Marblestone Mansion
Book 7
(Scandalous Duchess Series)
by
Marti Talbott
© all rights reserved
Cover art by Book Cover Art
Editor: Frankie Sutton
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
As was his custom, Bernard Allan Hathaway held the clandestine meeting with his secret business associates in a less than reputable hotel, far from his expensive residence on 5th Avenue in New York City. In the darkness of night, he cautiously climbed out of his rented carriage, looked long and hard up the street, turned and then examined the street in the opposite direction. Seeing no one at all, the man with the round face and a slightly receding hairline, which he kept hidden under his bowler hat, entered the shabby hotel lobby. He then took the stairs to the second floor and at the top, carefully peeked around the corner into the hallway. It too was empty, so he hurried to the second room on his left, opened the unlocked door and slipped inside.
For the man who was called Bernie by friends and associates, it had been an extremely lucrative day, and he was very well pleased. In the scant light of a lone candle, he handed three crisp fifty-dollar bills to one well groomed man and two expensively dressed women.
A widow in her mid-forties, Dena had golden hair, brown eyes and a smile that could melt the heart of any man. She was delighted with nearly three times a full month’s factory pay, and quickly tucked the bills down the front of her corset. “When do we work again?”
Bernie returned Dena’s smile. “Not for a while, lest you be discovered, my dear, not for a while yet. I shall send the usual notice when it is time.”
She nodded and kissed him on the cheek. Dena inched the door open, checked the hallway, and then left just as quickly as she could. The man waited five minutes more before he left, and then another five minutes passed before the second woman quietly closed the door behind her. Alone in the room finally, Bernie peeled another fifty dollar bill off his wad, placed it on the dresser, walked out and locked the door behind him. He tipped his hat forward to hide his dark eyes, hurried back to his carriage and with no one the wiser, went home.
*
It was completely unthinkable that the ex-duchess of Glenartair had once more been reduced to near poverty. A woman of her perfect stature and celebrated beauty, who knew all the best people, danced at glorious London balls, and stood in the presence of Queen Victoria, should be…in fact, deserved to be treated with far more esteem than she was lately forced to endure.
When she stepped off the ship in New York Harbor and climbed into a carriage, she turned the heads of many a man. Her hair was as black as coal, minus a few plucked strands of annoying gray, her figure was slender, her face was appropriately powdered, and her blue eyes, when a man was fortunate enough to see them, were the color of a glistening sapphire. Wearing a fashionable orange traveling dress with a long black coat, and a wide-brimmed orange hat that was not exactly hers, she sat back and enjoyed the ride to the best hotel the city had to offer.
The duchess expected to live quite nicely on the money she won playing poker aboard ship. Unfortunately, the minute she stepped out of the carriage in front of the posh hotel, a thief grabbed her purse and disappeared around the nearest corner. She screamed and a policeman gave chase, but the impossibly slow and inept policeman caught him not. Fully enraged, the duchess lost all sense of composure and loudly screeched her indignation. A crowd gathered, the hotel manager demanded she move on, and the policeman gave up trying to console her. Adding to her insult, the exasperated carriage driver set but one of her bags on the sidewalk, and drove off with the other.
Two hours later, she found herself sitting on a bench in an ordinary park without the least idea of how she got there. As her mind began to clear, she once more placed the blame for all her troubles squarely on her fourth husband, Hannish MacGreagor. His crimes against her were far more egregious than the common thief who stole her purse, and someday, she would reap the rewards of her revenge. Until then, she was down, but not out – she was never out, not as long as she still drew breath. The money hidden in her corset would just have to do until she could once more raise her standard of living.
To do that, she needed a new husband.
Gathering her resolve, she stood up, grabbed the handle of her satchel and looked to see if anyone was watching her. Assured that no one was, she picked up a folded blue parasol that had been carelessly left unattended on the next bench, and walked out of the park.
*
“Did you set a place for Mr. Lester?” Cook Jessie asked Elaine. It was Jessie’s turn to make breakfast, and Marblestone Mansion’s kitchen was filled with the scrumptious smell of fried ham, eggs, and hotcakes. When the Scottish servants first came to the Colorado mansion, the American Cook Halen and the Scottish Cook Jessie did not get along, but now, they not only worked well together, they were the best of friends. Upon one particular thing they both agreed – Elaine needed constant supervision.
Elaine Ownby huffed and grabbed another plate out of the cupboard. “I do not see why we put up with the man.” The newest, as well as the youngest of the fifteen member staff needed to keep the enormous mansion running smoothly, Elaine had blonde hair that she kept neatly piled on top of her head, wore an ordinary brown frock over a white blouse, and worked as laundry maid when she was not busy being the cook’s helper.
“What are we to do? Turn him away at the door?” Jessie asked. She lifted the platter cover, added four more pancakes to the pile, replaced the cover to keep them warm, and poured more batter on the flat iron skillet. Steam instantly rose as the batter began to sizzle.
“He hasn’t the manners of a goat, showing up every morning just in time for breakfast,” said Elaine.
Cook Halen decided her boiling homemade syrup was thick enough, wrapped a cloth pad around the handle of the copper saucepan, and began to pour the liquid into a small pitcher. “Nevertheless, he is a guest, and if Mr. Hannish does not object, neither should we.”
Elaine found that explanation completely unsatisfactory. “Mr. Hannish does not object because he is not required to set another place and wash more dishes.” From a kitchen drawer, Elaine chose silverware, a tattered cloth napkin, and then walked around the partition into the servant’s dining room. Suddenly, she was face-to-face with Millie, the Mansion’s head housekeeper and superior over the women servants.
“A complaint this early in the mornin’?” Millie asked. She set her daughter in a highchair, and then held the child’s hands to keep them from getting pinched, as her husband, Butler Prescot, scooted the highchair up to the table. At a year old, Julian already looked a lot like her mother with light red hair and green eyes, but she definitely had her father’s look of disapproval when things did not go her way. “You best not let Mr. Hannish hear you complainin’,” Millie continued.
Elaine knew that was a real possibility. The MacGreagor family came to the kitchen wherever they wanted and without warning. As the rest of the servants came in and stood behind their chairs, Elaine wisely lowered her head and concentrated on setting the extra place at the table. Butler Prescot always sat at the head of the table, and had assigned the chair next to him to their guest. It made it impossible for Elaine to ignore the disapproving look she was certain to find on Prescot’s face, but when she glanced at him, he was smiling.
“Elaine has not yet guessed why Mr. Lester keeps company with us,” said Butler Prescot, as he finished moving the highchair and went to stand behind his chair.
“Why?” Elaine asked.
“He is sweet on one of you,” Prescot answered.
“I say he fancies Elaine,” Dugan teased.
“Me?” Elaine asked. “Impossible, he is old enough to…how old do you suppose he is?”
“Well,” Brookton said, “he claims to have driven the same route for ten years, so that would make him at least ten.”
Elaine rolled her eyes. “More like thirty.”
“Thirty is not that old,” Cook Halen protested. Her seat was opposite the butler’s, and she carefully set the hot syrup pitcher down in the middle of the table before she went to her chair.
“Quiet, I think I hear him,” Jessie whispered. She set the covered platter of hotcakes in front of the butler, and then hurried to take her place.
*
In the 38th of the 45 states in the United States of America, Mr. Adam Lester, the highly esteemed and much appreciated Colorado Springs milkman, was right on schedule. For ten years, he delivered milk as he went up the hill, but about a month ago, he changed his route. These days, he drove to the top first and delivered as he went down. The change enabled him to arrive at Marblestone Mansion just as the servants were about to eat their morning meal.
For the most part, the man with brown eyes, brown hair, long sideburns, a trimmed beard, and a mustache, was happy. He was proud to wear his white milkman uniform and hat, and pleased with the large, red, Lester’s Milk Delivery lettering on both sides of his white, boxed in wagon. Energetic and never stingy with his smiles, he delivered glass bottles full of milk, retrieved the empty ones, and merrily went on his way.
Once a month, he collected payment from his customers, and drove directly to the bottler to pay for the cost of the milk. What remained was enough to pay his expenses and to set some aside, which he kept in Mr. Goodwin’s bank. Now that he could afford one, Mr. Lester was ready to take a wife, and the one he wanted just happened to work at Marblestone Mansion.
There was a time, not so long ago, when Mr. Lester had to take care not to let Young Mr. Wade MacGreagor capture him as he approached Marblestone Mansion. That was before Moan MacGreagor took his wife and six troublesome children back to Scotland. For that, he was exceedingly grateful.
Occasionally, except when the wheels of his wagon got caught in an unavoidable rut, the clinking of the empty bottles sounded like music. With few of the locals out and about at that early hour, he felt free to sing his favorite songs between deliveries, just as he was on this day, as he turned down the lane that led to the mansion.
One thing was for sure – when Hannish MacGreagor decided to build a mansion, he knew what he was doing, and Mr. Lester never tired of admiring the three-story, sixty-seven room house. Although he had never seen it, he heard the entire foyer was made of white marble, and that there was something made of marble in every room. Each year it seemed, something new was added to Mr. Lester’s delight. This year, it was the marble statue of a highlander lass standing in a round bed of flowers in the front yard. He did not mind halting his milk wagon right beside it so he could get a closer look. No sir, he did not mind it at all.
*
Inside the dining room, the servants listened to see who could hear his rattling bottles or his boisterous song first. “Oh Suzanna,” Cook Halen, whispered. She was usually the first to hear him, but she was not always right, so the others perked up their ears and continued to listen. Sure enough, Oh Suzanna was the song, and Halen beamed at her success. Even then, they silently listened until the bottles stopped rattling, heard Mr. Lester come through the outside door, and then walk down the hall. Just as he was about to open the door, footman Brookton opened it for him.
The milkman grinned from ear to ear. “You’re a mite slow this morning, Mr. Brookton.”
Brookton shrugged. “Must be getting old,” he said. He relieved the milkman of the three bottles he delivered daily, and headed off to put them in the kitchen.
Mr. Lester removed his hat and went to stand behind his chair. “One day older, at least.”
As soon as Brookton returned and Butler Prescot nodded for them to sit, Mr. Lester sat as well. He breathed in the glorious smell, eyed the platters of tempting food and failed to notice the grins on all their faces. “How does the new babe do this morning?” he asked.
“‘Twas but an upset stomach,” Beverly answered. The previous year, Marblestone’s resident schoolteacher had older pupils to teach, but now there were just three little ones. Mr. and Mrs. MacGreagor had two and Butler Prescot and his wife, Millie, had one. All of the children were under the age of three and therefore, the teacher became the nanny instead. The MacGreagor family kept their children with them and served themselves a hot breakfast in the dining room, freeing up all the servants to enjoy at least one meal together each day.
Mr. Lester tucked the corner of the tattered cloth napkin in the neck of his shirt, spooned two large helpings of scrambles eggs on his plate, passed the platter, and eyed the one Prescot held with the hotcakes on it. “I am glad to hear that. I do so worry over the little ones, you know. Mrs. Crestwood’s baby is not doing well…not well at all. Doc Parker fears it is tuberculosis.”
Cook Jessie caught her breath. “Oh my, the little ones hardly ever survive that. Are they takin’ him to the sanitarium?”
“Tomorrow, though it will be hard for Mrs. Crestwood to leave him there. She has little choice, for she has seven other children and a husband to care for.”
“Poor Mrs. Crestwood,” Millie muttered. “I would be beside myself if Julian came down with tuberculosis.” She scooped a small bite of scrambled egg onto her spoon and fed it to her daughter.
Sitting next to Beverly on the opposite side of the table, Elaine stared at Mr. Lester. “Tuberculosis is in the milk, you know.”
Mr. Lester’s left eyebrow instantly shot up. “Not my milk, Miss Elaine. My milk is pasteurized before it is put in the bottles.”
“Well, it must not be working if babies are still getting sick.”
“A lot you know,” he argued. “Mrs. Crestwood’s baby has not had so much as a sip of cow’s milk. He is too young still.”
Elaine found debating him useless, as always. “Mr. Lester, can you not think of something more pleasant to talk about?”
Brookton liked getting Elaine all riled up, as did everyone. “Tuberculosis comes from Vampires,” he said, passing the platter of ham to Shepard.
“That’s true,” Shepard played along. “They wear shrouds, their faces are dark and bloated, and they walk the streets at night looking for someone to give the dreadful disease to.”
Elaine disgustedly clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Vampires? I have never seen a vampire, nor have you.”
“That is because…” Shepard started.
“I agree, let us change the subject,” Millie interrupted. “You seem a bit more cheerful than usual, Mr. Lester. Have you good news?”
“Indeed I do.” His napkin had come loose, so he gave it another tuck inside the collar of his crisp white shirt. “This month, I shall make the final payment on my horse. My first horse went lame, you see, and Mr. Goodwin was kind enough to give me a loan from the bank, so I could buy the one I have now.”
“Mr. Goodwin is the best of men,” Butler Prescot said.
“The very best of men,” Mr. Lester agreed. “I cannot think of a thing I would not do for him if he asked, but then, he would never ask. That is the sort of good man he is.”
“How is his eyesight these days?” Cook Halen asked.
“You mean since his eyes got burned in the forest fire year before last?” Mr. Lester asked. “Doc Parker ordered stronger spectacles for him from the Sears catalog and Mr. Goodwin is most grateful. He says his world is much clearer these days.”
“A good thing, too,” Elaine put in, “for he must count all our money correctly. When I ask for some from my savings, I count it again just to make certain.”
“And is he ever wrong?” Prescot asked.
“Not yet,” Elaine answered.
Mr. Lester stopped eating long enough to ask, “You do not trust Banker Goodwin?”
“I trust him
, just not his bad sight,” Elaine answered.
Mr. Lester narrowed his eyes a little. “Miss Elaine, was it you who stole the school bell yesterday?”
“Me?” a horrified Elaine asked. “Why do you accuse me?”
“Seems like something you would do. Did I not see you in town? Perhaps…”
“Perhaps nothing,” Elaine shot back. “What would I do with a stupid school bell? I hated school.”
“Why am I not surprised to hear that?” Millie muttered.
“How many missin’ bells does that make?” Dugan asked.
“Well now, let me see,” Mr. Lester began. “There’s the school bell, the sleigh bells; six of them on a leather strap, and the hotel’s bellhop bell. That makes three thefts and eight bells altogether.”
“What could anyone possibly want with all those bells?” Cook Halen asked.
“Don’t rightly know, Miss Halen. Cannot even hazard a guess.” Mr. Lester turned his attention to Prescot. “Miss Carter down at the general store wants to know if Mr. MacGreagor will be hiring, now that the duke and the duchess are coming to stay.”
“It has not yet been settled,” Prescot answered. “The duke may bring some of the Scottish servants with him or he may not.”
“I hope he brings Alistair and Sarah back,” said Shepard. “I miss them.”
“As do I,” Cook Jessie said. “I cannae remember a time when Alistair was not the castle’s butler, and I cannae imagine the place without him, but I do wish they would come back.”
Mr. Lester chuckled. “There is talk in town about the Scots.”
“What sort of talk,” Jessie wanted to know.
“Nothing bad, I assure you. Some are just a bit confused about which of you are Scottish and which are not? I say you, Mr. Brookton, are a Scot. Am I correct?”
Brookton grinned. “Have you placed a wager on it, Mr. Lester?”
Marblestone Mansion, Book 7 Page 1