Chapter Five
Late on thesecond day, the hired post chaise turned in at the open gates of Windrush Hall, the wheels crunching over the gravel drive. Harry, eager to see what manner of house it was he’d inherited, leaned forward in his seat to peer out of the window. And there it was, the house that was to be his. That in truth was his already.
He’d not imagined it looking so old, so integral a part of the landscape, so well established. So welcoming.
Built of creamy stone, it sprawled across the substantial, tree-encircled gardens with two clear wings to either side of what must be the oldest part of the house in the centre. Here, a pillared entrance porch jutted out onto the drive, sheltering a large arched doorway carved with decorative mouldings now worn with age. Ivy covered the ancient walls, climbing to battlemented rooftops, and many tall chimneys towered towards a sky that was now fading as evening approached.
Not quite what he’d been expecting. Although he wasn’t precisely sure what he’d thought the house might be like, having had so little experience of large country houses. How many rooms might a place this size have? If you were in one wing, surely no one in the rest of the house would hear you call. He gave a grim smile. An advantage for a man who suffered from nightmares.
The carriage ground to a halt in front of the porch and the heavy,bleached-oak front door swung wide on massive hinges. A gray-haired man dressed in a smart black suit emerged, his face puckered in what had to be anxiety. Was the man afraid of him? Or perhaps worried about what his new master would be like was closer to the truth.
But the anxiety vanished to be replaced with a calm, almost indifferent, expression, as though the butler, for that was whom he took this fellow to be, did not, in fact, care at all who his master was.
Harry sat back in his seat for a moment, rather wishing his head, no, his whole body, wasn’t aching so badly. Two days of travel had not been pleasant for him, cooped up in the rattly post chaise and only able to get out and stretch his legs at long intervals. And the shaking had done his back no good. He thought longingly of the laudanum his army doctor had given him that had taken him so long, with Hester’s anxious help, to wean himself off. He could do with a dose right now, so he could walk into his new home without giving away his infirmities.
He couldn’t sit here all day, though, wishing for something that wasn’t coming, and even if it had been, he’d have had to turn down for fear of that past dependency returning. He was himself unreasonably nervous at what he was about to take on. But the whole household at this strange place must be dreading his arrival, afraid they might be dismissed if he wanted new servants loyal to him alone. All the staff would have been the trusted retainers of his dead cousin Geoffrey, of the wife and family that Mr. Pratt had only mentioned in passing as though they were no longer of any importance to him. To everyone here, servants and family included, he was the unknown quantity, even possibly a usurper in their eyes, if not in his own. He had the distinct feeling that he didn’t belong here in this lovely place.
The carriage door opened and a smartly liveried footman let down the step for him then stepped back.
Harry took a deep breath. This was it. The thing neither he nor Hester had ever expected to happen to him. He was at the house hisown grandfather, a man whom he’d never met, must have called home as a boy. Had run away from for some reason. And it was now officially his home.
Using the side of the carriage door to steady himself, as the last thing he wanted to do on arrival was stumble and prostrate himself on the drive, he stepped out of the carriage. The two postillions astride the left-hand horses steadied the beasts as the servant who’d been riding on the dickie seat threw down Harry’s luggage with a distinct lack of care. It landed with a thud on the gravel. A good thing he had nothing breakable packed in his trunk.
They’d already been paid, so would be anxious to be off. He lifted a hand to the postillions as the servant resumed his place on the back. “You may go.” Without a second glance, the postillions urged their horses on. No doubt they’d put up at the nearest inn for the night before returning to where he’d hired them in Cambridge. He’d be more than happy never to see the inside of their uncomfortable vehicle ever again.
The butler, ignoring the departing post chaise, bowed low. “Sir Henry, welcome to Windrush Hall. Crawford, your butler, at your service.”
Harry nodded to the man and forced a smile he didn’t feel like. “Thank you, Crawford. It’s been a long journey to get here and I’m tired, but glad to have finally arrived.”
Crawford extended an arm as if in direction. “If you would care to come into the house, I have the other servants lined up in the hallway to present to you.”
Other servants? Harry had grown up in a house similar in size to the one Hester now lived in, a house that had boasted only a cook and a housemaid. Then from seventeen, he’d had only humble lodgings while he studied medicine in Edinburgh. After he’d qualified, while working in London’s St Bartholomew’s Hospital ministering to the poor and needy, his low pay had kept him in lodgings only slightly lesshumble than those of his student days. From there he’d heard the call to arms and on joining the army as an assistant surgeon, he’d found servants to be at a minimum. So the idea of them being numerous was daunting.
He followed the stout Crawford as he sailed, stately as a galleon, in through the ancient oak front door. Out of the evening sunshine, the interior of the old house seemed gloomy and dark, and for a moment or two Harry had trouble seeing anything. Then his gaze fell upon a veritable long line of people waiting to greet him at the foot of a wide, dark-oak staircase, and he almost retreated in shock.
“Mrs. Lockhart, your housekeeper,” Crawford, who didn’t seem to have noticed his new master’s hesitation, said, as an elderly, stern-faced lady with iron grey hair bobbed him a curtsy. “Thomas, your footman.” The liveried young man who’d opened the carriage door, his wig very slightly askew and betraying his rush to get indoors before his new master did. “Mrs. Barnes, your cook.” A round dumpling of a woman bobbed him a curtsy, her dark eyes set in her plump face giving her the appearance of the currant buns he remembered his mother’s cook making. A good memory, to contrast sharply with all the bad ones that crowded his head.
He nodded a greeting to each servant in turn, more than bemused at their seemingly endless number. His predecessor must have owned bottomless pockets to have afforded to pay so many staff. Presumably he’d inherited that wealth as well. Mr. Pratt had intimated this was so, but he still had no idea of the extent of his newfound wealth.
“Miss Garvey, lady’s maid,” Crawford said, a distinct question in his voice. “Unless, of course, your wife will be arriving with her own lady’s maid?”
Harry did his best not to gape. They thought he was married? Best to be upfront and honest about this. “There is no Mrs. Madeley…I mean Lady Madeley.” What he was supposed to do with a lady’s maid in that case he had no idea. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Miss Garvey’s stern face betrayed neither disappointment nor relief.
Crawford appeared to have taken this confession in his stride. “In that case, you will not object to Miss Garvey’s departure? Lady Hemming has offered her a position attending her oldest daughter who is to come out this coming year. Miss Garvey insisted on waiting before she accepted in case you required her services.”
Harry, conscious of his own ineptitude where the servants were concerned, nodded. “No. Of course not. Allow me to wish you well in your new post, Miss Garvey.”
She bobbed him another curtsy but her stern expression didn’t change. “Thank you, Sir Henry.”
“The housemaids—Agnes, Ellen, and Peggy.” Three young women in smartly starched white aprons bobbed uneven curtsies, and his gaze moved on.
“Joe Miller, the coachman, and Archie his son, the groom. And this is Arthur, the boot boy.” A scrawny little fellow with the face of an imp made a bow that somehow managed to appear cheeky. He looked very much as though standing with his hair slicked to his head and his face scrubbed pink by some female hand was not to his liking.
“There are also the gardeners—Stan Roper and young Arthur’s older brother, Dick, but, being outside servants, they don’t come inside the house.” Having said his piece, Crawford fell silent.
Was he supposed to say something? Probably. Harry nodded and cleared his throat. “Thank you all for such a gratifying welcome. I fear remembering all your names will be hard for me to start with, but if you can bear with me, I shall make it my priority to do so.” He remembered Hester’s advice not to let anyone know anything of his less than affluent origins nor his unfamiliarity with life as a baronet.
“Do not treat your servants as your friends,” had been her final bit of advice as he’d mounted into the first post chaise that was to take him to Cambridge. “Or they will never respect you.”
