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The first door he attempted required the full force of his weight to breach. It was the family drawing room; he did not enter. He eschewed investigating the staterooms as well.
Each of the remaining portals on the first floor had an idiosyncrasy regarding their opening; in many cases there were no doors at all. He quailed to think Conlon and Morag had been reduced to using them for kindling. The interior of each room was a devastation of gouged walls and demolished furniture. The work of Hallbjorn, for who else would have wreaked such havoc? His bear remained mute, but not from spite, not now.
He did not ascend to the second floor to investigate the nursery that lay across the corridor from the ducal suite, nor those august rooms themselves, nor the portrait gallery that ran along the entire back of the house. He would put that off as long as he was able, as he would the third floor, which played host to the servants’ quarters and—Holy Freya, the attics! If the exterior view was anything to go by, the attics were in a disastrous state, and if that proved to be the case… He poked at a warped bump of wallpaper, and his finger went straight through it to the plaster. Upon closer inspection, the walls buckled like the ripples in a pond. He could not bring himself to look at the ceiling.
Was the entire household to live on the ground floor like a trace of rabbits? He did not dwell on what those left behind had faced over the years. He clutched a hand to his chest where he felt a twinge. It was likely the kippers repeating on him. That was what it must be, this broken feeling in his chest.
Oh, yes, his bear said, sarcastic.No more kippers for breakfast.
***
“…and the breakfast room is over on the other side of the hall, made sense to someone back in old Elizabeth’s day but it makes none now.” Morag finished her discourse on the failings and deficiencies to be found in the halls of Arcadia with some relish.
While the ground floor of the manor was fairly respectable, what little Beatrice had seen could do with improvement. The reception room in which she had taken the duke to task was not designated as such, primarily due to the fact there was no one to receive. Was its purpose to contain a single footstool? Or merely to provide the cluster of spiders free rein to weave their webs?
Upon repairing to the kitchen, she was introduced to Mrs. Porter, the cook, bullish in aspect yet content in demeanor, and two housemaids. Ciara and Glynis were both small, dark, and if not elderly then at the very best aging. They tilted their heads at her, showing their necks, a custom she knew demonstrated respect by creatures of their kind. It was done now, however, with greater reverence than had any in Adolphus Place.
The maids painstakingly set the table for tea. Beatrice had assured them that there was no need to stir up another fire elsewhere, that there was nothing like a kitchen for homeyness. There was no other room fit to sit in anyway.
Beatrice took a sip of the brew Mr. Conlon laboriously poured out. She selected a slice of shortcake and reveled in its light and buttery texture. “This is delicious, Mrs. Porter.”
“That’d be Ciara’s doing,” said the cook. “She’s a dab hand with the baking.”
“Well done, Ciara. I am not apprised of His Grace’s opinion, but baked treats are my weakness.”
The butler waxed lyrical on Master Artie’s sweet tooth as Beatrice made inroads into the shortcake. He cut himself off as she reached for the teapot and served her once more.
“Thank you, Mr. Conlon.” She brushed her fingertips on the scrupulously clean serviette. “I am impressed beyond measure by the care you have taken of this house. I see there is much left to do to bring it up to scratch. What of the lands? Is there a steward or chamberlain in His Grace’s employ?”
“No need for either since there’s no one to live in the cottages or tend the fields,” Morag said.
“There is a need now, at the very least to restore Arcadia to its true stature,” Beatrice said. “I shall call upon Mr. Todd, then, to take stock of the park and the surroundings.”
“Some use he’ll be, raiding the hen house.” The housekeeper smirked.
“Hush, Morag,” Mr. Conlon scolded. “You know the law.”
“The law?” Beatrice’s query was met with expressions showing a mixture of trepidation and appraisal. The women turned to the butler, who undertook the responsibility of explaining.
“I take it you are aware of our difference to you?” His voice was gentle, and she nodded.
“Among ourselves, we know who is who—” Glynis began.
“—and what is what,” Ciara finished. “But even then we would not be so rude as to ask.”
“We’re not to tell a human but our species, except under special circumstances,” Mrs. Porter added.
“Like as when ahomo plenusmarries one of us,” Morag said. “I’d call that special, I would.”
Beatrice looked at each. “Are you not wolves?”
The staff gasped as one. “Wolves!” Mr. Conlon’s sleepy eyes widened. “Good lady, no. We are as many as there areanimali puri.”
“That’s the common or garden sort of creature,” Morag explained. “You may discern aversipellis’s true nature from certain characteristics, and you may speculate, but private-like.”
“Indeed. I do be passing slow, for example. My sort are.” The butler’s head retracted in and out of his shoulders. “For I am a turtle!” His little face crinkled with glee, and he clapped his tiny wrinkled hands.
“Ah!” Beatrice experienced delight for the first time in many days. “I vow to honor and respect this knowledge, Mr. Conlon.”
