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On this day, Beatrice rose and washed and drew aside the curtains to peek out the window. Another evening storm had struck, and she merely thought to look for damage to the grounds.
Not for the advent of a certain duke.
Of whom there was no sign.
Nor was there evidence of him in the kitchen. Someone (Morag) had decided not to put the lord and lady of the house at the opposite ends of the table; Beatrice took her seat, which was set across from what was customarily his place.
Not that he was in it.
Not that it mattered to her.
Morag was off collecting the day’s laundry. Mrs. Porter was kneading a prodigious amount of dough while the maids skittered about, doing the work of three times their number. Conlon stood at attention as best he could, given his ailments. He announced, bless him: “Mr. Todd, ma’am,” as the prince’s factotum entered the kitchen.
“Do join me, Mr. Todd.”
He bowed and remained standing. “I have broken my fast, ma’am.”
“Please fetch Mr. Todd a cup of tea, Ciara. We have much to discuss. Where is His Grace?”
Due to Morag’s absence, there was no ready answer but for a good deal of muttering.
“Out and about still? Very well.” Beatrice spread her toast with homemade blackberry jam, Ciara’s work again. Beatrice must find a replacement so the maid could indulge her culinary talents to their greatest advantage. “Before we consult the day’s schedule, Mr. Todd, I was curious about certain belongings I did not find amongst those moved here. I am accustomed to using my personal brand of soap and oil. I believe I had at least another six months’ supply, and yet there is none to hand. I wonder if you may enlighten me?”
Mr. Todd gave her request due consideration and then said, “I believe any belongings to be found in London have been transported to Arcadia.”
“I see. Is it possible to reproduce the blend, Ciara? Glynis?” The maids looked everywhere but at her.
“Do you not enjoy the soap and oil we have laid on?” Ciara asked. “They’re from our store, and we made them with such care.” Beatrice was not equal to the mouse’s pleading eyes.
“I am very pleased with both. New scents for a new start.” She took up another piece of toast and a spoonful of jam. “Let us review our tasks for the day. I will require some supplies from the kitchen in aid of what I have planned for myself.”
***
Arthur was ready for Madam this morning. He had taken to lingering beneath her window of an evening. Dare he tease her regarding her nocturnal chats with the local fauna? As if he should be as small as a songbird.
As if she should know what we are without being told, his bear scolded.Her Grace has nothing to compare us to. Castleton was no specimen, even in his prime.
Iam a specimen in my prime, Arthur thought, for what it was worth. The lady had not disputed embarking upon a white marriage, and never let it be said he did not honor his oaths despite the idea of brokering a cordial affiliation growing in appeal—
A nightingale lay on the back step to the kitchens. Its little neck was broken and its wings spread open, exposing its breast, where its heart had been torn out.
“Bloody cats,” Arthur snarled. He gently took up the poor creature and brought it around to the churned-up earth near the untended rose walk. He tucked it behind a bush in want of pruning and hoped it wasn’tthenightingale. No teasing about the bird, then.
Dressing in the laundry, he batted the sheets that hung from the lines drawn crisscross from the beams and winced at the dampness of his shirt despite the ever-stoked fire. They were fortunate the house had a cistern, at least, saving the elderly staff the walk to and from the brook. Even so, they must see about outfitting a vestment hut.
Arthur would see to it. He would, no one else.
Or Todd would. He would instruct Todd to do so.
He stopped Conlon as he passed on the way to the kitchen. “One of the maids will have to bury a bird.”
“Abirdbird?” Conlon asked, his voice trembling.
“Yes, anavis puri,” he said. Did he need a coat? Men were meant to wear coats around ladies. He put on a coat. “I do not wish Her Grace to come upon it.”
The butler smiled like it was Yule and his Name Day in one. “I shall see to it personally, Master Artie.”
“I prefer one of the maids do so.” He could not let this elderly little man bend his back to shoveling.
