Chapter 16 - Stephen #2
Stephen leaned back against the gently sloped copper tub and sighed.
His back and hips ached a bit from riding his horse, and the hot water felt wonderful.
He’d been surveying the fence line of the property over the past few days if the weather was nice, noting repairs that were needed.
Usually Vera or Benjamin accompanied him, sometimes both.
Today it had been Benjamin, and their time together finally felt natural, easy—as time between two brothers should be.
They’d ridden to the far field in the morning, the one with the sizeable berm.
Stephen was teaching Benjamin some of the basics of handling a rifle.
They’d started with safety, naturally, and would proceed from there as Benjamin’s responsibility allowed.
Overall, it had been an exceedingly pleasant day.
Stephen tipped his head back and closed his eyes as steam wafted from the tub.
His valet, Edwin, had drizzled a bit of oil over the top of the water that smelled of sandalwood and eucalyptus.
Though Stephen typically eschewed all perfumes, this was the exception.
Stephen gave a small exhale of derision, remembering an instance some idiot had poured a great quantity of rose oil into his bathwater at a London hotel.
Stephen had already been running late to the theatre; there was no time to request fresh water.
His choice was to go smelling strongly of horse—and the whisky he’d spilled earlier—or to bathe.
He later wished he’d gone as he was. He’d stunk up the entire box; he’d reeked worse than Great Aunt Bertian’s potpourri.
There was a tug at the bathing sheet near his feet.
He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Edwin, the water’s fine; you may leave me.”
Stephen froze as a sizeable splash sounded at the far end of his tub. He remembered his valet had already departed, as Stephen had instructed—the man was heading down to the kitchens, doubtless to flirt with the new parlor maid.
Stephen took a fortifying breath and cracked one eye.
At the other end of the copper tub, half-submerged in water, was a raccoon.
In that split second, Stephen couldn’t help but notice that the raccoon had adopted a similar position to his own—on his back, leaned against the tub, and staring right back at him.
Though he’d sworn never to repeat the experience, Stephen gave an involuntary yelp that echoed through the chamber. He flailed and heaved himself from the tub, sending a wave of bathwater sluicing over the stones.
The racoon didn’t seem at all alarmed by Stephen’s reaction. Instead, it slid lower into the water as if settling in to enjoy the warmth. Stephen scrabbled for a towel and instinctively wound it ’round his waist, protecting the most vulnerable parts of himself.
“Stephen?” his mother called from his bedroom.
“Do not come in here!” he bellowed.
He checked the door to his bathing chamber, relieved to find it closed. He scowled—that meant the little bugger had been lying in wait, or had slipped in when the footmen delivered the water.
“Whatever is the matter?”
“One of your creatures has joined me in the bath!”
There was a moment’s pause. “That’ll be Hurbert. He dearly loves a swim, and I haven’t drawn him a bath in ages.”
“Mother,” he snapped in exasperation, swiping at himself haphazardly with a towel.
He jerked his tunic over his head quickly, not wanting to lose sight of the raccoon. But the little beast spared him no attention—it was now lazily swimming laps in the copper tub.
“Yes, dear?”
Her voice sounded strange through the door—was she laughing at him? The idea of it only agitated him further. He yanked up his trousers, accidentally snapping his chest with his suspenders in his haste, and stomped to the door.
As he suspected, his mother waited with a brightness in her eye that could only be attributed to merriment.
He scowled. “I’d very much appreciate it if these animals were removed from the house!”
“I know, dear. But the fact is that most of them have lived here longer than you, as of late.”
“Meaning that they take precedence over my comfort?”
“Their lives do; yes.”
“I’m not saying you have to kill them, Mother. I’m simply asking for them to be relocated. Don’t the stables have room for some cages or whatnot?”
“Cages? Certainly not. They wouldn’t be comfortable in cages.”
Stephen opened his mouth to argue that it was now coming down to his comfort versus the animals’ comfort, and he was still losing, but at that precise moment, the raccoon trundled out from his bathing room and shook himself dry on the carpet.
Stephen was struck momentarily dumb by the sight and resisted the instinctual urge to punt the thing across the room.
His mother swooped down on the offending animal, picking him up and cradling him to her chest. “Did you have a good swim, Hurbert? I’m sorry if his yell upset you—”
“Mother!”
But she was already turning for the door. “Yes, dear?”
He slid a hand down his damp face and sighed, defeated. “Please keep your animals out of my rooms, at least.”
“Of course, dear.”
If Stephen expected sympathy when he repeated the story to Vera the following afternoon, he was sorely disappointed. Vera laughed and laughed until he stared at her with exasperated patience.
A little laughter was to be expected—even he could see a glint of humor in it, now that he was nearly twelve hours removed from the experience—but this much? Certainly this much laughter was excessive. Still, Vera’s laugh was that low rasp of hers that Stephen had come to love.
Love? What a shocking word to use in this context.
They were on their way back from Mr. Douglas’s once more. Though the weather had turned cold, he seemed to be improving and was in much better spirits.
“Do you not like animals?” Vera asked after she’d recovered enough to speak.
This had taken some time, as she’d relapsed into laughter several times, with small breaks of hiccuping recovery between.
“I do. Normal animals, such as dogs and horses.”
“Your mother’s animals are so much smaller than dogs and horses. Why are you more frightened of them?”
“That’s part of the problem—they give me the same feeling as a spider or snake. I’m half-convinced they’ll charge me and scramble up my trouser leg.”
“I’m the opposite. I can handle a hedgehog or a fox easily. The first time I saw the Duke of Canterbury’s dog, I was petrified.”
“Seamus?” Stephen grinned. “It’s hard to imagine him frightening anyone.”
“I know that now, and I adore him. But I was ill-prepared to deal with him when I first met him. It was a surprise, you see, and there he was, all six hundred pounds of him, stretched out in the foyer.”
“He’s only two hundred twenty pounds. Or at least, that was the last measurement they had. The duke says Seamus has no concept of how large he is—the fellow is terrified of squirrels.”
Vera laughed again. “So he’s like you, then.”
“I’ve been likened to worse, I assure you.” His eyes slid to study her face in what he hoped was taken for a casual glance. “So are you saying you wouldn’t enjoy having a dog like Seamus around the house?”
“Of course not! He’s such a dear. It was only the initial shock of him that put me off, and only for a moment. Now I know what to expect and he doesn’t frighten me at all.”
“My father always had dogs around the house, but my mother prefers a wilder sort of pet, apparently.”
“I doubt that dogs would appreciate a fox or a raccoon about the house,” she admitted.
Precisely, Stephen thought.