Darrius would have been just as happy to do without the cook, but he had to admit that the young woman would never have been able to carry two trays by herself.
Mrs. Swinton was dressed a little differently today, he noted. She was still dressed in black, but instead of the high collared jacket and skirt, she was wearing a gown with a round neckline. Fine linen ruching, edged with black, modestly concealed her bosom, and she had exchanged the black lace cap for a white one with black edging.
She must be giving up strict mourning. Perhaps I will now have a chance to persuade her into my bed. She is quite appealing, and would be an excellent last fling before my marriage. Perhaps I could talk her into becoming my mistress even after I am married.
The thought cheered him immensely, so he put himself out to be pleasant all during tea.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Swinton stuck close to his mother, and gave him not even a chance to brush her fingers with his when she served the tea.
“Would you like for me to read to you?” Mrs. Swinton solicitously asked his mother after the tea things were taken away.
“If you do not mind, dear,” the Duchess requested. “I would enjoy it greatly. I believe we were reading George’s account of walking on the moors.”
“Indeed, we were,” Mrs. Swinton responded.
“Darrius, would you care to stay and listen? It was one of my favorite journeys with your father. It was nearly two years after you were born, and we were hoping that the trip would result in a little brother or sister for you.”
“I’ve heard it before,” Darrius replied ungraciously. “I think I’ll go back to the Main House and see if I can discover some ways to economize.”
“That is the spirit,” his mother encouraged him. “I am sure that you will come up with something in no time. That way you can have the new carriage for when you and dear Blanche are wed.”
This was an unwelcome reminder of his upcoming nuptials, but he dared not let his mother know his true feelings. A great many things, including holding off his creditors, depended on going through with the arranged marriage.
After I am wed, I will have control of her money as well as my own. Then I will be able to get out of debt and to buy a carriage and a perch phaeton if I wish, and even maintain them in London. Then I should easily be able to persuade the stuck-up little companion to become my mistress.
With these cheerful thoughts, he trudged merrily back to the Main House, little suspecting the surprises that lay ahead.
Chapter 12
Mayson cheerfully packed a new willow basket with treats he had purchased out of his own pay. There was a hard sausage smoked by the local butcher, a lovely wedge of cheese, and soft rolls of his own making.
He did bend his principles enough to use a little flour from the common store to make the rolls, especially since he made enough for everyone to have some.
There was also a neat little crate of strawberries, purchased from the estate’s gardener, a covered container of clotted cream, some sweet butter, and a full dozen sweet biscuits. There was a bottle of cold tea and another of sweet, fresh cider. Over it all he tucked a red and white checkered tablecloth, and over that a rough blanket.
He was just beginning to wonder if Mrs. Swinton would actually go picnicking with him when she came down the inner stairs, her outdoor shoes clicking on the stone.
“Oh!” She said, seeming startled. “I almost did not know you. You look rather splendid.”
Mayson gave her a little half bow. “Thank you, Mrs. Swinton. I will own I dusted off my best suit in honor of the occasion. I have just finished packing our feast. Are you ready?”
“Indeed I am!” she replied merrily. “I will be glad to see the out of doors. It has been so long since I went on a picnic. Years, actually. My sisters and I shared one not long before the youngest was married. Now, we are all scattered to the winds.” She sighed a little, but quickly recovered herself. “How lovely it will be to walk out in the sunshine.”
It was a beautiful day. Mayson carried the picnic basket on his right arm, and offered his left to Mrs. Swinton. “I am pleased to offer you a special occasion,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied. “It is so very nice of you to think of me.”
Mayson could think of nothing to say to that, other than, “You are welcome.” They strolled along in companionable silence, soaking up the warm sunshine and listening to the birds sing. The air was scented with freshly mown grass and the clouds of honeysuckle that draped over the picket fences that lined the lane.
A rustic table and two benches stood beneath the willow tree, but Mayson ushered Mrs. Swinton past that, and under the willow itself. A sturdy plank platform had been built there. Sconces were set at the four corners of the platform, each containing a smudge pot. Mayson set the basket just to one side of the entry edge of the platform. Taking a box of congreves from his pocket, he set about lighting the smudges. They filled the air with the pungent scent of burning herbs.
“What is that for?” Mrs. Swinton asked. “It smells pleasant, but won’t the smoke be a bother?”
“The breeze should send the smoke out toward the water,” Mayson replied. “Or at least I hope it will. Without the smudge pot, we would quickly be nibbled to death by midges.”
Mrs. Swinton laughed. “Not a pleasant way to picnic. But what a lovely view!” She gazed out over the wide expanse of the brook, which was nearly in full spate, thanks to the spring rains. It tumbled and burbled its way past them. On the other side, they could see sheep and cattle grazing.
Mayson first spread the thick blanket, then added the red and white tablecloth. He then began to set out the picnic things.
“Oh, do let me help!” Mrs. Swinton protested.
“No, no,” Mayson waved her off. “This is my special treat. Another half-day, it can be your treat, and we will go somewhere or do something of your choosing.”
“It all looks so delicious!” she exclaimed.
“I am glad you think so, Mrs. Swinton,” Mayson replied.
“Oh, do call me Evelyn,” she said. “There is no need to be formal today.”
Mayson felt a tiny thrill of excitement. “I would like that, above all things,” he said. “And you must call me Mayson, not Mr. Rudge.”
“Thank you,” Evelyn replied. “We shall be like school children, using each other’s first names.” She sat down gracefully on one edge of the blanket.
Mayson seated himself at the other corner of the blanket. “Did you go to school, Mrs.—I mean, Evelyn?”
“To be sure, I did. Mother and Father scrimped and saved to make sure that every one of us could read and write. We were very fortunate in that a retired tutor lived on our street. He found teaching the local children to be an excellent way to add to the small stipend his former lord paid him.”
“That is fortunate,” Mayson agreed. “That explains why you are so well read.”
“Oh, as to that,” Evelyn blushed a little. “There was a used book seller who would lend out books for a penny so long as they were returned in good condition. Our evening amusement was to take turns reading aloud while we did mending or piece work and the like.”
For a moment, Mayson envisioned a very young Evelyn reading aloud to a cluster of boys and girls who hung on her every word.
“We loved to take turns, and would sometimes act out the fairy tales,” she was continuing to speak. “We had no idea how fortunate we were. It was simply the way things were supposed to be,” she ended simply.
“It sounds wonderful,” Mayson said a little wistfully. “I was an only child, and my... childhood home was not a happy one. My mother died while I was quite young, and my father was never quite the same afterward. I used to slip away and... visit the cook I told you about.”
“How fortunate that you had somewhere that you could feel safe,” she said. “And how well that turned out for you, learning a skill and all. Did he also teach you your letters?”
“Alas, no. I had a differe
nt teacher for that. It is a wonder that I did not come to hate books, for he firmly believed that lessons should be beaten into a child. I think it speaks well for the written word that I found it too fascinating to ignore.”
“What sorts of books do you enjoy?” Evelyn asked.
“Oh, all sorts,” Mayson replied. “I am especially fond of improving books and in my line of work I read a great many that are intended for the ladies of the household.”
“Can you give me an example?” Evelyn asked. “Perhaps I might like to read them, too.”
“Well,” he said, “I am currently perusing the Frugal Housewife.”
“Really?” she commented, with some interest. “That is rather new, is it not?”
“It is,” he replied, pleased by her interest. “It was published not long ago. I find that it has many useful things for kitchens in general, and I appreciate the recipes that are included. Indeed, some of them have been quite beneficial for Her Grace.”
“Oh, yes, she does like the little treats that you make for her. They make something special for her at bedtime. I have noticed that evening is difficult for her. She misses the late Duke.”
Evelyn looked out across the stream, her profile turned towards Mayson. As he watched, he saw her blink twice as if clearing something from her eyes, but when she turned back to him she smiled warmly and said, “We always miss those who have gone before, but it is our duty to keep on and take care of the living. I am so grateful to Her Grace for taking me on. This is a pleasant position for me.”
“I have also found it to be pleasant working here,” Mayson replied. “Her Grace is a gracious employer.”
“She is such a such a dear,” Evelyn agreed. “It is really quite touching to see how she dotes on the Duke and how much she misses his father.”
“Even after the contretemps in the hallway following that little instruction session?” Mayson raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, well,” Evelyn tipped her head from one side to the other and gave a little laugh, “I had hoped just to wait on table that day. But His Grace insisted that I sit with them. The Duchess was quite fixed on the idea that she needed to spice up his relationship with his intended.”
“Are they at loggerheads, then?” asked Mayson.
“I would not say so much at loggerheads,” Evelyn mused, “as quite indifferent to each other. It is a shame, really. The marriage was arranged by his father while they were in infancy, practically. It is perfectly clear that they are ill-suited to each other. Either one would make a perfectly fine person to be united with someone else.”
“Now that is a shame,” Mayson said. “I have noted, however, that it is frequently customary among the peerage for loveless contracts to be taken up for the sake of land, power, and position.”
“I suppose I was fortunate,” Evelyn spoke slowly, as if considering every word. “My marriage, however brief, was for love.”
“Have you ever thought of marrying again?” Mayson asked.
“It is a little soon,” Evelyn replied, “but I suppose not impossible. I would hope to wed for love again, should it come my way. I do not think that John would want me to live alone forever, but he is due a decent time of mourning.”
“To be sure,” Mayson replied, uncertain whether he should feel chagrinned or perhaps a little hopeful. After all, she had not said that she would not marry again. “How long do you think would be a respectful time?” he asked.
“A year is traditional,” she commented a bit absently, again looking out over the water. “It has been a little over six months and I am only in half mourning now.”
“I see,” Mayson commented as he busied himself with organizing the bread and butter. “Would you care for some more?” he offered.
“Oh, dear, I do not think I could eat another crumb. This is all been so delicious. You are an amazing cook. Have you ever thought of opening your own business?”
“Why, I hardly know,” Mayson considered it with a faraway look on his face. “I hadn’t really thought on it, but I suppose that would be a logical summation of all my learning and exploring of cookery.” It was now his turn to stare out across the water with an inscrutable expression. “I have simply been so busy learning how to be a cook for a household, I hadn’t thought on it.”
“So you said,” Evelyn laughed a little at his disjointed answer. “I did not mean to disparage your current career choice. I hope you are not offended.”
“You have not disturbed me in the least,” Mayson said, turning his gaze full upon her. “In fact, you have given me food for thought. Evelyn, have you ever thought of perhaps relocating? Starting over somewhere new?”
“I can’t say that I have,” she replied, “but I suppose it is a possibility. Did you have somewhere in mind?”
“Oh, there are so many possibilities,” he said. “You know, one of the things that I do love is reading travel logs. Her Grace has been kind enough to share a few of the late Duke’s collection with me. On a lending basis, you understand.”
“Indeed, I do understand. She is so very generous, and so delighted when anyone takes an interest in anything to do with the late Duke.”
“Among the travel logs, there is an account of some of the early explorers of New South Wales.”
“Is there?”
“Yes. Oh, such strange and marvelous creatures are described, you have no idea! Do you know there is one that sits up on its hind legs like a giant jackrabbit and hops about, but it carries its young in a pouch upon its belly?”
“I had no idea,” Evelyn’s eyes shone with interest. “Do tell me more. What else was in the travel log that you read?”
“Well, let me think. I believe there are people who wear almost no clothing and dress their hair with mud. Or perhaps that was the account of Borneo? Or maybe Africa.”
“I would think that would be very uncomfortable,” Evelyn commented.
“Well, one would believe that, but I suppose they might think some of our ways very uncomfortable.”
“I guess that might be,” Evelyn agreed. “There was a missionary who spoke at my parents’ church once who described some inhabitants of deepest Africa who go about in that sort of dress.”
Mayson nodded. “There was a book written by one of the great hunters who went down and collected heads and so on. One of the late Duke’s uncles, I believe it was, went to Africa to hunt.”
“The world is very large place, isn’t it?” Evelyn commented.
“It is,” Mayson agreed. “When you are out of mourning, perhaps we could talk about travel a little more.”
Evelyn looked down at her hands, a little smile playing about her lips. “Why, I think perhaps we could,” she said. “But for now,” she glanced at the angle of the sun, “I think we might need to be getting back. This has been so very pleasant, Mayson. Thank you much for this lovely feast, and for this beautiful afternoon on the water. I cannot think when I have been happier or more greatly amused.”
“Thank you,” Mayson said, “for spending this time with me. I so rarely get to talk about books and other places around the world. This has been a great pleasure.” He stood, stretched out his hands and assisted her with getting to her feet.
Her small hands were warm in his, strong and lightly calloused. She did not pull away immediately
They smiled at one another, and in harmonious accord, began packing up the picnic things. And as happily as two children, swinging the picnic basket between them, they set off back up toward the house. As they walked, great thunder clouds built up in the sky above them and the first few drops of rain fell upon them. Evelyn picked up her skirts with one hand, and laughing they ran up the path. They arrived at the kitchen door just ahead of a torrential downpour.
“We must do this again,” Evelyn said. “Next time, it will be my treat.”
“Your wish is my command,” Mayson replied. “I will be happy to do this as often as you will allow.”
For a moment he allowed himself to dream, as he ha
d not allowed himself for several years.
Chapter 13
Evelyn accepted a tall stack of laundry from Mrs. Smith, the laundress. As she did so, two of the upstairs maids came in chattering to each other. Molly Sue, the maid who had been there the longest, said to Betty, the newest maid, “Did you see those handbills?”
“What handbills?” Betty inquired absently, as she wrestled a large laundry basket over to the rest of the soiled household linens.
“The ones that are posted all over town, and on the main message post in the center of the square,” Molly Sue replied.
Before I Was Yours, My Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 8