Before I Was Yours, My Earl: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Hanna Hamilton

  “It would be a blessing for your health,” the physician said. “It is little known but many of the paints and powders that are brought from the Orient are filled with poisons. So are some of those that are made in our local shops, as well. Has your physician also prescribed a tonic and perhaps eye drops?”

  “Well, yes,” Miss Notley admitted.

  “You must cease taking all those things and using the drops right away.”

  “But my eyes will look little and piggy,” she protested.

  “Better little and piggy than blind,” the physician intoned. “I have seen it far too often. A little belladonna in the eye and the pupil opens wide, making the ladies look lovely. But the eye is a gateway to more than the soul. It is a very sad thing, but I have seen more than one corpse brought in for dissection at the college where this was the cause of death.”

  Lady Carletane gasped. “You cannot mean that!” she said.

  “I am afraid I do,” he replied soberly. “Many of the London physicians believe that they can dose their patients with minute amounts of poison to make their system stronger, allowing it to build up an immunity. But it is rarely effective, and is more likely to carry the patient off sooner rather than later.”

  Miss Notley sat silent, as if stricken dumb. Lady Carletane turned to the Duchess. “Surely he cannot mean that? This man is no better than a quack. I am taking my daughter home immediately.”

  The Duchess shrugged. “I am sorry you feel that way, Lady Carletane. I am even sorrier for Blanche, who is suffering under your physician’s regimen. I, on the other hand, have never felt so young in years.”

  “You! You scarcely move out of your chair,” Lady Carletane folded in her lips to keep from saying more. She breathed hard once or twice through her nose, then turned to her daughter. “Come, Blanche. We are going home.”

  The Duchess looked horrified. “How can you simply ignore this physician’s good advice?”

  But Lady Carletane hustled her daughter out the door, with scarcely a backward glance.

  The Duchess relaxed back against her cushions, looking exhausted and disappointed. “I never expected her to take it that way,” she said.

  “You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make him drink,” the physician said, sententiously.

  The Duchess looked over at Evelyn. “I meant it for the very best. How could this go so wrong?”

  “Lady Carletane is the one who took offense, Your Grace. But Blanche heard the message. Perhaps it will do some good.”

  The Duchess sighed. “Is use of this paint and powder truly that dangerous?” she asked the physician.

  Dr. Alton sighed. “More than you can possibly know. If he has also prescribed something to make her skin look pale and fine, as well as drops to enlarge the pupils of her eyes, she could be in grave danger. She is your son’s intended?”

  “Yes,” the Duchess said. “We were just looking over patterns for her wedding gown.”

  “Then mark my words, if he intends to have a living wife, he will do his very best to dissuade her from these practices lest he become a widower within months of being wed.”

  The Duchess looked stricken, and sank back upon her pillows. Evelyn took her hand and gently patted it. “The Duke will be here for tea today. We can mention it then.”

  “Yes, an excellent notion,” the Duchess said, patting her ample chest, as if her hand was simulating the action of her heart. “Do send down to the kitchen, Mrs. Swinton. I feel the need of something restorative.”

  “I will go myself,” Evelyn said, hoping that Dr. Alton would take the hint and step out in the hall with her.

  “I shall take my leave,” he said, gravely, and followed Evelyn into the hall.

  “Is the Duchess in danger?” Evelyn asked immediately.

  “It is more excitement than I would have recommended for her. I am deeply sorry to have caused Lady Carletane’s reaction. I’m afraid diplomacy has never been one of my better skills.”

  “I can see that,” Evelyn said with wry amusement. “What would you recommend for the Duchess?”

  “An apology from the departed lady, but since that is unlikely to happen, a little sweet cider mulled with cinnamon. On no account should she have wine or brandy after such an upset. Indeed, she should not have it at all. If you can get her settled, a quiet afternoon listening to one of those travelogues she so enjoys.”

  When Evelyn returned to the room, she found the Duchess drying her eyes.

  “Mr. Rudge has made a lovely mulled cider for you, Your Grace. When the Duke comes to visit, we shall be sure tell him what Dr. Alton said. Perhaps he can persuade Miss Notley where we cannot.”

  “I wish I had your faith in his powers of persuasion, my dear,” the Duchess smiled wanly. “I love my son, but he is even less diplomatic than Dr. Alton. I appreciate his frank gruffness, but clearly Lady Carletane does not.”

  Evelyn plumped the Duchess’ pillows and made her comfortable, then persuaded her to select a favorite book to listen to. But as she read, Evelyn could not help but wonder what could make a woman slowly poison herself for beauty’s sake.

  Chapter 21

  Mayson rubbed his hand over his face. This was the fifteenth applicant for potboy. All of them had good references and were eager to have the work. But none of them were likely to mesh with the Duchess’ household.

  The next candidate was one of the strangest men that Mayson had ever seen. The right side of his face was heavily scarred to such an extent that it was a wonder that he could see out of both eyes. He wore a heavy beard on the left side of his face but the right seemed to be incapable of growing hair. He walked with a pronounced limp. When Mayson could see him fully, he realized it was caused by his having a wooden peg instead of his right foot. He carried his right hand close to his body, as if it had been in a sling for a long time.

  “Name’s Pete,” the fellow said. “Pete McElroy. Some calls me Pegleg Pete, which ain’t no more’n fair.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. McElroy,” Mayson said. “It looks as if you have seen some action on the front lines.”

  “Saw a bit,” said Mr. McElroy. “Did my service down Africa way.”

  “I’m looking for a potboy,” Mayson said. “There are some stringent physical requirements, such as lifting large pots and so on.”

  “I’d reckon if I can lift cannon balls and a firing rod, then I can lift a few pots.”

  “I do not mean to be rude,” Mayson said, “but you are missing a leg and you are carrying your arm as if it was injured not long ago.”

  “Well, as to the leg,” Mr. McElroy said, “I’m afraid that’s permanent like. But the arm is more temporary. I busted it about two months ago working in a warehouse. Got it caught twixt two barrels. I’m pretty well healed up. Saw your ad for a potboy and I figured that pots got to be easier than barrels.”

  Mayson laughed. “I suppose I can see your reasoning. Do you read?”

  “Enough to get by. I can read a contract mostly, an’ I can sign my own name.”

  “Can you figure?”

  “There I do shine, mister. I didn’t get your name. How should I address you?”

  “You can call me Mr. Rudge,” Mayson said. “I am the head cook.” He nodded toward Jemmy. “You can call him Mr. Jemmy. He is the undercook, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the staff a little later on. I like your attitude, Mr. McElroy. I’m always willing to go a little out of my way to help someone who has served our country. I’ll take you on as a trial and two weeks from now we will see how it has gone.”

  “Fair enough, Mr. Rudge. I promise you will not be sorry,” Mr. McElroy said. “Now, if you’ll just point me to that washing bench, I can get to work right away.”

  “Jemmy will take you out to the laundry room to pick up some uniforms, and he will show you the ropes. His promotion to undercook is new. You will be taking his former position.”

  “Fair enough,” Mr. McElroy said. “I’ll admit I wouldn’t mind a min
ute or two to get tidied up. A man ought to look trim on the job.”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. McElroy. Now Jemmy, if you will take him to the laundry room and get him squared away, I will begin to see to the rest of the dinner preparations.”

  Molly Sue ogled after Jemmy and Mr. McElroy. “Mr. Rudge, how’s he gonna wash dishes? He's got one leg and one arm.”

  “We’ll take him on trial, Molly Sue, and see how he does.”

  She looked at him with frank disbelief, then loaded up a tray and went off upstairs with it.

  Was it that late already?

  Then the tower bells from the village Chapel tolled three times. It was, indeed, tea time.

  “Would you care for a spot of tea?” he asked Mr. McElroy as he returned in a crisp, white uniform.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “My last meal was yesterday sometime. You might say that eating regular is a big part of my reason for applying here.”

  “I can understand that,” Mayson replied. “I got my start as a cook because I had a knack for making half a hare and a bucket of oats turn into something that folks could stand to eat.”

  “Is that right?” Mr. McElroy acknowledged. “Hunger do be a powerful push to get folks moving right along.”

  “Sometimes,” Mayson replied. “However, that will not be your concern here. Jemmy and I will do most of the cooking while your job will be to wash the pots.”

  “Fair enough,” said Mr. McElroy. “All I ask is a fair trial. This here arm should be better in a day or two. For now, I might need a little help hoistin’ the biggest pots.”

  “If you are sure it will get better, that will be well enough. Now, how do you take your tea?”

  “Anyways I can get it,” Mr. McElroy said, with a twinkle in his eye. “But if you have cream and sugar, I would admire havin’ it served up that a-way. Me mum used ter make it like that as a special treat.”

  “Sugar and cream it is,” Mayson said, pouring for them both. “Here are some ham sandwiches, sweet biscuits, and fresh apples, if that suits your appetite.”

  “Oh, Mr. Rudge! I will be your best friend forever. I have not seen such a meal in I do not know when.”

  So saying, Mr. McElroy fell to with excellent appetite. He ate quickly and efficiently, as if the food might get away if he did not consume it fast enough. For all that, he used good table manners, chewed with his mouth closed, sipped his tea properly, and made use of his napkin to smother the inevitable burp at the end of his repast.

  “Now, if you will point me toward the washin’ bench, Mr. Rudge, I will get to work straight away,” Mr. McElroy said.

  “Jemmy,” Mayson nodded toward the newly promoted under cook.

  “Right this way, Mr. McElroy,” Jemmy said. “I’ll show you where everything is stored.”

  “Do you really think he will do?” Jemmy asked when he returned.

  “We shall see,” Mayson said. “In truth, I am not sure. But I would not turn away one who has served England to the best of his ability, and clearly given of his health. Help him with the biggest pots, if he asks, but otherwise let him be to do his work. Let me know if there is a problem.”

  “I can do that,” Jemmy replied.

  “Now then,” Mayson went on, “Let us see about dinner. We shall have a great many hungry people needing to be fed all too soon.”

  The two of them then bent over the slate that detailed the evening menu, then separated to attend to their various portions of the preparations.

  Mayson kept a wary eye upon Jemmy’s processes but could find no fault other than the young cook being a trifle slow. Time and custom would take care of that.

  He was less sure of the wisdom of hiring on a man with one leg and an arm only recently healed, but he could not with good conscience turn him away.

  If I established my claim on Hillsworth, would Jemmy and Mr. McElroy be capable of cooking for the Duchess and her household?

  He sighed. Complications at every turn. Doing the right thing was not always as easy as it seemed.

  Chapter 22

  Evelyn hurried down the steps to the kitchen. She could hear voices, which was unusual at this time of night. She knew that Mayson had hired a new potboy. And that he was the talk of the entire house.

  “He’s so ugly,” Mollie Sue said.

  And Betty, trying to impress Mollie Sue, added, “I don't see how he’s going to wash pots since he’s only got one good arm.”

  “I suppose,” Evelyn said, “that Mr. Rudge had good reasons for hiring him. You know that Mr. Rudge fought in the war against Napoleon. I suspect he has a soft spot for others who did the same.”

  In spite of her staunch defense of Mayson’s actions, she was a little concerned herself, and now that she was coming to the kitchen for their usual late evening meal and conference she was surprised to discover that they were not going to be alone. Mayson sat at the table and nearby sat a rough-looking man with a ragged haircut, dressed in the kitchen scullery uniform. It looked odd on his burly form, for the uniform was designed for a stripling youth.

  “Mrs. Swinton!” Mayson exclaimed. That was her cue that their conversation needed to be formal.

  “How are you, Mr. Rudge?” she asked.

  “I am doing well enough,” he replied. “Mrs. Swinton, I would like for you to meet Mr. McElroy. He will be our newest staff member and will take Jemmy’s place as potboy. Mr. McElroy, this is Mrs. Swinton, the Duchess’ companion. She often takes her last meal with me.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Swinton” Mr. McElroy said.

  “I’ve heard a great deal about you,” Evelyn replied.

  “All good, I hope,” said Mr. McElroy.

  Evelyn did not tell him that the entire staff was speculating on how a one armed, one legged man could be a potboy.

  “You are wondering how I am going to do this job,” the fellow said.

  “I am not wondering so much as the entire staff is curious,” Evelyn replied. “They are sure that you have been offered this position because you were formerly a soldier.”

  “Near enough,” Mr. McElroy said. “But I plan to pull my own weight. My hand will be better here in a week or two. It is a recent injury. The leg… Well, I’ve learned to manage.”

  “I see,” Evelyn said, giving Mayson a sharp glance.

  “It will be all right,” Mayson said. “He has already done his share of the washing up, and a bit more besides.”

  “That is good to know,” Evelyn said. “I’m sure that in a few days everyone will notice that the pots are getting scrubbed and that the kitchen is running smoothly.”

  “What have you been doing today?” Mayson asked conversationally.

  “Miss Notley, her mother Lady Carletane, the Duchess, and I were working on designs for Miss Notley’s wedding gown.”

  “Is it official, then?” Mayson asked. “Have they set a date?”

  “I am not sure about that,” Evelyn replied. “I do know that Miss Notley has an excellent eye for the garments that will suit her figure. The Duchess had to intervene to keep her mama, Lady Carletane, from dressing her in a plethora of lacy ruffles, which would not have suited her at all.”

  “I am glad to hear that all is proceeding amicably,” Mayson commented. “We shall dine in company,” he added, with a glance that seemed to convey an apology. “After which, Jemmy will show Mr. McElroy to his bedchamber, and you and I can go over the menu for the Duchess for tomorrow. I saw that her physician called today.”

  “He did, but not for Her Grace,” Evelyn observed, without going into the disastrous scene that followed his visit. “Still, I shall be glad to go over the menu, and point out the things she especially enjoyed.”

  “So why was he here?” Jemmy asked, quite lost to the niceties of avoiding gossip.

  Evelyn considered her answer a moment. “It was for Miss Notley. She had a fainting fit. The Duchess has been concerned about the young lady’s health for some time, and her own physician does not seem to be doing her any go
od.”

  “I’ve heard about them Lunnon physicians,” Jemmy said sagely. Then, a thought seemed to strike him. “Do ya think she’s in the family way? My sisters all seemed to drop like poleaxed sheep when they was expecting.”

  Evelyn laughed at his earnest expression. “No, no, Jemmy. I do not believe she would ignore social niceties to that extent. She and the Duke will be wed soon enough. I think it more likely that she over did herself during the Season and is finding it difficult to regain her stamina.”