Page 2 of To Hunt the Hunter

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24th April 1815, Dern, Sevenoaks, Kent.

Bertha Appleton had worked at Dern since she was just a girl. She’d begun as a scullery maid until she’d gained a place in the kitchen, where her talent had been spotted by the cook, a Mrs Drugget. When that fine lady was finally persuaded to enjoy her retirement some fifteen years later, she was quick to recommend Bertha to take her place, a service which Bertha never forgot, and so she always took pains to visit Mrs Drugget in the little cottage on the estate set aside for the purpose. It was one thing you could say for the Barringtons: they always paid their staff well and looked after their needs. Mind you, they had to oftentimes, as loyalty wasn’t cheap, and a family with more secrets would be hard to find, and that was a fact.

Bertha, or Pippin as she had become known to the last lot of Barrington children, had seen three marquesses come and go, but there was no question that the present Montagu was her favourite. As a child he’d been bright, lively, and funny, and the cleverest little lad she’d ever come across. Little Lucian. Ah, what a handful he’d been! Of course, that was before the dark days, and nothing had ever been the same since. He certainly had never been the same. It had fair broken her heart to see the change in him, but what was done was done and there was no point crying over spilt milk, no matter how much it grieved you.

It was certainly not her place to do so, but she mothered the fellow and his little niece as best she could, though no doubt she overstepped the mark a time or two. She might get one of the master’s cool looks on occasion, but he knew as well as she did that it cut no ice with her, and was all for show. She was as popular with them as they were with her, and that was just fine. So, it was with little surprise that she looked up to see Miss Phoebe had snuck into the kitchens and was beside her in a moment, tugging on her apron.

“And what can I do you for you, my little mistress?”

“Nothing,” the girl said with a heavy sigh. “I was just feeling sad and I wanted to be with someone cheerful.”

“Now, and don’t you tell me your uncle isn’t full of smiles for you?” Pippin asked, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and pouring the girl a glass of milk.

“Oh, no. He is, of course, but they’re not real smiles at the moment. They’re the sort he puts on his face when he’s trying to make sure I’m happy, so I don’t worry for him.”

Pippin sighed inwardly. The trouble was the girl and her uncle were two peas in a pod. She was a sight too perspicacious for her age, or her own good.

“Do you know why we came back, Pippin?”

“As if his lordship confides his business in me!” Pippin exclaimed with a laugh, though she knew all too well, and the truth of it made her sick to her stomach. Poor Lucian. No wonder he’d looked so grey and ill when they’d returned. She didn’t blame Phoebe for her concern. She felt it herself, as she had felt the atmosphere the moment he’d stepped through the door, the weight of the past so tangible you could cut it with a knife. The palace was full of secrets and Lucian carried too many of them alone. She had hoped, for a brief time… but no, there was no point in hoping for things that would never come to pass.

Duty.

God, she hated that word, hated the way those little boys had been lectured and bullied into believing their only purpose was to serve the family name, to bring honour and glory and power to the great house of Barrington. It was their solemn duty to achieve more than their forebears, whether through politics or marriage. It didn’t much matter which, only that the Barringtons were the greatest family in the country. There was never any talk of happiness or love. Those were concepts the children of a Montagu could not afford, poor little blighters.

“Well, he won’t tell me either,” Phoebe said with a sigh as Pippin slid a plate of biscuits in front of her.

With a sharp gesture Pippin sent the two kitchen maids away, telling them to find work elsewhere for the moment. All the staff were loyal to Montagu, but there was no sense in giving them things to tattle about if it could be helped.

“I was so looking forward to going to Gunter’s and Astley’s, and all the places he promised we would go, and I can’t even complain, as he looks so wretchedly guilty it makes my tummy feel all squirmy and uncomfortable.”

Pippin felt her heart squeezed in her chest. Not for the first time, she cursed herself for her blindness all those years ago, for not having realised sooner what was going on beneath this roof, and under their very noses. She was not a woman who condoned violence—in her opinion there wasn’t much that couldn’t be resolved with a bit of honesty and a good talk over a cup of tea—but remembering those days brought it all back, and she wanted badly to hurt those responsible. Not her place, though, she’d done as much as possible to protect Lucian. They all had, her and Mr Denton and Mrs Frant, but servants were limited in what they could achieve, and they’d risked all that they’d dared. So now she did what she could once again, as little as it seemed to be.

She pulled out the chair beside Phoebe, and sat down.

“Grownups sometimes have to do things they don’t want to do, my lamb, and it might not seem to make the least bit of sense to you, but your uncle is taking care of you as best he can. You trust him, don’t you?”

“Oh, of course I do,” Phoebe said, wide-eyed at the idea Pippin might think otherwise. “The problem is, I sometimes think he doesn’t trust himself. He’s always looking at that horrid book, and afterwards he looks so… so pale and determined, like he’s persuaded himself to eat a slug.”

Despite everything, Pippin felt her lips twitch. Phoebe had quite an imagination, and quite a turn of phrase. Still, she knew what the girl meant and heartily wished she’d burnt the bloody book when she’d had the chance. She hadn’t dared at the time, knowing it contained a great deal of knowledge the young marquess would badly need. If she’d known then what else it contained, she’d not have hesitated. Poor Lucian had not required his father’s voice bullying him, even from beyond the grave, but it was too late now. The damage was done.

“Do you think he’d marry Miss Hunt if not for that book?”

Pippin stared at Phoebe, a little surprised, though why she had no idea. Two peas in a pod, indeed. You couldn’t get anything past either of them.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she asked softly. “He won’t ever make himself happy if it meant damaging the family name. You know that.”

Phoebe face darkened, a familiar thunderstorm entering her eyes, her jaw growing tight, and in that moment she looked so much like the energetic, vibrant little boy Pippin had known that she wanted to cry. Phoebe stood so quickly the chair she’d been sitting on toppled backwards.

“I hate it!” she cried, her slender hands balled into fists. “I hate the horrid name. I don’t want to be a Barrington. I should prefer to be a Smith or a Brown or… or anything else if it meant he would be happy and… and… Oh, I hate it!”

With a strangled sob, Phoebe turned to run, but Pippin stood and caught her, pulling her into a fierce hug and holding her tight while the little girl cried out all her frustration.

Finally, she was quiet and exhausted. Pippin sat down in the chair with Phoebe on her lap, and stroked her hair, remembering another child and another time, many years ago.

Chapter 2