Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
I awoke in a tub of cooling bathwater that bore the rich aroma of lavender.
The water was tepid, the bath surrounded by painted screens that reflected the heat of a crackling blaze.
The scenes on the screens depicted nymphs artfully adorned by wisps of seafoam, fantastical shore birds on glistening golden rocks, and sparkling waves receding to a blue horizon.
To the left of the hearth sat a woven basket full of logs, oak from the look of them. Somebody had the means to burn wood, of all the extravagances. Somebody could afford fanciful screens and hard milled lavender soap.
Was I that somebody?
I rose from the water, toweled off, and donned a blue brocade dressing gown that covered me only just past the knees.
I did not recognize the dressing gown. I did not recognize the room I occupied.
The appointments were lovely, all soft blues with dashes of verdant greens and touches of gold.
The azure bed hangings were tasseled with gold.
The curtains, of the same hue, were tied back with gold roping.
The windowsills bore strips of gold, the brightness of which for some reason made my eyes ache.
I reached for the ballast of relevant facts: Where was I? I had no clue. Had I been drinking?
My breath savored of peppermint, suggesting I had used my toothpowder. Had I been inebriated, toothpowder would have been insufficient to obscure the evidence. My head felt clear, but… empty. I sought in the mental mists for my name and found… a denser mist.
I moved the screens aside and visually searched my quarters for any detail that might spark a return of knowledge that had abruptly gone missing.
I had a name. I simply could not recall it.
I had come to this place for some purpose—or perhaps I routinely dwelled amid all this comfort—but I knew not where I was.
I inventoried my physical sensations. I was clean, and that mattered to me. I was neither hungry nor thirsty, though neither was I bristling with energy. Riding attire that looked recently brushed was laid out on the bed. The lot of it could have done with some ironing.
The boots at the side of the bed were damp around the toes. I stood next to the right boot, and it looked to fit me. Far from the first stare of fashion, but then, the land beyond the windows bore a glaringly white layer of snow.
And that offended my eyes as well.
Where the hell had my mind gone?
A pair of worn saddlebags hung on the bedpost. Surely, if I could afford scented bathwater, a wood fire, and gold leaf on my windowsills, I could afford a decent pair of saddlebags …
They had no monogram anywhere on the leather, no family crest burned into the flaps.
“If I own the semi-disreputable boots and the worn saddlebags, I am either eccentric, or I do not also own this delightful abode.” Which would make me a guest of some sort.
My appearance was peculiar. The cheval mirror revealed a lean, bewildered-looking fellow whose hair went from ghost pale at the ends—I was sure the length itself was unfashionable—to flaxen, then sandy, then a rusty brown near my crown.
Whatever the cause of my strange locks, they looked normal to me.
I looked normal to me. Also worried.
“Let’s have a look.” I took down the saddlebags, the soft leather bulging but packed to weight both sides equally.
Shaving kit. No initials. Same with a plain pocket comb, spare neckcloth—clean and rolled to minimize wrinkling, but how did I know that?—clean stockings, and a handkerchief. I apparently had no lady to embroider my personal effects. A pity, that.
A small cloth bag held a miniature treasure trove of male fashionable accessories. Cravat pins, a trio of watches—no inscriptions—three different sets of jeweled sleeve buttons, a comb inlaid with nacre…
None of it looked familiar, and what sort of fellow kept such an expensive hoard in worn saddlebags? The obvious answer was that I thieved for a living, which made no sense given the opulence of my surrounds. Mysteries wrapped in conundrums tied up with puzzles.
I also found about two pounds in coin. A sharpened pencil, a small notebook. Somebody had scribbled a few notes on the papers: Why past tense? What does she know? Is she trying to protect someone? Where are the maids? What do they know?
The penmanship was neat and the questions perplexing. Perhaps I wrote Gothic tales?
My hands bore no ink stains. Neither did any stains appear on the cuffs of the shirt laid out on the bed.
The last item I withdrew from the saddlebags was a small handwritten card. The hand on the card looked to be the same as the hand that had penned the questions in the notebook.
Mine?
I read the card and was both relieved and more flummoxed than ever. My name was Julian Caldicott, and I was brother to His Grace of Waltham. I was prone to temporary memory lapses, and should one befall me, I was to be returned to my family at Caldicott Hall.
How utterly outlandish.
And yet…
I dressed in the riding attire laid out on the bed.
The fit was on the loose side of perfect, the feel familiar.
I sniffed the wool riding jacket and got a faint whiff of horse and not much else.
I arranged my cravat into a slightly limp mathematical, though how I knew what to call the knot, much less how to tie it—didn’t ducal sons have valets for that sort of thing? —eluded me.
“The entire world eludes me.”
Or nearly the entire world. I knew how to use a comb, knew that a tug on the bell-pull would bring footmen to remove the tub, but whose footmen?
Let’s find out, shall we?
I had no memories, and now I was hearing voices in my imagination. I yanked the bell-pull anyway. The situation wanted more information. How temporary were my temporary lapses, where was I, and how the hell did I get myself to Caldicott Hall?
Two minutes later, a pair of muscular footmen arrived, all smiles and good cheer.
Brothers from the blond, cherubic look of them and from the similarity of their movements.
They returned the screens to a dressing closet I had yet to explore, gathered up the accoutrements of my ablutions, and set the empty cans of rinse water in the corridor.
“Best thing for chilblains is a good soak, my granny says,” one of them remarked. “She were the housekeeper before Mrs. Betancourt’s time.”
Was Mrs. Betancourt my hostess? What of Mr. Betancourt?
“Been Tamworths at the Dovecote since all the unicorns fled to Scotland,” the second footman added. “Shall we bring up more wood, my lord?”
I was a courtesy lord. Right. A ducal courtesy lord with shoddy boots, worn saddlebags, and peculiar hair. “The stores on hand should be sufficient for now. What time is supper?”
“Supper be six o’clock, prompt,” the first said. “With a guest in the house, we’ll ring all three bells. Arbuthnots appreciate good tucker, my lord. You’ll not go to bed hungry while you’re a guest at the Dovecote. Mr. Sheldon will appreciate your company.”
“And I will appreciate his. Would it be possible to send a note to Caldicott Hall?” Sheldon Arbuthnot? A likely enough name, but I had no familiarity with it.
The older fellow glanced to the window, where a westering sun was turning the sky a virulent red along the horizon.
“Might not get there tonight, sir. The Hall is a half day’s trot in fine weather.”
“Wee Eddie would take it,” the younger brother said, and I gathered that when these two weren’t exuding professional congeniality, they could bicker like any pair of siblings.
“Used to be a jockey in them jumping races. Nearly broke his neck any number of times. Knows the back of a horse like Master Sheldon knows his brandy.”
Master Sheldon? Was my host a schoolboy sot? “Please ask Eddie to get a note to Caldicott Hall for me. No heroic measures. Delivery in the morning will do. He’s not to take foolish risks, and I will want to know when he’s safely returned.”
The younger footman positioned himself at the foot of the tub, the older at the head.
“Is your lordship biding with us for a while, then?” the younger fellow asked. “Mrs. B said you’re only staying the night. Shall we tell her otherwise?”
I’d brought no luggage, the saddlebags held only bare essentials, and I was only a half day’s journey from home, wherever home was.
The footmen were looking at me expectantly while my mind remained a complete, rubbishing blank.
“I haven’t decided yet how long I’ll tarry,” I said. “The weather is seriously disobliging, and one doesn’t want to risk a horse pulling a shoe.”
“Oh, aye.” Younger Brother nodded vigorously. “Wee Eddie can tell you all about that. He’s done more farriery—oof.”
Older Brother had interrupted a recounting of Eddie’s blacksmithing skills by the simple expedient of shoving the tub forward so the lip hit his sibling in the gut.
“You’ll make it slosh if you keep that up,” the younger grumbled. “I was just sayin’…”
“You’re always just sayin’. Mrs. Betancourt just says there’s no call for chatter in domestic service. I’ll collect my lord’s note when we’ve finished with the bath things.”
They went muttering and jostling—but not sloshing—on their way.
I sat at the vanity, taking stock of what the exchange had told me.
While I pondered that short list—I was a guest at the Dovecote, Shire Unknown, my overnight stay for purposes unknown, my host possibly a fellow named Sheldon Arbuthnot, and my nearest hope of aid at least half a day’s ride over bad roads and another half day’s return away.
A dismal harvest, though the situation could be worse.
I and my dodgy brainbox might be inured in some genteel asylum for the mentally infirm, though no asylum of any description had gold leaf on its windowsills.
Wonderful protection from the elements, and a boon to daytime illumination, but ungodly expensive.