He raised himself to his full five feet six inches.“And I’m not a pup.I’m nineteen years of age, and I am Rollo Sebastian Lucien Duchamps-Avery, second son of Henry Orlando Fitzwilliam Albert Duchamps-Avery, the respected, eminent Eleventh Earl of Rossingley.”He finished with a brusque nod, though his knees quaked.“And I assure you, my lord, I no more wish to impose upon your hospitality than you wish to have me here.So, on that note, I’ll bid you a good night.”
Chapter Three
My dearest Willoughby,
It is a harsh, proud landscape, Norfolk.Largely uncultivated, nothing but marshland and flat, flat peat bog, stretching right to the edges of the earth.This wild roughness does not ask to be loved, which is a jolly good thing as I detest it.In fact, every brown ditch and each muddy puddle serve to remind me of my host, Lord Lyndon, whom I have only cast eyes upon once.He has an interesting face, memorable rather than handsome, though his well-favoured features are of no consequence because he is ill-mannered, uncouth, and untamed.Frankly, both the ton and the even-tempered Duke of Ashington are better served without him.Notwithstanding, I shall endeavour to be unflappable, represent all that is good about the Duchamps-Averys, and make Papa proud.In a word, I am determined to draw out the best in him; I fear I shall go mad otherwise.
PS I swear to God, the bell pull in the breakfast room is shaped like a hangman’s noose.I am yet to use it.
PPS Your latest ode to Lavinia was your most divine attempt yet.Rhyming grind with behind in a poem to a lady?Scandalous!Needless to say, I adored it.It has been the only bright spot in a desperately dreary landscape.
Dear Papa.I am in good spirits and have settled in nicely.I am acquainting myself with the routines of the household.Lord Lyndon is proving to be an interesting host.He possesses an unrivalled sense of humour.
FIVE DAYS PASSED, during which his lordship was nowhere to be seen.Five interminable days of Rollo eating alone, mostly in his bedchamber, interspersed with picking up and putting down books far too weighty and dull to command his attention.Sporadically, he wandered past the drawing room; once or twice, he even cupped his ear to the firmly closed door.He detected occasionalthwumps, and despite his bold intentions, decided he was best off out of there, in case one of those inaccurate arrows should fly in his direction.
When restlessness and ennui got the better of him, he paced a route through the well-tended gardens, too fearful to venture much beyond.What with one gloomy marsh very much resembling another and spending too many hours with only his cheerless thoughts for company, Rollo entertained visions of finding himself utterly lost out there.Of dying young and lonely of exposure, thirst, and starvation.Or, even worse, being eaten by some ferocious, bog-dwelling monster.
The indoor servants provided his only means of company.Thankfully, there wasn’t a tempting, comely male amongst them, except for the fresh-faced stable boy.Rollo made certain to give him a wide berth.A fear surpassing even his dread of losing his way in the marshes was his father sending him to a place even more hellish than Norfolk.Such as Scotland, for instance.
Never very far away, the butler, Berridge, and Greaves, the footman, were almost overattentive to his needs.So much so that by the third day, Rollo had the distinct impression his movements were being closely monitored.Given his past demeanours, both at school and as a trouble-seeking lad frolicking around Rossingley, that wasn’t an entirely new experience.But out here, it all felt very different.As if they were watching and waiting for him to do something.Though, for the life of him, what?There wasnothingto do.Rollo was far too old to fall from a tree or set a fire under his bed.More to the point, if exile was to be a new line of punishment his father planned on meting out more often, then Rollo was determined to keep his halo well and truly polished at least until he reached his majority.
“Where…um…does his lordship disappear to every day?”
Rollo directed this question to Cook.So fed up with his own company, on day four, he decided he was still boyish enough to get away with hanging around the kitchen.A sound decision, as Cook rustled him up some hot scones and the comfiest seat by the stove.In fact, the exceptional standard of the food at Goule Hall was the sole positive to report back to Willoughby.Cook’s sponge pudding even rivalled the one they used to serve at Eton.On consideration, the whole Goule Hall experience was reminiscent of the one endless term he spent at school without his twin, left behind and recovering from scarlet fever at home.Every letter Rollo penned had focused on food, his lumpy bed, and interminable days hunched in the library.
“His lordship is everywhere,” Cook replied in an enigmatic, singularly unhelpful fashion.The fat spider casting a web across the corner of Rollo’s bedchamber window (the second most interesting thing at Goule, after his absent host) was more forthcoming.Honestly, when Rollo resolved to take his father’s punishment like a man, he’d no idea it would be so…stagnating.
“And…um…everywhere would be…”
“Here and there.Doing good by folks, mostly.”
Rollo almost choked on his buttered scone.“Good?Really?”
Cook smiled a gap-toothed smile at him.“I’ll be bound.It occupies him most of his days.”
A slip of a kitchen maid, stirring a big pot of something that smelled heavenly, looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes.When Cook turned elsewhere, Rollo threw the girl a wink.She’d get nowhere batting her lashes at him, but allies were always useful.
“I’m surprised you’re not spending more of your days together,” Cook added.
“Are you?”Had she met Lord Lyndon?The man wielded poor temper like a broadsword.
“Oh, yes.The sooner you get started, the sooner we can all go back to how we were before and sleep easier in our beds.”
Get started with what?Planning my trip back home?
Rollo contemplated her words, mesmerised by the fleshy woggle of her upper arm as she beat a bowl of eggs into submission.Their own cook at Rossingley was an alarmingly angled woman, while Goule’s cook was all soft curves and rosy cheeks, exactly as a cook should be.The homesick part of him wanted to curl up in her lap and let her rock him to sleep.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what is it about his lordship that’s keeping you awake?”And what am I expected to do about it?
“Because he’s not himself, is he, sir?Hasn’t been for nigh on several years.Any fool can sense that.”
“Oh.Oh, yes.I see.”About as clearly as a blind beggar, he nearly added.“If you don’t mind my asking, how is he…um…normally?”
“Well,” she began, in the way of someone who had been dying to be asked.“He was a scamp the likes of which I’d never seen when he was so high.”She indicated a tallness not far from Rollo’s actual height, then smiled dreamily.Evidently, Rollo had alighted upon her favourite topic.“The family spent every summer here when the boys were nippers.Young Lord Lyndon was always getting under my skirts, pinching all manner of sweet treats from the larder when my back was turned.He liked his liquorice, so he did.He’d stare up at me with those big brown eyes.Like a bleedin’ spaniel he was.Never refused him anything.”
“And now?”Rollo prompted.
“Oh, I still can’t say no to him.”The woman nursed atendre, that much was clear.Or for the old Lord Lyndon, at least.
