Читать книгу The Duke’s Seduction of Lady M - Raven McAllan - Страница 10
ОглавлениеBrody Charles Dominic Weston – the no longer quite so new Duke of Welland – never thought a homecoming could be so simple, so hard and, not to put too fine a point on it, so bloody tedious. Months of boredom behind him and goodness knows how many in front. He tripped over the stair runner, missed a step, came down on his arse on the tread of the next with a noise like a herd of cattle who had a full manger in sight, and swore loudly.
‘Wha…’
Three heads popped out from behind the green baize door tucked under the stairs.
Brody wheezed as all his breath was forcibly expelled, and blinked at the sight in front of him. Just like bloody jack-in-the-boxes.
‘Your Grace, are you all right?’ an under-footman asked anxiously as he hovered close by, obviously scared to haul his duke to his feet without permission.
‘Fine,’ Brody said with a tight-lipped smile. What else should he say? No, I’m half left? ‘I was thinking of other things rather than where to put my feet.’ Such as how, though ostensibly his now-widowed mama was overjoyed to see him – hale, hearty, and in one piece – she was the sort of woman who often expressed the feelings expected from her by society. Her real emotions weren’t so easy to guess.
Then there was the matter of how his interest in his estates wasn’t encouraged. That needs changing. He was no longer the profligate, rakehell rogue he had been before he had departed for foreign shores all those years ago. The day the man who must not be named had approached him, and offered him the chance to help the country, not ruin it, had been the best day of Brody’s life in many ways. War, however you fought it, had a tendency to make you grow up, face your responsibilities and discover what was important and what was not. It was that or die, and Brody had no death wish. Brody learned a lot about himself over the following years, and not everything was pleasant. However, he came out of those years a better – he hoped – person.
As a much younger man, Brody had not listened to his father when he spoke about his role in life – although how he wished he had. Now, he allowed his mama had good reason for thinking that if she let go of the reins he’d spend any monies the estate had in proliferate idiocy, on wagers and wenches. However, Brody knew he would not. Those days were long gone. Ever since he’d lost Mercedes, the love of his life, he had changed. Now he had his priorities correct.
Welland, and all it entailed, was top of the list.
‘Your Grace? Do you need help?’
Brody realised the under-footman still hesitated anxiously next to him. Plus the tweenie and the housekeeper were staring at him as if he might get up and turn on them. He counted to ten under his breath and stood up. ‘Truly, I didn’t even stub my toe. I, um… I’ll be in the billiards room for a while.’ By the disapproving look on all three faces – and why a tweenie should be disapproving of a Duke he had no idea – it wasn’t where they thought he should be.
Tough. I’m me, not my papa.
The late Duke of Welland had been a well-loved and respected member of society and Brody suspected he, the new Duke, had a hard job on his hands to convince people he could fill his father’s shoes. Especially when he’d been conspicuous in his absence, even though it had not been of his choosing.
Deep into spy and hostile territory, it had been days before Brody heard of his parent’s demise, by which time he reluctantly agreed it made no sense to show his hand and go home. It was decided by all involved – his mother most vociferously, he heard later – that it was better for him to stay where he was, incognito, and do his bit to defeat the Corsican. Even so, it would have been nice, he often thought, to have been given the option.
Enough introspection. Brody left the hall and marched down the corridor to the billiards room. Not that he wanted to play the game but in all honestly he had no idea what he wanted to do. He was, for the first time in many years, a man who had no idea what should come next. It was frightening.
‘I don’t want to play billiards.’ Had it come to this? Talking out loud to himself. ‘Brody, my man you are in deep mire.’
In more ways than one.
Once Bonaparte was behind bars and at last there had been no reason not to return to England, he’d made his way home. His brothers and sisters were euphoric because, as his youngest sibling told him earnestly, they were lost without someone to steer the family in the right direction.
‘Mama…’ his youngest sister – Murren – declared grandly, ‘… demands, not asks, and that puts people’s backs up. Especially mine.’ Rudderless, so to speak, they were adrift. Now they expected him to give them direction and help them make their way in the world. Which was all well and good except it was many years since he’d faced the ton, and really those memories didn’t tempt him to repeat the experience. At least his mama had understood he needed time to come to terms with his new status and had taken his siblings on a lengthy tour of her family. He hoped that was her intention anyway, when she’d said she was giving him breathing space before the assault on him and his single status began in earnest. With her, one didn’t always know.
Brody opened the billiards room door and walked past the table to unlock the door onto the terrace, and take several deep breaths. He couldn’t go on like this, purposeless and aimless.
Being alone at Welland, Brody had discovered he was at a loose end and with no hope of tying said end up to anything at all. He wondered if that had been what his mama aimed for, thinking he would then head to London and take his place in the ton once more.
If she had, her plot had backfired, spectacularly, because one thing he did know was that he had no inclination to head to the capital. The Season hadn’t started, Parliament was not in session and he had no intention to be pushed into the arena of husband-hungry debs and their mamas who had returned early to the city, or never left. Some things needed a wide birth, so at Welland he stayed.
He could understand why his parent doubted his intention to take over the dukedom, and run it in the proper manner, she had no reason to think he’d changed his attitude. Brody accepted he’d not been in the best of fettle when he returned, exhausted, heartsick and grieving, but even so, she hadn’t let him show her who he now was. Surely she could give him the benefit of the doubt? Just a little.
Get some air. Brody made his way across the terrace and headed for the paddock behind the stables. A groom nodded and doffed his hat as he passed him, but nothing was said. The new Duke it seemed was an unknown quantity who no one wanted to test.
‘Are you wantin’ your horse, Your Grace?’ Evidently the groom decided something had to be asked by way of acknowledgement.
Brody shook his head, relieved to at least have some normal interaction with someone. ‘No thank you, just some air.’ What was the man’s name? Not to know, was a crime.
‘I’m sorry, and this is appalling, I cannot remember your name.’
The man blushed. ‘No reason why you should Your Grace. I was nobbut a youngster when you left. I’m Peters.’
The admission from Peters that he didn’t expect Brody to know him did nothing to dispel the black dog riding on Brody’s shoulder. As Brody understood only too well, his dark mood was of his own making. He dipped his head. ‘Allow me to disagree, Peters. I should, and will, know everyone before the week’s end.’ A rash statement perhaps, but he’d do his damnedest to make it true. That black dog needed burying and life on the estate needed altering
How to change things, though? Brody accepted his factors and stewards were wary. After all, they had managed all the ducal estates – with his mother’s help – ever since his father fell ill several years earlier. Brody assured Peters he was fine, left the stable yard and made his way to the paddock. He leaned on the rails to stare at the scene in front of him. It made him smile wryly.
Even his cattle were wary. His favourite stallion, Fleet, took one look at him, stood in front of his harem of mares and snorted his displeasure at Brody’s long overdue return. A carrot he’d filched from the stables as he passed didn’t appease the horse. Nor did Brody’s murmured assurances that all was well. Fleet reared up and pawed the air. Brody smiled and shook his head.
‘Even you don’t know if I can do as needed eh? Ah well, I’ll show you all. Somehow.’ Brody turned his back on Fleet, who whinnied.
‘Too late, you’ve lost your chance.’ And he had lost his mind, talking to a horse in such a manner. With a self-deprecating smile and a shrug, which rippled his muscles under the serviceable hacking jacket he wore, he continued to ignore the stallion. Instead, Brody swung onto Jason, the gelding who had carried him across the continent, and who stood patiently at the gate, swishing his tail at the ever-present flies.
‘Come on boy; let’s gallop away the fidgets. Yours and mine.’ He wheeled around to point Jason in the direction of the paddock fence, put the horse to it and sailed effortlessly over. Then he spent an hour riding some of the restlessness out of both of them.
Not all of it though. He still had time to think and find himself falling short of what he should be. By the time he returned to the stables and waved the groom away, so he could rub Jason down himself, Brody had accepted he was now an unknown quantity and had to re-earn the respect he’d always taken for granted.
It was a bitter pill to swallow. The way he was deemed unnecessary to the estate. To know that no one had thought to tell him of his father’s illness, or call him back earlier. Oh he now understood their reasoning over his papa’s death. It was too late to speak to him then. But earlier? Had they thought he didn’t care? They were wrong, so very, very wrong. Hidden on the continent, away from anyone to confide in, speaking languages other than his mother tongue, Brody had mourned long and hard. His father and he had been very close, even though neither of them showed it openly.
As he remembered those days, red-hot rage consumed him. Why had no one told him how ill his parent was? That question had teased him, annoyed him, and irritated him on and off ever since his papa passed away. It was only later he understood his papa had chosen not to speak out and therefore not worry him. A decision Brody thought wrong, but it had been his father’s decision and nothing could change that now.
‘What cannot be changed, must be endured and forgiven, eh Jason?’ He gave the horse a pat and left the stables. He might not agree with what had happened, but it was over and he needed to move on.
So do they.
To his loyal-to-the-crown family, evidently the defeat of Napoleon was more important than having the heir at home, learning the ropes. Thus his return to home shores was delayed. Therefore, to his estate managers – most of whom were chosen by his father after he, Brody, had left home – he was as much an unknown factor to them as they to he. That two-sided name made him laugh. Factor be damned. He had no input, no influence and now, sadly, no inclination to be involved.
Brody re-entered the house without seeing a soul, washed and changed and mooched around the ground floor with a brandy in one hand and a scowl on his face. That was not true. They had no inclination to allow him to be involved. It seemed their inclination was to think everything had run smoothly without him so why upset the apple cart?
Because I want to be involved. I am not the callow youth who left here all those years ago. This is my land, my heritage and my chance to protect the future. Brody swallowed his brandy in one long gulp, hiccupped behind his palm and scowled at his majordomo who appeared silently as if by magic. Boleyn couldn’t give him the solution to his conundrum. Not like he did when as a child, Brody bombarded him with questions and the man, then a lowly footman, never failed to give the child an answer he could understand.
Now, because Boleyn had known him since he was in the cradle, he accepted the man’s furrowed brow and silent disapproval as given. Boleyn had disapproved of Brody’s ways well before he headed to the continent and Brody supposed he’d done nothing to change the man’s opinion since he got back.
‘What have I done now?’ Brody asked resignedly. ‘Except empty the brandy bottle before noon.’
Boleyn looked him up and down, and it took all of Brody’s concentration not to fidget. He really did feel like a scrubby schoolboy once more, albeit with a three-day growth on his chin. Boleyn might only be fifteen or so years older than him, but he had the knack of making Brody regress.
‘Or not done?’ Brody added.
‘Too much to mention, in some ways, Your Grace,’ Boleyn said austerely. ‘In other’s, not enough. May I suggest you start to rectify that before all is lost.’
Brody looked at his feet, just to avoid Boleyn’s sorrowful and disappointed expression. It made him appear like a lugubrious bloodhound. Brody sighed, put his glass down on a side table, and clapped the other man on the shoulder. ‘Who, what, and where? How much do I need to grovel?’
Boleyn smiled and his relief was so evident to see, Brody felt like a heel. He knew he’d dragged his feet with regards to insisting he became more involved with the daily workings of his heritage. But with such determined resistance from those who held onto the reins, he’d decided to become more used to civilian life before demanding things change.
Now he wondered just what his servants thought of him. Oh yes, they all knew him in his younger days, when he’d been a rake and a rogue, and enjoyed every moment of it. Then, wagering, wenching, and wine had been his raison d’être. No longer. Of course they didn’t know that and Brody had no idea how he could impart the knowledge, except by example perhaps? If given the chance.
Take it, you are the Duke. Take that chance, don’t wait for it to be given.
Boleyn coughed delicately and Brody realised he’d been wool-gathering again.
‘Sorry,’ he apologised sincerely to the older man. ‘Tell me, plot my day for me. Set me back on the straight and narrow, but…’ he grinned, ‘…give me time off for good behaviour.’
Boleyn’s worried expression cleared and he bowed. ‘Thank you, my lord. I vow, I despaired of ever hearing those words from your lips.’
Brody decided not to enquire which of his words met Boleyn’s approval. He’d just bask in the approval while he could.
‘So, my agenda?’ he prompted. Now he was in the right frame of mind, he might as well get a move on, just in case the mood dissipated. Not that he thought it would, but Brody had seen too much to assume anything.
‘Well now.’ Boleyn rested the tips of his fingers on his chin, an expression Brody recognised as Boleyn in pensive mode. ‘A shave first, for, not to put too fine a point on it, you look like a vagrant.’
Brody ran his fingers over his chin. The three-day-old growth was neither fashionable nor sculpted. It was merely facial hair. Untidy, stubbly, facial hair.
‘Point taken. First a shave. Then?’
‘Then you should take up the reins and re-immerse yourself in the estate. If that’s your idea?’
Brody nodded. ‘I’ve wallowed and been sidestepped enough. No more.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ Boleyn smiled. ‘If I may suggest a visit to old Mrs Wiggins? She’s in Apple Cottage, since Joe, you remember her son, passed. He was in one of the foot regiments and was lost at Waterloo.’
Brody winced, and nodded. The carnage was all too fresh in his mind. Even though no one knew he was there, he’d been around, and seen more terrible things in one day than anyone would want to see in a lifetime.
‘And Miss Cinderford,’ Boleyn continued. ‘She’s next door. They both have fond memories of you and never fail to ask after you.’
‘Cinders?’ Brody used the nickname for his old nurse. ‘I thought she’d be long gone by now.’
Boleyn shook his head. ‘Hale and hearty. Still walks to church twice on Sundays, takes her turn on the flower rota and teaches the children their scriptures at Sunday school. She’s been looking forward to your return.’ He didn’t add, as he well could, ‘and you’ve been back months and seen no one’. ‘Chef will have some pastries for you to take to the ladies. It’ll save Mrs Loveage a detour when she goes to visit the pensioners on the other side of the river. She tries to get round them all once a week, now your mama is absent.’
Mrs Loveage, his housekeeper – known to Brody’s younger self as Lovey, and at one time an undernursemaid – was another stalwart who wasn’t in the first blush of youth. If Boleyn was trying to make Brody feel guilty, Brody knew fine well the man had more than succeeded. If he ever wed, that activity would fall to his wife. If. A little word with a big meaning.
‘Of course. Now I can help.’
Boleyn looked sceptical and Brody grinned. ‘Well not in everything but when you or she think I’m needed. What else?’
‘Cakes for the school. It’s the monthly treat for those who attend regularly. With cook laid up, Mrs Loveage is charge.’
It was the first Brody had heard of the cook’s illness. Guiltily he wondered what else his staff had kept from him because they thought – mistakenly – he was indifferent.
‘What’s wrong with the cook?’ He needed to know. Dammit she is my responsibility.
‘Cooking sherry.’
What? ‘The cook is addicted to cooking sherry?’
Boleyn shook his head and coughed. ‘Ahem, only for one week in each month, my lord. And we manage.’
Brody digested that somewhat puzzling statement for several seconds before the light dawned. Those damned days when the curse ailed Mercedes so badly that she took to her bed alone. Although he didn’t think the cooking sherry ever went with her. More likely the finest wine and a bottle of port. As ever, the thought of Mercedes hit him hard and sent a searing rush of anguish through him. Brody blocked his painful thoughts off and concentrated on what was being said.
‘Good, so, you were saying about the school children and cakes?’ He changed the subject hastily. He really didn’t want a conversation about a woman’s body at that moment.
‘This month all forty-seven pupils are eligible. Miss Grey is overjoyed with that.’
Brody supposed Miss Grey was the new schoolmistress. He vaguely remembered his mama saying Miss Pettifer, the previous incumbent, had left to take care of her widowed father. He wondered idly whose idea the cakes were but decided it might be best not to enquire. Just in case it was seen as a criticism. This Duke thing is fraught with pitfalls. He cast his mind back to the elegant lady his body had lusted over all those weeks earlier. He’d never seen her since, even though he’d kept an eye out for her on his sojourns around the area. Was she Miss Grey? Damn, definitely not in my league then. He certainly could not proposition someone who was, to all intents and purposes, in his employ.
‘Cakes then. Excellent.’ Brody had no wish to change anything unless he felt a need to do so. Cakes for attendance seemed a good idea to him. The more children who got an education, the better he – and whatever anyone thought it would be he – could ensure his estates were well maintained and prospered. ‘I’ll shave, change into my riding clothes and boots and meet you back here.’
Boleyn beamed. ‘I told Mrs Loveage you’d soon be chafing at the bit and raring to take up the reins again. Once you recovered.’ His majordomo turned on his heel smartly, and slipped behind the green baize door discreetly located under the imposing staircase.
Recovered from what? Brody pondered the question as he made his way up the stairs two at a time to swap his house shoes for riding boots and a jacket which, although more befitting his status, didn’t set him too far apart from anyone he might meet, and jeopardise his intentions to be a hands-on owner.
Hands-on. He wished.
Damn. That thought reminded him once more of his late mistress, Mercedes. Mercedes of the ‘black as a raven’s wing’ hair and deep blue eyes, which could soften into submission, or flash with anger. Their time together had been brief, tempestuous, and more than enjoyable. Mercedes insisted it was not for ever, she wouldn’t leave and go to England with him. Instead, she said, it would be best they part with affection before he returned to England.
A year or so earlier, Brody had been sent to another part of the country to reconnoitre a way for troops to infiltrate the area. On his return he had found her battered and bleeding, with her hair shaved and carved into her chest the word – in English – ‘traitor’.
She died in his arms, and Brody swore never again would he lose his heart. He’d closed in on himself and done his job with ruthless determination.
It was no wonder he’d taken so long to regroup.
Since then, Brody ruminated, his cock was in danger of forgetting what its mission in life really was, and was in trouble of seizing up through disuse. It had been a lowering realisation that to enjoy delights of the flesh, one needed to be where the ladies were. Sadly where those willing to play could be found, so also could their children or worse, their spouses.
Plus, those debs desperate for a husband, with all the ruthlessness needed to ensnare an eligible man by fair means or foul, appeared from nowhere. Usually it seemed… foul. At a soiree his mother had cajoled him to attend, he had to threaten one lady when she’d followed him into the antechamber of the gentlemen’s smoking room. Unbeknown on his side and with full, snare-intentions on hers. Brody been treated to an eyeful of bosom and a threat to say it was him who coerced her into the room. He had departed via the window, but not before he told her in no uncertain terms who would come off the worse if she tried any such thing. Indisputably, it wouldn’t be him, he’d make sure of that. His ire and determination left one very scared debutant to hightail it out of the chamber and him to go back to the soiree via the ivy and to make his farewells to his hostess. Thence to avoid all such events. For that he gave thanks and left London swiftly, before any more ingenious plots to ensnare him could be put into fruition.
There and then, Brody made his mind up. His body would get its relief via his hands or not at all. Over a month later he’d kept to that and would continue to do so… Until…until what he wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t until some forward debutant – or her ambitious mother – got their talons into him. Luckily, in this part of the country he’d get plenty of notice if any such plans seemed likely and would be able to employ avoidance tactics.
Brody stood in front of the mirror, scrutinised his image to ensure his attire was straight and checked his somewhat rushed shave hadn’t left any clumps of bristles. It was no good; he really would have to sort out a valet as an immediate matter of necessity. Especially if he was to act like the Duke. With a final smoothing of his jacket sleeve, he picked a minute piece of thread from his cuff and retraced his steps to the hall. Thence to head down the servants’ corridor and into the cavernous kitchen of the castle. Mrs Loveage, flour up to her elbows, looked up from where she was kneading the contents of a large earthenware bowl.
‘Now then, my lord, nice to see you back to your old self again.’
Good grief, did everyone think he was his nineteen-year-old persona again? It was a chilling thought. Never in a millennia.
‘As you say Lovey.’ Not for anything would Brody do anything to upset her. Along with Boleyn, she’d been a constant supporter throughout his life. ‘I see you’re moonlighting as the cook. For the love of god, and me, do not over-do it.’
‘Ha, as if I would.’ Mrs Loveage thumped a lump of dough onto the floured surface of the table and began to knock it down. ‘It’s nobbut a few cakes and pies for a few days. We eat plain-like when the family’s not here…oh…’ she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean we’ve stinted for you, my lor… oh I mean Your Grace. Bear with me, I’ll get the hang of it now you’re home.’
She wasn’t the only one to forget his new title. On several occasions, Brody had looked around to see who was being addressed.
‘Cut out the “Your Graces”, Lovey, they’re not needed. My Lord is more than enough.’ As long as she didn’t call him “you little rascal”. ‘So, what are the cakes?’ Brody sniffed the air, redolent of lemons, spices and the homely scent of warm sponge, and almost sighed in appreciation. ‘Lemon curd?’ He bussed the comely woman on the cheek. ‘Will you marry me?’
She laughed and all her body jiggled as she took a swipe at him with her dishcloth. ‘Get on with you. Loveage and I aren’t up to the high jinks some of you gentlemen are.’ She glanced at him and even though she laughed, Brody could see speculation writ large on her face.
He conveniently forgot some of his antics on the continent and grinned with one hand over his heart. ‘Wounded. I’m the epitome of all things correct.’
She chuckled. ‘Good. Now get that basket over yonder and off you go. The two cloth-covered parcels for the ladies, the rest for the school.’
Brody grunted and hefted the large oval basket into his arms. Unwieldy, heavy, and not a convenient shape or size, he’d have to take the curricle or the gig. The thought of that basic jolting vehicle made him shudder. No more bone-shaking unless it was unavoidable. In this case it was.
‘I’ll get my curricle and go.’
‘My lord?’ A freckle-faced youth of about seventeen had sidled into the kitchen and now, as his Adam’s apple bobbled nervously, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Boleyn wondered as if I could be of ‘elp… um help to you.’ His accent was one hundred percent Rutland. Brody slowly raised one eyebrow, and looked the boy up and down. He looked gangly and nervous; Brody wasn’t really in the mood to put up with some stripling’s fumbling attempts to ‘elp him. The boy faltered under his employer’s scrutiny and blushed. Mrs Loveage scowled.
‘Ignore the face like a pig in someone else’s muck not his own, Ronald,’ she said in a tone guaranteed to cut leather. ‘His lordship got out of bed on the wrong side these past months. But, but, that is no excuse for bad manners.’
She glowered at Brody who felt his skin heat. It was true, he had behaved like a boor, and had no excuse. He put the basket down on the floor – it was heavy –—and wiped his suddenly clammy hands over his trouser clad legs. ‘I…’ he began but Mrs Loveage cut him off with the ruthlessness of one who had changed his nappies and walked the floors with him when he was colicky or teething.
‘Seeing as his lordship has lost his civility,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ll give you thanks on his behalf. Now if you go harness up…’ she glanced at Brody.
‘Hester and Hero to my curricle,’ he supplied the answer, and named two horses who had recently arrived. ‘And my apologies, Ronald. Having not been in polite company for so long, indeed I have forgotten my manners.’ It wasn’t, Brody knew, strictly true. He still had a black dog riding on his shoulder and it was unfair to take it out on his loyal staff.
Mrs Loveage stared at him fixedly and then let her eyes flicker to Ronald and back again. Brody frowned. What was she getting at? She sighed and with one final pat of the dough she’d been working she covered it with a cloth and put it to the back of the stove. He glanced at the lad and saw an expression of yearning on his face.
‘If you wish to accompany me, Ronald, I’d be grateful.’
The expression changed to one of incredulity.
The smile Mrs Loveage bestowed on Brody made him understand he’d done the right thing.
Ronald reddened again and bobbed a half bow. ‘Yes um… yes, you sees I’d like to be a tiger or sommat one day. I loves the ‘osses – horses.’
‘Then now’s the chance to show me what you’re capable off. Do you have boots?’ Brody asked as a swift glance at the other man’s work boots told him neither would feel happy with Ronald wearing them.
Ronald’s face dropped. ‘Ah, no. ‘S all I got, m’lord.’
‘Then wait one minute whilst I nip upstairs. I have a pair, which should fit you. And a suitable jacket.’
Ronald gasped, then went white. He swayed, and gulped. ‘M’lord…’ he said weakly.
‘There now…’ Mrs Loveage said complacently, ‘…I knew His Grace would see you right and tight. You stay put, m’lord, and me and Boleyn will sort out what’s needed.’ She wiped her hands on a cloth and nipped out of the room before Brody could pass comment. To his amusement, he heard two sets of footsteps hurrying up the servants’ stairs. It seemed his staff knew his wardrobe as well as he.
Brody turned to Ronald who stood, mouth agape and with a stunned expression on his face.
‘As you see…’ Brody said with a grin, ‘… even I do as I’m told when Mrs Loveage dictates. I assume you know our route?’ He himself did, but surmised it would make Ronald feel more at ease if he let him dictate that small thing.
Ronald nodded enthusiastically. ‘My ma lives a few cottages along from Mrs Wiggins and the school’s nowt but a step nearer. Mind you, I reckon you best go to Miss Cinderford first like, or she’ll be a mort put out and you’ll get the edge of her tongue.’ “Now you’re finally going to see her,” hung in the air between them.
‘Then Cinders first it shall be,’ Brody said amicably as Mrs Loveage puffed back into the kitchen, followed by a slightly less-breathless Boleyn, who carried a hacking jacket and an old but highly polished and serviceable pair of riding boots. He held them aloft. Idly, Brody wondered where they’d been stashed, for he couldn’t remember seeing those particular items since his return. No doubt they’d been removed from his orbit in case he chose to wear them.
Brody inclined his head ‘Perfect. If you shape up, Ronald, we’ll see about proper clothes for you, but for now, I think these should do. I’ll see you in the stables in twenty minutes. Just time for Mrs Loveage to pretend she doesn’t see me sneak a cake for each of us.’ He plucked what that lady called a queen cake from the pile cooling on a rack, passed it to an astonished Ronald, took another one for himself, and began to munch on it.
Ronald grinned, then sobered when he remembered whom he was grinning at, and took the boots and coat from Boleyn. ‘M’lord I’s’ll not lets you down. And ten minutes is enough.’ He left the room at a run and was soon seen rapidly disappearing across the kitchen garden in the direction of the stables and the rooms above, where several male members of staff lived.
Brody snagged another bun and grinned. ‘Do you think he’ll work as a groom? He’s a bit tall for a tiger.’
He was pleased to see both Mrs Loveage and Boleyn consider his question carefully.
‘Well…’ Mrs Loveage said at last. ‘He’s horse mad that I do know, always has been. He’s helped around the few horses left here since your papa died and Compton… his head groom…’ she added as Brody raised his eyebrows in a silent question. There was no need to own up to his complete ignorance of what went on when he was away.
‘He left when your mama decided only to keep your horses, and those which were hers and the children’s, and get rid of the rest. She said, and I must say it made sense, that those who didn’t belong to them or you wouldn’t be used, so it was best to let them go somewhere they’d at least be exercised. I think, mind this is tittle-tattle so no telling others, Compton wasn’t best pleased.’ Mrs Loveage sniffed. ‘His job here was a bit of a walk in the park so to speak and he was loath to see that lost. Anyroads, this past year or so, young Ronnie there has taken a more active part and aided Belton, the new man, while he got settled. Stop that.’ She smacked Brody’s hand as he tried to help himself to a third bun. ‘There’ll be none left for tea if you don’t give over. Now shoo. Out of my kitchen.’ Brody turned to the back door; he knew when he was beaten. After all, he would get some at teatime. He hadn’t taken three paces before Mrs Loveage called after him.
‘The basket’
He turned back. ‘I need my head examined.’
‘No, you need your brain to have more to do.’
As ever, his housekeeper had the last word. Brody sketched her a salute and made his way outside. Whatever shortfalls there had been on the estate, and it beggared belief to assume there would be none, the kitchen garden wasn’t one of them. Vegetables and herbs were there in abundance, not long off being ready to be picked, and then dried, salted, or pickled. He snapped a pea pod from the stem and shucked out the peas inside to toss them into his mouth and savour their unique flavour and aroma. Fresh vegetables such as this, and the broad bean he replaced it with in his mouth, were something he sorely missed when abroad. It wasn’t that they weren’t cultivated, more he had been unable to avail himself of them.
Now he sniffed the herb and vegetable scents that filled the air and thanked the lord he was home once more, and determined the ducal estate would again flourish under the Duke’s direction – not just on the Duke’s behalf. It was, he repeated to himself, his private avowal.
He arrived at the stables as Ronald was checking the harness on the horses. The young lad looked to all intents and purposes the tidy and proper groom of a prosperous country estate. The jacket was slightly too big, and Brody rather thought the boots pinched the youth, but the grin on his face showed he did not care. If he was as good with the horses as intimated, then Brody knew whom his new groom would be. For now though, he said nothing, just nodded his thanks and waited until Ronald stood back.
‘All’s well, m’lord.’
‘Let’s go then, you get up with me, take the reins and we’ll get these parcels delivered.’
It was pleasant tootling along the lanes with someone well versed in local affairs next to you. Once Ronald accepted that Brody meant what he said, did genuinely want to know all that was going on around them, and was interested in every last detail of affairs pertaining to the castle and its surroundings, he spoke freely. With a competence Brody understood and respected, Ronald took the vehicle, the matched chestnuts and the passengers safely along the narrow lanes, chatting all the while. He interspersed his narrative with asides about the state of hedges belonging to neighbours, the chance of a good pheasant-shooting season, and one Miss Susan Foulkes whom, Brody understood, Ronald had his eye on. Although not out of his teens the young man had his head screwed on properly and Brody made a mental note to find out what he could with regards to the young lady.
They approached the lane that snaked from the top of the steep escarpment where the castle perched – a perfect position to check out invaders in its less than peaceful past – to the valley bottom. A scant half a mile later it reached the village, which took its name from both the castle and the river that meandered around its boundaries.
They paused at the crossroads and Ronald held out the reins in Brody’s direction. ‘You best take ‘em now, m’lord, I mean Your Grace.’
Brody thought for a second and shook his head. ‘You take ‘em down. You seem to remember their mouths are soft and you’ll know the incline is sharp. Use the brakes with caution but remember they’re there.’ He grinned. ‘So am I, if you need me, though I doubt you will.’
Ronald flushed with pleasure and took a long indrawn breath. ‘Well if you’re sure. I’ve taken the wagon to church every week for them that need to get back sharpish-like, and driven the gig down often enough but never sommat as bang up as this.’
‘There’s a first time for everything and as my groom-cum-country coachman – you’ll have to get used to driving anything I ask. On you go, I have all faith in your abilities or I’d not have offered.’
Brody sat back, arms folded and satisfied, and watched the myriad of expressions chase over the youth’s face. If all went well Ronald could in time work his way even higher but for now, Brody decided he’d overwhelmed the lad enough and sat back with an air of unconcern, even though he was primed to take over if needed to.
There was no need. Once, the nearside horse pecked at a rabbit, which had a death wish and ran between the horses’ legs, but Ronald soothed and steadied him without the animals missing a stride. Brody was pleased that Mrs Loveage’s encouragement was working out.
Nothing else happened to upset animals or humans and within a few minutes, they reached the bottom of the hill and the first few houses of the village. On one side of the lane, the sturdy Norman church with its unusual elegant spire sat in a slightly elevated position, its lychgate tucked safely away from the lane’s edge. Next to it was the school, where several children waved from the grounds as the curricle went by.
‘Ho, Ronnie there’s a prime pair.’ One young girl waved and shouted and then danced around in a circle. ‘Yes, yes, yes, cake day.’ An elegant lady, possibly in her early twenties, hushed the child even as she looked covertly at the vehicle and its occupants.
It’s her. Brody got an impression of a fine bosom under plain and serviceable dark blue cotton, and dark brown hair in a riot of curls. He wished he were close enough to see what colour her eyes were. He was as certain as could be it was the lady he’d seen all those weeks before on his return to the area. The lady he’d deliberately not asked questions about. After all, a brief glance of a shapely rear and breasts you wanted to bury your head between didn’t give enough information to use to discover an identity. At first he’d thought he’d find out soon enough, and then he’d had too many other things on his mind to give thought to the question. His skin tingled as he thought he might now be one step nearer to discovering who she was, what she was, and if there was any point in approaching her.
Ronald waved back, as the prancing child whistled loudly, to be, it seemed, reprimanded by the lady with the fine bosom. Brody decided he’d need to learn the unknown lady’s name sooner rather than later. He couldn’t continue to think of her in such a way. What if, when he eventually met her, he let that sobriquet slip? It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Time for them to run off some of their energy,’ Ronald said. ‘That noisy one, in the red apron, is my youngest sister. She’s intent on learning and become a teacher herself. Miss Mary, that’s her there, encourages her and our ma is happy for it. Cissy is bright, not like the rest of us.’
‘Miss Mary?’ He committed the title to memory. Not the schoolmarm then? Now at least he had a name for her. ‘Miss Mary who?’
Ronald shrugged. ‘You know, Your Grace. I cannot mind. All I know is she helps out, comes over from the Grange once a week.’
Probably an under-housekeeper, Brody surmised. She had too much elegance to be a lower servant, and not enough to be gentry. The gown was a mark of that.
Damn.
He cast his mind over his surroundings. As far as he knew the Grange, a tidy house a mile or so from the village, had been unoccupied for years with just a skeleton staff to keep it from falling into disrepair. He’d have to do his best to forget about the woman. Even though she didn’t work for him, he couldn’t be seen to consort locally. More was the pity, that bosom begged for attention. So did the rest of her.
‘I wouldn’t say you were unintelligent,’ Brody answered Ronald’s last statement regarding himself, as the school and church were left behind them and the lane widened to become the village street, thence to split into two and circle a pretty green with a duck pond and a set of old stocks nearby. ‘You know these animals and their quirks inside out. You have a practical bent, not one inclined to book learning perhaps.’
Ronald chuckled. ‘I’m wise in some ways m’lord but not in all. I don’t have the same sort of nosy mind as our Cissy. I like horses and country life. To know at the end of a day that a good job’s over and I’ve left nowt undone. I love working with the horses and if you’re happy for me to serve you here, well, I’m a happy man. Then mebbes in a year or so I can convince Susan’s pa that I’m the right husband for her and my life is sorted out.’ His accent was a mixture of how he’d spoken as a youngster, and presumably how he’d been told to speak in the employ of a duke. Rather than pull him up for his slips, Brody let it be. It was rather endearing, and the longer Ronald mixed with the upper servants the more polished his voice would become.
Brody wished his own life could be so simple. He laughed. ‘You’ve got your head in the right place. Carry on as you are, and in a year or so I’ll put in a good word with your sweetheart’s father, and there’ll be a cottage for you. It’s on my list to build some more. I’ll make sure you get one. Woah! Hold em!’ His words had made Ronald drop his hands and, unchecked, the horses surged forward.
Ronald recovered in a second. ‘Oh my, oh grief, oh…’
‘Oh, well, no harm done,’ Brody said firmly. ‘Ah here we are. Tie them up, and you go to see your mother if you wish. I assume she’ll be at home?’
‘Yes, m’lord she does out sewing for the castle, whilst the youngsters are at school. Are you sure?’
‘I never say anything I don’t mean.’ Not unless needed to by the crown. ‘I’ll pay my visits here and walk up to the school and meet you there after my visit. To be there for two?’
He waited until Ronald made uncertain noises and finally acquiesced. Then Brody jumped down, grabbed the basket, and made his way to the first house, shamefully eager to get these visits over and reach the school.
It was no good, the dark haired woman had caught his attention and he had to meet her, decide she wasn’t for him, and move on.
If he couldn’t do that he was deep in the mire.
