My lady?
Mr. Huberville raised his hands as if she were on the verge of saying something, which she was not. “Now, I know you are the ruler of this roost! Rest assured, good lady, I do not intend on getting in your way!”
What in the world was she to do with this specimen? She’d never encountered the like of it.
Mr. Huberville mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “What next? Think, Huberville! What is to be done next? Don’t fall apart on the first day!”
“Mr. Huberville,” Mrs. Right said, wondering if the fellow was on the verge of expiring, “nothing must be done this minute. Charlie and Thomas will see to the trunks—”
“Charlie and Thomas,” Mr. Huberville said. “Just saw them, seemed like good sorts, those two.”
“Yes, very good sorts. Do sit for a moment. Cook, might we get a tea tray?”
“The water is on the boil, Mrs. Right,” Cook said.
Mr. Huberville collapsed on a chair. He pointed at Cook. “He knows what’s what, on the ball, as it were.”
Mrs. Right took her place at the head of the table, which she noticed Mr. Huberville had not challenged her on. “Mr. Huberville, in the general way of becoming acquainted, might you relay to me how you ended up losing your place, twice? Lady Marchfield did note it in her letter to the duke.”
This seemed to undo Mr. Huberville entirely. He covered his face with his hands. “You’re bound to find out the truth anyway.”
“Which is?”
“I’m not very good at it,” he whispered. “I try to be, but it’s just one thing after another. And then, people are so particular! One dinner party missing some forks and wine glasses and suddenly it’s ‘pack your bags, Huberville!’ One dropped saucière of gravy on somebody’s lap and it’s ‘pack your bags, Huberville!’”
Extraordinary. Mrs. Right wondered if Lady Marchfield had done this on purpose. Had she sought out the worst butler in London as a jest?
Cook brought over the tea tray, glancing at Mrs. Right with raisedbrows as if to say,You see what I was talking about.
Thomas and Charlie came down the stairs. They would have got the trunks in the house and would have their tea before hauling it all above stairs. With only one of the duke’s daughters left, it was a far less onerous job than it had been in years past.
Both footmen looked enquiringly at Mrs. Right. She nodded and said, “Sit down, boys. We have an interesting situation here.”
Their eyes drifted to the interesting situation, just now staring morosely into his tea.
“It’s me, she’s talking about me,” Mr. Huberville said. “I’m terrible at my job, that’s what. Oh I know, you two fellas must be burning with hatred. Probably want to punch me right in the face. Why should Huberville be the butler instead of one of us when he’s not even good at it? I don’t blame you for despising me, how could it be otherwise? I’m sorry! Don’t punch me if you can manage it, I believe I suffer from very weak face bones.”
Charlie and Thomas looked wide-eyed at Mrs. Right. She sighed. “I can at least clear one thing up, Mr. Huberville. Neither Charlie nor Thomas want to be a butler. They’ve long cooked up a plan between them to open a tavern. They’ve since made a deal with the duke to take over an old baker’s premises in our village and pay the duke the handsome sum of one pound a year and free ale for life. It’s all to proceed at the end of this season.”
“That gives us enough money in our pockets to turn the place into something nice and buy all the supplies. It’s a better deal than it looks—the duke hardly ever drinks ale,” Charlie said.
Thomas nodded. “He’s to stock his own private reserve of claret out of his own pocket and that’s what he’ll want to drink when he comes.”
“He says it’s important that he show his face there so his tenants know they can talk to him if they want.”
“Personally,” Thomas said, “I think they’ll all need a few drinks inthem before they approach the duke—good for business, I reckon.”
Mr. Huberville took up his tea in a shaking hand. “A tavern. That’s a relief, I can tell you. I’ve had nightmares about it. What will those poor boys think! How hard will they punch? And me, with weak face bones!”
“P’raps take in some deep breaths,” Charlie advised.
“I’ll get a brush from Reynolds to get the mud off your clothes and you’ll be right as rain,” Thomas said encouragingly.
Mr. Huberville took that moment to cry, “Such kindness!” and then weep into his tea.
What in the world was she to do with this person? How was one to go about doing battle with a bowl of sobbing jelly?
