The Duke's London Steward

Prologue

LAMPTON PRIORY, GLOUCESTERSHIRE; MARCH

Calvin Garford sat on the stump of his favourite oak tree.

Below him, the last pair of wagons laden with timber was moving slowly off, the horses straining under the load.

Across the devastated woodland, weaving between stumps, patches of brambles and the few remaining saplings, George made his slow and steady way up to Cal’s perch.

Everything George did was slow and steady.

He could dig all day and not be unduly tired, a useful habit in a head gardener.

The young ones went at it hammer and tongs just at first, and were exhausted before noon, but they soon learnt to copy George.

“That’s the last of it away to the sawmill,” George said, removing his hat to wipe his forehead, for the sun was full of the promise of summer today. “Lord, what a mess! But he’ll replant — won’t he?”

“I heard tell he wants sheep,” Cal said.

“Sheep! It’s not fit for sheep, not here. I s’pose he could have the stumps taken out, and put it to grass.”

“The soil would wash away down the slope. The tree roots held it together.”

“Aye, very likely. Dare say he’ll replant, then. Or he could just leave it, and see what grows up natural like. Plenty of saplings left, too small to sell.”

“Most of them are damaged by the horses or the logs being pulled,” Cal said.

“Aye, but something will grow. Be a bonny forest again if it’s left.”

“Not in our lifetime, George,” Cal said. “Wicked, it is, to be chopping down the entire forest like this. Look at this oak.” He patted the stump that was providing him with a seat. “Two hundred years old if it’s a day, and as sweet as a nut, still. Not a bit of rot in it.”

“It’ll make good furniture, though, Cal,” George said uneasily. “Nothing here was grown just to be ornamental. A sturdy bit of oak like that fetches a good price.”

“He could have taken a few trees here and there, like his father did, or, better yet, a regular cycle of coppicing, and leave the forest alone between times. That’s how it was in his grandfather’s day. Listen — what do you hear?”

George frowned, tipping his head to one side as he concentrated. “Only the goat boy calling up the back hill. A carriage, mebbe, away on the turnpike. Nothing else.”

“Exactly! No birdsong, no creatures rustling through the undergrowth, not even the breeze making the trees sigh. It’s all gone…

nothing left, nothing but a few scraps of kindling for the villagers.

No birds, no beasts, a few mushrooms and snakes but not much else, and all the creatures breeding just now with the spring.

Foxes, badgers, dormice… the owls, too… all of them evicted from their homes so that Mr Charles Garth can buy new gowns for his daughter. ”

“Is that what it’s for?”

“Aye. She’s to be presented at court this spring, and that costs a deal of money. Funny thing is, she’d probably rather have the woods than the gowns. She loved this place almost as much as I did.”

“She’s a fine young lady, Miss Violetta. No doubt she’ll draw all the young men in London town and marry some great lord.”

“Let’s hope he has finer woods than her father has now,” Cal said.

George chuckled. “And a job for you, mebbe? You’ll not stay here now, surely?”

Cal shrugged. “It’s my home. Fifty years I’ve been here, boy and man, and there’s still plenty of work for me here, isn’t there?”

“Always work for the willing. Got some sowing, if you want to be indoors, or there’s acres of digging to be done. What will best stop you feeling so miserable?”

“Digging,” Cal said at once. “Can’t be miserable with a spade in your hand. Maybe there’ll be a robin come and talk to me while I dig.”

“Right. Then let’s get to it,” George said.

***

Lampton Priory was not quite the venerable pile its name implied, being less than a hundred years old, but it boasted many of the features of the medieval great houses, such as a long gallery and a great hall.

It lacked a chapel, however, so it was in the great hall, with its echoing high ceilings and tiled floor, that the present owner of the priory chose to read the morning prayers.

This event took place on every day except the Sabbath at precisely half an hour before ten o’clock, and required the presence of all the servants, the males lined up on one side, the females on the other and the outdoor staff standing on a mat just inside the great wooden doors, to prevent any influx of mud onto the pristine floor.

The family were seated on elegant gilt chairs in two rows across the middle of the room, Mrs Garth at one end of the front row with the older children beside her, and the younger ones behind, all arranged in order of age.

Behind them, three plain chairs catered for the governess, tutor and secretary.

Mr Garth stood at a lectern placed near enough to the fire to warm his behind while he spoke, reciting in ringing tones the collect for the day, followed by a well-chosen extract from the Holy Bible, suitable even for the servants and children to hear, and then leading the usual prayers.

There followed a period of silent prayer, ending at the exact moment the long case clock struck the hour, whereupon the family departed, the younger members to the nursery and the elder to the breakfast parlour.

There were four persons enjoying breakfast that morning, Mr and Mrs Garth and their two eldest children.

Edward was almost twenty and Violetta was seventeen, both handsome and well grown, the pride of their parents.

They settled themselves in their appointed places, Mr Garth politely holding his wife’s chair as she sat down, and Edward Violetta’s, then the two men seating themselves.

By the time this little ceremony was completed, the procession of servants had arrived from the kitchen to place the various dishes in their correct places on the table.

For half an hour, there was no conversation except that pertaining to the meal.

When the long case clock in the hall chimed the half hour, the servants entered again, removed the used plates, replenished the coffee and tea pots, and placed the newspaper, ironed and folded in front of Mr Garth and the tray of letters in front of Violetta.

It was her daily duty, as the youngest, to distribute the letters to their designated recipients.

It was not an exciting duty. Her father read his letters in silence.

Her mother, on the other hand, read out short sections and then stopped abruptly, with a ‘Well!’ or ‘Goodness me!’ or similar, before hastily folding the offending paper and stuffing it into her reticule.

Edward sniggered and chortled his way through his own letters, and when asked what was so amusing, replied, ‘Nothing.’ Any letters for Violetta herself were handed directly to her mother.

If she were lucky, she might see them later that day, but sometimes they vanished altogether, which was annoying.

The servants’ letters were more interesting, even though she could not see the contents.

Most were for the upper servants, but two of the footmen had mothers and sisters and aunts who wrote industriously to them every week.

One of the housemaids received two letters a week which made her blush fiercely when she received them.

The head gardener had a cousin in a similar position in Somerset who wrote to him regularly for advice, and decorated the outside of his missives with delicately drawn ferns or ivy or hedgerow flowers — sometimes even mushrooms. She loved to see those!

Today, however, there was something new.

“There is one for Uncle Cal!”

Her mother winced. “Pray do not call him that, Violetta.”

“Everyone calls him Uncle Cal,” she said.

“You are not everyone, dearest. You are Miss Garth of Lampton Priory, and he is Garford the under-gardener. And he never receives mail.”

“Can he even read and write?” Edward said, with a ‘hur hur’, as if he had made a clever joke.

“Of course he can!” Violetta said sharply. “He has Latin books in his cottage. And it is definitely for him — ‘Mr Calvin Garford, Lampton Priory, Gloucestershire’. Oh! It is franked!”

Her father laid down the letter he was reading. “Impossible.”

“But it is! It says ‘Brinshire’. Who is Lord Brinshire?”

Her mother gasped. “The Duke of Brinshire? He cannot possibly be writing to our under-gardener, dearest. You must have misread the direction. I am sure you will find it is for your father.”

Edward whisked it from her hands. “The ink has blotted the name. It certainly looks like ‘Calvin’, not ‘Charles’, but the surname is hard to read. It could be ‘Garth’ or ‘Garford’.”

His father held out an imperious hand for the letter.

“It is badly written, but since the Duke of Brinshire could not possibly have any business with Garford, I surmise that it is indeed for me.” Breaking the seal, and ignoring the gasp of protest from Violetta, he scanned the contents.

“It is as I thought. His grace wishes to consult me about some woodland he has. Clearly my successful clearance of the Hanger Wood has been reported to his grace. We shall all go, I think. It will be an opportunity for our eldest children to gain a little experience in superior society.”

Mrs Garth clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh! Oh, how fortuitous, and coming just at this time, when Violetta is so close to making her first appearance in town. To have a duke amongst her acquaintances — it is beyond anything great! How clever you are to think of it, my dear. Thank your papa, children, for taking such care of your interests. When are we to go, my dear?”