by Wylde, Anya
“I think I need to know more about your love story,” he said looking baffled.
She hesitated, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks.
He looked away and cleared his throat, “I only want to know the spirit of the tale not the details.”
She kept her face carefully averted from him as she spoke, “We have an inn called The Tears of a Tankard in Finnshire. Mrs Reed runs it. She also sells pickles, jams, and other condiments. I went to purchase her raspberry preserve when I ran into Philbert. He was staying at the inn in hopes of finding poetic inspiration and because his father had thrown him out of the house.”
Lord Elmer smiled. “He must have read one of his poems to his father.”
She glared at him. “That’s not true.”
“Then why was he thrown out.”
After a moments silence, she said quickly, “hisfatherdissaprovedofhispoetry”
“His father,” he repeated agonisingly slowly, “disapproved of his poetry. In other words he had read one of his poems.”
She gave a short nod.
He curbed his smile and gestured for her to continue.
She continued, “I bumped into him and spilled the raspberry preserve all over his green, moth eaten patchwork coat. It was my fault. I had not been watching where I was going, and I had failed to tighten the lid of the jar.” Her voice became dreamy, “He was very nice about it and his pink cheeks puffed in and out, in and out, and once again in and out—”
“Your eyes trapped each other’s, heads swam, the beggar on the street corner started crooning a song, and your lashes fluttered, lips moved, mischief occurred under bellowing skirts, and you fell in love,” he interrupted. “I know those bits. It is the same for everyone. What I want to know is what in the dickens ruined it all?”
She fiddled with the quill as she spoke, “He left a letter for me every night on our doorstep. I would wake early every morning and get the letter before anyone else discovered it. One day I did not wake on time and my mother found the letter.”
“Dash my wig,” he said mildly.
She dug the nib into the sheet making a hole.
“I am listening,” he encouraged.
She took the nib out of the hole and continued, “She forbade me to write to him or meet him. He continued to write for some more time unaware that I could no longer read them. My mother was burning the letters. I did manage to get the last letter he ever wrote before my mother could get her hands on it, and I found the painting. He thought I no longer loved him, so he painted the place with a note to say that if I loved him, I would know the essence of the painting and understand where he will be every day, all day, in London. He said he will wait for me forever. He left Finnshire that day and I have not heard from him since.”
“Your love story came to an abrupt end because you overslept. Tragic.”
“Oh, to hell with you.” She stood up. “I told you it was a bad idea. Let me find him on my own. You need not worry your pretty head over it.”
“I have been called handsome but never pretty. I am sorry. I will not tease you. Come sit. Let’s make a note of all the places in London that have mountains or hills in them. I am certain this is a hill and not a kidney. Then I will get my valet Nithercott to visit these places and make discreet enquiries.”
Some of the steam went out of her. It did sound like a good idea. Better than she had in days.
Half an hour later she set her quill down and rubbed her tired eyes. She pushed the sheet towards him, “These are all the names I could find.”
He poured the sand on the paper, “I will get Nithercott to investigate. Your Philly should be easy enough to find. A fat poet named Philbert Woodbead. He already sounds unique.” He grinned. “Don’t be so serious, Amy. A little fun never hurt anyone.”
She eyed him in frustration. He was being so kind in helping her, and yet he had an aggravating habit of getting under her skin. She wanted to throttle him and kiss him at the same time. She blinked at the last thought. Kiss him?
He looked at her quizzically as he put the names in his pocket.
“Are you ill?” he asked concerned. “You are looking very odd.”
“No, I was just thinking,” she said hurriedly.
“About?”
“The poem. This poem here. It is a wonderful piece that Philbert wrote for me,” she said grabbing the sheet closest to her.
He took the paper and read the contents. “This is a wonderful piece?”
“Yes,” she said defensively. “You need to have a sensitive soul to understand it.”
“I need to have a sensitive soul to understand ‘An Ode to the Noble Liverwort’? He calls you his Noble Liverwort?”
“He likes botany,” she mumbled.
“Why don’t you go to bed?” he suggested kindly. “You are looking pale.”
She scrambled up and made her way towards the door only to slap her head and come right back.
“The poems, I need to take them back,” she muttered embarrassed.
“By all means take them and keep them. I read another one, ‘The Cat and the Parti-coloured Iris’, and it managed to frighten away my sleep. The cat ate the iris. I think I shall read anything but poetry until daylight. Goodnight,” he said offering her the neat bundle.
She grabbed it.
He held on.
She tugged at the bundle and then looked at him questioningly.
He smiled and pulled out a pin from her hair. A thick brown lock fell covering her left eye.
“You cannot be proper when having an adventure, my dear,” he informed her.
Her right eye focussed on his lips … Not her adventure, she thought firmly. Her adventure would be properly proper. Proper. Not improper but proper … Certainly, assuredly not naughty at all but very, very proper.
Chapter 13
“Good morning, your grace,” Celine sang walking into the room with a breakfast tray.
Penelope’s annoyed head swivelled in her direction. “It’s a blasted morning. I cannot believe the silly midwife thinks it’s time for me to be completely confined to the bed.” She straightened up and sniffed. “And don’t call me your grace. I hope you didn’t get me any eggs.”
Celine turned around and quickly spooned the boiled eggs into the head housemaid’s outstretched palm. “Not at all, I have some toast and a bit of bacon. Would you like chocolate or coffee?”
“I would like a party,” Penelope grumbled.
Celine deposited the tray onto Penelope’s lap. “Goodness, what a capital idea.”
“I am going to have a baby, but that does not mean that you treat me like a dim witted child. My wits have not slid into my stomach.”
“Then why were you wrestling with the housemaid for the broom?”
“I am bored. Everyone knows that. And as for the wrestling, you can’t blame me. It is natural.”
“Natural? How is insisting on wanting to sweep and scrub the floors when you cannot even see your toes natural? I am not even going to mention the fact that you are a duchess with hundreds of servants at your beck and call.”
“Pigeons do it. They build the nest and then clean it up to prepare it for the newborn chicks.”
“You are not a pigeon.”
“I feel like a pigeon. A trapped, miserable pigeon sitting in a nest waiting to lay her egg while her husband scours the countryside for maggots to bring home for dinner.” She shook her head sadly. “Do you know, as a duchess I am invited to countless balls, shooting parties, sailing parties, country parties, dinners and masquerades. Instead of going to them I have been confined to this mansion and now to this bed. I am a pigeon too fat to fly. I want to fly, Celine, and dance. Better still, dance and fly at the same time. Can we not sneak out for one last night in town before the babe is born? We could go to the night garden. It would be our secret.”
At Penelope’s mention of a secret Celine’s mind automatically sprang to Lord Elmer.
“Celine, why are you blushing?”
“I am not. I am a little warm.”
Penelope drained her tea and nodded. “It is warm, and yet,” she pointed at the fireplace, “you can see that the housekeeper has lit the fire high enough to roast me alive. Now, it is not that Mrs Cornley would like to see me dead because she madly loves the duke and wants to be the Duchess of Blackthorne herself. No, the truth is not so exciting, for you see the reason I am about to sweat away my last breath is because Anne has a cold.”
“Anne, the duke’s sister?”
Penelope nodded.
“But she is in Bath,” Celine said confused.
“Fancy that,” Penelope muttered. “Now, I wish someone would explain that to the duke’s blooming mother.”
Celine’s face cleared, “Another letter arrived from the dowager.”
“Yes, and I am quickly realising why mother-in-laws are a despised lot in this world. She has written to the housekeeper informing her that I must be kept as warm as possible because Anne has a cold. Just because her daughter has a cold her daughter-in-law must suffer. How is that fair? And why couldn’t Anne curb her sneezes. It was blasted insensitive of her. She knows what the dowager is like.”
Celine made comforting sounds.
Penelope gestured for the tray to be removed. “Now, Celine, I feel like having a fruit cake. Will you request the cook … thank you … and throw this jug of water into the fireplace, and perhaps open the window slightly.”
“Anything else?”
“Ask Mary to fetch my quill, ink and the letters. Oh, and choose some books from the library. I may read for a while. Send the duke to me if he comes home early from his maggot hunting expedition. Come and talk to me in an hour, I may need company….”
Celine spent a few more minutes with the duchess making sure that she was comfortable. Thereafter, she went to check on Dorothy.
The girl was reading in the nursery with Gunhilda.
“I am too old to be in the nursery,” Dorothy told her.
“The duke makes the decisions in this house,” Celine replied apologetically.
Dorothy nodded and started reading once again.
Celine frowned, “Are you feeling alright?”
“I was reading an account of a man suffering from a brooding liver. I think I have it,” Dorothy said bracingly.
“Have what?”
“A brooding liver. I am certain of it. I read the account twice and our symptoms match.”
“What are the symptoms?”
“Deep sadness, a feeling of impending doom and a certainty that something has broken away from the lower part of my stomach and made its way to the upper part of it. Gunhilda says that if that had truly happened, then I should be stone cold dead.”
“I don’t think you are going to die, and please stop reading such accounts,” Celine scolded. “Last week you convinced everyone that you were suffering from malaria and having convulsions when all you were suffering from was a stomach ache because you ate too much rice pudding. Now, how are your lessons going?”
“Fine.”
Celine lifted a brow at Gunhilda.
The governess assured her that Dorothy was behaving admirably.
Celine frowned. Perhaps the girl was sickening. Dorothy never behaved admirably unless she was ill or guilty.
She eyed the healthy, pink cheeked girl with her bright alert eyes and she was willing to wager her best bonnet that it was the latter emotion making her sister suffer. Now, if only she could figure out what Dorothy had done.
The rest of the day was the same as usual. Celine spent the day dealing with domestic matters and going over household accounts.
She also sorted out an argument between two chefs and a laundry maid. The two chefs declared their love for the laundry maid, and the maid in turn declared her love for the under-footman. The under-footman turned out to be madly and deeply in love with the dairy maid, who was happily married to the coachman. The two chefs quit because of broken hearts. The laundry maid and the under-footman sadly followed.
Things became slightly difficult for Celine now that Blackthorne had only one chef remaining. She discussed this matter with the steward as well as the urgent matter of the stubborn stain on the carpet of the Jade Room.
All in all nothing out of the ordinary happened all day, and surprisingly she did not see Lord Elmer either. Perhaps he was no longer interested in helping her? That last thought made her feel partly relieved and partly disappointed as she made her way to dinner that evening.
***
She entered the dining room and found Penelope already sitting at the table. “I thought the midwife said you have to stay in your room?”
Penelope grinned, “Yes, Beth the midwife had told me that. Now I have requested Mrs Fisher, who successfully assisted Lady Gardiner in giving birth to an unfortunate looking baby last month, to come and attend to me. I trust Mrs Fisher more than Beth because Beth does not like cats, while Mrs Fisher adores them.”
“You said you liked Beth because she smelled like roses and not Nelly, the original midwife that the dowager had chosen for you, because she had a look in her eye that was all wrong. You cannot keep changing midwifes, Penny, until you find one that agrees to let you do as you please,” Celine scolded.
“Mrs Fisher did not agree to my four pages of reasonable requests. However, she did say that I could walk from one room to another but not up and down the stairs. So I have decided to move to one of the rooms on this floor.”
“I see,” Celine thought for a moment. “Will the Yellow Room do? It is right across from the dining room?”
Penelope nodded happily. “Now if only Charles would take me dancing, I would be satisfied.”
“Charles will do no such thing,” the duke said walking in and dropping a kiss on Penelope’s curly head.
Celine looked away. She still wasn’t used to the way the duke and duchess were so affectionate in public. It was sweet, a little bit scandalous, and at the same time it made her feel a touch lonely.
Lord Elmer entered the room.
Celine brightened and then frowned. Last evening Lord Elmer had chosen to wear a bushy red moustache. Today he was wearing a full black one. She was about to remind him when Sir Henry was carried in by four burly footmen.
Celine closed her mouth. With a little bit of luck, Sir Henry would fail to notice the change in their new guest. Thankfully Sir Henry’s eyesight was grainy and his memory sluggish at best.
The first course of cold fish soup was served.
After Sir Henry’s fifth mouthful and no comment on Lord Elmer’s appearance, Celine started to relax. Her tensed shoulders had just eased into a more comfortable position when Lord Elmer decided to switch moustaches.
One moment he had a full black moustache and the next time she looked up it was a black, wiry wilting one.
There was no mistaking it.
Lord Elmer had truly switched moustaches.
She promptly sprayed soup, bits of fish and bread out of her mouth.
Lord Elmer’s eyebrow rose in question. Not a smile lurked in his eyes.
She searched his face and frowned in confusion. Was she wrong? Had it really been a full black moustache? No one else seemed to have noticed the change. They had, however, noticed the bread and soup flying out of her mouth.
“I am sorry, I think I bit into something unpleasant,” she muttered quickly.
“What was it?” George asked.
“What?”
“The unpleasant thing that you bit into?” the duke prompted.
“Perhaps a pepper.”
“Perhaps?” Sir Henry asked.
“No, it was a pepper,” Celine replied, her cheeks burning.
Sir Henry refused to eat any more soup. Peppers frightened him.
The second course arrived, this one a more grand affair with assorted meats, cheeses and vegetables.
Celine took a bite of the peacock pie and almost choked. Lord Elmer now wore a grey moustache, the sort that curled up at
the ends.
There was no mistaking it. And this time she was certain of the change because the duke and Penelope were also gaping at Lord Elmer in shock.
The duke’s expression soon turned furious, while a fascinated Penelope leaned forward in her seat.
Lord Elmer continued to eat as if unaware of the interest shown in his moustache.
No one knew quite what to do in such a situation. The duke could not call him out on it, for if he did, then Sir Henry would notice the change. And if he noticed the change, then he would realise that the guest was a wearing a fake moustache. Once Sir Henry realised what was going on, he would insist on pulling each and every guest’s moustache to ensure that they were real, and if they were not, then that guest would no longer be welcome at the mansion.
It was no wonder that the duke had altogether given up on the food and now sat boring imaginary holes into the back of Lord Elmer’s head.
Celine stopped analysing the duke and once more turned towards Lord Elmer. He had switched moustaches again. This time it was a salt and pepper variety that was fat at the centre and thin at the edges.
She put her spoon down and decided to carefully watch him. Her diligence was rewarded when he pretended to drop a fork and emerged back up wearing a snowy white moustache and beard.
Penelope started giggling uncontrollably. Her cheeks were flushed for the first time in days, and the dullness in her eyes had been replaced by excitement.
Celine was torn. She was amused but at the same time horrified.
Once again Lord Elmer dived under the table mumbling something about shoelaces, and by this time no one was interested in food except for an oblivious Sir Henry.
The servers arrived to place the desert on the table, and from between the mounds of colourful jellies, flower scented ices, and delicate cakes Celine’s scandalised eyes watched a plumed hat appear over the edge of the table.
Penelope pressed her lips together, her face red and eyes bulging.
The duke started turning an unflattering shade of puce while the edge of his napkin sat soaking in a glass of wine.
Penelope, the duke, Celine, the serving maids and even the stoic Perkins gasped when Lord Elmer finally emerged from under the table wearing a pirate’s eye patch, plumed hat, and a multihued feather boa along with an auburn moustache.