Andrews Brothers 01 - The Ruse (2 page)

Brigitta Blackburn waved to
neighbors as she headed to the market. Cool crisp air lifted locks of her
auburn hair and blew them into her face. She pushed strands from her eyes and
located the butcher’s stall.

“What will it be today, Miss
Brigitta?”

“Lamb, please.”

“Same size as last time?”

“Perhaps a little smaller,” said
Brigitta, digging out the necessary coins.

The small piece was wrapped and
handed to her. “Tell your folks I said hello.”

Brigitta cringed as she promised
to pass the message. She headed to the next stall. Finished purchasing the
meager supplies, she left the busy streets and headed home.

The two-room wooden cottage sat
on the outer edge of town. The area consisted of manufactory workers and tradesmen;
those considered of greatest need by the people but held in the least regard.

Children with filth-streaked
faces skipped past, grabbing her skirt and leaving a handprint. Crippled
villagers congregated and rattled bowls; the meager coins they’d collected
struck the metal sides and echoed through the narrow pass. Brigitta lowered her
head so she didn’t have to look at the crowded, shabby homes and the destitute
people lining the muddy lane.

Brigitta reached her cottage,
opened the door, and closed it just as quickly. Wind pushed at a loose shutter
and it crashed against the wall. With a cry she dropped the basket and secured
the latch. Cold raced along her spine and she glanced longingly at the empty
wood box.

She sat on the floor and drew her
purchases close. Tears pooled in her eyes. Today she’d spent all the money she
had, and for what? A few meager vegetables and a slice of meat. What was the
point? With no wood she had no way to cook it.

Tears cascaded along her cheeks
and she swiped them away. Light filtered through the house’s cracked slats.
Shadows danced past.

Brigitta leaned her head against
the wall. How had she gotten into such a sorry state? Since her childhood, her
father’s position as pianoforte maker had allowed him to travel extensively and
to visit those of means. Most of the time she’d traveled with her father, but
on the rare occasion she’d been left behind, her father had returned and
regaled her with vivid stories of his journeys. She had imagined that she
played in well-manicured gardens and hid in topiaries of the grandest kind.

He described one patron who had
lain on a chaise longue with a servant feeding her grapes while he had tuned
her instrument. Brigitta had visualized the scene until she felt she was the
one relaxed on the longue.

Brigitta pulled her legs to her
chest. The ripped lace edging her gown dragged the floor. What would her mother
say to see her in such attire? Rat holes chewed in her sleeves, threads
dangling from the seams.

If only her parents hadn’t died
and left her alone. The impromptu trip, with a less than secure mode of
transportation, had been an idea planned in folly. If only she had conceded to
spend her birthday at home instead of insisting they visit the coast.

Spoiled by her nomadic lifestyle,
the idea of a birthday in Stockport seemed boring. Besides, with her father’s
traveling, and her mother and her often going along, the opportunity to develop
friends her own age had never occurred.

She sighed. Maybe if she had
tried to share her grief and loss with others in the village, they would have
assisted with her plight, if nothing more than offering her a place of
employment. Self-pity continued to well within her until she felt physically
ill. Her parents would be greatly disappointed if they knew she had given up
and allowed life to consume her.

Basket of food in hand, she
stood, squared her shoulders, and strode to the cottage next door.

Timidly, she knocked. The flimsy
material shook and put the rickety house in motion. The basket at her feet, she
clasped her hands in front of her and knotted her gown.

“Yes?” The door cracked open. One
eye peered out and thinned as Jewel recognized her.

Brigitta felt the wash of
unfriendliness, which made her feel even more alone. Bravely, and fighting a
tremor that threatened her voice, she asked, “Jewel, how are you?”

“Good.” Jewel appeared hesitant
as she peered through the chink.

“I wanted to offer you a gift.”

The door opened a little farther.

“I bought meat and fresh
vegetables today at the market, and—”

“What do you want for them
because I ain’t got no money.”

Brigitta sighed. “I don’t want
money. I was hoping you would cook and we could share the meal.”

Jewel laughed uproariously. “I
see what this is. You’re out of wood again.” Jewel yanked the door open and
poked Brigitta’s chest. “Let me tell you something. Just because your pa worked
for fancy people and you speak all proper like a lady don’t make you important.”
Brigitta opened her mouth to explain but Jewel crossed her arms over her chest
and said, “Besides, my man has brought food home today and I don’t plan on
sharing my wood with you or anyone else!”

The door slammed shut. Brigitta
groaned aloud, grabbed her basket, turned on her heel, and stalked away.

Instead of heading home, she
hoisted the basket under her arm and took the path to the River Mersey. She
found a clearing in the woods and set about gathering broken sticks and rocks.
Depressed by the thought of returning to her lonely abode, she built a fire pit
where she was. However, the fire wasn’t so easily started. She had to rub the
flint pieces over and over. Finally, a spark caught the tender, and the flame
spread. Hunger gnawed at her gut, and she thought of throwing the meat directly
into the fire, but instead she washed a rock and set it in the center. The meat
on top, and the potatoes sitting in the ash, she hoped to eat soon.

The wind kicked up and Brigitta
huddled closer to the flames. She inhaled deeply, the aroma of the cooking food
made her stomach rumble. Jewel, the old hag, didn’t deserve any part of her
meal.

She flipped the meat and studied
the waves on the water. Wind whistled through the trees, rattling the leaves,
and Brigitta pushed the potatoes farther into the ash. Impatiently, she tapped
her foot. In the distance, sunlight glinted off the windows of the baron’s
estate. Rumor held that the estate was built so close to the ancient Stockport
Castle that they shared the same hallways.

Brigitta laughed at the thought
and narrowed her gaze. Even through the trees, she could make out the Stockport
Castle ruins. The motte-and-bailey castle had been demolished in 1775, at
around the same time Baron Luther Andrews had built the west wing of his
estate. Her father had told her many stories about his visits to the castle,
filling her head with notions of grandeur and wonder most girls couldn’t even
hope to dream about.

If she closed her eyes, she could
almost visualize the grand balls with women dressed in gowns that doubled the
size of their bottom. How they must have looked! Turning sideways to walk
through doors, bending to ensure their feather-plumed hats stayed atop their
heads, and even struggling to stay upright as they wobbled like ducks during
their dances.

Brigitta covered a snicker. She
was ever thankful that styles had changed. Now gowns were more simplistic.
Restriction of movement was a thing of the past. Finery of course was still a
part of a noble’s life, but it wasn’t as gaudy as it had once been. It did take
away the humor when one poked fun, but there were always ways to make that
occur.

The potatoes blackened before her
eyes and Brigitta used a stick to roll them from the flames.

The afternoon was alive with
sounds. Distant voices, horses neighing, crickets chirping, and birds tweeting
filled the air.

Brigitta froze. Overhanging tree
limbs rattled and in front of her, the underbrush spread apart. She widened her
eyes and jumped to her feet, holding the stick in front of her for protection.

“What are you doing here?” asked
a man dressed in livery as he pushed into her clearing.

She gulped and pointed at the
fire.

“Cooking? On the baron’s
property?” The footman crossed his arms over his chest.

Angry, Brigitta said, “I don’t
think the baron owns the sticks.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you? Well, I
guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

The man grabbed her arm and
hoisted her over his shoulder.

“Hey, what are you doing? Put me
down!”

The man struggled to talk and
hold her. “Be still!”

“I will not!”

He adjusted her position and she
used her fists to whack his back, but it availed nothing, for his grip only
tightened.

Her head bobbed and her stomach
churned. “If you don’t stop I’m going to be sick.”

The man laughed. “If you had
anything in your stomach to lose, then you wouldn’t have been in the baron’s
forest cooking. What did you do? Did you use a slingshot and kill one of the
baron’s fowls? Or perhaps you hit a squirrel?”

“I don’t feel so good. You should
set me down.”

The man’s answer was to continue
walking. The nausea increased and she was powerless to control her next act.

****

Luke lifted the tails of his
jacket and settled on the parlor sofa next to Zilla Elis. Her mother and father
sat across from them on another sofa, while young men and women clustered
nearby on lone chairs. The informal gathering took place in the Elis household
and was just one of many that had occurred throughout the month.

Luke sipped at his drink. The
parlor was entirely too fancy for his tastes. Floor to ceiling shelves lined
one wall, again cluttered with those fatuous dolls. The waste of funds left his
stomach tied in knots. A servant offered him a sweet and he declined.

Zilla leaned forward; her heavy
perfume preyed on his increasing nausea. She grabbed a sweet and popped it into
her petulant mouth. “Oh, your lordship, you must try this. Cook makes the best
desserts.”

Luke grimaced. “That cannot be
denied.” He had been sampling cook’s desserts at least three times a week for
the last four weeks. The nausea he experienced, he partially attributed to the
Elis’ cook.

Zilla slapped him with her closed
fan and remarked to her friend, Lilli, “You must ignore his lordship. He is
used to eating a simpler fare at Stockport and his stomach is unused to the
delights
London has to offer.”

Sitting in a chair across from
them, Lilli fanned her face and blushed furiously at her friend’s unspoken
implication. Lord and Lady Elis remained oblivious to their daughter’s antics.

In the short time Luke had
remained in London and attempted to woo Zilla, he’d learned a few things. One,
Zilla was a spoiled brat who needed to be turned over her father’s knee. And
two, Zilla’s fortune was highly sought after.

At the various entertainments,
when the dances began, like an intrusion of cockroaches men came out of the
woodwork to court her. Zilla was never without a companion. Her governess
became her constant chaperone, implicitly trusted by Lord Elis. Little did he
know that the woman was a gossiping old biddy who directed any wholesome fellow
as far from Zilla as possible.

Upon his first meeting with
Zilla, Mrs. Thomason had pulled him aside and said, “Your lordship, you seem
like a very nice young man. Because of this I fear I must warn you that Zilla
is not the wife for just anyone.”

Luke had taken the words to mean
that Zilla needed someone special and was too good for the ordinary, but he
soon realized what Mrs. Thomason meant. Zilla would never concern herself with
making a man happy. If her husband wanted happiness then he would be forced to
bend to Zilla’s will.

Several times he’d come close to
leaving London and returning to Stockport only to stop himself as he boarded
the carriage. At thirty, time was escaping him. He needed to marry and produce
an heir. The possibility that he wouldn’t produce an heir, and subsequently
would leave Chadwick in charge of the estate, made him ill. It was enough to
encourage him to meet with Zilla once more.

Suitors vied for Zilla’s
attention. Today every man attending the private ball was promised only one
dance. Discreetly, Luke had given up his turn and found a place to sit.

Of course his slight had been
soon discovered and Zilla found a way to sit beside him and berate him for his
choice of food, as well as other matters.

“I dare say Stockport is a
dreadfully boring place. Lilli and I were just talking the other day that being
so far from London would be dreadfully boring.”

“Stockport has its advantages,”
said Luke.

“Oh, yes, Zilla, don’t you
remember? Stockport has the silk factory,” said Lilli, seemingly proud that she’d
contributed to the conversation.

“Oh, yes. The silk factory
and
the rope factory!” Zilla laughed and stared at her friends until they joined
her.

“True, the rope factory is not as
glamorous as some trades, but it is a needed commodity,” said Luke, fighting
his rising temper.

“Commodities! What do I care of
commodities?”

Zilla’s attempt at intelligence
fell on deaf ears and the laughter died. Everyone in the room depended on the
hemp and rope constructed in Stockport, while the London and Parisian designers
of ladies’ gowns desperately sought Stockport silk for their fashionable
concoctions.

Zilla cleared her throat. “As I
was saying, I believe Stockport would be terribly boring.”

“Perhaps,” said Luke.

“Of course, I have heard that the
Andrews estate is rife with pleasant gardens and excellent fishing.”

Luke puffed out his chest with
swelled pride. “Indeed, it is.”

“Humph. That is too bad, because
I detest pleasant gardens and fishing. They are both entirely too much work. I
think servants are better put to use inside the home. Why, it takes at least
five servants a day just to keep my baubles in the library dusted.”