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The chambermaid rolled her eyes. “Wot’ll hold more will hold less.”
“We refuse to drink from such large cups. Bring smaller ones.”
“Cups?” the woman hooted. “Yer ignorant devil, that’s a chamber pot!”
“Chamber pot?” John Bull repeated blankly. “Yer know … piss pot!”
The mynah pounced on the new word with enthusiasm. “Pisspot! Pisspot!”
John Bull was mortified, not at discussing such matters with a servant, but that his master would be reduced to such an uncivilized practise. “There is no bathing room? No bidet? How primitive!”
“‘Ere, are yer trying to pull my leg? A bloody heathen foreigner telling me we’re primitive?”
Savage heard the voices raised in provocation. He came to investigate. The chambermaid in starched gray uniform and mob cap was ready to defend her country against this brown-skinned piece of rubbish.
“Is there a problem?” Savage asked in a cool voice of authority.
The young chambermaid fell back in alarm when she looked up at the tall man’s dark, forbidding face. He was accustomed to the revulsion his scarred face sometimes provoked and had schooled himself against showing any reaction. He cursed himself for being sensitive after all these years.
“The woman accused me of touching her leg,” John Bull said.
“I never!” the chambermaid denied.
“Yes, Excellency. I informed her the cups were unbearable. Then she taught Rupee to say pisspot, then she accused me of trying to pull off her leg.”
Adam Savage took the articles the maid clutched and said, “A small misunderstanding. Good night.”
When Savage closed the door, John Bull asked, “Why did you dismiss her? Is she not the punkah wallah?”
“No, John Bull, there are no fans to be pulled. In England we do not need cooling down, we need warming up. I’m expecting the concierge. Just show him in, then take Rupee to another room and help Kirinda get settled for the night. I’ll order us some dinner if you will be patient.”
“Ah, Excellency, now we are in England I can see I will have to exercise great patience with the lower orders.”
“Indeed John Bull, and vice versa.”
Antonia, wearing Anthony’s clothes and occupying Anthony’s chamber, sat with an open book in her lap. The story did not grip her and her mind kept wandering in a melancholy fashion; then she would start to read again simply to occupy her mind and prevent her from grieving. Despite all her prayers and her begging and bargaining with God, Anthony had never shown up.
She felt listless and very lonely without his male presence at Lamb Hall. She was quite determined to take her twin’s place, however. She would die rather than see Bernard Lamb snatch the lovely manor from her and Roz.
It was such a pretty day, she longed to be outdoors, but she sighed and focused on her book. Suddenly she flung it across the room. To hell with it. She would have to go out sometime. Fear of being discovered in her deceit had kept her cooped up away from everyone. At last she decided that if she was going to do the thing, she would do it with panache. The key of course was “attitude.” With the right attitude, anything in life could be achieved. She was totally convinced of it.
Since she was dressed for riding, that’s exactly what she would do. She would ride out to the tenant farms and see if anything was needed. Tony put on a tiewig and a freshly starched neckcloth. She scooped some silver into her vest pocket and picked up Tony’s riding crop. In the stables she almost approached Venus, then remembered in time to ask Bradshaw to saddle Neptune.
“He needs exercise m’lord,” Bradshaw said approvingly. “Ye can try out the new tack ye got over at Rochester.”
The old stable hound came up wagging his tail. She was just about to call him her sweetest boy and other such baby talk when she remembered her attitude. “Hello, you ugly old brute. Still cocking the old leg on everything in sight?” The dog adored the insults seemingly more than the baby talk, so she tucked the information away for future use. Tony cantered through the fields to the first farm, where Harry Simpson and his son were scything hay. Both doffed their caps in deference to Lord Lamb. She took a deep, steadying breath and casually dismounted. Tony thrust one hand deep into her breeches pocket and swished at the tall, dry grass with her whip. “Hello, Harry, looks like a good crop.”
The red-faced farmer looked tongue tied, then he forced himself to speak. “Milord, we are all that sorry about yer sister.”
Antonia bit her lip and nodded. She swallowed the lump in her throat, knowing this awkward moment must be gotten through. “I rode over to see what was needed.”
“Don’t bother about us, milord, ye’ve enough trouble.”
Simpson’s son, with a defiant look in his eyes said, “T’house roof leaks.”
His father’s face turned a darker shade of red. “We’ll patch it again, once we get t’hay in.”
Tony looked toward the farmhouse. “It needs rethatching, Harry. I’ll see to it today. You should have told me,” she said in reproach. “You get the hay crop in before it rains.”
