Chapter Four
By and by, Jack came upon another old man in tattered rags sitting by the side of the road.
“Have you aught to give me to eat?” the second beggar called in a disagreeable voice.
Jack set down his pack and took out some cheese. The old man snatched it from his hand and gobbled it down. Jack brought out a loaf of bread. The old man ate the entire loaf and then held out his hands for more. Jack shook his head and dug to the very bottom of his pack to find an apple.
The old man devoured the apple and said, “Is this rubbish all that you can offer?”
And finally Jack’s patience broke. “For pity’s sake, man! You’ve eaten the last of my food and not a word of thanks in return. I’ll be on my way and damn you for my trouble!”
—from LAUGHING JACK
Renshaw House was the grandest place Sally Suchlike had ever seen, and she was still a bit in awe. Cor! Pink and black marble floors, carved wood furniture so delicate the legs looked hardly more than toothpicks, and fancy embroidered silks and brocades and velvets everywhere, yards and yards of them, much more than was needed to cover a window or chair, all just draped for the finery of it. Oh, Mr. Fleming’s house had been lovely, but this, this was like living in His Majesty’s own palace; it was so beautiful. Indeed it was!
And wasn’t it an amazing step up from the Seven Dials area where she’d been born and had lived? If you could call living working every day from sunup until sundown, picking up horseshit and dog shit and any other shit to be found and sold again for just a scrap of bread and a tiny piece of gristly meat if she and her pa were lucky. She’d stayed until the age of twelve, which was when her pa had talked about marrying her off to his friend Pinky, a large, stinking man with all his front teeth missing. She’d seen a life full of shit and sorrow if she married Pinky, stretching away until she died too young in the same neighborhood she’d been born in.
Sally had run away that very night to seek her fortune as a kitchen wench. She’d been clever and quick, and when the cook had found a better house—Mr. Fleming’s—she’d taken Sally along with her. And Sally had worked—hard. She’d made sure not to find herself alone with any footman or butcher’s boy. For the last thing she needed was to get herself with child. All along, she’d kept herself neat and her ears open. She’d listened to how the Flemings spoke, and at night in her narrow bed next to Alice, the downstairs maid, who snored like an old man, she’d whisper the words and the inflections over and over until her speech was nearly as good as Miss Fleming’s.
When the time came—when Bob the footman had run into the kitchens, breathless with the news that Miss Fleming, who had such a plain, sad face, had somehow caught herself a viscount—Sally had been ready. She’d folded the mending she’d been doing and quietly crept from the kitchens to make her plea to Miss Fleming.
And here she was! The lady’s maid of a viscountess! Now, if only she could learn all the passages and floors and doors in this great, grand house, everything would be perfect. Sally straightened her apron as she pushed open a door in the servant’s passage. If she’d calculated correctly, she would enter into the hallway outside the master bedrooms. She peeked. The hall was large, with dark wood-paneled walls and a long red and black carpet. Unfortunately, it looked quite a bit like all the other halls in the house until she turned her head to the right and saw the scandalous little black marble statue of some ancient gentleman attacking a naked lady. She’d noticed the figures before—well, they were hard to miss—and she knew they stood outside the door of the viscount’s room. Sally nodded and shut the concealed panel door behind her before pausing to examine the little statue.
Both figures were naked, and the lady didn’t look all that worried. In fact, she had a dimpled arm thrown around the gentleman’s neck. Sally cocked her head. The gentleman seemed to have furry goatlike flanks, and on his head were stumpy little horns. Actually, now that she peered closer, it occurred to her that the nasty stone man looked quite a bit like the viscount’s man, Mr. Pynch—if Mr. Pynch had hair and horns and furry flanks. Which made her gaze drop lower on the statue gentleman and wonder if Mr. Pynch also had a long—
A man cleared his throat behind her.
Sally shrieked and spun around. Mr. Pynch stood directly behind her, as if summoned by her thoughts. He had one eyebrow raised, and his bald head shone dully in the dim hallway.
She could feel a hot flush rise up her neck. She planted both fists on her hips. “Cor! Was you trying to give me a start? Don’t you know you can kill a person that way? I knew a lady once, got killed by a lad sneaking up behind her and yelling, ‘Boo!’ I might be lying stiff and dead on the carpet this very minute. And what would you say to my lord had you gone and killed me the day after his wedding, I’m wondering? Fine fix you’d be in then.”
Mr. Pynch cleared his throat again, a sound like rocks being rolled around in a tin pail. “Perhaps if you had not been so engrossed in your examination of that statue, Miss Suchlike—”
Sally blew out a snort, which was quite unladylike but fitting at the moment. “Are you accusing me of staring at this statue, Mr. Pynch?”
Both of the valet’s eyebrows rose. “I simply—”
“I’ll have you know that I was merely checking for dust on that statue.”
“Dust?”
“Dust.” Sally jerked her head in a single sharp nod. “My lady can’t abide dust.”
“I see,” Mr. Pynch said in lofty tones. “I shall keep that in mind.”
“I should certainly hope you do,” Sally replied. She tugged at her apron to straighten it and then looked at her mistress’s door. It was already eight of the clock, late for the new Lady Vale to rise, but on the day after her wedding . . .
Mr. Pynch was still watching her. “I suggest you knock.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I know well enough how to wake my mistress.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Perhaps she’s not alone.” She felt her hot blush rise again. “You know. What if he’s in there? Right fool I’d look if I go trotting in there and they’re not . . . not . . . not”—Sally inhaled deeply, trying to get a grip on her runaway tongue—“right. I’d be most embarrassed.”
“He isn’t.”
“Isn’t what?”
“In there,” Mr. Pynch said with utter certainty, and entered the room of their master.
Sally scowled after him. What a nasty man. She gave a last tug to her apron and rapped smartly on her mistress’s door.
MELISANDE WAS SITTING at her desk, translating the last of the fairy tales when she heard a rap on her door. Mouse, who’d been lying at her feet, jumped up to growl at the door.
“Come,” she called, and was unsurprised when Suchlike peeked in.
Melisande glanced at the china clock on her mantel. It was just after eight o’clock, but she’d been awake for over two hours. She rarely slept past sunrise. Suchlike knew her routine and usually came to dress her much earlier than this. The maid probably had been circumspect because of Melisande’s newly wedded status. She felt a flash of mortification. Soon the entire household would know that she’d slept apart from her husband on their wedding night. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d just have to get through it.
“Good morning, my lady.” Suchlike eyed Mouse and edged around the terrier.
“Good morning. Come here, Mouse.” Melisande snapped her fingers.
Mouse gave a last suspicious sniff at the maid and ran to sit under the desk next to Melisande’s legs.
She’d already pulled back the drapes from the window over the desk, but Suchlike went now to open the other drapes as well. “It’s a lovely day. Sunshine, not a cloud in the sky, and hardly any wind. What would you like to wear today, my lady?”
“I thought the gray,” Melisande murmured absently.
She frowned over a German word in the story she was working on. The old book of fairy tales had belonged to her dearest friend Emeline, a memento f
rom her childhood. It had apparently come from Emeline’s Prussian nanny. Before she had left to sail to America with her new husband, Mr. Hartley, Emeline had given the book to Melisande so that she could translate its stories. When she’d accepted the task, she’d understood that it meant much more to both of them than a simple translation. Giving the cherished book to her was Emeline’s way of promising that their friendship would endure this separation, and Melisande had been touched and grateful for the gesture.
She’d hoped to translate the book and then have the stories copied out and hand-bound to give to Emeline when next she visited England. Unfortunately, Melisande had run into a problem. The book consisted of four related fairy tales, each the story of a soldier returning from war. Three of these stories she’d translated handily enough, but the fourth . . . The fourth was proving to be a challenge.
“The gray, my lady?” Suchlike repeated doubtfully.
“Yes, the gray,” Melisande said.
The problem was the dialect. And the fact that she was trying to translate the written word. She’d learned German from her mother but had mostly spoken the language, not read it, and the difference was proving to be key. Melisande stroked her finger across the brittle page. Working on the book reminded her of Emeline. She wished her friend could have been there for her wedding. And she wished even more that she was here right now. How comforting it would be to talk to Emeline about her marriage and the puzzle that was gentlemen in general. Why had her husband—
“Which gray?”
“What?” Melisande finally glanced at her maid and saw that Suchlike wore an exasperated frown.
“Which gray?” Suchlike opened wide the doors to the wardrobe, which, admittedly, was filled with a rather dull-colored collection of gowns.
“The bluish gray.”
Suchlike took down the indicated gown, muttering under her breath. Melisande chose not to comment on the sound, instead rising and pouring out a basin of tepid water to wash her face and neck. Thus refreshed, she stood patiently while Suchlike dressed her.
Half an hour later, Melisande dismissed the maid and made her way to the lower hall, paneled in palest pink marble with gold and black accents. Here she hesitated. Surely breakfast was served in one of the lower rooms. But there were so many doors to choose from, and yesterday, in all the excitement of meeting the staff and moving in, she’d not thought to ask.
Nearby, someone cleared his throat. Melisande turned to find the butler, Oaks, behind her. He was a short man with round shoulders and hands that were too big for his wrists. On his head he wore an extravagantly curled and powdered white wig.
“Might I help you, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you,” Melisande said. “Could you have one of the footmen take my dog, Mouse, out into the garden? And please show me to the room where breakfast is served.”
“My lady.” Oaks snapped his fingers, and a lanky young footman sprang forward like an acolyte to a priest. The butler gestured to Mouse with a flick of his hand. The footman bent toward the dog and then froze as Mouse lifted a lip and snarled.
“Oh, Sir Mouse.” Melisande bent, picked up the little dog, and deposited him, still growling, in the footman’s arms.
The footman arched his head as far away from his own arms as possible.
Melisande tapped the dog on the nose with one finger. “Stop that.”
Mouse ceased growling, but he still eyed his bearer with suspicion. The footman headed to the back of the house with Mouse held straight-armed before him.
“The breakfast room is through here,” Oaks said.
He led the way through an elegant sitting room to a room that overlooked the town-house gardens. Melisande looked out the window and could see Mouse sprinkling every ornamental tree along the main path as the footman followed.
“This is the room the viscount uses to breakfast when he has guests,” Oaks said. “Naturally, should you wish to make other arrangements, you need only inform me.”
“No. This is quite nice. Thank you, Oaks.” She smiled and sat in the chair he held for her at the long, polished wood table.
“Cook’s coddled eggs are excellent,” Oaks said. “But if you wish for herring or—”
“The eggs will be fine. I’d also like a sweet bun or two and some hot chocolate.”
He bowed. “Then I shall have a maid bring them up directly.”
Melisande cleared her throat. “Not yet, please. I’d like to wait for my husband.”
Oaks blinked. “The viscount is a late riser—”
“Nevertheless, I shall wait.”
“Yes, my lady.” And Oaks eased out of the room.
Melisande watched Mouse finish his business, then come trotting to the house. In another few minutes, he appeared at the breakfast room door with the footman. Mouse’s button ears pricked forward when he saw her, and he ran over to lick her hand and then settle beneath her chair with a groan.
“Thank you.” Melisande smiled at the footman. He looked quite young, his face still spotty beneath his white wig. “What is your name?”
“Sprat, my lady.” His cheeks reddened at her notice.
Good Lord, hopefully his parents hadn’t christened him Jack. Melisande nodded. “Sprat, you shall be in charge of Sir Mouse. He needs to visit the garden in the morning, again just after lunch, and before retiring for bed. Can you remember to see to him for me?”
“Yes, my lady.” Sprat’s head jerked down in a nervous bow. “Thank you, my lady.”
Melisande repressed a smile. Sprat didn’t look entirely sure if he should be grateful. From beneath her chair, Mouse gurgled a soft growl. “Thank you. That will be all.”
Sprat backed out and Melisande was alone again. She sat for a minute until her nerves couldn’t stand her inaction anymore; then she stood and paced to the windows. How to face her new husband? With wifely serenity, of course. But was there any way she could gently—discreetly—make it known that last night had been, well, a disappointment? Melisande winced. Probably not over the breakfast table. Gentlemen were notoriously sensitive in this area, and many were not at their most reasonable in the early morning. But she had to broach the subject sometime, somehow. The man was a famous lover, for goodness’ sake! Unless every lady who’d been the object of his desire was lying, he was capable of doing much better than last night.
Somewhere a clock chimed the nine o’clock hour. Mouse stood and stretched, yawning until his pink tongue curled. With a twinge of disappointment, Melisande gave up waiting and went to the hall. Sprat was standing there, staring rather vacantly at the ceiling, although he brought his gaze hastily down when he saw her.
“Please bring me my breakfast,” Melisande said, and went back to the breakfast room to wait. Had Vale already left the house, or did he always sleep this late?
After a solitary meal shared with Mouse, Melisande turned her mind to other matters. She sent for the cook and found an elegant yellow and white sitting room to plan the week’s meals.
The cook was a small, wiry woman, her face thin and lined with concern, her graying black hair scraped back into a tight knot at the crown of her head. She perched on the edge of her seat, leaning forward and nodding rapidly as Melisande spoke to her. Cook didn’t smile—her face didn’t seem to know how—but the tight purse of her mouth relaxed as Melisande praised the tasty coddled eggs and hot chocolate. In fact, Melisande was just feeling that she’d established a nice understanding with the woman when a loud commotion interrupted their discussion. Both women looked up. Melisande realized that she could hear barking at the center of raised male voices.
Oh, dear. She smiled politely at the cook. “If you will excuse me?”
She rose and walked unhurriedly to the breakfast room where she found the makings of a pantomime drama. Sprat stood gaping, Oaks’s beautiful white wig was askew, and he was talking rapidly, but unfortunately in a voice that couldn’t be heard. Meanwhile, her husband of only one day was waving his arms and shouting as if impersonating a pa
rticularly angry windmill. The object of his ire stood resolute only inches from Lord Vale’s toes, barking and growling.
“Where did this mongrel come from?” Vale was demanding. “Who let it in? Can’t a man have breakfast without having to defend his bacon from vermin?”
“Mouse,” Melisande said quietly, but it was loud enough for the terrier. With one last triumphant arf! Mouse came trotting over to sit on her slippers and pant.
“Do you know this mongrel?” Lord Vale asked, wild-eyed. “Where did it come from?”
Oaks was straightening his wig, muttering under his breath, while Sprat stood on one leg.
Melisande’s eyes narrowed. Really! After making her wait an hour. “Mouse is my dog.”
Lord Vale blinked, and she couldn’t help noticing that even confused and out of sorts, his blue eyes were startling in their beauty. He lay on me last night, she thought, feeling the heat pool low in her belly. His body became one with mine. He is my husband at last.
“But it ate my bacon.”
Melisande looked down at Mouse, who panted up at her adoringly, his mouth curved as if in a grin. “He.”
Lord Vale ran a hand through his hair, dislodging his tie. “What?”
“He,” Melisande enunciated clearly, then smiled. “Sir Mouse is a gentleman dog. And he’s particularly found of bacon, so really you ought not to tempt him with it.”
She snapped her fingers and sailed from the breakfast room, Mouse on her heels.
“GENTLEMAN DOG?” Jasper stared at the door where his new wife had just swanned from the room. She’d looked remarkably elegant for a woman being followed by a foul little beast. “Gentleman dog? Have you ever heard of a gentleman dog?” he appealed to the males remaining in the room.
His footman—a tall, lanky fellow with a name like a nursery rhyme that Jasper couldn’t remember at the moment—scratched under his wig. “My lady seemed right fond of that dog.”