. His first thought was that Miller had brought him to the wrong room entirely, but the layout, with two French windows overlooking the expansive Square and, on the opposite wall, the large fireplace with its carved overmantel, were both familiar. Everything else had changed, and for the better.
The walls had been repainted a pale yellow, the ceiling with its plaster molding, an eggshell white. A massive mirror in an ornate gilt frame hung above the overmantel, reflecting light from the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite. Framed by blue and gold damask curtains tied back by heavy gold and dark blue velvet rope, the midmorning sun stretched out across the two blocks of ladder-back chairs arranged in neat rows and facing the double doors of the Earl’s book room. A walnut sideboard stood between the windows, and had upon it two large silver ewers and matching silver candelabras at either end. Above the sideboard was a portrait and it was the portrait Sir Antony was admiring when into the room stepped the Earl’s secretary, Mr. Arthur Ellis.
It was a full-length portrait of the Countess of Salt Hendon, dressed in a deep blue velvet riding habit, the outer layer of petticoats bunched to show the embroidered underskirt and a hint of a riding boot; the jacket, embroidered on pockets and lapel with small yellow and blue flowers, had a mannish cut that molded to her upper torso and long slender arms. Her coal-black hair was teased full in the latest fash
ion and swept up, atop which sat a narrow-brimmed hat at a rakish angle. She carried a riding crop in one gloved hand, while the other held the reins to her mount, a sleek bay with white tipped ears. In the distance was the Jacobean palace, Salt Hall, ancestral home of the Earls of Salt Hendon.
Sir Antony peered closer to see the name of the painter who had managed in his deft brushstrokes to capture to the life the beautiful Countess, and had the answer given to him.
“It’s by a new painter, a Mr. George Romney. He’s gifted, you’d agree, Sir Antony.”
Sir Antony gave a little jump at having his reverie broken so abruptly, but made an immediate recover, delighted to see a familiar face. He stuck out his hand in greeting.
“Mr. Ellis! How good to see you!” he said shaking the younger man’s hand vigorously. “Yes, gifted, and with such subject matter, no real effort required. I see you are ready to do battle with all petitioners,” he added, a glance at the familiar black leather bound appointment book hugged to the front of Arthur Ellis’s fine wool waistcoat, much like a shield. Some things never changed and it was comforting.
“Thankfully, not today,” the secretary replied with a smile, holding the Earl’s diary a little tighter. “This room must have been a surprise to you, sir?”
“Surprise? Ha! An understatement. Thought I’d been brought to the wrong room.” Sir Antony glanced up at the portrait. “No wagers need be made to guess under whose influence the anteroom has a far cheerier aspect, eh, Ellis?”
“Very true, sir.” The secretary adding with a hint of sad apology, “You will find there have been a great many changes to Lord Salt’s household since your untimely departure…”
“All for the better, I’m certain,” Sir Antony replied with a bright smile, hiding his own sadness that time had gone on without him in this noble household, but not wishing to pursue the matter further, despite the secretary’s obvious sympathy for his cause. He caught sight of the unfamiliar and pointed it out for something to say, “So what’s under here, Ellis?” he asked, stepping across to the opposite corner by the fireplace. “A cage methinks? What sort of beast hides beneath the cloth? Is it feathered or furred?”
Leaving his appointment book on the sideboard, Arthur Ellis joined Sir Antony by the large square cage on its pedestal and covered by a sheet.
“Feathered, my lord.”
The secretary took out his pocket watch, noted the time and pushed it back in his waistcoat pocket.
“In fact,” he continued, “I am surprised to see the cage under covers at this late hour. But perhaps, in the hubbub of arrival, it was for the best. It is time for Peter’s fruit, but the cover will remain until Miss Aldershot arrives, or Peter’s squawking may be the death of him.” He grinned sheepishly. “Lord Salt is not enamored of the bird, I’m afraid, and has, on more than one occasion, threatened to have poor Peter stuffed and mounted, which he says would afford those waiting an audience with his lordship just as much pleasure as seeing a live macaw. Oh! I did not mention that Miss Aldershot is his lordship’s ward and—Ah! Here is Miss Aldershot now,” he added with a nervous smile and beckoned the two footmen to come forward to remove the sheet covering the cage.
“Miss Aldershot and I have been introduced, Ellis,” Sir Antony said and suppressed a grin when the secretary merely nodded in an absent sort of way, seemingly having lost the ability to hear with Kitty Aldershot in the room.
Kitty Aldershot crossed the anteroom carrying a large porcelain bowl covered by a linen napkin. She was dressed in a pretty pink-patterned gown à l’anglaise with a matching colored ribbon about her throat and several bows in her fair hair. She was humming to herself and, removing the linen napkin, peered at the contents of the bowl, oblivious to the gentlemen by the cage. That is, until the two footmen holding the cover between them knocked the cage, causing it to swing on its ornate brass pedestal and its occupant to give a loud squawk in protest.
The secretary stepped forward to take the bowl from her and so Kitty saw him first.
“Has Peter been misbehaving himself, Mr. Ellis?” she asked, smiling brightly, causing Arthur Ellis to choke back his reply at such a smile being bestowed upon him. “I have his fruit and nuts and if you wish to help me feed—Sir Antony! Oh! What a pleasure it is to see you again so soon, sir!” she exclaimed, shoving the bowl of fruit at the secretary and dropping a quick curtsy as she brushed down the transparent linen apron tied about her waist. “I mean… It is very pleasant to see you again! This is Mr. Ellis, his lordship’s secretary. But you would know that…”
She gave a nervous little laugh and turned to the secretary expecting him to say something, but Arthur Ellis was staring into the bowl, trying to bring his features under control, not wishing to alert Sir Antony to the true nature of his feelings for Kitty Aldershot.
Too late for that, reasoned Sir Antony. He also now knew why Arthur Ellis happened to be lurking in the anteroom when there was no likelihood of petitioners that day and should be engaged elsewhere. All three were relieved when Peter the Macaw let them know what he thought of being ignored by a dramatic display of rustling feathers, followed by a loud screeching that would surely have brought on a heart attack in an elderly petitioner.
“That’s enough, Peter!” Kitty Aldershot scolded the bird affectionately, selecting a segment of orange from the bowl. She passed it through two brass ribs of the cage. “Be a good boy and you may even be permitted to take a walk when her ladyship arrives.”
Sir Antony moved closer to the ornate cage of polished brass to better observe the large bird. Its plumage was magnificently colored, with vivid blue wings and a long luxuriant tail, golden yellow breast and under parts, and a powerful black beak. The macaw’s forehead was covered in bright green feathers, its chin had feathers of deepest blue, and its large claws were black like its beak. And as if its coloring weren’t enough to attract attention, there were the mesmerizing black and white markings circling its small inquisitive eyes.
Sir Antony had seen illustrations of such exotic creatures and been in the presence of a scarlet parrot, but they were as nothing compared to being up close to this magnificent creature that now danced up and down on its sturdy perch in greeting.
The macaw also rocked back and forth when spoken to, and whenever a piece of fruit was passed through the brass rungs, it took it in its claw, almost gently, and delicately savored the succulent fruit. When Arthur Ellis provided Peter with a walnut to crack, the bird grasped the nut in one claw and broke open the walnut’s hard outer-casing with its strong beak, giving a gurgling, almost self-satisfied sound at its own cleverness at revealing the soft inner kernel of the nut. Sir Antony received the strongest impression Peter was well aware of his status as pampered main attraction and was only too willing to dance on his perch and climb up and down the brass ribs of his cage for as long as he was given tasty morsels to devour.
“What an extraordinary creature,” Sir Antony exclaimed, voicing his delight. “May I be permitted to offer Peter some fruit?”
Kitty Aldershot handed him a large slice of apple to give the macaw, and he did so, timidly. Yet, the second piece of apple he passed through the cage into Peter’s claw with more confidence and was rewarded with what sounded like a garbled thank you in French.
“Did he just say merci beaucoup?” he gasped and when Kitty nodded, he laughed and addressed the bird, “You cheeky show-off!”
“He is that, Sir Antony,” Arthur Ellis agreed, feeling he should say something to regain Miss Aldershot’s attention because she was looking up at Sir Antony with what he could only depressingly describe as veneration. “And the bigger the audience, the more Peter likes to perform. Is that not so, Miss Aldershot? I recall the time when this room was overflowing with petitioners, and Peter was in fine form, dancing up and down his perch for a lady who took it upon herself to have a conversation with him. Do you remember, Miss Aldershot? Unfortunately, she made the mistake of leaning in too close to the cage and her hat poked through the bars an
d—”
“—Peter pulled the hat off her head with his beak and shredded it within seconds! Oh, yes! I do remember, Mr. Ellis.” She glanced up at Sir Antony, whose focus remained on Peter. “The lady’s hat was of blond straw with a small crown but a wide brim, and had the prettiest green sash—”
“Not after Peter had finished with it,” Arthur Ellis quipped.
Kitty Aldershot giggled and Arthur Ellis laughed, and Sir Antony, feeling the interloper, offered the macaw one of the two walnuts he was holding in the awkward silence that followed once the couple’s laughter died away. All three were unaware they were being observed from the doorway.
“Does Peter have anything else to say in French?” Sir Antony asked casually in the silence, addressing the bird. He glanced at the couple. “Why Peter? Why not Pierre? Or Francois? An odd name, or should I say, specific name, for a bird, isn’t it—Peter?”
“As to that, my lord, you would need to inquire of Lady Caroline, to whom the macaw belongs,” the secretary informed him. He shrugged his shoulders and deferred to Kitty Aldershot. “Perhaps Miss Aldershot knows the origin of Peter’s name?”
“That I do, Mr. Ellis,” Kitty volunteered excitedly with a bright smile and moved closer to Sir Antony to place her hand on his upturned embroidered cuff. She smiled up at him and dropped her voice. “If I tell you, you must not repeat it…” She took Sir Antony’s frowning silence for assent, blind that the familiarity of her hand on his arm had not only unsettled him, but Arthur Ellis. “I thought it an odd name, too, for a bird. And once I came upon Lady Caroline alone with Peter and talking to him in French. I had little idea birds could speak! So imagine my surprise when Peter did so, and in French, of all the tongues God put on this earth. He says more than merci beaucoup, too, but you need to know the right phrase, and say it in French, for Peter to respond…” She leaned in to Sir Antony, her excitement at divulging what she knew and anticipating his reaction making her a little breathless. Deliberately, Sir Antony leaned away as Arthur Ellis unconsciously leaned toward her. “It’s Peter for ’Petersburg. I am very sure she named the bird after—”
Salt Redux Page 15