ON THE MORNINGof the sixth day, Rollo delved into his meagre stores of bravery to wander as far as the Fitzsimmons family’s private chapel.According to Cook, no one had set foot in the place for years, even though it boasted a rare collection of ancient hymnals.As he caught himself almost looking forward to this venture, Rollo reflected on how far he’d sunk.
English summertime was having one of those dilemma days, the weather gods undecided whether to bathe the land in blazing sunshine or blanket it in cloud.Twice, Rollo had removed his topcoat only to reshoulder it, tearing a shirt sleeve on an errant bramble in the process.
The tangle of paths seemed as unconvinced as to where they were heading as the weather.When trees obscured the ugly gables of Goule Hall, Rollo prayed he’d memorised sufficient landmarks to find a route back.Nothing too terrible could befall him, could it, whilst on the way to a place of worship?
Once more, Goule didn’t fail in its ability to disappoint.The chapel was small and lonely and, if the sinewy ropes of ivy clawing their way around the heavy oak door had any say in the matter, going quietly back to nature.Towering blue-marbled elms shaded it from the sunlight, stretching their arms in benediction over a small gathering of the Goule dead, marked by a row of humble crosses.No mighty Fitzsimmons were buried here in this boneyard reserved for countryfolk—the thatchers, gardeners, cooks, and maids—only simple remembrances of simple lives hard won and ultimately forgotten, now sunken into the ground and buried under a web of weeds.
As Rollo picked his way to the door, two larger grave markers caught his eye.A little off to the side, they stood out as newer and cleaner than the rest and adorned with real headstones to boot.Larger mounds of earth rose up, the surrounding grass plucked of foliage.Squatting, he rested his hand against the cool limestone to inspect the weathered inscriptions.Henry George Elliot.1774-1812.Mary Elliot.1776-1811.Together with God, for eternity.
Rollo’s skin prickled with momentary sadness.Both relatively young and, judging from the neat banks of earth, still loved and remembered, more than ten years hence.In a sombre mood, he made his way inside the cool, modest chapel, still wondering what the loving couple had succumbed to.Terminal boredom, perhaps, stuck living out here, with only ancienthymnalsfor interest.Five of them lay pinned in glass cases but falling apart anyhow.Oh, the thrill of it.
*
A GIRL WASbusy in his bedchamber when Rollo returned, shaking out the sheets and turning back his bed.He recognised her as the same one from the kitchen.Lucy, he recalled.More importantly, she was someone with whom to converse.
“Begging your pardon, sir.”She bobbed a neat curtsy.“I can come back and finish, sir.”
“Don’t rush on my account,” said Rollo, taking up a stance by the window.“Carry on.I don’t mind.”
The clouds from earlier had scudded to wherever clouds went, leaving behind nothing but a washed clean expanse of blue sky.A warm breeze floated through the window as nature set herself up for one of those long summer evenings created for dancing, picnicking, and romantic assignations.
Alas, not for Rollo.Nor for the poor couple buried under the sod.
“I was hoping to catch someone,” he said.“There’s a rent in my shirt sleeve.From the brambles down by the chapel.”
As was proper, he’d replaced his topcoat upon entering the house.He gestured towards the area of his upper arm.“Here.”
“I can mend that for you, sir.”Another bob of the head as Lucy smoothed the bedsheet flat.
“A proper Jill of all trades.”Rollo smiled at her.“I’d be much obliged.Thank you.But I don’t want to keep you from your kitchen duties.I’d hate for you to get into trouble with Cook.”
She tucked in a linen corner with practised efficiency.“Kitchen work, cleaning, mending.I do it all, sir.There’s not that many of us manage the place.No need, seeing as there’s only his lordship most of the time.He’s not one for entertaining.”
“So I’ve gathered.More’s the pity.”He hesitated, then added, “He’s a rum fellow.”
Unfortunately, Lucy did not rise to the bait.
“His lordship only keeps one riding horse and a matched pair for the carriage,” she prattled on.“So the stable lad, Jack, he does the gardens too.”At this, Rollo detected a faint flush to her cheeks.“He’s Mr Greaves’s son,” she added.
“The gardens are a credit to him.”Rollo treated her to his most winning smile and was rewarded with another blush.“And to his lordship.”
“That they are, sir.His lordship often lets Jack’s cousin help, even though he’s not right in the head.Pays him too.”She busied herself plumping a pillow.“He’s kind like that.Mr Berridge, in charge, he’s been here since he was a nipper.His da was head butler before him, when the old duke was alive, and the Fitzsimmons used to use this as a summer place.Most nobs would have got rid by now, seeing as he’s too old to do things proper.But our lord would never.Cook and Mr Greaves have been here seems like forever too.”
“Is that the extent of the staff?”Even for a rarely used home, it seemed a bit thin.
“A couple of girls come from the village to help clean and launder once a week,” she explained.“And an under footman, too, to help out Mr Berridge.But as I said, nobody visits here except for his lordship.”A small frown creased her pretty features.“He’s never stayed this long before though.Used to come with friends for parties and the like.Shooting parties—a great big rowdy crowd of them.He’s stopped with all that, looks like.”
“Is he a fair master?”Rollo returned his gaze to the window, attempting not to seem too invested.Not only was the elusive, solitary Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons by far the most fascinating thing about the place, but by Goule standards, this was fast becoming a conversation of epic proportions.At this rate, he’d have some content worth reading in his twice-weekly letters to Willoughby.
“I should say so,” said Lucy.“Though I don’t know any other; I’ve been here since I turned fourteen.But Berridge and Cook are as loyal to him as stars to the night.Won’t hear a word said against him.Worry about him every hour, too, the pair of them; Berridge says he won’t retire until he’s seen him settled.”
“Do you?”Rollo asked, curiosity getting the better of him.“Worry about him?Are you as faithful too?”
Perhaps Lucy had no idea there were nobles out there who didn’t squander their evenings shooting at pewter soldiers and drinking the county dry.Dozens of them, decent chaps who rode and clubbed and boxed and courted ladies.Even a few like his own father, a noble accomplishing all of those things whilst discreetly living alongside another male.
She contemplated him.“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’d take a pistol shot for him, like Berridge would.But he’s a good man, as far as nobs go.So I daresay I wouldn’t mind him being a bit happier, like.”Hesitating a fraction, she added, “They all hoped you’d come and talk some sense into him.Except…”
“Except I’m a disappointment,” Rollo finished for her, smiling again.“Too young.Not worldly enough.They were hoping for someone to take him in hand.It’s all right.I’m not offended.In fact, I’m in full agreement.I don’t think I’m the man for the job either.”
