Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive (22 page)

Agatha was held by something so intense her entire face became illuminated with joy. “He will show you the way ahead.”

Under Agatha’s instruction, Serafina prepared a cold midday meal. She could not have described the food, and each morsel went down with a struggle. But she ate because her aunt brooked no dissent. Soon after the few dishes had been washed up, a drover’s cart pulled before the gate. Agatha stood in the doorway and leaned upon her cane as the
middle-aged man doffed his cap and stepped forward. “All right, Mrs. Donatella?”

“Better than I deserve, Peter. How is your dear young Harry?”

“Terrible, he is. Like to be the death of me.” But he was smiling. “Word is you’ll be moving up to the great house shortly.”

“That’s right. Tomorrow will be my turn.”

“Be grand to have you around again.”

“I can’t imagine why, what with all the work you have. Why anyone would want to bother with me is a mystery.”

“It’s Mrs. Marcham. She just don’t know how to handle the place. Too soft, she is.”

They were both smiling now. “I don’t believe that for a minute,” Agatha retorted. “Especially since I trained her myself.” She turned from the door slightly, granting space for Serafina. When the younger woman held back, Agatha pulled her firmly forward. “This is my niece Serafina. I want you to meet Peter, the head groundskeeper. His wife, Emily, is the pastry cook.”

“Your niece, is it. I warrant she’ll prove a good worker. Hop aboard, lass. Don’t want you to be late on your first day.” He took hold of the old case supplied by Agatha for Serafina’s few things and dropped it behind the seat. Then he offered her his free hand, which felt like tree bark. He doffed his hat once more, then clicked to the horses. “The two lads will be back around to help you shift your own things tomorrow, Mrs. Donatella.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Agatha watched Serafina gravely, not offering a wave of any kind, her entire demeanor a warning and a charge.

The groundskeeper did not take them back through the village, as Serafina would have guessed. Instead, he headed out in the opposite direction. Once beyond the last house,
a tall drystone wall crept back in closer to the lane. There was only enough room between lane and wall for a line of sheltering elms. “So you’re niece to our Agatha.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No need for sirs, lass. Not between the likes of us. Peter’s the name my dear old dad gave me, and it’s fine by all who know me.”

“But Mrs. Marcham—”

“Aye, well, the head of staff is a different kettle of fish. They’re in between, if you catch my meaning.” He glanced her way. “You’re fresh from the old country, are you?”

“F-from Venice.”

“So you don’t have a clue what I’m on about.” They came to a break in the wall. This particular entryway was marked not by stone columns as in the front, but rather by houses built close to either side of open iron gates. He clucked to the horse and guided it around the corner onto the unpaved rutted lane. To either side stretched more small stone houses. Fenced garden plots separated them from the estate’s open fields. Serafina spied goats and a pond with geese and ducks. Somewhere a rooster crowed. “Mrs. Marcham and Cuthbert the butler are them what deal with the manor folk. We see his lordship from time to time. And the young master, of course. But Mrs. Marcham and Cuthbert speak to them regular. The pair of ‘em runs the house. You catch my meaning?”

“I . . . I think so.”

“You mind what they say to you and you do as you’re told. You’ll get on well enough.” He eyed her shrewdly. “Long as you keep out of the way of the young master. I reckon your aunt’s warned you about him.”

“Just a little.”

“He’s a scamp, is young Stewart. A scamp and a scallywag.” He entered into a tunnel formed by trees so ancient three men could not have grasped hands around their trunks. “The young master is a good shot, mind. And a fair hand with a horse. Loves the countryside, I’ll grant him that. But
you’d best steer well clear. Keep yourself belowstairs and out of sight, that’s my advice.”

The trees fell away and the tunnel opened. Serafina gasped at the sight.

“Aye, the old place is a stunner, I’ll give you that.” The groundsman spoke with genuine pride.

Despite the overcast sky, the house shone golden in the afternoon light. The three-story main portion was stone and very square. Windows higher than a man were flanked by pillars carved from the stonework. A much older house stretched from the manor’s opposite side, a structure of narrow windows and heavy beams embracing plastered walls. The two edifices taken together seemed the size of a small village.

He pulled the carriage up to a low building of brick, perhaps four times as large as her aunt’s home. “Step down, lass. I’ll hand down your case.”

“W-where are we?”

“This? Oh, the duke had a mind to separate the kitchen from the main house. It’s all the rage, or so I’m told. Keeps the smells and such away from the living quarters.”

“That will do, Peter. I’ll take over from here.” Mrs. Marcham appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Come along, young lady. There’s no time for gawking.”

“I’ll be seeing you around, lass.” The groundskeeper dropped the small case to the ground and flicked the horse’s reins. “Hyah, get up there.”

Mrs. Marcham gestured impatiently. “You must learn to move more swiftly when you are called.”

Serafina had just picked up her satchel and started after the housekeeper when a young man appeared at the main house’s rear entrance. Serafina saw how Mrs. Marcham stiffened at his arrival.

“Here now, what’s this?” the young man asked in a languid drawl.

Mrs. Marcham’s tone grew coldly polite. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Why, Mrs. Marcham, do we have some new household help? I haven’t seen this young lass around before.”

“She will be helping Cook in the kitchen.”

“The meals will be far more tasty, I’m sure.” Though Serafina kept her eyes lowered, her one glance revealed fawncolored slacks tucked into riding boots that gleamed with a mirror shine. “Where ever did you find her?”

“She is Mrs. Donatella’s niece.”

“Is she now. How fortunate for the old lady. You there. What do they call you?”

Mrs. Marcham touched Serafina on the shoulder. “Come along.”

Serafina followed the housekeeper toward the doorway.

“Here now. Don’t I deserve a civil reply?”

Mrs. Marcham halted in the kitchen doorway. When she turned back to the young man, her expression was flinty. “I do hope I shan’t have cause to speak to your father, sir.”

Serafina kept her face angled toward the kitchen. But she heard the young man’s casual good humor vanish. “My father won’t be around forever to protect you, Mrs. Marcham. You would be well advised to remember that.”

“Sir.” The woman remained as she was for a long moment, and then she sighed and asked, “Are those all your belongings?”

“Yes, Mrs. Marcham.”

“Inside with you.” As she directed Serafina forward, she murmured beneath her breath, “Just as I said. Trouble.”

Beryl Marcham maintained her distracted air as she ushered Serafina through the kitchen. At the side of the building closest to the main house, Mrs. Marcham descended a set of stone stairs. Her footsteps and words echoed loudly as she led Serafina along a stone tunnel. “This leads from the kitchen to the manor’s dining hall.” The echoes made it hard for Serafina to understand her words. “If you help with serving
food, you will carry everything back and forth along here. And you will hurry, do you hear me, young lady? Everything must arrive at the dining table while still piping hot.”

At the tunnel’s end they climbed a circular stone stairs. They came up into a flagstone antechamber, one lined with tall windows. “The maids’ rooms are along this way,” she said and started down a narrow corridor. The wood floor was scuffed a brownish gray. The walls were painted but unadorned. Mrs. Marcham knocked on a door, then opened it. “You should be comfortable here.”

A grimy window overlooked the swept yard between the kitchen and the main house. The floor was the same raw planking as in the corridor. There were two very narrow beds, both with mattresses rolled up on wooden slats. The only private space was a pair of drawers beneath each bed. A wash table and basin stood in one corner. Hooks lined the walls.

“We’re a bit understaffed at the moment. But you mustn’t think you will enjoy this room by yourself for very long.” She pointed to the bed on the left. “Take that one. It will have the morning light. Now leave your things, and let’s review your duties.”

Serafina followed her back down the hall and into the small foyer. Mrs. Marcham pointed to a tall set of polished doors that stood opposite the stairs. “These lead to the principal rooms. You must only enter these when you are specifically sent there on your duties. We must be absolutely clear on this point.”

“Yes, Mrs. Marcham.”

The doors creaked open. A man of regal bearing with white muttonchop sideburns stepped through. He gripped the lapel of his black long coat with one hand and eyed Serafina down the length of his bony nose. “A new charge, is it?”

“Yes, Mr. Cuthbert. Serafina, you may curtsy to the chief butler.”

She did as she was ordered. “Good day, sir.”

“Serafina, did you say? What sort of name is that?”

“Italian,” Mrs. Marcham replied. “She is Agatha’s niece.”

“Is she, now. I hope she won’t be putting on airs and expecting unfair advantages as a result.”

“Not for long, I assure you of that.”

The butler eyed Serafina a moment longer but addressed the housekeeper. “I noticed the encounter with the young lordship.”

“Very little escapes your attention,” Mrs. Marcham noted archly.

“Could be trouble, that.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“No. Of course not. Where do you intend for her to begin?”

“Scullery maid,” she replied. “I’ll instruct Cook to add duties as she sees fit.”

“That should keep her out of harm’s way.” He lifted his chin a notch. “Work hard, young lady. Mrs. Marcham is a fair mistress. You’ll learn that soon enough. Earn her respect, and mine.” He nodded to the housekeeper and disappeared.

“Come along.” Mrs. Marcham swept through a battered swinging door. She pointed up a narrow spiral staircase. “Up here lodge the male servants and footmen. All but the groundskeepers; they reside above the stables. You are
not
to go upstairs under any circumstances. Do I make myself clear? Any maid found either up here or above the stables will be instantly dismissed.”

“Yes, Mrs. Marcham.”

“This way.” She pushed through an outer door and entered the late afternoon light. A wet chill was already gathering. The housekeeper’s skirt swished over the grass as she hastened around the kitchen outbuilding. Serafina had to hurry to keep up.

Set far back from the kitchen were the stables. Between them was a mound of logs rising higher than the kitchen roof. A young man of Serafina’s age worked with an ax, breaking the logs into kindling.

“This is Harry, the groundskeeper’s son. His duties . . . well, you can see them for yourself.”

With one easy gesture the young man swiped his brow and pulled off his sweat-stained cap. A broad smile creased his tanned features. He offered a cheery “A grand afternoon, I’m sure, Mrs. Marcham.”