Elizabeth Mansfield (5 page)

The house looming up before him was old and, though enormous, not particularly grand. It was hard to say what made it so very beautiful. The center structure, a four-story building with an old but impressive limestone facade, was flanked by two long wings. The wings were much lower to the ground than the center building, but they extended out like two long arms embracing the lush green landscape. House and land had grown old together and now seemed so much a part of one another that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Lushly flowering shrubs clung to the old stone foundations, and tall, thickly branched trees waved over the magnificent split-stone tiles of the sloping roof. His heart clenched with the joy of first love; this, the family home, surpassed not only his memories but his dreams. Though he had not known it until this moment, this was just the sort of place where he’d wish to spend the rest of his life. “Good Lord!” he breathed, awestruck.

“Ye cin say that again,” Mickley mumbled, staring. “Here I was reckonin’ that a grange was on’y a sorta farmhouse.”

“The center building probably
was
a farmhouse once. A granary, at any rate,” Kit said as his gaze took in the rows of arched windows, the pedimented doorway, and the huge number of chimneys rising in irregular intervals along the roof. “The wings must have been added when the place was converted to a manor house.”

He had to tear his gaze from the building, however, to take note of what appeared to be a more pressing matter—a crowd of people standing in front of the massive doorway watching the approach of the carriage. “I wonder what
that’s
all about,” Kit muttered. “Didn’t I write that I wanted no ceremonies?”

As he and Mickley climbed down from the phaeton, two figures detached themselves from the crowd and came toward them. One was a plump fellow dressed in stiffly formal attire, whose pompously dignified movements told Kit—quite rightly—that he was the butler. The other was a tall, thin fellow with a clerical collar. The butler approached them first, bowed stiffly, and uttered some polite words of welcome, but Kit noted that his expression was icy. Then the other man stepped forward. The butler introduced him. “May I present the vicar of Crittenden Church, Mr. Henry Lutton?”

“How do you do, my lord?” the cleric said with a polite bow.

“I’m happy to meet you,” Kit responded, shaking his hand.

Mr. Lutton gave him a thin smile. “Mr. Sowell here has warned me that you wish to have no ceremonies to mark your arrival, but in my capacity as head of our congregation, I could not permit you to take your place among us without a word of welcome.”

Kit returned the smile with a much warmer one. “I appreciate your taking the time from your duties just to give me this greeting,” he said.

Mr. Lutton’s smile died. “It was not just for this greeting,” he admitted. “It was for a farewell, too.”

“Oh?” Kit asked, confused.

“Yes.” The cleric sighed. “There was a departure, you see, only a few moments ago. A very sad departure.”

Mickley leaned over to Kit and whispered in
his ear, “Must’ve been that coach what passed us on the way in.”

“I see,” Kit mumbled to Mr. Lutton, not knowing what else to say. It was obvious that the “departure” had been painful for the vicar, but Kit did not feel it proper to ask questions.

Sowell, the butler, intervened at that moment to remind Mr. Lutton that the staff was waiting. The vicar nodded, expressed the hope that he would see His Lordship at Sunday’s service, and walked off. Meanwhile, Sowell led the two newcomers toward the front door, where, astonishingly, the crowd had assembled itself into two rows, one of women in starched, gleaming-white aprons and caps, and the other of smartly liveried men. Kit was startled not only by the efficiency with which they’d assembled, but by their number. “Good God,” he exclaimed, looking down the rows, “I didn’t
dream
there was a staff like this! My mother never had more than two in her employ.”

“Indeed?” the butler murmured in disdain. “The late viscount’s mother employed a staff of thirty, I recall. It was only when Lord Crittenden became ill and decided to cut out all social occasions that the staff was reduced to the present sixteen. But Miss Whitlow was an excellent manager, you see, so we were able to make do.”

“Miss Whitlow?” Kit inquired.

“Miss Caroline Whitlow, His late Lordship’s ward.”

“I see,” Kit said, but he did not see at all. He didn’t know his uncle had had a ward. He’d never heard of a Caroline Whitlow, though he knew that his aunt Martha had married a Whitlow—Sir John Whitlow, if memory served. But there had been no offspring, he was almost certain of that. He would have liked to make some inquiries, but it did not seem the proper time, what with all the staff standing about staring at him.

He smiled at them awkwardly and said a few words about being glad to meet them. They bobbed and murmured their thank-yous, but Kit noticed that they would not meet his eyes when he looked directly at them and that not one of them smiled. After another awkward moment, the butler dismissed them.

When only Kit, Mickley, and Sowell remained, the butler took a deep breath. “I was told, Your Lordship, that you require only four in staff,” he said with a kind of icy bravado, “but I was certain you would wish to reconsider after you’d inspected the property. The house has forty-four rooms, you see. The housekeeper informs me that, for a house this size, she doesn’t see how she can manage with fewer than three chambermaids, even if no guests are present. Cook needs two assistants in the kitchen and one scullery minimum. And my two footmen are indispensable. With three men in the stables and two gardeners, we are at a total of sixteen. I have been told by both the cook and the housekeeper that they will hand in their notice if the staff is reduced further, as I intend to do myself in any case, as soon as Your Lordship is able to replace me. Meanwhile, my lord, what do you wish me to do about the staff?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Kit replied in bewilderment. “Just tell them all that we’ll make no changes for the time being. Meanwhile, why don’t you show me around? Shall we start from the top and work our way down?”

The tour of the house lasted over an hour, and the stables and grounds took another. Kit became more amazed the more he saw. Though the furnishings and accoutrements of the household were very worn with years of use, they once had been luxurious—much more luxurious than he expected. Velvet window hangings, satin bedspreads, brocaded upholstery were everywhere, though some were patched and mended. Wonderful paintings hung over wallpaper that had once been elegant but that now was faded and in places even peeling. Everything was clean and well cared for, but much needed restoration or replacement.

The stables, too, were large and well cared for (relieving Kit’s mind about the comfort of his four Spanish horses, all of whom were already happily established in their stalls), and the grounds were extensive and attractive. But some sort of drainage work had been started behind the main house and had evidently been abandoned, for a pile of stones lay alongside a huge, raw, open ditch. Money and labor were needed badly in many areas.

It slowly began to dawn on Kit that not only his legacy, but his responsibility for caring for it, were both greater than he’d imagined. The inheritance was not like winning a lottery, after all. There was a great deal more to it. “Damnation,” he muttered to Mickley when Sowell went off see if their bedrooms were ready, “I should have stopped off in London after all, and met with that solicitor, Mr. Halford. I acted hastily. I shouldn’t have come here without first making full inquiries.”
 

“What inquiries?” Mickley asked.

“Inquiries of all sorts! I don’t have any idea of what I own, what my income is, and how on earth all this is to be supported.”

Mickley shook his head. “What’s the rush? Ye wanted peace an’ quiet, didn’ ye? I don’ see no reason why ye shouldn’a take yerself a few days’ rest an’ enjoy all this.”

“But there are matters I ought to—”

“Nothin’ that can’t wait. Fer a few days whyn’t ye play lord o’ the manor—which ye are!—an’ let these folks wait on ye ‘and an’ foot. Then, when ye’ve ‘ad enough layin’ about, we cin go t’ the City an’ see that Halford fellow.”

Kit was tempted to follow his batman’s advice. The prospect of spending a little time being waited on hand and foot was appealing. But something about the mood of the staff troubled him. In particular, the butler’s demeanor, and his declaration of his intention to hand in his notice, made Kit uneasy. There was something disquieting in the air. How could he, in Mickley’s words, “enjoy layin’ about,” when the atmosphere in the house was so tense?

By the time Sowell had shown Kit the room he’d selected for His Lordship’s bedroom, Kit had made up his mind to find out what was amiss. “This is an excellent room, Sowell,” he said to the frozen-faced fellow cheerfully. “Good size, fine view, wonderful bed. You’ve made a good choice.”

“Thank you, my lord,” was the cold reply.

“And I see that you’ve put Mickley right next door, just as I asked. You do like your room, don’t you, Mick?”

“Aye, I do,” Mickley said from the doorway that adjoined both rooms. “Best room I ever ‘ad, an’ that’s the truth.”

“I couldn’t be more pleased,” Kit told the butler. “Now all I need to feel perfectly comfortable is to find out why you feel it necessary to give notice.”

This surprised the hitherto impassive Sowell. “Me, m’lord?”

“Yes, you. You did say, did you not, that you’re giving me your notice no matter what I decide to do about the staff?”
 

“Yes, my lord, I did.”
 

“Well, I’d like to know why.”

The butler shifted on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. “I don’t think we should discuss this matter in front of your valet,” he murmured, glancing at Mickley.

“Mickley isn’t exactly my valet,” Kit said. “He’s special. I wouldn’t be alive if not for Mr. Mickley. You must regard him as my friend, which he is.”

“Yes, my lord,” the butler said, unmoved.

“So, you see,” Kit went on, “anything you wish to say to me may be said in front of him. He has my absolute trust. Now, tell us why you feel you must leave.”

“Because, my lord, it will be impossible for me to run this house properly for you. Not anymore. Not without ... without ...” He paused and dropped his eyes.

“Without ... ?” Kit prodded.

The butler looked up and met Kit’s eyes, a look of angry accusation in his own. “Without Miss Whitlow.”

“Miss Whitlow?” Kit’s brows lifted. “Who is—Oh, yes. You mentioned her before. My uncle’s ward, you said.”

“Miss Caroline Whitlow, yes. She ran the household for your uncle during all the years he was ill.”

“I see. But who the devil is she? She can’t be my aunt Martha’s daughter, can she? I didn’t think Martha Whitlow had any children.”

“No, my lord, she hasn’t. Caroline was Sir John Whitlow’s
brother’s
daughter—your aunt Martha’s niece by marriage.”

“Then how is it she became my uncle Clement’s ward? There was no blood relationship between them.”

“That didn’t matter to your uncle. When she was orphaned and in need, Lady Whitlow asked him to take her in. He grew very fond of her, His Lordship did. She was like a daughter to him.” He paused and pursed his lips. “We are
all
very fond of Miss Caroline.”

“Are you indeed?” Kit murmured, beginning to understand. “Is she the one who left today? Was it her ‘departure’ the vicar spoke of?”

“Yes, my lord, it was,” Sowell said, his tone a distinct reprimand. “Mr. Lutton will miss her. We’ll all miss her. And her little brothers, too.”

Kit, trying to understand the particulars of what had occurred, ignored the butler’s insolent tone of voice. But Mickley, bristling, took a firm step into the room. “I’d cork up that clapper, man, if I was you,” he barked, fixing the butler with a threatening glare. “I ‘ave no likin’ fer you implyin’ that the lady’s ‘de-par-ture’ was my cap’n’s fault!”

“Hush, Mick,” Kit said quietly. “Let me handle this.”

The butler looked from one to the other. Then he squared his shoulders. “If you want the truth, my lord,” he said belligerently, “it
is
your fault.”

Kit’s eyebrows rose. “But you’re not making sense, Sowell. No sense at all. How can her departure be my fault when I didn’t know the female existed?”

“But you wrote that you wanted peace and quiet. Sell their horses, you ordered. Cut down the staff. Take away her bedroom. What was she to think? She took all that to mean you didn’t want her here, or her brothers either.”

“Aha, so that’s it,” Kit murmured. “You and Lutton and everyone else in this place blame me for pushing some poor creature I never heard of out into the cold.”

“Three poor creatures, my lord,” the butler corrected. “Three.”

“Blasted idiots,” Mickley grunted under his breath.

Kit sank down upon the bed. “Where have they gone?” he asked after a long moment of silence.

“I couldn’t say, my lord.”

“Or won’t say,” Mickley put in.

Kit motioned his batman to silence. “Well, thank you, Sowell, for your frankness. You may go.”

The butler nodded and bowed himself out. Kit rose tiredly from the bed, went to the window, and stared out. The afternoon had gone. The setting sun was casting long, depressing shadows across the south lawn. “Damn!” he muttered.