by Wylde, Anya
Conversation was now part of the meal.
“I had a letter from old Gomfrey,” Sir Henry excitedly wheezed across the table.
“He is as old as you, Grandfather,” the duke replied.
“He is a month older. His cook has disappeared. You are the duke, find him,” Sir Henry rasped.
“Find who?”
“The cook, you blasted boy.”
“That’s odd, I had a letter from Lady Marianne, and she told me that just last week her cook disappeared. He came back within four days, but he seemed traumatised, and he now squeals every time anyone mentions pigeons or if he even sees one,” Penelope added.
“I heard about that, “the duke said wiping his mouth, “Cooks are disappearing and appearing all over England. No one knows why. Apparently some masked men keep the cooks and ask them for recipes for treacle bread. Then they are tickled using pigeon feathers to ensure that they have nothing more to spill. They are then sent back home. It is all very strange.”
“Two of our chefs are embroiled in a complicated love rectangle. We have one chef left who ensures that we get our meals on time, and I hope he is not the one kidnapped. He is a sensitive sort of fellow. Suffers from nerves,” Penelope said worriedly.
Celine snuck a few green leaves onto Penelope’s plate when she wasn’t looking. George winked at her from across the table.
“I saw that,” Penelope said catching the wink. “Lord Elmer, our Celine won’t fall for your flirtations. She is too—”
“Sensible?” George asked smiling.
Penelope smiled back, “yes, but there are two silly things about her. Firstly when she was fifteen years old she read a novel and the heroine of that novel was called Celine. Since then she has insisted that everyone call her Celine. She wouldn’t answer to anything else.”
“Her name is not Celine?” the duke asked in surprise.
“No, it is—”
“Pass the salt, Penny,” Celine interrupted, her foot stamping Penelope’s under the table.
“What is her name?” George probed.
“Well, the other silly thing about her is the fact that she only sneezes during spring, and all through spring she sneezes a lot. And when she does sneeze, it is five little achoos in rapid succession and no more or no less. ”
“What is her name?” George persisted.
“It is—”
Celine sneezed, drowning out Penelope’s answer. She sneezed four more times. Thereafter, George didn’t get to ask any more questions because after Celine stopped sneezing … Sir Henry set his beard on fire.
It all happened because of a particular variety of fish called Perch. Now, Perch was in season again, and Perch made into a dish called water-soochy happened to be Sir Henry’s favourite dish.
When Perkins brought this dish in, Sir Henry’s nose caught the scent and he brightened. Once the plate was placed near Sir Henry, he promptly pulled the candle closer to inspect the contents of the dish.
Sir Henry was a little bit blind. Hence, he needed to put the candle right up to the bowl and bend his head forward a good bit to see properly.
Sir Henry, apart from being blind, was also forgetful, which was why he had forgotten that he happened to have a long white beard made up of lots of ignitable hairs which naturally burst into orange and yellow flames when they came into contact with the fat beeswax candle.
Penelope saw the flaming beard and screamed.
In a trice the water from three jugs was flung at Sir Henry’s flaming beard. George threw the stewed calf’s ears and the pork in Robert sauce, since that was all he had close at hand.
One thing led to another and the smell of burning hair permeated the entire meal ruining it for everyone. It was all very traumatic, but the positive thing, as George cheerfully pointed out after the flames had been doused, was the fact that the beard was gone but the moustache with only a few singed hairs remained almost unscathed.
It was, he announced, an immortal moustache.
A beard had been set on fire and a moustache saved, Celine sighed, as she got up from the dinner table. Surely nothing more would go wrong this day?
Chapter 6
As per the midwife’s instructions, the duchess had to retire right after dinner. She was predictably reluctant and not at all sleepy. Hence, the duke, as had become a ritual of sorts, went along to keep her company in the bedroom.
Sir Henry, who was rumoured to be over a hundred years old, only ventured to the dining room every day for dinner and thereafter spent his time in his room dictating letters to his old friends, most of whom were dead but no one had the heart to tell him so. Which meant that Celine and George were left staring at each other over cups of fragrant coffee.
“We don’t have a chaperone,” Celine commented.
“We don’t want one,” George responded.
“Speak for yourself,” Celine muttered, her eyes darting to the door.
“Are you expecting company?”
Celine’s cup rattled in the saucer, “No, why would you think so?”
“You are impatiently eyeing the clock.”
“I think I shall retire for the night.”
“Retire? Are you feeling alright?” a young feminine voice asked from the doorway. “I was hoping to find you in library. I wanted to know all about the handsome–”
“Guest,” George finished for her. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“That is my sister Dorothy who should be in bed at this hour,” Celine said, “Dorothy, this is Lord Elmer.”
“I can’t sleep,” Dorothy said, scrutinising George.
“You have a lot of sisters. A lot of beautiful sisters,” George commented, standing up and bowing to Dorothy.
“Six sisters in all,” Dorothy replied, her lashes fluttering expertly. She dipped in an elegant curtsey, skirts flared, knees bent almost to the point where she was sitting in mid-air. She thus remained suspended for a few seconds before rising and offering George a practised smile, just the right amount of teeth gleaming through, lips stretched but not too wide, and eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Dorothy,” Celine warned.
Dorothy ignored her, her eyes on George. “How long are you staying here?”
“I am not sure, but after meeting you, I hope I can stay for at least a few days.”
Dorothy giggled, “Are you flirting with me?”
“Yes, do you mind?”
“I like you,”
“And I,” he said soulfully, “like you too.”
“Let’s get married,” Dorothy suggested shrewdly.
George straightened and eyed her with respect,” How old did you say you were?”
“I didn’t. I just turned thirteen”
A tiny sigh of relief escaped him, “Yes, well that is what I thought, but one can never be too careful.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to marry me?”
George smiled, a dimple flashing in his right cheek. “I do but—”
“Enough,” Celine snapped. “My lord, you should not be putting ideas into her silly head. And you, Dorothy, go back to bed.”
Dorothy pouted.
George stuck a pencil up his nose.
Celine spluttered.
Dorothy laughed.
Celine narrowed her eyes, and Dorothy eyed her back through narrowed lids.
War was declared and silent battle ensued between the two sisters conducted by blinking, rolling, glaring and finally squinting of the eyes.
The war was won by Celine who punctuated her squint by pointing firmly at the door.
Dorothy conceded defeat and departed with good grace.
Celine peeked out into the corridor to ensure that Dorothy had truly departed for bed. She waited until Dorothy’s blue skirts disappeared around the corner. Satisfied she turned back to find George standing near the revolving glass cabinet that held various liqueurs, desert wines and cordials.
He offered her a glass of Chartreuse. She shook her head, “I a
pologise, Lord Elmer, but my head is aching dreadfully. I think I will retire early tonight. If you will excuse me.”
A hint of disappointment crossed his face before he covered it with an expression of boredom.
Her feet dragged as she moved towards the door. She wished circumstances had been different and allowed her more time with him.
She looked back at him one last time. This was goodbye. He would be gone the next morning and perhaps they would never meet again.
He was busy fiddling with his snuff box and didn’t notice her parting look.
She walked to her room feeling a little guilty. She should have been a better host. After all, he had no one to amuse him all evening … but what else could she do? Not only was it improper for her to spend all evening with him alone and unchaperoned, it was also the only hour that she got to herself when she could pursue her own agendas. Time was short, and once Penelope gave birth, she would no longer have an excuse to stay in London. It would be a year before she returned to the city for a season and by then it could be too late.
***
Exactly one hour after leaving George in the saloon, Celine once again materialized on top of the Grand Staircase. She appeared wearing a long black cloak that was meant to conceal the wearer, and Celine believed herself to be well concealed.
She took short cautious steps down the staircase, her trembling hands clutching three short, fat tallow candles, while her eyes darted hither and tither. Like an unseasoned creature who was reluctantly dipping her toes into the pool of misconduct, she tiptoed her way towards the library.
It was clear she was an amateur at the art of deception, for she was certain that if she was found and her aim discovered, she would be ruined.
She was a greenhorn, for fearful thoughts raced through her mind as she snuck down the stairs, muscles tensed and ears pealed like a Yorkshire terrier for the slightest sound.
She was a dabbler in all things wicked because a distant thump and a fluttering moth almost had her screaming and flying back to her room.
She was certainly a novice, for a finely skilled miscreant would never meander down the hallway like an ill tutored, badly dressed assassin at nine in the evening.
Nine o' clock is not a frightening hour. Nor is ten or eleven. The sort of fear that Celine was experiencing rightly belonged to any hour after midnight and before five in the morning. And yet she was shaking, her resolve tested over and over again by the flickering lamps that lit her path casting shadows that loomed, trembled and leaped at her every now and then.
She wondered why sneaking around the Blackthorne Mansion had not become easier. With practice one would have expected it to, but it hadn’t. She still felt as terrified as she had the first time when she had snuck into the library three days ago.
Her entire journey from the top of the Grand Staircase to the library had been emotionally taxing but uneventful. The million eyes that she had imagined were following her every move melted away only after she had pushed open the large wooden doors and entered the library.
The darkness and the familiar scent of tobacco, leather, books and ink calmed her nerves. Feeling slightly silly she pulled out a tinder box from her pocket and lit a candle. Firmly closing the door behind her she quickly moved towards the back of the library.
The library was a large circular room located on the ground floor of the family wing of the Blackthorne Mansion. The front of the library contained a pleasant reading area with two sofas piled high with plump cushions along with a day bed, a few chairs and a large wooden table.
Not a speck of dust sat on the books placed on the tall ornate wooden shelves, and if one pulled out Romance of Hoggy sitting on the fifth row of the third bookshelf, then a secret entrance to the basement would open up behind the main fireplace.
Celine did not know about the secret entrance and nor would she have cared. She nipped smartly to the back of the library, her stride purposeful and confident.
The back of the library was slightly different from the front. For one thing the back was chillier, darker and somehow smelled mustier. The sort of smell that one gets when one enters a dungeon. The back had no windows. A cold fireplace sat in the corner, and in front of it was a long unattractive wooden table with four hard backed simple chairs.
Celine set the candle down on the table and walked up to the fireplace, which by the looks of it hadn’t been used in years. She reached up into the chimney and felt around the sides. Almost immediately she found what she was looking for. She pulled out the cloth made out of thick blue wool that was hidden in a crevice and took it to the table. Thereafter, she sat down and taking out the papers from the bag spread them on the table and got to work.
Half an hour later she set her quill down and stretched. She was halfway through rolling her neck when a deep voice behind her said, “It appears to be a love letter … or rather a love poem.”
Celine squeaked and sprang out of her chair, “Lord Elmer, give me that,” she growled, noticing the paper in his hand. Somehow he had snuck up behind her and stolen one of the sheets from the table.
“Not yet,” George grinned, lifting the letter above his head and well out of her reach. He squinted at the paper and started reading aloud. “For Celine, my beloved kitten, here is a love poem.” He frowned, peered at the writing and then chuckled. “It is a love poem titled, ‘My Darling Dormouse’.”
“Lord Elmer, be reasonable. This is not proper,” Celine pleaded.
“I am unreasonable, and I happen to enjoy everything that is improper,” George replied cheerfully. “Besides, the title has intrigued me.” He cleared his throat and started reading,
Your green eyes are bright,
They take me on a flight,
Celine suddenly leaped at him, “Give that back now, my lord, or I will scream.”
He ignored her and swiftly moved until the table was between them. She chased him around the table, and he continued to read whilst easily evading her,
Your green eyes are bright,
They take me on a flight,
To lunar land.
Your red lips they pout,
Like a bird’s snout,
While pecking the blue insects to death.
He smiled and tucked the poem in his pocket. “My dear Miss Fairweather, that poem should not have ended like that. A tad depressing, wouldn’t you say? And your poet seems to have given up on the last line. The beginning shows promise and the bird with the snout … err ….”
Celine dug her nails into his arm, “I am a very peaceful person, my lord. I don’t want to hurt you, but I might just have to. Please be a gentleman and give me back the letter.”
“But things have just become interesting, Celine. I thought you were a charming, slightly pretty, level headed young miss. But what’s this? A young girl praised for being sensible, taking care of the confined duchess, a respectable young lady who one would think was too old for fanciful notions has gone and fallen in love with a poet. A poet called … let me see … ah yes, Philbert.”
Celine stepped away from him. Her eyes turned cold. “What do you want?”
“A lot of things, but let me start with a question,” he replied. His hand shot out and gripped her chin. He tilted her face this way and that, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Philbert the poet wrote this love poem for you. It clearly says so in the beginning so no point in denying it. He loves you and yet he writes those lines completely forgetting that your eyes are, in fact, brown. Why?”
Celine scowled and wrenched her face away, “Sometimes they look green.”
“Dark brown eyes can look green?” he asked sceptically.
“Fine, he was just learning to write, and he said that green is far more romantic a colour than brown.”
“I beg to differ,” Lord Elmer said softly.
Her eyes shot up to his and she froze. His eyes were blue. Blue like an ocean on a sunny day, and she was a river plunging into its depths ….
He blinked.
&
nbsp; She came crashing back to earth.
They both cleared their throats.
“Wha—” she started to say.
“I was—” he said at the same time.
Again throats were cleared. Finally she asked, “The letter?”
“I will give it back to you,”
She smiled.
“But,” he said.
The smile faded.
“You have to find a way for me to stay here at the Blackthorne Mansion until Lord Adair returns from his trip abroad or else ….”
Chapter 7
Celine paled, “I cannot. Lord Elmer, what you ask is impossible. Penelope is currently indisposed, and the duke will never allow a strange man to stay here at such a sensitive time.”
“Find a way,” he said stubbornly.
“Be reasonable, Lord Elmer. How can I convince the duke? I am Penelope’s younger sister and here to help with her household duties and that is all. This is not my house. I am a guest just like you—”
“Not exactly. You are the duchess’ beloved sister.”
“Stepsister.”
“Beloved nonetheless,” he argued. “You grew up with her. Surely you know a way of convincing her.”
“I don’t,” she said crossing her arms. “I can however suggest the stables to you as an excellent lair. The hay loft above the stallion named Sultan is particularly airy. I won’t tell a soul, I promise.”
“Please?” he begged opening his eyes wide, “I would rather have a feather bed.”
“No.”
“I refuse to share space with horses. Think of my excellent lineage,” he reminded her haughtily.
“The horses are the best in England. They are also of excellent lineage … practically royalty. You will feel at home,” she smirked.
“I am not going back to my father’s house.”
Something in his voice made her look up. She bit her lip and frowned.
Noticing the slight softening in her expression he grabbed her hand. “Will you hear my plight? It is very sad.”
Celine eyed his doleful face, and her heart in spite of herself squeezed in sympathy. She nodded.