Love's Tangle

by Goddard, Isabelle

  Her final task of the day was to load two churns of milk onto a small cart and trundle them to the kitchens. The cart was too cumbersome to use the footpath and she was forced to drag it part of the way along the main drive. As she walked, yesterday’s conversation with Martha replayed in her mind. The evidence her mother had ever been at Allingham was the flimsiest. A foreign woman, Martha had said, but how significant was that? Her mother’s Irish origin was no more than a story after all.

  And while she had leaped at the idea that the previous duke might be the man of Grainne’s dying words, the evidence for that was even flimsier. He wasn’t the only rich and powerful man to inhabit Allingham Hall, she was sure. There was the present duke’s father for a start. And there might be cousins or children of cousins. It was an enormous house and any number of people could have lived here eighteen years ago. She would get nothing more from Martha, she knew, and questioning the august Mr. Jarvis, the only other servant likely to have been here at the time, was laughable. He was less approachable even than the master he served. His affronted expression when he had recovered Gabriel’s lost papers still made her smile.

  Her heartbeat quickened slightly. Jarvis had mentioned a family bible. Might that hold a clue? It was the custom to inscribe in the book the names of every member of a family. The Claremont dynasty must be vast but the bible might just contain a clue as to whom she should seek. Was it worth the risk of searching for it? She recalled those last few hours of her mother’s life: the hot, paper-thin skin of her hands, the hoarse whispers as Grainne used every mite of her remaining breath to help her daughter. It had to be worth it.

  She had reached the point where the drive divided, the main carriageway continuing towards the graveled crescent fronting the house and a narrower one bending towards the servants’ quarters. As she took this left fork, she heard the crunch of footsteps and in a moment was overtaken by Roland Frant.

  “How are you settling in, Nell?” he asked genially.

  “Very well, sir.” She remembered to bob the expected curtsy.

  “A little better when the house is quiet, I wager.”

  Allingham had been at peace that day, for Gabriel’s entire party had descended on Worthing, a quiet and dowdy seaside town nearby. She flushed at his mention of the teasing she’d suffered but said stoutly, “I am sure I will grow accustomed. It is just that Allingham Hall is very different from my last place of work.” That was certainly true.

  “I’m sure it is.” His tone was unexpectedly heated. “It couldn’t fail to be with a hedonist at the helm encouraging every kind of corrupt and lewd behavior.”

  She came to a halt, astonished to hear him speak so of his cousin.

  “You refer to the duke, I collect.” She wasn’t at all sure she had heard him aright.

  “You may think it strange I should speak thus of such a near relative but Gabriel Claremont has succeeded to an office to which he is ill suited. He would have done far better to remain a soldier. I’m sure I don’t have to warn you to be on your guard. Any comely girl is a target for him, servant or no servant.”

  She flushed hotly and made haste to turn the conversation. “I had no idea His Grace once served in the army.”

  “Indeed, yes. Enlisted as did many peep-o’day boys. But his brother made sure he received a commission soon after he joined the ranks.”

  “He has a brother?” This was turning out to be a most surprising exchange.

  “No longer, I fear. Jonathan Claremont was killed two years ago. Hence Gabriel’s unholy succession.”

  He seemed at last to become aware that tittle-tattle with a servant was hardly dignified and hurried to bid her farewell. “I must allow you to finish your work for tomorrow is race day and likely to be very busy for you all.” A brief nod and he was gone.

  He is angry, Elinor thought, for some reason too angry to consider the impropriety of speaking so to a servant. His tongue had run on in a way that she found unbecoming but he was a pleasant enough man and evidently wished her well. She must not be too quick to judge him.

  And he had given her something to think of. Tomorrow was race day, he’d said, so might that provide her with the opportunity she needed? Every evening loud laughter spilled through the entire house and there was a constant milling of guests from room to room, floor to floor. It would be foolish to attempt to look for the family bible while the household was awake, for it would almost certainly result in instant discovery. And since the guests rarely sought their beds until the early hours, she would have to forgo any idea of sleep if she were to search the library at night. But tomorrow might be different—a long day in the open air might end with the house party sufficiently fatigued to retire before midnight. She could only hope.

  ****

  The first of June dawned clear and bright. A race course had been constructed towards the southern boundary of the Allingham land in the months when Gabriel had first returned to a grieving household, a time when he was desperate for distraction. Allingham Hall sat atop an incline and to the south of the house the land fell away, at first gently and then far more precipitously. It allowed the Hall magnificent views over the surrounding landscape—fields, woods, and shimmering in the distance, the South Downs—but it also meant that a race course which navigated such a steep incline was a trial for both horses and jockeys. The duke’s guests found this immensely entertaining since gambling on winners and losers was even more of a lottery than usual. Today the duke was running his favorite horse, Emperor, while the Prince Regent had pinned his colors on Pegasus, a rare palomino he had bought at huge expense from Sir John Lade.

  A generous swath of the local gentry had been invited to the meeting and had entered their own favorite horses in the various races. From noon carriages of all descriptions—broughams, landaulets, elegant barouches and even a dashing high-perch phaeton or two—began to roll towards the house and deposit their inhabitants at the Hall’s imposing entrance. The duke had ordered a light lunch before ferrying his neighbors and house guests by carriage down to the race course. A few chose to walk and drifted to the meeting on foot along a path mown through the meadow, with bunting strung between the trees on either side. The atmosphere was noisy and excited, one of carnival, setting the lower pastures of the estate ablaze with silks and satins of every color.

  The races were about to start when Elinor received an urgent summons from Mr. Jarvis to attend him in the kitchen. The race course was situated on the other side of the house and she had thought herself safe in the dairy from any unwanted attention, but the butler’s first words put paid to that hope.

  “We will need you here this afternoon, Nell. Martha can attend to the dairy. Since we are accommodating far more guests than expected, I shall require additional pairs of hands.”

  His wintry face gave little away but it was clear he was severely vexed. “We have insufficient footmen to cover the situation. James and Thomas have been given leave of absence—a regrettable lack of foresight—and Henry has taken to his bed with a fever. Or so he says.” There was a loud sniff. “We must make do with women.”

  “But I have never waited on table.” Elinor could feel the trap closing but escape was impossible. The butler’s response was sharp.

  “You will not be required to wait on table, merely to pass among the guests with the refreshments that His Grace considers necessary for the meeting.”

  The housekeeper bustled into the kitchen at that moment and brought the dialogue to a decisive close. She carried a stack of white pinafores and fresh lace caps. “Jane, Elsa, Becky and you, Nell Milford. Put these on.”

  If Elinor could have run, she would have done so, but knowing she must keep her job, she had no option but to obey. All four girls donned starched aprons and caps and allowed Mr. Jarvis to marshal them into line. One by one they were handed large trays filled to overflowing with an array of small but beautifully fashioned appetizers.

  “Go, go now!”

  Mrs. Lucas’s voice was urgent,
ushering them out of the kitchen and through the narrow passageway to the side door. From here a long walk over manicured lawns led eventually to the rougher pasture of the race course. “And come back when the tray is empty,” the housekeeper called after them. “There will be others waiting for you.”

  It was well the recent heavy work had increased Elinor’s physical strength, for by the time she reached the lower swathes of the meadow, the silver platter she carried had turned to lead. She was intent on lightening her burden as quickly as possible, and caring little for delicate sensibilities, lost no time in thrusting the tray beneath as many noses as she could find. The ladies brushed her aside but the men were made of sterner stuff and ate with a will.

  On her return to the kitchen she saw Roland Frant in the distance strolling towards the course. His resentment of his cousin evidently did not prevent him attending. An older woman was by his side, dour and unsmiling, and bearing the same family resemblance she had noticed in Roland.

  Elinor ferried platter after platter from kitchen to meadow and had barely begun to rid herself of the latest clutch of delicacies when the duke, fresh from Emperor’s success in winning the meeting’s Gold Cup, hailed her from a distance.

  “Did you take another wrong turning, Nell, or is it that you’ve gone up in the world?”

  He strolled towards her in leisurely fashion. For once he easily matched his fashionable guests in elegance. She tried not to notice how attractive he looked but could not prevent her eyes resting on his athletic form. His blue tailcoat was a perfect fit, its gilt buttons catching the sun and flashing fire, while beneath the coat a blue and grey striped silk waistcoat lightened the formality. A starched neck cloth in pure white linen completed the ensemble, tied in a pristine trône d’amour and just grazing his firm chin.

  He bent over her tray. “Let me celebrate your meteoric rise to footman by eating one of your pastries.”

  “It is a passing rise only, Your Grace.” Then unable to stop herself, she added, “I would have preferred to remain in the dairy.”

  “Surely not! Not when you can witness my horse win by a length, and serve such delightful people as these!” He gestured mockingly towards his guests, scattered in groups across the meadow, but all drinking copiously and talking loudly at each other.

  “Many would consider butter making more useful.” She was unwilling to be cajoled.

  “But then this is a meeting of the useless. And these pointless pieces of pastry,” he waved at Elinor’s tray, “seem perfectly suited to such a gathering, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I am a servant, Your Grace. I do not have opinions.”

  “That I doubt. Nor that you would voice them if you chose. Your face is too expressive, Mistress Milford. It clearly speaks disgust.”

  “Not disgust, Your Grace. Pain. This tray weighs very heavy.”

  “Then let me show you how useful I can be.” And before she realized what he was about, he had taken the tray into his own hands. “You will see that I am quite capable of serving my guests even if I’m incapable of much else. Who knows, I might even gain your approval.”

  She flushed with annoyance at the way he had turned the tables on her. But he was speaking again. “Tell me, why is it that you aren’t in the dairy?”

  “Mr. Jarvis was desperate. It seems he is bereft of footmen and has been forced to make do with women.” She tried to keep her face solemn but a crease slowly formed at the corner of her wide mouth.

  “Poor Jarvis,” he mourned, a grin lighting his face. “A butler’s life is not a happy one.”

  “There you are! At last! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  The woman Elinor had glimpsed on her first day at Allingham bounced into view and, ignoring the platter Gabriel carried, thrust her arm possessively into his. She was dressed even less modestly than her fellows in a low cut turquoise satin gown, her face a little too rouged and her hair a little too elaborately coiled and bejeweled. Quite suddenly she became aware of the tray Gabriel held and let go of his arm.

  “What are you doing, Duke? You look almost to be one of your servants!”

  “There are worst fates, Letitia. Come, we must move among our guests,” and he made to usher her away.

  “Nonsense, Gabriel. Here, girl, take this.” And Letitia Vine wrenched the tray from his hands and almost threw it at Elinor.

  “Can I interest you in a lobster patty, your ladyship?” Elinor asked, her face a mask of innocence.

  The older woman shuddered exaggeratedly and waved her away. “No indeed. Remove the tray at once. Pastries, whatever next!”

  The woman was ridiculous. “Next?” Elinor said guilelessly. “Next I believe is a fruit mousse.”

  Letitia Vine glared at her. “I do not wish to eat at all, you stupid girl.”

  “Then I cannot imagine why I have been offering you this tray. I am indeed stupid.”

  The woman turned a violent red and Elinor was unable to prevent her mouth quivering with amusement.

  “Are you laughing at me, girl?”

  “Why ever would I do that, milady?”

  “Your servant, Duke, is insubordinate,” Letitia hissed. “You should rid your household of her. At the very least, Mrs. Lucas should have trained her better.”

  “Nell works in the dairy under the tutelage of Martha,” he said indifferently and took her arm in another attempt to usher her away. But Lady Vine was having none of it.

  “A dairymaid! Good God! What are you doing, Gabriel, allowing such a rough creature to serve your guests?”

  “There has been a little domestic difficulty. Nell will soon be returning to her dairy.”

  He was reminding her where she belonged, she thought, and felt anger begin to burn a fierce path. But she dared not let her feelings show and forced herself to drop a small curtsy.

  “Beg pardon, milady,” she managed, with downcast eyes, before turning away and heading in the direction of the kitchen. As she turned, she became aware of the puzzlement on Gabriel’s face but she was too upset to dwell on it.

  ****

  The duke listened with less than half an ear to his companion’s string of complaints—they were likely to prove no more engaging than the lady’s compliments. Letitia Vine seldom said anything interesting and even more rarely said anything true, but in this instance she hit the nail squarely on the head. Nell Milford was insubordinate but why he could not begin to fathom. There was a mystery attached to the dairymaid he had acquired from nowhere, and he wanted to solve it. She bothered him. Not just her lovely face and figure, though they were distraction enough, but her whole demeanor. She did as she was commanded but with marked indifference. She answered back. She looked directly at her superiors. She was certainly unusual. She might wear a little grey mouse dress but he was sure she was anything but. When she felt herself unobserved, those wonderful misty green eyes could be sharply appraising and the wide generous mouth tremble with humor. She was something other than she professed, he would put his life on it.

  ****

  In her agitation Elinor elbowed her way through the crowd of race goers unconcerned whether or not they wished to eat the delicacies she carried. She was sick of being spoken to as though she hardly existed, sick of her dignity reduced to tatters. The meeting was almost at an end and she had the kitchen in her sights. She would return straight to the house and divest herself of tray and uniform. In her rush to get there she stumbled over a tuft of rough grass and landed, complete with platter, in the arms of a gentleman she had never before seen. Calling him rotund would be kind, she thought, for he had almost burst through the maroon tailcoat he wore, its large mother of pearl buttons straining alarmingly. His breeches, if anything, were even tighter and he breathed heavily as he took her full weight.

  Immediately, one of his companions came forward and set her roughly on her feet. “Watch where you’re walking, you clumsy girl!” Elinor was pushed forcefully to one side.

  “Leave her be, Lansley. It was an acci
dent.” The voice was peculiarly sweet for such a very large man.

  “But Your Highness…”

  “No, no, it was an accident, wasn’t it, my dear?”

  She nodded, slightly out of breath from her rampage up the field, but also a little overawed. This had to be the Prince Regent and she had almost sat on him.

  “And what have you there?”

  The Prince came closer and breathed heavily on her. He smelt of spirits and a very strong perfume. She recoiled but tried to keep the tray outstretched between them. The Regent’s plump, be-ringed hand hovered for a moment and then swooped down to scoop a lobster patty from the plate. “A neat little delicacy, like the person who carries them!”

  She turned bright red and bowed her head. Was there to be no end to the humiliations of the afternoon?

  “No need to color up, my dear. You are a beauty. She’s a beauty, ain’t she, Lansley?”

  Lansley did not reply but with an impatient signal waved her away. She needed no prompting, hurriedly backing from the royal presence and making for the house. The kitchen maids were still elbow deep in washing china but not a morsel of food remained and Elinor was dismissed at last. Ignoring the tantalizing smell coming from the great range, she abandoned the idea of taking supper and went directly to her room. Eating was the last thing on her mind. It had been a hateful afternoon. She had hated the uniform, hated the heavy trays she had been forced to carry but most of all she had hated the duke’s guests. And the Prince Regent! She had heard tales of his womanizing but had thought him too old and indeed too fat for them to be true. But apparently not; even a humble maidservant was not safe from his attentions.

  She lay on her bed and tried to block from her mind the events of the day. In particular she had no wish to think of Lady Letitia Vine and her plunging décolleté. The incident with that overblown lady had been by far the most humiliating. She could discount her aching limbs for she had grown accustomed to physical fatigue. She was even growing accustomed to the casual discourtesies of those she served, but it was the duke’s sharp reminder of her station that continued to rankle. The woman was no doubt his chère-amie and he had been trying to appease her. She did not admire his choice and was at a loss to explain why he would wish to make such a woman his mistress. For all his arrogance, he was infinitely the superior. It wasn’t just that he was a handsome man. There were several in his party more handsome. It wasn’t that he possessed a great position and the wealth that accompanied it. It was something indefinable that set him apart from the flotsam with whom he floated. She saw it in his eyes, the quick intelligence, the wry humor, but also a deep, ineffable sadness. Those intense blue eyes said so much and she wondered if she was alone in reading their message.