Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1) Page 10

  The waiter’s eyebrows rose, but he went over to the waiting men. The three looked at each other, then came over to Will’s table.

  “Good of you, sir,” one said. “Would you care to join us in a meal? I’m Potterton.”

  “Stanlake.” On impulse, he gave his family name rather than his title. “Thank you, I will.”

  They ordered their food, and the men resumed a conversation about the weather at sea and the effects of shipwrecks on the prices of goods. They soon drew Will into their talk, asking him his business in the area.

  “I’ve recently acquired a small estate,” he said, but admitted to not knowing much of farming, as yet. That led to a discussion on the price of meat and wool, the iniquitous duties on imports of wine, tea and tobacco, wool exports, and the effects of smuggling on the profits of honest traders. Will listened more than he talked, only asking a question now and then, and was surprised how much time had passed when the men finally rose and took their leave.

  He called for a final pint and sat with it in the emptying taproom, feeling vaguely envious of the three men and their busy lives. It had been a more interesting evening than any he’d spent gambling.

  Chapter 17

  Friday 27th June

  Connie sat in the window seat in her bedroom, her morning tea in one hand. The window looked south, to where the sea must lie beyond the small stretch of parkland and the woodland. She had seen pictures, of course, but it was difficult to imagine there was nothing but water stretching all the way to France. Later today, perhaps, she could go and see it, after she’d inspected the kitchens and the rest of the lower level.

  Noises from the dressing room reminded her that Milsom was not far away—doing what, she had no idea. Connie set the cup back on its saucer. The sooner she completed her tour of the house, the sooner she could go for a walk.

  She found Mrs Curnow in one of the smaller rooms off the kitchen, its walls lined with mostly bare shelves above a row of cupboards. A few jars of preserves occupied one shelf, and some bunches of herbs hung from the ceiling. Connie smiled as she saw the cook tying flowering stems of lavender into small bunches. Mrs Curnow put aside the stems she was holding.

  “This must be the stillroom,” Connie said.

  “Yes, my lady.” Mrs Curnow glanced at the bare shelving. “There’s some bandages and the like in the cupboards, but there didn’t seem much point in keeping it fully stocked when there was only servants living here permanently. Lord Wingrave never came for more than a few days at a time.”

  Connie picked up a bunch of the lavender and began tying it together.

  “My lady, you shouldn’t—”

  “I know. But I would like you to show me round the kitchens and cellars, without putting you behind with your work. I had a look at the gardens yesterday. I don’t think we can restock the stillroom from there.”

  Mrs Curnow shook her head. “No, my lady. But it would be good to have more of our own herbs and the like. That Yatton spends half his time dreaming and smoking his pipe.”

  Connie finished tying the lavender. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  As they toured the service rooms, Connie learned that there never had been a Mr Curnow. Mrs Curnow had worked here for thirty years, since the estate had been transferred to Lord Marstone’s ownership, while Mrs Strickland had only arrived a short time before Lady Marstone’s death, ten years ago now.

  “How many staff would a house this size normally have, do you know?”

  “Mrs Strickland could answer that better than me, my lady.”

  “I could ask her, but I do not wish to be told I should leave all such matters to her.” That earned a chuckle from the cook, and Connie wondered if she might have found her first ally. “No matter, Mrs Curnow. I should settle in before I think about any changes. Now, please show me the cellars.”

  Mrs Curnow lit a lantern, then opened a door. To Connie’s surprise, there were no steps, only a long corridor with storerooms.

  “They’re not really cellars, my lady. We’re under the front terrace here. The ground outside’s lower at the back of the house where the kitchens are, so those rooms have windows.”

  Most of the rooms they looked into were empty; one had a wall lined with racks, the few dozen bottles of wine looking lost in the midst of the bare surroundings. The door at the end of the passage was locked.

  “I don’t have a key, my lady,” Mrs Curnow said. “If that’s all, my lady, I’ve some baking to get on with.”

  Odd. The wine store hadn’t been locked; what could be in this room? But Mrs Curnow had already gone—she’d ask some other time.

  After breakfast, Connie spent an hour discussing garden plans with Yatton before going in search of Warren.

  “Cellar, my lady? I only look after the section where the wine and brandy are stored. You would have to ask Mrs Strickland about the other rooms.”

  The butler met her gaze with a steady eye—so steady that Connie had the feeling he knew more than he was saying. That might be unfair—one unpleasant lady’s maid and an uncooperative housekeeper should not make her regard all the other staff with suspicion.

  Mrs Strickland should have been busy opening up the parlour, but there was no-one there and the furniture was still shrouded. Her irritation rising, Connie stalked over to the bell-rope and pulled it, then opened the curtains.

  “Send Mrs Strickland to me,” she ordered, when Barton answered the summons.

  A few minutes later, Connie heard the door open again, but did not move.

  “My lady?”

  Connie turned. Mrs Strickland stood by the open door, her hands clasped.

  “Did you misunderstand, Mrs Strickland, when I asked you to open up this room?”

  “But my lady, the maids—”

  “If the maids cannot keep all the rooms clean, we will put some of the others back under holland covers.”

  “Lord Wingrave—”

  “Lord Wingrave leaves the running of the house to me, Mrs Strickland. Is that clear?”

  The housekeeper pursed her lips. “Yes, my lady.”

  “You will see to it, then. And you may give me the keys to the cellars, too.”

  “The… the cellars, my lady?” Mrs Strickland swallowed visibly. “Why would you wish to see those? They’re not used, in any case, and some of the keys are lost.” Her eyes slid sideways as she spoke.

  They would be used once there was more food to be stored. Connie opened her mouth to explain, then closed it again. She did not need to justify herself to the housekeeper. Nor did she believe in the lost keys, but arguing with her would be pointless. “Very well. I’m sure we can break the door down if necessary.”

  “Break…” Mrs Strickland stared at Connie for a moment, then inclined her head.

  Why did the housekeeper think she could ignore her orders? None of the other staff had proved so uncooperative. If Mrs Strickland was worried about keeping her job, her behaviour wasn’t helping.

  Connie rubbed her forehead. She’d have a cup of tea, change into her old gown, and get one of the grooms to show her the path to the cliff top that Lord Wingrave had mentioned.

  Will gazed across the parkland ahead with pleasure as the carriage emerged from the trees. Kellet, the solicitor recommended by Pendrick, had been happy to take on a new client, and would open a bank account for Will and pay in the earl’s bank draft. Now that was arranged, Will could start managing the estate properly. He would get Warren to send a message to the steward.

  A flash of movement caught his eye. A woman in a white dress was walking across the parkland south of the house, accompanied by two men. His wife? They were heading towards the path through the woods.

  Warren came out to greet him as the coach pulled to a halt in front of the steps. “Noakes has arrived with your horse, my lord, and is settling him in to the stables.”

  That was good; the coach could take Noakes home tomorrow. And Lady Wingrave’s maid, if his wife could manage without her.

&nb
sp; “Was that Lady Wingrave I saw walking to the woods?”

  “I believe so, my lord. She expressed a wish to see the sea. Your man Archer accompanied her, and Stubbs went to show them the way.”

  “To Lion Rocks?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I will join them.” She should come to no harm with Archer, but he needed the exercise. The afternoon was sunny, although dark clouds were gathering in the west. “Go and ask Mrs Curnow to put up a little food and drink, will you?” These clothes were too heavy for walking in this weather, and too fine for sitting on the ground.

  In his room, he abandoned his wig as well as his coat, and pulled on an older pair of breeches. Back downstairs, Mrs Curnow had a small satchel ready, and he slung it over his shoulder. Leaving the house, he jumped lightly down from the top of the ha-ha and set a fast pace across the park.

  The Lion Rocks were nothing more than a collection of boulders at a high point on the edge of the cliffs. As children, he and Alfred had found the silhouette of a lion in the arrangement, and the name had stuck. The place had been a favourite spot of his mother’s.

  The weather was muggy today, and he was soon far too warm. He slowed, unbuttoning his waistcoat and slinging it over one shoulder, and found the cool shade welcome as he entered the woods. The trees grew thicker than he remembered, the twisting path littered with fallen branches. He heard the murmur of voices ahead; a dead branch cracked beneath his foot, and the conversation stopped immediately. Pressing on, he rounded a bend in the path to see Archer stepping in front of Lady Wingrave, the groom’s tense stance only slackening when he saw who was approaching.

  “I wished to see the sea, my lord,” Lady Wingrave said, her chin lifting.

  “By all means, my lady. May I escort you?”

  She nodded without speaking, her posture relaxing.

  “You two may return,” Will said to Archer and Stubbs. He turned to his wife as the two men left. “Shall we continue?”

  She lifted her eyes to his, then smiled, following him in silence until they eventually came out of the woods. The grass-covered ground rose ahead of them, hiding the sea, and Will took the path leading directly to the rocks. He reached them first, and paused to take in the expanse of glittering blue before looking at his wife. Her wide smile as she gazed at the sea reminded him of Bella when he surprised her with a present.

  “It’s wonderful!”

  She turned the smile on him, and his breath caught for a moment. He’d thought her face reasonably attractive before, but her smile and the way her eyes sparkled with pleasure…

  With an effort of will he turned away and opened the satchel, pulling out two stone bottles and a cloth-wrapped packet.

  “Sit,” he invited, spreading his waistcoat on one of the rocks. He pulled the cork out of one bottle and sniffed—lemonade. Handing that to his wife, he unwrapped the cloth to find slabs of seed cake and ginger cake. Mrs Curnow had remembered two of his favourites.

  The second bottle contained ale. He lowered himself to the grass, resting his back against a rock. As he sat down beside her an unexpected feeling of content spread through him. The taste of the ginger cake in his mouth and the sun’s warmth on his face took him back to his childhood, playing here with his mother and siblings. Now here he was again, in the company of a beautiful woman—his wife. She was nothing like the women he’d known in London, and that could only be good. Was happiness a possibility again, in this place, with her?

  He glanced at her again. The seed cake she’d accepted was ignored in one hand, the other shading her eyes as she looked out to sea, the smile still on her face. Such pleasure from a sea view!

  Why did I agree to give her a month?

  He forced his eyes seawards, trying to turn his mind to more prosaic subjects. To the west, fishing boats were heading towards Ashmouth, the outflow of the river itself hidden behind a curve in the cliffs. Beyond the boats, approaching clouds loomed.

  “We should return, my lady.” He gestured towards the west. The misty grey of rain above the sea and dark cloud-shadows on the water made plain just how quickly the storm was approaching.

  “Must we?” She took a bite of the cake.

  “We risk a soaking if we do not go now.”

  “And would cooling down be a bad thing?” Her smile looked mischievous now.

  He laughed. “No, but there could be lightning. This is an exposed position.”

  She finished the piece of cake and dusted her fingers as he put the bottles back into the satchel. “Very well.” With one last, wistful glance at the sea, she walked with him towards the woods.

  “You may come here any time you wish, my lady.”

  She bestowed that smile on him again, and hurried into the trees. He followed, watching the sway of her hips as she walked, aware of the air becoming damp and the first patter of raindrops on the leaves above them. When they reached the edge of the woodland their heads and shoulders were wet, and the house was half-hidden beyond sheets of heavy rain.

  “Race you,” she said, hitching up her skirts and setting off across the grass at a run.

  He stood and gaped for a moment, then sprinted after her with a laugh. He caught up easily, hampered as she was by her skirts. Taking one hand, he pulled her on until they reached the edge of the gardens.

  He’d aimed directly for the house as he usually did, forgetting that she would not be able to clamber up the ha-ha wall . Running ahead, he leaned with his back against the bricks and made a stirrup of his hands. Will she use it?

  She did, hardly pausing before placing a muddy shoe on his linked hands, one hand on his shoulder, her knee landing on top of the wall when he boosted her upwards. She scrambled to her feet and waited for him to vault up too, her hair plastered to her laughing face and her skirts to her legs.

  Why do women wear so many damned layers?

  Her smile faded when he did not speak, and he brought his mind back to practicalities. He offered his arm, and they walked through the gardens towards the front door as if the heavens had not opened.

  “Will you take refreshment with me, my lady? It is a long time until dinner.”

  “Connie.” She met his eyes with a shy smile. “Please would you call me Connie, my lord? It is what I am used to from my… my friends.”

  “Very well. Will you drink tea with me, Connie? In an hour?”

  “Half an hour will be enough for me, my lord. Unless you need longer?”

  Warren opened the door as they approached, and they stepped into the shelter of the hall.

  “Half an hour then.”

  She smiled, then walked up the stairs. He dragged his eyes away from her retreating form, and went to ask Mrs Curnow for more cake.

  Chapter 18

  Connie sat before the mirror as Milsom combed out her wet hair. The maid’s glance flicked to the pile of wet clothing visible through the dressing room door, and she gave a particularly hard tug at Connie’s hair. Wincing, Connie put up a hand and took hold of the comb.

  “I will do it myself, Milsom. I won’t need you again today.”

  “You need your hair dressed prop—”

  “I said that will be all. You may deal with those wet clothes, then leave.”

  “My lady.” The maid let go of the comb, and went into the dressing room, her feet making more noise on the floor than was necessary.

  Connie turned on the stool as she continued working at the tangles, reminding herself that Lord Wingrave had said they could find someone better. Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, she hurriedly twisted her hair up into a knot. She’d said half an hour was plenty; if she didn’t hurry she’d be late.

  In spite of that thought, her hands stilled as she pulled the green gown on, recalling Lord Wingrave’s form sprawled on the grass on the cliff top.

  Forcing herself to concentrate, she fastened the front of her gown.

  He had looked happy eating cake and drinking ale on the cliff-top. Was that why she’d challenged him to race her b
ack? That was the kind of thing she’d done with the Fancott children when they were all younger, not something a future countess should be doing. But he hadn’t minded—there had been laughter in his blue eyes as they faced each other in the rain. She’d seen the way his wet shirt clung to his chest, glimpsing intriguing contours and shadows before she’d averted her eyes. Like the drawing of a Greek god in one of Mr Fancott’s books.

  Heat rose to her face. What would he look like without his clothing? She’d never wondered that about a man before, but surely it was not improper to think in that way about her husband?

  That look in his eyes after he’d helped her up the ha-ha wall—had he been thinking the same thing about her?

  She stood abruptly, checking her appearance in the mirror. She was tidy enough, and hopefully her blush would have faded by the time she reached the parlour.

  Connie stopped in the parlour doorway—not only was the tea not set out there, but the furniture was still shrouded in dust sheets. Connie rubbed her face. She had told Mrs Strickland to remove the covers, hadn’t she?

  Yes, she had. That was why she’d come in here. The tea must be set out in the large drawing room.

  That room looked even more depressing now. Although the rain had eased, thick clouds still obscured the sky to the west. The only bright spot was made by the plates of sandwiches and small cakes on a table by the window.

  She took a seat as Barton carried in the tea tray, followed by Lord Wingrave. Dry and fully clothed in his formal coat and waistcoat, his expression serious again, he seemed very different from the wet and laughing man who had boosted her up the wall. She lowered her eyes.

  “Thank you Barton,” he said. “We will serve ourselves.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The door shut behind the footman.

  “I’ve never been comfortable with servants overhearing my conversation,” Lord Wingrave said. “Not to mention the formality of it.”

  Connie’s lips twitched. That sounded more like the friendly man from earlier.