Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
With all the petulance of a small child, Oswald Keeton threw his coat, hat and walking stick to the ground in the hallway of Mulford Manor, without any consideration for the young footman who had to scrabble to pick them up.
“Damn it all!” he snarled at no one in particular and everyone in general as he marched through the hall.
“Who the hell does she think she is? The Queen of Sheba, free to come and go in and out of my life as she pleases? The Harcourts always go to the Marchioness of Elford’s musical afternoons. Baines? Baines?!”
At this ill-mannered summons, a weary-faced but professionally-mannered butler appeared from an adjacent corridor.
“Yes, Your Lordship?”
“Is the drinks tray in the blue drawing room replenished?” snapped Lord Mulford. “There was almost nothing left but whisky last night. Entirely unacceptable! What do I pay you all for? What the hell is wrong with everyone?”
Nothing was as it should be this week, it felt to Oswald.
With the Season now at its height, he had expected to see Lady Frances Harcourt at least three times at various salons, dinners and dances.
Instead, the whole Harcourt family seemed to have gone to ground and no one, including the Elfords, could say why.
It was most frustrating, especially since Oswald had thought of some very creative ways to discreetly pay Lady Frances back for stamping on his foot at the Morgan ball.
He had long learned the particular words and gestures that seemed to most rile and disturb her and how to deliver them without raising the suspicion of other guests.
As always, Oswald had been very much looking forward to her silent humiliation and the knowledge that she could do nothing to stop him. But Lady Frances had not even been there at Lady Elford’s outdoor concert today, damn it all!
“I have refilled the decanters of brandy, sherry and port myself, Your Lordship,” the silver-haired butler assured him. “Just as you requested last night.”
Baines’ tact in not mentioning that Oswald himself had drunk the sherry and spilled the brandy only irritated his employer. Living alone as Oswald had done for so long, he had little amusement at home beyond goading the staff and making their lives harder.
“Well, I hope the brandy is up to snuff this time,” said Oswald, continuing to walk along the corridor and forcing the butler to follow him. “The last batch you ordered was very disappointing, Baines. It was not at all what I expected from a butler of your experience.”
“I was sorry to hear that, Your Lordship,” responded the man, with all the human feeling of an automaton. “You will find that all the decanters in the house have been refilled with your preferred brandy. If you require anything further, do not hesitate to ring.”
“Hmph,” returned Oswald, reaching the door of the blue drawing room. “I’ll likely ring for some food in a while. It has been a most dissatisfying afternoon and I have not eaten.”
“Of course, Your Lordship. The kitchen will be ready to provide whatever you need.”
“They better had be,” responded Lord Mulford. “Send up the food with one of the maids. There’s no sense in you fetching and carrying when I’m paying you to know the quality of brandy, is there, Baines?”
Baines failed to rise even to this jibe.
“No, Your Lordship. As you wish.”
Bowing, straight-faced, he left the room.
Oswald hoped that the kitchen would send up the newest maid, a young, nervous and tearful specimen who quaked at a single sharp word from the master of Mulford Manor.
Sometimes this maid’s pale complexion and light-brown hair even reminded him of Lady Frances Harcourt and he liked to pretend that she was the one trembling before him, rather than a gardener’s daughter whose name he could not remember.
How he would like to have Lady Frances equally at his mercy, unable to even leave the room without his permission and bound to obey his orders…
The faint resemblance between the two sometimes actually tempted Oswald to deflower the young maid, but he did not want the hassle of little bastards running around the estate or local villages.
He preferred to satisfy his needs with paid companions who knew how to take care of such matters. He would leave the maid untouched.
One day, of course, Lord Mulford planned that Lady Frances herself should belong to him completely.
He was sure that Lord and Lady Scovell would be susceptible to his blandishments and Frances’ refusal of all other men surely implied that she had a husband in mind, at least secretly.
Who else could that be but Oswald Keeton?
Yes, whatever she said, and however much she pretended to resist him, Oswald was sure that Lady Frances knew she was destined to be his bride. Once they were married, she would have to pay, of course, for every insult, injury and slight…
Having filled a glass with brandy, Oswald turned to a long portrait of a gay-looking woman with long red hair and a dress of crimson silk.
Penelope Keeton, Lady Mulford, might have been dead for almost seven years, but in this painting, she was as vibrantly alive as she still remained in her son’s imagination.
“I shall bring her home here one day, Mother,” Lord Mulford promised the image in the painting. “Just you wait and see. Then I shall have my revenge for what she and Lord Scovell did to you and to Father.”
Chuckling to himself, Oswald Keeton tossed back the rest of his brandy in a single gulp and then went to the window, rubbing his hands together in glee at the prospect of such a future with the helpless Lady Frances finally entirely in his power.