The Valet and the Stable Groom

by Katherine Marlowe

  “You’re still here,” Letty said.

  “Here?” Clement looked away from the rain-spattered window. He’d paused at the end of a hallway, where there was a view out toward the conservatory and the stables, with relatively little foot-traffic to bother him. “I’d stopped to think.”

  “I meant in Herefordshire.”

  “Ah.”

  Letty watched him with kind, patient eyes underlaid by an ever-present glitter of mischief. “What happened to London, and your ambitions?”

  “Perhaps when…” Clement’s eyes returned to the window, and the dark shape of the stables through the rain. “Perhaps when the household is better settled. After the garden party. And once Hildebert has struck upon some hobby.”

  “Do you imagine that he shall?”

  “Yes. I think so. He’s not idle by nature. I think he balks at having to exchange his former hobbies and entertainments for the limited options remaining to him in the country, but I expect that he’ll settle upon some employment for himself, sooner or later.”

  “Hopefully sooner.” Letty sighed, leaning against the window frame beside him and considering the rain outdoors. “What has you so distracted?”

  “Am I distracted?”

  “You’re staring out the window. Boggarts in your brain?”

  “No. Perhaps.” There were no lights visible in the stables, but that didn’t mean Hugo wasn’t there. He might be able to do his chores effectively in dim lighting. Clement tore his eyes away. “If I do stay, I don’t know what I’d do with myself. I never imagined being content with remaining a country valet forever.”

  “Not forever,” Letty said, and gave him a wry smile. “Midgley isn’t young.”

  Clement pressed his lips together, neither smile nor grimace. “He isn’t old, either.”

  “There are other households in the country, as well,” Letty said. “Soon you’ll have a whole garden party full of them.”

  That earned a smile from him. Clement pushed away from the window, mind filling with tasks he ought to accomplish.

  “There’s something else,” Letty said. She narrowed her eyes.

  Clement paused. “Something else?”

  “Something else on your mind. I’m sure of it.”

  “Letty,” Clement said, and grinned. “When have you ever known me to have anything on my mind but my work and my ambition?”

  She lifted her brows and pursed her lips, effectively silenced. Shrugging her shoulders, Letty left him to his reverie.

  Clement spent most of Friday haunting the servants’ kitchen.

  He did his tasks in laps, seeing to Hildebert and his needs and then returning twice an hour to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Ledford was seeing to the peeling of potatoes. She glanced up at Clement’s entrance.

  Clement had no reasonable excuse to be in the kitchen, particularly not so early in the morning. He made himself a cup of tea, and drank it.

  Hugo did not appear, but there was likewise no fish stew to be had.

  Clement returned to his duties, all of which took twice as long as usual. His hands were clumsy and his mind was distracted.

  He went back to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Ledford’s eyes followed him.

  “Good morning to you, Mrs. Ledford,” Clement said. He decided upon making himself a cup of tea, only to realise that he had done so on his prior trip to the kitchen. Mrs. Ledford might notice something amiss if Clement’s tea-drinking habits suddenly trebled.

  “Good morning.”

  He determined that now was the time for friendly conversation. They were, after all, allies in the service of the Devereux household, and it would be most advantageous for all parties if they could behave as such.

  Clement forgot every topic he knew.

  Mrs. Ledford had paused in the peeling of potatoes. “Mr. Adair?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Ledford?”

  “It seemed as though you had something to say.”

  Cheeks hot, Clement redoubled his efforts to manufacture conversation. “Are you…” he began, and then pointed at the potatoes in question as he strove to inquire politely about her morning industry and whether she required any assistance. “Potatoes?”

  Mrs. Ledford peered at him. “Are you quite well, Mr. Adair?”

  Clement sighed and rubbed at his face. “Yes, Mrs. Ledford. Forgive me. I feel entirely restless today. I think I will run myself quite out of my skull with… with…” with thinking of him.

  Or the conscious endeavour to avoid thinking of him, as the case may be.

  Catching his tongue between his teeth, Clement slowed himself enough to take a breath. “I am all out of sorts,” he began again. “And presently caught up on my duties. Idleness does not suit me. May I … help?”

  Mrs. Ledford looked down at the potatoes, paring knife still in one hand. “Yes.”

  She set down the knife and wiped her hands upon her apron, and then set the bowl of peeled potatoes near an empty space on the worktable. Fetching a larger knife, she laid it alongside. Her weathered hand took a single potato from the bowl and laid it on the worktable, slicing it into neat, bite size chunks. “Like that,” she said, then set down the knife and returned instead to peeling.

  Clement approached the bare potatoes with trepidation.

  “Where shall I… ?” he asked, picking up a few of the chopped potatoes.

  “Fetch another bowl from there,” Mrs. Ledford said.

  He fetched. Then he set the little pile of potato chunks into the bowl, leaving him with a fresh workspace. He placed another potato in the centre of it and took up the knife.

  She’d made it look easy. Surely it could not be difficult to mimic her technique.

  Clement had always prided himself on knowing his way around a kitchen, but his knowledge amounted to little more than how to make tea, toast, and the sort of simple repasts which might sustain either himself or his employer if they required sustenance at odd hours. He had never in his life been called upon to slice a potato.

  Carefully, he chopped the potato into pieces resembling the ones Mrs. Ledford had made. They were not so uniform, and he suspected that Mrs. Ledford could have chopped the entire bowl in the time it took him to slice a single potato. The bowl slowly filled with potato chunks.

  Every so often, Clement checked his pocket watch. His task was not yet finished by half past noon, at which time he went, as was his habit, to fetch his master’s breakfast and carry it up to him. It was Hildebert’s preference to take luncheon alone in the sunroom, unless his presence was required elsewhere.

  Much to everyone’s consternation, Hildebert’s presence had not been required anywhere all week.

  Clement found him still in his room, sighing in frustration and staring out the window with a magazine upon his lap. He’d read the magazine six times already.

  “Ah, Clement! I’ve just been reading about a technique to keep ants off of fruit trees.”

  “Yes, the dipping of the cloth in tar and then wrapping it around the trunk, I do recall,” Clement said, laying the magazine aside and brushing some lint from Hildebert’s vest. “Your luncheon is laid, sir.”

  “Oh,” Hildebert said, disappointed. “Did I tell you already? Well, what do you suppose, might it be put to some use?”

  “Certainly. You might mention it to the gardener, and inquire about whether our orchard is plagued by ants. Have you been to see the orchard yet?”

  “Oh,” said Hildebert. He was less interested in the actual application of his newfound knowledge. “No. I suppose not.”

  “Your luncheon, sir,” Clement reminded him.

  “Yes, yes.” Waving a dismissive hand at him, Hildebert scowled. “I’ll come to it soon enough.”

  Clement knew from experience that he would not. Hildebert would forget the luncheon entirely the moment Clement left the room. Ignoring the dismissal, Clement frowned down at him. “It will grow cold.”

  “Very well, what is it?” Hildebert huffed.

  �
�Lamb with mint and the early spring strawberries,” Clement said.

  Hildebert still wasn’t rising from his seat. “Oh, Jane will like that.”

  “Yes,” Clement agreed. “Will you come and eat?”

  “You cluck like an old hen, Clement!” Grumbling about it, Hildebert got to his feet and went.

  Once his employer was settled, eating his now-cold luncheon, Clement laid a book within reach, hoping that the tome might interest Hildebert enough to divert him for the afternoon. He checked that the tea in the pot was still warm, and then he returned to the servants’ kitchen.

  The potatoes were chopped, and Mrs. Ledford had begun boning the fish.

  “Mr. Adair,” she said, in greeting.

  “Mrs. Ledford.”

  She returned her attention to the fish. “I did not expect that you would return.”

  Clement had no explanation to offer. There were other tasks he might do, particularly now that Hildebert was out of his room. There were suits to be brushed and buttons to be reinforced.

  “What is it that you’re making?” Clement asked, though he already knew.

  “A stew,” she said.

  “Fish stew.”

  She hesitated. A strand of gray hair had come loose from her bun. The cross she wore around her neck was plain iron. “Yes.”

  Every Friday. “You’re Catholic.”

  This time the hesitation was almost imperceptible. She did not look up. “Yes.”

  “I have heard,” Clement said, wishing to dismiss any offence he might have implied, “that your fish stew is excellent.”

  She paused with her knife above the head of the fish currently lying in the centre of her workspace, and met his eyes. “Have you?”

  “Will you teach me to bone a fish, as you’re doing?”

  Mrs. Ledford cut the head and the tail from the fish, and began to explain each step of the process. She explained once and demonstrated twice, and then handed the knife over to Clement.

  The fish was slimy to the touch. The workspace beneath it was slick with traces of fish blood.

  Clement gritted his teeth and cut off the fish’s head.

  When the fish were prepared, they were put into the waiting pot. Mrs. Ledford went out to fetch more water from the well while Clement returned to the primary kitchen and took up a fresh pot of tea to Hildebert.

  The original pot of tea was cold and untouched. Hildebert had the book open and was fast asleep in his chair.

  Clement swapped out the pots of tea and returned to the servant’s kitchen.

  He shared the cold tea with Mrs. Ledford while they chopped watercress for the stew. The potatoes and fish bubbled in the pot over the fire.

  On the third pot of tea, Hildebert was no longer in the sunroom. After some searching, Clement found him playing chess in the upstairs parlour with Jane. Letty was nearby, making slow progress with an embroidery project.

  “Oh, Clement!” Letty said, gratefully discarding her project onto the embroidery basket. “Will you play at cards with us? Then we shall have four.”

  “Perhaps once the chess is finished,” Clement said, setting down the pot of tea. The game of chess was still in its early stages, so he left them to it.

  He sent a housemaid to take up additional cups for tea, and ordered some refreshments to be taken up to them in half an hour.

  Then he went back to the kitchen. If Hildebert or Jane remembered and insisted, they could send for him.

  While the stew simmered, Mrs. Ledford reviewed a ledger of expenses. She got up every so often to stir the pot or to add fuel to the fire.

  Clement fetched himself a book and sat at a clean spot on the table. Every two pages, he got up and stirred the stew.

  Mrs. Ledford’s eyes followed him the first two times he did this. After that, she simply left him to it.

  Mr. Busick was the first to come in for stew. He took up the large wooden spoon, stirred the food once, tasted it, and then served some of it into a bowl. In silence, he sat at the table and ate.

  None of them made conversation.

  Mr. Busick ate with slow, musing bites, supping mostly upon broth. Clement watched him at first, and then returned his attention to reading.

  This was the most time Clement had spent in the servants’ kitchen since he’d arrived. While he read, Miss Grant came in, served herself, and sat beside Mrs. Ledford to eat.

  “How are the cucumbers coming along?” Mrs. Ledford asked.

  “Slowly,” Miss Grant responded. “They’ll be late this year.”

  “Mr. Devereux had some interest in the fruit trees,” Clement offered. “He wished to know whether or not they were plagued with ants.”

  “As much as any orchard is plagued with ants, I suppose,” the gardener said. Her gaze was guarded, though not unfriendly.

  “He has read in his London Magazine that one may handle ants by dipping a strip of cloth in black tar and then wrapping it around the trunk. I would be very grateful if you could contrive to let him tell you all about the process.”

  The gardener’s lips tilted. “If Mr. Devereux’s path crosses mine, I shall endeavour to be educated on the topic of proper orchard care.”

  “I appreciate that,” Clement said.

  They shared a conspiratorial smile. Clement’s smile remained even as he returned his attention to his book.

  The stew smelled delicious from where Clement was sitting. Rich and warm, redolent with herbs.

  Hugo came in shortly after the gardener had left. He nodded greeting to Mr. Busick, who had finished, and smiled at Clement. Mrs. Ledford was near the stew pot, and the two of them orbited around a central point in order to swap places without looking at each other or exchanging any words. It was not done with any evident antagonism or coldness. They simply avoided each other.

  Hugo served himself a bowl of stew and took a seat beside Clement. He spooned up a mouthful, chewed, and swallowed, watching Mr. Busick and Mrs. Ledford as he did so.

  “Dogs and horses?” asked Mr. Busick.

  “Dogs and horses,” Hugo answered him.

  This exchange apparently satisfied them both.

  “Have you tried the stew yet?” Hugo asked.

  Hugo’s eyes were on his own bowl of stew as he said this, so Clement did not immediately realise that the question was for him. But the bowl in front of Mr. Busick was obviously empty, and Hugo did not seem to be on speaking terms with Mrs. Ledford.

  “Oh!” said Clement. “No. I was waiting for it to be ready.”

  Hugo looked at his own bowl, then to Mr. Busick’s, then to Clement with a smile. “It seems that it is.”

  “Yes,” Clement agreed. He felt very foolish, and got up to get himself a bowl.

  Mrs. Ledford was still standing by the stew pot. She gave it another stir, leaving the large spoon toward Clement so that he might serve himself.

  Though Mrs. Ledford oversaw the business of the kitchen and the maids who did most of the cooking, this was the first time Clement had seen her employ herself in the kitchen.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Mrs. Ledford gave a slight nod of acknowledgement.

  Mr. Busick tidied away his dish and returned to the table with a little wooden carving and a pen knife. Mrs. Ledford served herself and sat at the opposite end of the table from Clement and Hugo.

  The stew was very good, and Clement was surprised to realise that he was very, very hungry. When he had emptied his bowl, he served himself a second one.

  Hugo sat beside him. At first he did not make conversation. When Clement got his second bowl and returned, Hugo began to talk about Titania and the other puppies, and then went on to speak about the horses under his care. He filled silence skilfully, requiring nothing—not even attention—from his listeners. It was soothing to listen to him relating stories and anecdotes about the stables. Clement asked him questions now and then to encourage him to continue, finding himself both relaxed and riveted by Hugo’s company.

  Other servants c
ame and went as Hugo talked. Clement’s bowl was empty, and cold, and he was not certain how long he had sat beside Hugo and listened.

  At length, the stew was gone, the sky outside was dark, and Hugo fell quiet. There was a sort of uncertainty to his silence, as if a question remained which he had not asked and was not yet certain if he should ask.

  Clement realised that he’d spoken hardly at all, and had done very little to carry his part of the conversation. He felt, now, that he should remedy that, but he found no words came to his lips and no topics of conversation sprang to mind.

  “I suppose,” said Hugo, “that I should return to the stables.”

  “Oh,” said Clement. All the other servants had gone, leaving them alone in the quiet kitchen. “It is late.”

  Hugo got to his feet. He paused, holding his bowl, and looked down at it unseeing.

  Clement rose also, quickly. He felt that he ought to say something, but did not know what.

  “Good evening,” said Hugo, “Mr. Adair.”

  “Clement,” he said, before he’d had a chance to think about what he was saying.

  Hugo looked up and smiled. “Clement.”

  Clement’s tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. He swallowed. “Good evening.”

  Hugo tidied away his bowl, and left.

  Clement’s own bowl was still in his hands as he stared after Hugo. He felt that he had gained something, and lost an opportunity, but he could not make sense of either.

  Chapter 6

  “Clement!”

  Hildebert brightened as Clement entered the room, getting up from his reading and coming over to greet his valet.

  Confused by this, Clement blinked.

  “There you are,” Hildebert said. “I have been bereft of your company all evening! We had to play cards without you.”

  Clement’s confusion took a swift dive into guilt. “You might have sent for me.”

  It was now Hildebert’s turn to look confused. “Ah. Yes. I suppose I might have.”

  Mired in guilty confusion, Clement realised that Hildebert had grown to assume that Clement would always appear when he was wanted simply because he always had. He had never, in the year and a half of his employment, been away from Hildebert’s side for more than a couple of hours at a time unless Hildebert had specifically sent him on a lengthy errand.