“Well, that couldn’t be her, then,” Alex mumbled, thinking it impossible it could be the same maid, and turning toward the fireplace. A fire in the blackened hearth warmed the Spanish marble surround, and the mantel of carved wood trapped the light beneath it. A gilded mirror above the fireplace reflected bookshelves filled with poetry, law books, and literature.
“Couldn’t be who, Alex?” Charles said.
Alex glanced over. “Oh, it’s nothing really. I had a skirmish with a maid myself, and was wondering if it was the same girl. From Hugh’s description it doesn’t seem so.” He rubbed his neck, recalling the embarrassment, the way she’d heard him coo in Latin and—
Wait.
She heard me speak Latin to the horse. And answered back in English. She understood me.
Hugh put a finger in the air. “You cannot let the house staff claim dominance. Who do these onion-eyed vermin think they are, anyway? Personally, I think the service here is in dire need of redirection. Fire them. Better yet, flog anyone who causes you the slightest vexation!”
Julian delivered a look to Hugh that silenced him. “I think it fair Alex handles his family’s troublesome staff in his own way.”
Hugh scoffed. “I was only coming to the aid of a friend. He doesn’t get much of your support apart from licking the boots of anyone important who comes to stay. Tell me . . . is fawning a profession, Julian?”
Charles swatted him and skirted round the reading table an arm’s length away. “Try to understand, Hugh. Julian comes from quality and he’s used to mixing with an elevated class of people. Being seen with you hampers his ability to move upward socially and professionally.”
Alex turned to Julian. “I thought the three of you were going off to your own homes first. Why did you come early?”
“I received a last-minute post from Father. It said they’d be holding one of those dreadful open houses for the peasants this week. The last thing I want is to watch feculent people walk through the estate and put their grubby hands on our things. It takes the servants weeks afterward to clean the piggish mess they’ve left behind.”
“That would explain the law book in your hands,” Alex said, a wry smile creeping across his lips.
“Well, I’m desperate to find some precedent—some alternative way of helping my father buy off votes in our borough without having the mass of unmuzzled poor come pickpocketing their way through our public reception rooms.” Julian scanned the pages. “It’s an archaic way of running the business of Parliament and high time for change.”
Hugh leered at Julian. “Next time around just make sure you’re born into peerage like old Alex here. It’s much easier to know you’ve got a seat in Parliament—whether you want it or not—than to have to rely on favors or bribery.” He collapsed onto an overstuffed chair and threw his feet on an old wooden games table.
Julian snapped the book closed and kicked Hugh’s feet from the table, glowering. “Next time you have the audacity to compare family heritage, I suggest you keep your mouth shut, Fowler. I doubt the serving wenches will find a lowly baron nearly as attractive without his front teeth.”
“All right, chaps, enough,” Charles said. “On to more pressing matters. Alex, have you spoken with your father?”
“No,” Alex said, still eyeing Julian. His friend and classmate was notorious for keeping his cool under stress, but this was his weakness. Julian’s father, although a member of Parliament, was not in the House of Lords, but rather the House of Commons, where he filled an elected position. Therefore, his future was not guaranteed, as was Alex’s, and all he could do was hope for an eventual appointment from the monarchy.
How much easier it would be if Julian were my father’s son, Alex often thought. He wants this life while I want only to escape it.
“Well, I don’t envy you that conversation,” Charles went on, grim-faced.
“I assume you’ll be part of it,” Alex said. “We’ll dine with my parents this evening, and I’m certain my father will have plenty to say to all of us.”
“Or nothing to say to any of us,” Julian countered.
Alex rubbed above his brows. It was difficult to say how they’d be received, but Julian’s words left a prickling twinge on his forehead.
Julian admired the Duke of Keswick, respected his shrewd mind. Yes, his mind is sharp, and will come at you like a battle-ax, ready to shred ribbons of your theories.
Hugh snorted as Julian pulled another book from the shelf. “Good God, Julian. You’re not actually going to read whilst on break from school.”
“May I remind you that being sent down can hardly be referred to as a break? And mad as it may seem to your idle head, Hugh, I take pleasure in expanding my knowledge—perhaps as much as Charles enjoys slapping the very source of where yours should be coming from.”
Charles leapt at his inattentive friend, and wrapped his arms in a victorious headlock while Hugh struggled for escape.
Julian sighed. “My point precisely.”
The maid returned with a heavy tray and the rigid posture of a rabbit about to flee. An older girl, with long hair of corn silk, followed her in. She held a bottle of wine and three glasses in her arms. Charles and Hugh released each other and casually smoothed their disheveled fabrics of shirts and breeches, both watching the girls lay the table.
The young pale-faced servant glanced nervously at them as she laid a plate with cold meats and cheeses, along with steaming rolls and salted butter. The older maid caught Hugh’s eye and sidled around the table. She poured red wine into each glass and wiped the mouth of the bottle with a cloth after each tip. When the last goblet was filled, she caught the drip of wine from the glass with her finger and, meeting Hugh’s fixed gaze, licked it from her hand. His slow half smile revealed one dimple, and he watched the girls leave. The older one flicked her hair over her shoulder before closing the door.
“This is much better, I must say,” Hugh said, casting an eye at Charles.
“You haven’t even tasted the wine yet, you pumpion.” Charles swiped at him.
Hugh settled into a chair, his face cool and complaisant. He swirled the liquid in the glass. “No need. I’m satisfied with whatever they’ve brought and perhaps with what’s to come.”
Alex shook his head, unable to stomach any more. “I propose we settle into our chambers and meet in the drawing room later for drinks. Hugh, Charles . . . Julian, I’ll see you anon.” He nodded at them and left the library. There would be no room for anything in his stomach this evening. All the space had filled with dread.
An hour later, Alex rushed headlong through the somber halls toward his parents’ private dining salon. His mother had filled the room with French and Flemish tapestries, hanging on wine-colored walls, trimmed in gilded leather. She’d had the ivory seat cushions overstuffed for the twelve-foot mahogany table. And each setting displayed gilded porcelain and gleaming English rock crystal. But no amount of eye-catching artistry could compete with his father’s disagreeable presence. The room would always be stubbornly bleak and uninviting so long as he occupied it.
Alex cursed his rapid pulse and opened the dining room door. The dinner party was in progress and the polite conversation generated a quiet hum. He surveyed his father for a moment; the velvet waistcoat attempting to gather in the man’s girth was the finest to be found, but failed its purpose.
“Kind of you to join us this evening, Alex. I wondered if you’d simply hide your head in shame during your visit,” his father said. “Although we shan’t call it a visit, since your school doesn’t want you back. Please, do sit down.” The duke gestured with a ruffled sleeve at an empty spot across the table from him. Hugh made a quiet snort and tried to cover it with a cough. He received a sharp elbow from Charles and a dour glare from Julian.
Alex gritted his teeth and willed himself not to respond to his father’s barb, but instead sat in the chair the duke’s private butler had pulled out. “I’m sorry I’ve come late, but I was sorting out a few hou
sekeeping matters with Mrs. Wigginton. I thought rather than passing the burden on to Mother, I would handle them myself.”
“You? Whatever for?” the duke said, spearing a piece of meat. “I believe you do your mother an injustice. Running this household is precisely what gives her pleasure. Am I not speaking the truth, my dear?” He opened his mouth to envelop the great hunk of pork.
“No. You are not,” she said, her face serene and smiling at the men.
The duke grunted in reply and waved his knife through the air. “Perhaps you did not hear the compliment in my statement. I endeavored to say that you enjoy taking charge of such things as the domestic matters.” He stared at his wife, glistening gravy dribbling down his chin.
“Indeed I did. Your assumption that my daily pleasure springs from choosing which rooms will be aired out and making sure the staff are not thieving from us is incorrect.”
The duke grew a deep shade of scarlet.
“Pride in my work is a given, but that which brings me pleasure is elsewhere.”
Alex watched Julian’s eyes jump from the duke to the duchess. He knew Julian would seize this as an opportunity to score flattery points, and scowled as his friend leaned forward to say, “Enlighten us, Your Grace. Do tell, what captures your interest these days?”
“That’s very kind of you to ask, Mr. Finch, but I doubt it would be of much interest to anyone here,” she said, her eyes moving to her husband.
“Quite right, I’m sure, my dear.” The duke waved at his butler. “Please bring the next course. I’m certain our guests are still famished from their travels.”
Alex closed his eyes and reminded himself to unclench his jaw, then looked to his mother, who seemed to say with a quiet smile there was no need to further irritate the situation.
“I decided this year would be best for fowl,” the duke raised a finger. “I informed several of my more superfluous tenants that this season there was to be no harvesting of corn on their lands unless obtained with a sickle.” He smiled at the look of confusion around him. “Sadly, many of these ill-bred creatures found it impossible to reap enough of their grain in time to procure the rent. Therefore, I was left with the unfortunate task of throwing them off the estate.”
Julian’s eyebrows knitted together. “I am perplexed, Your Grace.”
Sighing, the duke went on, “Mr. Finch, think of the buffet these birds have been left with—a feast for fattening, and our ultimate benefit in a few weeks.”
Julian’s face lit with understanding. “Ingenious. I admire your forethought.”
Alex cleared his throat. “Have any of these tenants been tardy with rents in the past?”
The duke turned, his receding chin stiffening. “You feel it your place to question my judgment, Alex? I think you rather inexperienced to render an opinion on the matter, particularly when it has not been sought.”
Alex wondered where he could possibly take the conversation from here. His father had been raised in the comfortable cloak of an elitist attitude. He sported it as if it were a badge of honor. “I suppose I was simply wondering about the families of the unfortunate farmers and what they will do without means of support.”
“It’s business, Alex. Surely you can appreciate your father’s cunning?” Julian said.
Alex shook his head. “It occurs to me that if you have proposed a business partnership with an individual, changing the terms after the accord has been accepted is dishonest and deceitful.”
His father scowled, his glare sharp as the knife in his hand. “There is nothing corrupt in procuring the best possible outcome for one’s economic endeavors, Alex. One takes a gamble with ventures and if you are not up for the challenge, you shall fall behind and perish. It is the law of the land. If you are to create any kind of a livelihood, it would behoove you to learn the benefits of shrewdness. As Mr. Finch gathered, if you show signs of weakness, others will gobble you up as soon as look at you. Given the opportunity, you’ll not find a man who wouldn’t use you as a stepping stool should they see you on the ground and a better place above you.”
Alex sunk back into his chair, deflated. He shook his head in amazement. Julian was the son the duke had wished for. He was so willing to play the game.
The rest of the dinner was nothing but polite conversation regarding the travels of the duke and the reopening of Parliament in November. Until then, the duke was planning several hunting trips, and spoke of next month’s visitation from a local magistrate.
“A knowledgeable man, I must say,” he nodded to Alex. “An individual I think pertinent to your future. That is, if you still have a future.”
Alex gripped the sides of his chair and molded a vapid expression.
“He will also advise me on how thick a rope I’ll need to hang the blasted rebels running our country amuck.” The duke pierced the air with his knife. “Once my garrison is built, this area will be clean of Jacobites and they’ll be rotting in a hole surrounded by my soldiers. Loathsome villains, the lot of them, and the filthy Stuarts they support. James will never be king. Stay in France where somebody actually gives a damn!”
The duke mopped the sheen from his face, motioned to the butler, and pushed his bulk back from the table to rise. “We’ll take our port in the library. See it gets there immediately.” He made a lackadaisical bow in the direction of his wife. “Thank you for dining with us this evening, my dear. The pleasure of your company always adds to the enjoyment.”
She gave him a thin smile and turned to Alex. “I do hope you’ll find a moment to spend with me tomorrow. There is much to discuss.”
“Why don’t you join us in the library for port?”
“Not tonight, Alex. I have letters to write and I’m rather weary as it is. I believe I will retire with a cup of tea and the quiet of my room.”
Alex sighed with unexpected relief. His parents’ forced politeness was something he could tolerate only in small doses. He kissed her on the cheek as she stifled a yawn, and noted again the pallor of her skin and jaundiced eyes. As far as the end to his evening, it was likely a long way off. His father was still wide-eyed and clear-witted.
NINE
THE EDGE OF THE QUILL WAS SHARP. ALTHOUGH NOT as sharp as she needed it to be. Gavin would be sailing through the front door any moment; his assigned Latin verses were to be translated in her finest penmanship. Verb conjugation swam before Jenna’s eyes.
She pressed the quill into the wooden table and tried to dislodge a tiny dried pea that had wedged itself into a crack. It was exactly how she felt at the moment: ignored, insignificant, and stuck in an odd place. If she could just get outside and breathe for a few minutes, she might be able to clear her head. But Angus demanded she stay indoors for the week—after the visit from Mrs. Wigginton. She’d been searching for the troublemaker who’d had a clash in the stables with Lord Pembroke, the duke’s son. He wanted her found and dealt with. “Clash?” Angus had repeated and looked questioningly at Jenna. But he covered for her, saying that she had been bedridden with an irritating cough since they’d arrived. It couldn’t be she who had vexed Lord Pembroke.
But it had been her. And now she was paying for her insolence. Her chin sunk to rest on the table and she viewed the parchment with her conjugation exercises at an odd angle.
Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant. Conjugation in the present tense. Other tenses floated through her head, adding to the confusion. Amo, amare, amavi, amatus. To love.
Jenna sighed. She found if she closed her eyes, some of the words started to disappear. It felt better with her eyes closed. She resolved to do the next conjugation in her head. To read. Lego, legere, legi, lectum . . .
“Iaceant canes dormientes,” said a soft voice near Jenna’s ear.
She sprang from the table and knocked over the inkwell. “Oh, Gavin, you scared me! Don’t sneak up on me when I’m studying. My heart is pounding like a hammer.” She held her hand to her throat.
“I only said ‘let sleeping dogs lie,’ and I
quite meant it, lass,” he said, and laughed. “I’d no intention of waking ye from your vigorous pursuit of knowledge. I ken what it’s like to be so immersed in work that your eyes give up and close while a wee bit of drool slips from your mouth.” He put the back of a sinewy hand to his head, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
She swatted him with the dishcloth that lay on the table. “I cannot be blamed. I didn’t get enough sleep last night.” She stretched and yawned like a cat, limbs unfurling.
“It might help if ye didna stay up half the night wi’ your ear pressed against the door.” Gavin winked a playful brown eye and she flushed red with the second chiding of the day.
“I wouldna have woken you,” he said, “except your da sent me down. Ian’s almost finished wi’ his day’s drawings and wants to get your mathematics done before Angus comes to cook the supper. Ian thinks ye dinna pay near enough attention when Angus comes bustling about.” Gavin swung a leg over the bench, and arranged the folds of fabric from his plaid. He pulled the parchment in front of him.
She watched him bending over her work, his long, oval face focused. She sighed and nibbled on a fingernail. It’s not just Angus. A loaf of bread would be more captivating that Ian’s dismal company. If he had walked in to find her lying facedown on her Latin, he would have inked the phrase onto her forehead.
She hoped her catnap had been sufficient, for working with Ian required staunch concentration. She much preferred study with any of the other men. At least they had humor. Ian’s expectations often exceeded her capabilities, which only served to exasperate him further.
Although she enjoyed learning geometry with all of its lines, points, and angles, it would be easier if she could see it used practically. Ian refused to take her to the building site to show her how he figured the measurements. He was nervous someone outside the family might see him teaching Jenna something women had no need to understand, nor right to perform. Instead, they worked dryly with a simple straight edge, her problems figured on parchment.
The Freemason's Daughter Page 4