by Ruth Axtell
Virginia shook her head vigorously. “Oh no, sir, indeed I did not. Her ladyship didn’t even permit me to open it.”
“Very well.”
“Is zat all you can say!” Valentine spat at him. “You will let her get away with zis because she is a silly young thing—”
Before she began to hurl insults at him, he pulled himself up, towering over her. “That is enough! If Virginia says she did not do what you accuse her of, that is final. You will have to see to the tidying up yourself.”
“How—how dare you!”
“Because I am butler in this household. If you do not like that fact, we will go to Lady Wexham and ask for her account. If she did indeed tell Virginia not to open the armoires, then she did not.” He knew full well Valentine was not going to want to go to the countess. But he didn’t like having to make more an enemy of her than he already had.
He had not been in the household more than a day when she had sought him out in a dim passageway of the house and begun to flirt with him. The last thing he needed was an entanglement with a French lady’s maid.
Valentine continued eyeing him with malevolence in her dark eyes. She was not an unattractive woman, slim, of medium height, with dark hair and eyes. He judged her to be around his own age, thirty or so. But he found nothing attractive in her disdainful attitude.
It had crossed his mind that to enter into a flirtation with her would possibly help him ferret out information about the countess. Didn’t they say that servants were privy to most things in a household—and a trusted lady’s maid to her mistress’s most guarded secrets?
But Rees had drawn the line at going to those lengths. If there were secrets to be discovered, he wasn’t going to dally with a maid to uncover them. The fact that she, too, was French meant that she could very well be working with the countess.
He nodded in a clipped fashion to the women. “Very well, be about your business, the two of you.” One benefit of being butler was that his word was law.
Valentine sniffed and flounced away. Virginia smiled gratefully and bobbed a curtsy before backing away. “Thank you, sir. Honestly, I didn’t do anything but what I was supposed to—”
He smiled in reassurance. “It’s all right. I’m sure there is a logical explanation for it all.” Which none of you will ever discover.
Mrs. Finlay entered from the kitchen, ushering them to the table. “Breakfast is served.”
With a gesture to Virginia to precede him, Rees made his way to the head of the long table. It was set with a white cloth and a place for each of the servants. The two scullery maids were scurrying from kitchen to table with steaming dishes.
The footmen, other maids, housekeeper, and outdoor staff found their places and stood behind their chairs, waiting for his appearance before taking their seats. It had been both humbling and daunting to realize his position as butler. He was only a servant above stairs. An ineffaceable line of demarcation existed between him and the world of his employer.
But below stairs he was king, all of the other servants deferring to him, even Mrs. Finlay, though as housekeeper she was almost his equal, the chatelaine key ring at her waist marking her position. Everyone respected Rees’s word . . . except the two French servants, Valentine and the cook, Gaspard, who insisted on being called a chef.
“Good morning,” Rees greeted the servants around the table, then with a nod to them all, he signaled his permission for them to be seated. In the few days he’d had to receive his training from Mr. Rumford, the old butler had informed Rees on the precise hierarchy that governed this large household.
Rees let his gaze wander over the faces gazing back at him, waiting for him to bless the food so they could begin to eat. The chef sat to his immediate right, Valentine to his left, Mrs. Finlay at the foot of the table. Ranged down the length of the table were the other servants in order of importance and seniority. A dozen besides himself, footmen, parlor maids, kitchen maids, coachman, groom.
When the scullery maids had brought in the last dishes, they, too, took their places at the very end of the table.
Rees bowed his head. “Bless, O Father, thy gifts to our use and us to thy service, for Christ’s sake. Amen.”
The servants joined him in the amen then immediately unfolded their napkins and began passing plates. He was in charge of dishing out the main servings, a mixture of French and English-style fare, so he took up the plates as they were handed to him and spooned out the fluffy eggs, slices of fried ham, sautéed mushrooms, and cold pâtés. Baskets of bread were passed amongst the servants.
Gaspard snapped open his own napkin and took the first plate Rees filled. With a look of disdain from under his heavy black eyebrows and nary a “merci,” he bent over his plate and began to eat.
One of the scullery maids soon got up and began pouring tea or coffee for everyone else.
Rees compared this household of servants to those at his mother’s house. These days his mother and sister relied on only a cook and a woman of all work. When his father had been alive and they’d lived in the prosperous port city of Bristol, there had been a couple of additional servants. But he’d never lived in a household with so many to do for so few.
Taking his first forkful, Rees glanced at the chef. Gaspard was a gifted cook, he had to concede. He was perhaps in his midforties with lank black hair and a pale, almost sickly complexion. Perhaps he spent too much time at his stove and very little out of doors.
Rees only half paid attention to the servants’ talk around him as he pondered his next move in this game of stealth he was embarked upon. He let his gaze roam slowly over the members of the staff. He’d only searched Lady Wexham’s rooms—and not even finished those. Perhaps he should go through the two footmen’s. Not that he suspected them of anything. Tom and William, strapping young men of equal height and build, were thoroughly British, and if by some stretch of the imagination he could conceive of their behaving traitorously, they weren’t smart enough. They were the ones he worked closest with and he’d had their measure in the short time he’d been in the household.
Tom was chatting in a lively manner with Virginia and Sally across from him, while William, the other footman, looked on, injecting a comment now and then. Tom was almost holding court, Rees observed with amusement, the young maids looking as spellbound as if he were recounting a fairy tale.
Tom poked a fork toward Sally. “I had it from the head footman at Melbourne House that Lady Caroline is once again making a cake of herself over Lord Byron now that she is back from her exile.”
William chortled over a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “I heard when she asked for a lock of his hair, he sent her one of Lady Oxford’s.”
The young footmen guffawed. “He said it was lucky coincidence that its color and texture were the same!”
One of the scullery maids looked round-eyed. “Poor Lady Caroline. Isn’t Lady Oxford old?”
Tom gave her a pitying look. “Not so old . . .” he added in a suggestive way.
Rees glanced down to the end of the table to Mrs. Finlay, who was eating in the methodical way she did everything, addressing only an occasional comment to the scullery maids and the chambermaids nearest her. She was a woman of around fifty, with a trim figure and serious demeanor, her honey-brown hair half mixed with gray.
She looked up from her plate and said in a voice to be heard above the footmen, “Mr. Gaspard, did Lady Wexham discuss the menu for the dinner party with you?”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Certainement.”
Mrs. Finlay gave no sign that she noticed his scornful tone. “I should like to talk with you about it after breakfast. I must decide on which service to use for each course.”
“Bien sûr.” His eyes snapped to the scullery maids. “Ellie, Sarah, you will accompany me to the market this morning. We must look for ze truffes, ze lobster, ze morels”—he waved a hand—“and everyzing else for ze dinner.”
“Yes, sir,” the two girls murmured.
> Rees fixed his attention on cutting a piece of ham on his plate. If Gaspard was at the market later in the morning, and the two footmen were busy blacking boots, perhaps he could do a quick search of the chef’s room. It would only be a small window of time, but he could at least do a cursory inspection.
He brought the piece of ham to his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, studying the man out of the corner of his eye.
If anyone in this household was a spy, he’d lay odds it was Monsieur Gaspard.
Or perhaps he was merely an arrogant French chef, for whom only food was worthy of respect. Rees suspected that even Lady Wexham was careful in her treatment of him. If he were the least ruffled, he could threaten to quit. A good French chef, no matter how temperamental, would be snapped up by another hostess in Mayfair before teatime.
As if sensing his observation, Gaspard turned his black eyes to him, a scowl creating a deep furrow between the heavy black brows. Rees held up his fork. “Delicious ham.”
“Humph!” he snorted.
Spy or chef, Rees intended to discover which.
Rees hid his impatience as he waited for Gaspard to leave for the market. At intervals, he found excuses to wander down to the kitchen, but each time, to his growing uneasiness, the man was still bustling about, showing no signs of departing.
Soon the footmen would be finished with their morning tasks, and a search would be too risky.
It wasn’t until the servants had partaken of their midmorning tea that Gaspard finally left with the two scullery maids in tow.
Rees wiped at an imaginary smudge on a brass doorknob before addressing the two footmen. “The wine cellar is in abysmal condition. I want each bottle wiped clean with a rag.”
Tom and William gaped at him. “The wine cellar, sir?” Tom, the boldest, dared ask.
Rees gave him a quelling look. “That is correct. When I was in there last with Lady Wexham, I was appalled at how dirty everything was.”
“B-but, sir, old Rumford never permitted us in there. He preferred the bottles to show their age. We cleaned them, o’ course, whenever he brought one up.”
“Be that as it may, I would prefer you wipe every bottle off.” He plowed on, sounding as uncompromising and obdurate as he imagined a good butler would. “I was obliged to lend Lady Wexham my handkerchief to clean her fingers after taking down a bottle.”
Tom shut his mouth on whatever he was going to say. “Very well, sir, if you think we ought. I just hope Rumford doesn’t chew us up for meddling in his cellar.”
“I shall speak to Mr. Rumford myself upon his return and explain whatever additional duties I have required of you.” He turned away from them. “Very well, be about the task.”
“Sir—”
He swiveled around, allowing just a trace of impatience in his tone. “Yes?”
William cleared his throat. “The key. We can’t get in otherwise.”
He felt the flush along his jawline. “Yes, of course. Come along.”
He marched down the stairs, as if they had been at fault. The two followed at his heels.
He left them with plenty of clean rags, staring slack jawed at the rows of bottles, and felt only a slight qualm. Hopefully, he wouldn’t return in an hour to find bottles missing or telltale signs that they had been imbibing. He tried to think of a way to warn them that he’d be aware of how many bottles there were. Mr. Rumford kept a detailed account book cataloging every bottle, but Rees was not such a mutton head to think he’d be able to tell upon a quick inspection.
“Very well, carry on. I shall be down by and by to check on your progress.”
“Yes, sir,” they both chimed in.
Rees made his way back down the dim corridor then up the service stairs to make them believe he was going to the upper part of the house.
The chambermaids were busy cleaning the upstairs receiving rooms. He could hear them chattering in the parlor.
He had little time to lose. He retraced his way down the stairs to the basement and headed toward Mrs. Finlay’s sitting room.
He knocked smartly and poked his head in the door at her immediate reply to come in. “Lady Wexham wishes to see you in her sitting room.” That much was true as the countess desired to go over dinner party details.
The housekeeper was sitting at her account books. “Very good, sir. I shall go straightaway.” She closed the ledger and rose, her keys jingling at her waist, and straightened her starched white cap.
He held the door for her and closed it after her.
As she walked away from him toward the service stairs, he jangled his own set of keys and pretended to head toward the wine cellar, but as soon as the housekeeper was out of sight up the stairs, he did an about-face and continued past her room. He glanced quickly into the kitchen, but it was empty, everything tidy. He paused in front of the servants’ dining hall then walked through it to the room in the rear used by Gaspard.
He knocked, although he didn’t expect any reply.
After a few seconds of silence, he glanced behind him then quickly turned the knob, but it resisted his pressure.
He paused, not expecting to find it locked. Why would a servant lock his room?
Quickly, Rees dug into his own pocket and took out his skeleton key. His palms starting to sweat, he slid it into the keyhole. He breathed a sigh of relief when it turned easily.
He pushed the door open and peered into the crack. Finding the room empty, he entered and shut the door softly behind him, pocketing his keys. He’d have to make sure to lock the door behind him again.
Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes roam more slowly around the perimeters of the narrow room, picking out the details. The first thing that struck him was how untidy it was.
Like his own, this chamber had only enough room for an iron bedstead, narrow chest of drawers, and a corded trunk at the foot of the bed. Some wooden knobs on the wall opposite the bed held some aprons and clothes.
The resemblance to his room ended there. The bed was unmade, dirty linen and aprons formed a pile in the middle of the floor, a stack of newspapers filled one corner of the room, the window facing the back of the house was grimy. Dirty plates and cups lay about.
Wrinkling his nose against the stale smell of an unventilated room, he trod silently forward to the bed. He lifted the crumpled bedsheets and glanced down to the foot. Then he dropped them and felt the mattress through the sheets. Kneeling down, he lifted the straw-filled mattress and glanced under it. Trails of dust covered the floorboards visible through the ropes holding up the mattress. He let it fall and bent down to the ground and eyed the entire expanse of floor beneath the bed. Something caught his eye. Flattening his length, he reached out to the far end and grasped what looked like a corner of paper caught between the floorboards.
It proved to be only a torn scrap. He retrieved it and smoothed it out.
His eyes quickly read the scrawled jottings in French, which appeared to be in verse. Le roi toujours. Toujours le roi. The king always. Always the king.
A royalist sentiment. Hardly seditionary.
Hard-pressed to know whether the note was important or not, he stuck it in his pocket. He’d show it to his contact from the Home Office.
He stood back up, dusting off his trousers, and continued his search. The newspapers were also in French though printed in London. After perusing a few of the front pages, he concluded that they, too, were royalist in tone. Nothing surprising. Most of those forced from France during the revolution yearned for a return of the monarchy.
Rees turned to the chest of drawers. The top held a couple of cookbooks. He picked up one, its cover dirty, its pages stained and torn, its binding coming apart. It was all in French. Thin, folded pieces of paper were lodged here and there, but he saw that they, too, were mere recipes.
Pâte Brisée. His eyes scanned the list of ingredients. Flour, lard, salt. A recipe for pastry dough. He stuck it back in the book and set it down and proceeded with the other. Another well-used French c
ookbook. He bent down to the chest of drawers.
He should be used to this task by now, but his hands still shook as they searched through Gaspard’s personal belongings, expecting at any moment for someone to enter behind him. He found stacks of starched white aprons, handkerchiefs, and shirts. Knitted stockings and undergarments.
An extra blanket lay in the bottom drawer. Under it he found a stack of postmarked envelopes tied with a string. He took it to the bed, cocking an ear toward the door, thinking he heard a sound. But only silence greeted him. He sat down on the only chair and quickly untied the bundle. The envelopes were postmarked and originated in France. He opened the first and tried to decipher the handwriting.
After skimming through the top ones, he saw that they were from a wife and a mother, but they were dated twenty years ago. So, he had corresponded with family members during the Directorate. But what had happened to those family members in the meantime?
He retied the bundle and placed it back in the drawer and shut it. Then he examined the few items of clothing hanging on the pegs, felt the ledge of the narrow window above, and glanced into every corner of the small room. Nothing suspicious. The room was curiously bare of personal effects for someone who had been in the same household for so many years. Perhaps he spent most of his time creating dishes in the kitchen, so he didn’t need a roomful of things.
He certainly appeared to be an ardent royalist. For that matter, Lady Wexham was probably one as well. It was hard to imagine her a spy. She seemed much too open, much too nice.
He reined in the direction of his thoughts. Too many of his waking hours were spent dwelling on his employer’s attributes.
Rees exited the room as quietly as he had come. As he locked the door and turned around, his breath caught. Valentine stood in the doorway to the servants’ dining hall, her arms folded, her feet planted apart. He knew she hadn’t been there when he’d first opened Gaspard’s door.