Chapter 8 #2
“Not something a mere lad should boast of. Have you any news to report? Anything that has struck you as unusual?”
“The baron’s horses are usually famished. Grooms say the baron likes ’em trim for hunt season, but we’d never let our cattle get this skinny at the Hall.”
I’d noticed the same thing. Lean made sense. Ribs showing in winter was another matter. A gentleman did not, however, tell his host how to manage his stable.
“Keep Atlas in hay, if you please. Orders of my very fussy lordship. Imply that I leave generous vales for those who take good care of my horse, and you should scotch any grumbling.”
“You do leave good vales, but I’ll hear a power of grumblin’ anyway.
The grooms and lads love the Keep, but it’s like they love it to whine about.
Their quarters is cold, the ale is watered, the candles are shorter than two-hour candles ought to be, and the porridge is runny.
The porridge is runny, I’ll give ’em that.
No butter on the table nor honey neither.
Cook says she adds the butter to the pot, but she ain’t adding much. ”
Said every boy who’d ever turned his porridge into a glorified dessert. “What do you like about this place?”
Atticus wiped down the reins with a soft cotton rag.
“Nobody is too serious. The lads are codgers to a man, but they josh back and forth. The maids and footmen too. Not too many dirty looks or threats or mutterin’.
‘Oh, the Quality’ is about the worst they have to say.
They’ve all been pitchin’ in to get through the holidays, and they’ll tell each other ‘job well done’ when Twelfth Night is over. ”
A settled estate, in other words, with good leadership in the senior staff.
“Does anybody have anything to say about Bryson Carstairs?”
Atticus examined the snaffle bit, wiping that down with the same rag.
“The oldest grooms call him Master Bryson, and he’s Mr. Bryson to everybody else.
They say he don’t ride as well as Master Michael did, but Master Michael was part horse, to hear them talk.
I told ’em you ride better than anybody. ”
“I don’t, but the vote of confidence is appreciated. Does any particular person hold Bryson in contempt?”
Atticus began tying up the bridle in the fashion that would allow it to hang neatly from a hook.
“They don’t all care for Mr. Algernon. He apparently cuts a dash in Town, or he used to.
Jansen said Mr. Algernon should marry and set up his nursery, and Ferguson told him to shut his gob.
Ferguson tells everybody to shut their gobs.
‘Shut yer gob and get muckin’.’ ‘Shut yer gob and pitch that hay.’ A body can pitch hay and have a chat at the same time. ”
“Don’t tell Ferguson that. He might shut your gob for you.” Not likely, because Atticus was attached to Caldicott Hall, and Ferguson risked overstepping if he laid hands on the boy.
“He’d have to catch me first, and I’m faster’n a greased piglet. No hunting tomorrow, so the grooms are going skating after morning chores.”
Visions of goose eggs danced in my head. “Do you know how to skate?” I took the bridle from him and hung it on the hook nearest Atlas’s saddle.
“I will soon. Jansen says it’s easy.”
“Skating is easy once you figure out how to keep your balance, but the ice is a hard teacher until then. Take a pair of brooms, and don’t let pride keep you from using them.”
Atticus held his hands out toward the brazier. “Brooms? I won’t need no brooms. The gardeners and footmen keep the skatin’ part of the ice cleared.”
“Brooms, for your balance, like walking sticks if a fellow is in his cups. When you’re confident of your balance, you can set them aside, but not until then.”
“Brooms will make me look funny.”
Puerile pride could not endure such a fate. “Tell them that at Caldicott Hall, we always skate with brooms because it’s a ducal tradition.”
He scowled up at me. “Did you skate with brooms?”
“My brother Harry told me brooms were for girls. My sisters explained that girls, being smarter than boys, knew that brooms prevented the ignominy of multiple falls and the bruises the falls would cause. I used the brooms. My brother fell on his backside and needed a hot water bottle when he went to bed that night.”
“Landed on his arse?”
“Harry’s skates went out from under him, and he hit the ice directly on his tailbone. He did not skate for some years thereafter and could not sit a horse for weeks.” Such was the severity of his injury that I had not dared to mock him for it.
“I’ll bring the brooms along. I ain’t sayin’ I’ll use ’em.”
“Use them, and do not, for any reason, skate past the cleared portion of the ice. To do so is to risk catching your toe on some root or rock and going sprawling.”
Or worse.
“You done giving me orders, guv? Skatin’ is supposed to be fun. A treat before more work.”
“I am through trying to talk sense to you. You have done an excellent job with Atlas’s gear. Enjoy tomorrow’s outing.”
He grinned. “You’re turning me up sweet so I’ll use me brooms.”
“I despair of you. Don’t bide down here at the stable until all hours. Miss West will worry about you catching an ague.”
He let me have the last word and preceded me from the relative warmth of the saddle room. I tossed Atlas more hay—he had none—and handed out extra rations to his neighbors.
I was dawdling. Putting off my return to the Keep, wishing I’d had some time with Hyperia, and floundering utterly when it came to who sought to keep Bryson Carstairs in exile, much less why.
“I have motives and suspects,” I said, “but no evidence to support my conjectures and no confidence that my theories have any validity.”
Hyperia patted my hand. “This is the second day of your investigation, Jules. I’d say matters have progressed nicely if you already have motives and suspects. Do tell.”
We’d ridden through the estate village in Leander’s company, and thus our earlier conversation had been superficial and frequently interrupted.
The Keep’s village was of a piece with the rest of the estate: venerable, settled in appearance almost to the point of timelessness, and burdened by winter’s general dreariness.
In all likelihood, the village had looked the same for two centuries, and they hadn’t been easy centuries.
Having arrived at the vicarage, we occupied a window seat in what passed for the establishment’s schoolroom.
The worn braided rug had been pressed into service as a battlefield.
Field Marshal Lark commanded the French army (she refused to take Napoleon’s role).
General Avis had Wellington’s troops at her beck and call, and Generalfeldmarschall Leander von Caldicottenhoff had gallantly agreed to handle Blücher’s troops.
The terrain had been augmented by piled-up blankets, stacks of books, and other indicia of Waterloo’s contours. Our hostess had retired with the baby to tend to maternal duties, leaving Hyperia and me to the chaperonage of the infantry.
“The why of it bothers me most,” I said. “Why banish Bryson to Surrey? Who benefits? Every bachelor aiming for a lucrative match with one of the Delaplane ladies benefits. Anybody who seeks to make Lord Dunsford’s life difficult benefits. The baron misses his son, of that I am certain.”
“Anybody seeking to punish Bryson for past wrongs benefits,” Hyperia observed, “or derives satisfaction from this scheme, but you’re certain Bryson is pure as the driven snow.”
Miss Avis scooted around on the rug and inadvertently knocked over half a regiment. All hands turned to the business of reestablishing order in the ranks.
No human of adult years could claim to be as pure as the driven snow. “Bryson is a good, decent fellow who feels some guilt over his brother Michael’s passing. That guilt is undeserved, but neither is it entirely without reason.”
I wanted to take Hyperia’s hand, wanted to steal across the corridor with her and simply hold her. She was as cheerful, attentive, and astute as ever, but her gaze was troubled—or I imagined it so—and that troubled me.
“Part of your difficulty,” she said, “is that Bryson has been gone from this place for years. Whatever wrong he supposedly committed took place before he bought his colors five, even six, years ago. That’s a long time to recall a casual insult or broken promise.”
“A long time to nurse a grudge. You’re suggesting I canvass the elders. I have arranged a game of billiards with Algernon this afternoon, but other than Mrs. Fipps, few elders come to mind.” I’d gleaned what I could for the nonce from the baron and Lady Clotilda, little though it was.
“Time to send an express to Lady Ophelia,” Hyperia said. “I can do that on your behalf.”
I should have refused the offer because Hyperia was dealing with some rubbishing tangle urgent enough to concern my mother, but then, Lady Ophelia was an old hand at sorting out intrigues. Perhaps she could aid Hyperia where I could not.
“Please do send a dispatch. We’re interested in Lady Clotilda, Lord Dunsford, Michael, Bryson, Algernon, the Delaplanes, the Quiggans, the whole lot. Scandals, whispers, grudges, gossip—I’ll take anything Godmama has to share, return by express.”
I should have consulted Lady Ophelia as a preliminary step in the investigation, but better late than never.
My solicitors had been curiously unavailing regarding the Dunsford barony, other than to state it was old, much respected, and faring at least as well as could be expected in these challenging times.
“Have you eliminated any suspects?” Hyperia asked as Lark and Avis commenced a verbal sparring match about the arrangement of the Scots Greys, two of whom were small carved bears rather than white horses. A pair of tiny carved geese—both white— brought up the rear of the line.