He was short, so height would not help. He tended toward a paunch, so an imposing physique was out. He’d lost most of his hair and that had never been very good to begin. Looks would not serve him.
It must be his mind and manner that would inspire awe.
His manner was well-polished and needed no further refining and so he set to work on his mind. He must become knowledgeable; he must be an expert on…something.
It had taken some little time to home in on what he ought to be an expert in. He had briefly toyed with flora, but then who really cared about plants, and they had a gardener for such things. He’d considered Greek history, but could that be worked into everyday conversation on a daily basis? He’d thought about herbal tonics and cures, but that was traditionally woman’s work.
What did every Englishman really care about?
As he searched and wondered, a personage named Lord Ingraham had visited the baronet’s estate one summer and had spoken at length on predicting the weather.
Thatwas what every Englishman cared about. What had the weather done, what was it doing now, and what would it do next? It was an endlessly fascinating topic and one that everybody wished to converse about.
It had been true that Lord Ingraham had not been often correct in his predictions during his stay, but the gentleman explained he was using the formulas for Cornwall and clearly the formulas for Bedfordshire differed.
That had made perfect sense and Carlson was highly intrigued. To predict the weather! That would really be something. Was there another butler in England who could predict the weather? He thought not. What value it would bring. What esteem and renown it would garner.
During Lord Ingraham’s stay, Carlson did everything he could to ingratiate himself with the fellow. He sent books to his room that he thought would be of interest. He made sure his coffee was just how he liked it. He poured extra-generous glasses of port. Most especially, when he could find an opportune moment, he asked the lord questions about predicting weather.
He had been cautious about approaching the gentleman, as there were some who would take it as a liberty—a step too far. Not so Lord Ingraham. He’d been congenial in answering those questions at length. Carlson was fascinated to discover that weather prediction had been an interest of Lord Ingraham’s family for generations and that he had notes on the weather in Cornwall going back to the dark ages. Some of them were even recorded on animal skins!
The end of it was, they’d agreed to correspond on the subject. And so, his training in weather prediction had begun.
Those were thrilling days. Each time he opened a letter, he discovered some new information he’d not ever imagined possible. A flight of crows could disturb the atmosphere and bring in a dense fog. A pod of whales migrating literally shook the sea floor, which in turn sent up waves, disrupting the clouds and setting off a lashing rain. An overrun of foxes in a neighborhood rustled the earth to such a degree as to cause undue heat in summer. Lord Ingraham was unlocking the very secrets of nature!
When the baronet died, Carlson made his exit from that house. The man’s son was an idiot who would no doubt run the estate into the ground. It was time to jump off what was sure to be a sinking ship and take a step up in the world as a butler who could predict weather.
He’d only answered advertisements for positions that hinted at being in service to the highest elevated families. He had been intrigued to read of anoble householdand had applied forthwith. It had not been the palace or even a prince, but ithadbeen the duchess. That was suitably elevated in his opinion. When that lady had been informed that he was studying weather prediction, she’d hired him on the spot.
The duchess was so enthusiastic about the idea that she’d gone so far as to write to Lord Ingraham, requesting that her butler be allowed to come to him for three months in the summer and study the art.
What a summerthathad been.
As it turned out, there were no records going back hundreds of years. There was one single notebook spanning five years and filled with rather pedestrian observations—rained todayordidn’t rain todayor the oft repeatedrained again.
There was no consistent theory of anything. One minute, crows would bring in a dense fog, the next they would bring in tornadic gusts. The pods of whales, who were originally supposed to bring in a lashing rain, might sometimes be charged with causing gusts of wind from the slapping of their tails.
Further, there was no formula for Cornwall weather—his predictions were just as wrong there as they’d been in Bedfordshire.
Lord Ingraham talked about the weather all day long, often pacing back and forth in front of him and delivering a lecture, but it was all so muddled and contrary.
It had not been many days before Carlson had realized that Lord Ingraham did not know any more about the weather than the next person looking out a window.
He could not tell the duchess that, though. She’d already bragged to her friends about his expertise and his continuing studies. So, he stayed on for those three months, his eyes rolling to the back of his head most days. With great relief, he returned to her service pretending he’d unlocked many secrets.
He’d been pretending and trying to develop his own theories ever since.
The preceding day, he’d watched the storm clouds roll in after the duchess had departed to collect Lady Isabel. He’d watched them gather and the rain pour down after he’d assured her of a piffering cloud cover. She would return today with her charge, and thankfully it was not storming this particular day.
He only hoped that she remembered that a pod of whales might be doing something in the North Sea to throw all predictions off.
He was not a God! He could not be blamed for what the whales were doing!
Chapter Four
Isabel could nothave got out of her father’s house fast enough. The poor duchess had experienced a very bizarre welcome to it, though Isabel had done her best to hint that it had not been her idea to leave things up to Rogers.
The duchess did not seem much the worse for wear, though. She had been happily chattering along ever since the carriage had trotted down the drive.
