Chapter Three #2
“Nor am I,” Lady Marchfield said, clearly surprised by that information. “I would say perhaps his conscience catches up with him, but that seems too unlikely.”
“We are to dine there on the thirteenth,” Lord Ledderbey said. “I suppose he’s issued you the same invitation.”
“He has not,” Lady Marchfield said grimly. “But rest assured, I will attend. You will not face him alone. It will not be the first time I have been forced to invite myself. In any case, I have recently installed a butler on the premises and would like to see how he gets on.”
Weston had initially imagined that the duke had asked Lady Marchfield to hire a butler for him.
But then the tea tray came in and she poured out the cups and described what happened to the other six butlers she’d sent into the duke’s house, one of which was still writing her letters from America.
This new one, she claimed, would stick no matter what the duke’s deranged housekeeper tried—he was a regular barnacle on a boat.
The duke was beginning to seem even more bizarre than he’d imagined.
“Now, I’ve already sent a note to Lady Westmoreland alerting her that you are in Town,” Lady Marchfield said.
“She will see to it that you are given vouchers and tickets to Almack’s.
The opening ball is in a week, it is critical you show yourself there.
Bring me the invitations you have received so far and let us see what we have to work with. ”
Weston nodded to Malberry to fetch the stack. Though, he remained silent on the idea of a ball. He certainly would not attend Almack’s as he did not dance. Were there any other balls in those invitations, he would not attend them either.
For all that, he was rather glad he’d handed over the task of sorting through that correspondence to Lady Marchfield.
With the efficiency of a general, she put the piles into yes and no, explaining to him why.
Some were routs thrown by what his aunt considered to be “climbers of the worst sort.” Others were in the yes pile, such as Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic, only because the attendees were rather rarified, though the event itself was absurd.
Yet others were in the yes pile as being dignified evenings where he would mingle with the right sort of people.
Two of those were the dreaded musical evenings.
Still, she’d left him to write out the acceptances and he felt he had a much better idea of what was what in this town.
He did not necessarily need to accept everything she’d given the stamp of approval.
After she had the invitations squared away, she went down to the kitchens to alert the Cook as to the most reliable grocers and explained to Malberry that he could contact her own wine merchant and use her name.
Should they wish for the best tea, Mr. Twining was their man.
She would send over her own butler for a consultation on anything else that was needed.
She’d glanced at Weston’s clothes and asked about the state of his wardrobe. Discovering it was much the same as what she currently viewed, it was deemed insufficient. “I will contact Mr. Rigleur myself and have him call on you. He will know what’s needed—Lord Marchfield depends upon him.”
She left with his assurance that he and Lord Ledderbey were to come to her house to dine on the morrow and that Lord Marchfield would be happy to see them.
After she departed, Lord Ledderbey said, “She is a helpful sort of lady.”
“Rather,” Weston said. “I believe we have found the captain of our London ship.”
“And from what I can gather, the duke will not like it.”
“All the better,” Weston said.
*
Mrs. Agnes Right found herself in an almost melancholy sort of mood. The carriages had entered the environs of London and the future she’d always dreaded marched inexorably closer. Her last girl would marry and leave the house.
Over the years, it had been so difficult to watch them go, one by one, but she’d soothed herself with the idea that there were still some of them in the house. Then after Winsome had wed, it was just Valor left to her.
That interesting poppet had done her level best to remain at home forever. Mrs. Right had almost hoped she’d succeed in it too. She had not, and the housekeeper had seen those inevitable signs of maturity coming over her. Like all the rest, she would wish for her own family.
And now here it was. The beginning of the end. Her only hope was that it might take more than one season to settle her.
Valor peered out the window at the bustling streets. “What do you think, Mrs. Right? My aunt says the new butler will be a barnacle on a boat.”
“Aye, so she says. Mr. Hubert Huberville is his name. But what I say is that any harbormaster worth their salt can scrape a barnacle off a boat with very little trouble.”
“So you will be the harbormaster?”
“I always have been, love.”
The carriages had entered the square and slowed to a stop.
Mrs. Right kept her eyes on the front doors, and she was glad she did. They were flung open and a short and round individual flew outside and promptly tripped. He fell on the road and rolled a few feet before coming to a stop.
The duke and his valet, Reynolds, had descended from their carriage. The duke stared down at the prone butler.
Charlie opened their carriage door and snorted. “Well Mrs. Right, there’s Lady Marchfield’s latest man lying on the ground looking like a dug-up potato.”
They were helped out, along with Sir Galahad who had, for the past hours, been snoring on his blanket. Valor took him in her arms and the little pug seemed very surprised that they’d turned up in a new place while he napped.
Meanwhile, Mr. Reynolds helped Mr. Huberville to his feet, his coat now severely muddied. Thomas ran ahead to get the door open for the duke, who stepped around Lady Marchfield’s latest project.
Really, where did the lady find these men?
Mrs. Right held up her head and did not deign to even glance at the muddy butler.
In the great hall, Valor said, “Goodness, this would be a moment when all my sisters would race above stairs to fight over the rooms. Now there is no need to run as nobody will compete with me.”
“Cheer up, Poppet,” Mrs. Right said, “you’ll finally have the best room.”
Valor nodded. “But I will be alone in that corridor. I’m going to ask Papa if you can take the room next to me.”
Mrs. Right nodded and presumed the duke would sanction it.
They already did so in the Dales. Valor had ever been harassed with nightmares and they still came upon her from time to time.
She was especially prone when left alone with only her imagination for company.
Mrs. Right had long moved out of the servants’ quarters on account of it after Winsome had gone.
“And we must be sure that Sir Galahad’s bed is put back together again by his bedtime. He’s been a very good soldier about roughing it over the past days.”
Mrs. Right nodded. Sir Galahad, unlike most canines, reposed in a miniature four-poster bed with a canopy of silk and a knit blanket it had taken Valor several years to complete.
The pieces of that very fancy dog bed were currently packed in the coach, but Charlie had disassembled and reassembled it so often that he would have it back together in no time.
Whether or not this bed was necessary was an ongoing question, as Sir Galahad more often ended up sleeping in Valor’s own bed, but Valor thought he preferred it for daytime naps.
“You go up and I will go down,” the housekeeper advised. “I would like to have a word with Cook regarding our new inhabitant.”
Valor carried Sir Galahad to his new bedchamber and Mrs. Right made her way down to the kitchens.
She found Cook waiting for her as he would have heard the ruckus of their arrival over his head.
As they’d always done, he’d traveled ahead and had been in the house for some days already to get the place in shape for the arrival of the duke.
“Well?” she said. “What do we have on our hands?”
“I hardly know how to explain it, Mrs. Right.”
“Do take a stab at it, though.”
Cook nodded. “You know how all these butler fellas think they’re above everybody else, as if they ain’t made from the same cloth?”
Mrs. Right nodded, as that was the primary thing she had against butlers.
“This one don’t. He’s as jumpy as a jackrabbit and forever apologizing over I do not know what.
This morning, he claimed he was sorry he’d finished his breakfast plate as he thought I might want some of it.
Why should I want something from his plate when I have my own?
I am the cook, can I not be trusted to make myself enough food?
That’s the way of him, sorry over everything. ”
Mrs. Right tapped her chin. This was new. She’d made a habit of taking a butler down a peg but it did not seem as if this one had any pegs to take down. “He ran out to greet the duke and fell on the road,” she said.
“Oh yes, that’s him all over. He’s always in such a state he’s forever falling over. He’s fallen off his chair twice already.”
Mrs. Right heard the familiar sound of footsteps on the stairs. Mr. Hubert Huberville came round the bend in a rush, bounced off a wall, and steadied himself with the back of a chair.
“Mrs. Right, an honor to meet you, my lady.”
My lady?
Mr. Huberville raised his hands as if she were on the verge of saying something, which she was not. “Now, I know you are the ruler of this roost! Rest assured, good lady, I do not intend on getting in your way!”
What in the world was she to do with this specimen? She’d never encountered the like of it.
Mr. Huberville mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “What next? Think, Huberville! What is to be done next? Don’t fall apart on the first day!”
“Mr. Huberville,” Mrs. Right said, wondering if the fellow was on the verge of expiring, “nothing must be done this minute. Charlie and Thomas will see to the trunks—”
“Charlie and Thomas,” Mr. Huberville said. “Just saw them, seemed like good sorts, those two.”
“Yes, very good sorts. Do sit for a moment. Cook, might we get a tea tray?”
“The water is on the boil, Mrs. Right,” Cook said.
Mr. Huberville collapsed on a chair. He pointed at Cook. “He knows what’s what, on the ball, as it were.”
Mrs. Right took her place at the head of the table, which she noticed Mr. Huberville had not challenged her on. “Mr. Huberville, in the general way of becoming acquainted, might you relay to me how you ended up losing your place, twice? Lady Marchfield did note it in her letter to the duke.”
This seemed to undo Mr. Huberville entirely. He covered his face with his hands. “You’re bound to find out the truth anyway.”
“Which is?”
“I’m not very good at it,” he whispered.
“I try to be, but it’s just one thing after another.
And then, people are so particular! One dinner party missing some forks and wine glasses and suddenly it’s ‘pack your bags, Huberville!’ One dropped saucière of gravy on somebody’s lap and it’s ‘pack your bags, Huberville!’”
Extraordinary. Mrs. Right wondered if Lady Marchfield had done this on purpose. Had she sought out the worst butler in London as a jest?
Cook brought over the tea tray, glancing at Mrs. Right with raised brows as if to say, You see what I was talking about.
Thomas and Charlie came down the stairs. They would have got the trunks in the house and would have their tea before hauling it all above stairs. With only one of the duke’s daughters left, it was a far less onerous job than it had been in years past.
Both footmen looked enquiringly at Mrs. Right. She nodded and said, “Sit down, boys. We have an interesting situation here.”
Their eyes drifted to the interesting situation, just now staring morosely into his tea.
“It’s me, she’s talking about me,” Mr. Huberville said.
“I’m terrible at my job, that’s what. Oh I know, you two fellas must be burning with hatred.
Probably want to punch me right in the face.
Why should Huberville be the butler instead of one of us when he’s not even good at it?
I don’t blame you for despising me, how could it be otherwise?
I’m sorry! Don’t punch me if you can manage it, I believe I suffer from very weak face bones. ”
Charlie and Thomas looked wide-eyed at Mrs. Right.
She sighed. “I can at least clear one thing up, Mr. Huberville. Neither Charlie nor Thomas want to be a butler. They’ve long cooked up a plan between them to open a tavern.
They’ve since made a deal with the duke to take over an old baker’s premises in our village and pay the duke the handsome sum of one pound a year and free ale for life.
It’s all to proceed at the end of this season. ”
“That gives us enough money in our pockets to turn the place into something nice and buy all the supplies. It’s a better deal than it looks—the duke hardly ever drinks ale,” Charlie said.
Thomas nodded. “He’s to stock his own private reserve of claret out of his own pocket and that’s what he’ll want to drink when he comes.”
“He says it’s important that he show his face there so his tenants know they can talk to him if they want.”
“Personally,” Thomas said, “I think they’ll all need a few drinks in them before they approach the duke—good for business, I reckon.”
Mr. Huberville took up his tea in a shaking hand. “A tavern. That’s a relief, I can tell you. I’ve had nightmares about it. What will those poor boys think! How hard will they punch? And me, with weak face bones!”
“P’raps take in some deep breaths,” Charlie advised.
“I’ll get a brush from Reynolds to get the mud off your clothes and you’ll be right as rain,” Thomas said encouragingly.
Mr. Huberville took that moment to cry, “Such kindness!” and then weep into his tea.
What in the world was she to do with this person? How was one to go about doing battle with a bowl of sobbing jelly?