The Earl Meets His Match

Chapter 1

May 11, 1819

For His Lordship Christopher William Fitzwilliams Winterthrope, the Right Honorable Earl of Eden, waking in sweat--soaked terror was a regular occurrence. Therefore he was hardly bothered when it happened on this particular morning—-that is, until he remembered the date. He blinked at the luxurious lacework canopy that draped over his bed and groaned. It was a Tuesday, which in itself was not so awful, but it was the Tuesday he had been dreading.

He ignored his racing heart and slipped out of bed, shoving his feet into slippers to save them from the chilly floor. A pitcher of cool water awaited him at the washbasin, and he employed it liberally. As he dabbed himself dry, he glanced at his bedside table, where a letter addressed to His Lordship sat mockingly. Just the sight of it was enough to set his teeth on edge. He didn’t wish to dwell on disagreeable thoughts, so he focused on how he would dress for the day instead.

Unlike most gentlemen of his age and status, Christopher always dressed himself before taking breakfast. It was one of the young master’s many quirks, this tendency to do things for himself instead of employing a valet or footmen or chambermaids or a dozen other unnecessary servants. There were a handful of day workers who could be called from the village to assist the skeleton staff, but Christopher didn’t concern himself with the details, so long as his home was kept as empty as possible.

He opened the door to his dressing room, which had always served to calm his nerves in the face of tumult and strife. There was nothing like it. He inhaled the scent of clean linen and wool and smiled.

“What shall we do today, lads?” he murmured to the assembled wardrobe. As the day was to be a wearisome one, he felt only his best armor would do.

He ran a hand over the rack where the riding breeches hung in a neat line. Supple fabrics and straight stitching met his palm, the feel of well--made pieces pleasing him greatly. There were leathers, too, both in soft buckskin and sturdier specimens for more vigorous journeys on horseback. Tall riding boots lined the perimeter of the floor in shades of tan. Stacks upon stacks of crisp white muslin shirts waited patiently in their dresser drawers.

The eggshell breeches, he decided, with the coat of fawn. A waistcoat of exquisite pale silk, embroidered in gold vines. A pristine shirt paired with his everyday cravat: they were all placed meticulously on the small upholstered bench that stood in the center of the dressing room, lined up like soldiers ready for battle. Christopher surveyed his troops with a keen eye and found no loose threads or stray scuff marks. As it should be, he thought before donning the ensemble. He took great pleasure in maintaining his clothing and always sent anything less than perfectly presentable to the village seamstress for mending, as he was quite useless with a needle.

Of course, a valet should have been the one wielding that needle and overseeing the mending, as Cook so often reminded him. And yet.

Without a valet present to temper Christopher’s strange habits, he had taken to wearing almost exclusively light colors throughout the year, which matched his head of white--blond curls. Even in the darkest months of winter, he donned only pale buckskin breeches, cloud--colored coats, and boots reminiscent of milky tea. His middle would sometimes sport a waistcoat of dove grey or a fine tan, or, if he was feeling very saucy indeed, a hint of pastel blue, but never anything darker. During one rare occasion when Christopher had accepted an invitation to dine at a neighboring estate, a fellow guest had wondered aloud what Lord Eden might wear to a funeral, if indeed His Lordship owned something suitable for such a thing at all. Christopher had replied that he avoided the issue entirely by making it a point never to attend funerals.

The other dinner guests had laughed at this display of ready wit. Christopher, meanwhile, had proceeded to drink far too much wine and kept silent for the rest of the interminable evening. The next morning, he’d found himself afflicted with the worst headache he’d ever endured, not to mention the memory of the especially awful terrors that had plagued his sleep.

He hadn’t been foolish enough to accept another dinner invitation since.

Christopher gave his cravat one final twist and tuck, then raised his chin to look at himself in the mirror. Gentlemanly perfection, he thought with a pleased nod. He was on the shorter side and fairly stout, but that was fine. His face was perhaps a bit more delicate than he would prefer, but if the men’s fashion periodicals out of London were to be believed (and those were the only sort of periodicals Christopher read), it was rather desirable for a dandy to have rosebud lips and a button nose. He turned his head as he considered the mirror’s reflection. His side whiskers, of course, would never be as long and lush as some of his peers’, but with his fair coloring, this could be chalked up to the curse that plagued many blond men in their quest for facial hair.

All things being equal—-though they were most certainly not—-Christopher made a fine picture of a young Lord Eden.

As he left the dressing room, he pocketed the letter on the bedside table in case he needed to refer to it later, then unlocked his bedroom door and went clattering down the stairs.

Each footfall echoed terribly, as did every sound in Eden Abbey. The old manor house might have been the jewel of the surrounding countryside once upon a time, but those times had long since ended. Christopher passed many a shut door on his way through the hall. If he bothered to open them, he would have been greeted with the sight of white sheets draped over disused furniture like frozen ghosts. The majority of the Abbey’s twenty--six bedrooms were closed up and left to gather dust. The ballroom, which had seen no dancing since the time of Christopher’s grandfather, was filled only with silence. The rooms meant for dining and music were wholly unnecessary, and Plinkton, the ancient butler, had long since given up on keeping them in good repair on the outside chance that they would receive guests.

No guests ever came to Eden. Not any longer. Not since Christopher had become earl—-the mechanics of which he did not like to contemplate.

Two portraits loomed large in the main hall, and Christopher gave these not a glance as he passed them by. The figures in those paintings depicted only what was dead and gone.

Yet there were signs of life still—-the scent of breakfast was already permeating the halls, making Christopher’s stomach growl in anticipation. Normally an earl, even a lone earl with no wife or family, would break his fast in the morning room. A handful of footmen would line the walls, ready to pour more tea or deploy another slice of toast to His Lordship’s plate. Letters and such would be delivered on a silver salver as he ate. But Christopher did not conduct himself as other earls did, and it was his normal practice to take his breakfast belowstairs in the kitchens, in the company of his bare--bones staff.

“Good morning, Cook,” he called out in greeting as he pushed through the door that separated the servants’ domain from the rest of the house. His booted feet tramped down the steps in iambic pentameter. “How is my best girl today?”

“She’s right tired of seeing your face,” Cook said. She came into view as Christopher reached the bottom of the steps and turned into the kitchens. “When do you leave, again?”

“You won’t be rid of me until next week, sadly,” Christopher replied with a winning smile, in response to which she snorted.

Cook was a tall, broad, imposing woman of indeterminate age. She had been employed in Eden Abbey’s kitchens since before Christopher was born, and even in his earliest memories of her, she looked exactly the same as she did that morning. Her hair was a fiery red shot through with burnished silver, and her eyes were couched in a fierce squint. Her eyesight was famously poor, making it necessary for her to taste all her dishes instead of judging them by sight, so she was always dipping a spoon into this or tearing off a bite of that. She had a given name, Christopher was certain of it, but he had never been told what it was and he felt that now it was too late to politely ask. Cook she was, and Cook she would forever be.

She placed a steaming cup of tea and a tray of fresh--baked buns on the long counter just in front of a wooden stool, Christopher’s customary spot. He slid onto the seat and obediently sipped at the brew, which was just as he liked it: black with far too much sugar.

“Today’s the day, isn’t it?” she asked. “For the new valet to arrive?”

Christopher did not quite suppress his sigh. He couldn’t ignore the fact any longer, it seemed. “Yes,” he said. “Today your ranks swell with the addition of exactly one manservant.” Another sip of tea. “Or they might, I should say; I told the solicitors I would send him right back if I didn’t like the look of him.”

“That’s a neat piece of work.” She glanced up whilst chopping carrots into smaller and smaller bits, no doubt in preparation for the evening meal. Christopher worried for her fingers, but Cook was naturally gifted at knife work and never seemed to slip. “If this chap works out, you can take him with you to London, eh?”

Christopher snagged a bun, still warm and steaming, from its tray. “Yes. London,” he agreed miserably. To comfort him self, he licked the dusting of sugar off the top of his bun, the way he always had since he was a tiny child, before taking a bite. The flavors of currants and rosewater filled his mouth as he chewed. Cook had a deft hand with cakes and breads of all sorts, but these little morning buns, as she called them, were Christopher’s favorite. He wondered if she had baked them specifically to be a balm to him on this harrowing day.

A country mouse through and through, Christopher was loath to leave Eden under any circumstances, but his impending sojourn would be especially horrid, for London would be in the throes of the Season when he arrived. Balls. Fêtes. Picnics. Outings. He shivered as he took another mouthful of bun. He detested social occasions. They so often required him to be sociable.

And yet, so much depended upon his success there. The letter from the solicitors weighed heavily in his pocket.

“It’s a good thing you took my advice,” Cook said as she dumped her carrots into a pot. “Getting yourself a valet to attend to you this summer, I mean.”

Christopher grimaced, recalling the conversation they’d had in this very kitchen not one month ago.

You’ll need to bring a man with you, Cook had said.

Why should I need a man? Christopher had replied in alarm.

Cook had merely rolled her eyes and continued kneading her bread dough. To look after you, m’lord. London society’s got expectations, don’t they? You might get away with doing as you please out here in Eden, but in London they’ll tear you apart for stepping out of line, pardon my saying so. All the lords and ladies have personal servants, and so should you. It’s not as if old Plinkton is up to the task, is he?

Cook had been right, damn it all. Poor Plinkton would wilt in London. The aged butler wasn’t as spry as he used to be, and there were so many carriages to dodge on city streets these days. Even going up the grand staircase at the Abbey was a chore for him, what with his bad knees. No, best to keep the loyal retainer at home where it was safe. After serving the last three Lord Edens, it was only fair for the man to be given a bit of a respite.

Yet as Cook had pointed out, a man of Christopher’s station would be expected to live in a certain amount of comfort. He could hire a temporary staff of maids and footmen to keep the townhouse in order during his visit—-a common enough arrangement—-but a valet was another matter. If he did not appear in London with the requisite valet already at his side, there would surely be rumors that his eccentricity had given way to madness, or worse, tight--fisted frugality. For a man like Christopher, rumors were to be quelled at any cost, even at the price of his independence.

In the end, Christopher had swallowed his pride and written to his solicitors: I am in want of a valet, and if you would be so kind as to find a suitable one, I would be most obliged. He instructed that the man, when found, should be sent to Eden Abbey ahead of his London sojourn. I understand this does not give you gentlemen much time to produce a candidate, he scribbled in apology, but I have no doubt you will find a decent enough man for me. My only stipulation is that my valet be on the younger side. I would prefer youthful vigor to experience in this case, as I have a notion that an older man might be quite set in his ways and unable to conform to my particular mode of living.

He had also included in the letter a query as to how they were progressing on the matter of his late father’s will, then sent it off to Cloy what good would it do to worry them needlessly?

“Yes, yes. Business with the solicitors. Don’t see why they can’t come here to you instead, but what do I know?” Cook shook her head and returned her attention to stirring the pot. “Bless my soul, m’lord, you -really must find a way to enjoy the city. A man like yourself, in the prime of your life—-you should be dancing and promenading and such, not spending every evening at home with a book.”

Plinkton came to his defense, as he so often did. “Young Lord Eden’s time is his own,” he said. “It’s his right to spend his evenings however he wishes.”

Cook snorted and joined them at the counter. “Maybe the new valet will take my view and get him out and about. He should, if he’s any good at the job.” She pinned Christopher with a look. “What are you going to do if this man isn’t up to scratch, m’lord? Waltz into London society with your cravat done up all wrong?”

Christopher tore off a chunk of the bun and ate it with more aggression than was strictly necessary. “I have never worn a cravat wrongly in my life,” he said.

“Still.” She poured herself a cup of tea and drank it while standing. “Every young gentleman of your station has a valet these days to show ’em what’s what. I wager a good one will be fixing things for you that you didn’t even know needed to be fixed.”

“How is it that you’re privy to what all the young men of my station are doing these days?” Christopher shot back with an amused raise of his brow. “Do you have some strapping young suitors hidden somewhere, Cook? Do they regale you with tales of their staffing situations?”

Plinkton gave an affronted wheeze that sounded much like an asthmatic sheep, but Cook just laughed. She had always been the more tolerant of Christopher’s teasing.

“Never mind my suitors. You just concentrate on your business in London,” she said. “And for god’s sake, try to get along with this new man. You may even find you enjoy having a valet do for you, heaven forbid.”