Magic Below Stairs (12 page)

The servants had known of the pregnancy from their first look at Lady Schofield. All the same, they rejoiced at the announcement, for it meant they could speak openly of the expected event. Grant raised his glass. “If it is a boy, his lordship will stand us all champagne.”

“Never mind a few sips of champagne,” Mr. Kimball said. “If it is a boy, there will be brown ale enough for young Frederick here to swim in.”

Frederick didn't know how to swim even in water. He didn't see any sense whatever in trying to swim in ale, but before he could say so, Rose looked up from her plate frowning a little. “The nursery wants a good cleaning before then.”

“The nursery is clean this minute, Rose,” Nancy said. “Only this morning, I swept the hearth myself. Spick-and-span, it is. The king himself couldn't ask for a cleaner nursery.”

“The quiet of the countryside, that's what her ladyship needs,” Mr. Kimball said. “Good food, plenty of rest, and no fretting. We must all work hard to see Lady Schofield is well taken care of. A healthy child, safely delivered, means everything to the future of this family—and therefore to our own future here in the household.”

“
When
in November do they expect the baby?” asked Rose. “The fifth of November would be good. Bonfire Night.”

Nancy giggled. “Before the carriage was put away, the stable boys were making bets on the birth date. Go to them if you want a wager. You can pick the date or just bet if it will be a boy or a girl.”

“Much good a girl would do us,” said Rose. “Only a boy can inherit the title.”

“Stop it!” said Bess. “It's only August. Months and months to go. Anything might go wrong in the meantime. Anything!”

“Quite right,” said Mrs. Dutton. “Bad luck to behave as if this is all safely settled. Think of the trouble the poor lamb has had in the past.”

“More than bad luck,” said Mr. Kimball, “it is bad form. The peace and quiet of the countryside is all very well when doctors prescribe it to their patients. Don't make the mistake of thinking anyone has prescribed it for us. Our standards do not drop merely because we are away from London. Rose and Nancy, must I order you to leave the table? Stop that giggling.”

“What trouble has Lady Schofield had?” Frederick leaned close enough to murmur to Bess. “What did you mean, anything might go wrong?”

Softly, Bess explained to Frederick. “This is the second time Lady Schofield has fallen pregnant. She lost the first baby. Last time, the moment the labor pains came on her ladyship, his lordship fell ill himself. Terrible, the misery he was in, and for once, no complaining from him, not a word.”

“Not a word?” Frederick did not believe it. He knew Lord Schofield was free with complaints, often over the tiniest things. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly. Lord Schofield was as brave as could be, while her ladyship, well!” Bess was all admiration for Lady Schofield. “She was braver than that. She was like the Spartan lad who let a fox gnaw his vitals.”

Frederick stared at Bess. “There was a fox?”

“No, of course there wasn't. Wait. I don't mean to confuse you. It's only a story,” Bess explained. “Her maid told me. In ancient times, the Spartans trained their children never to admit to pain. A boy was caught with a fox—I can't remember what he was doing with a fox stuffed in his shirt, so don't ask me—and he never said a word, even though the fox chewed at him the whole time.”

Mr. Kimball dismissed the servants, and everyone pushed back from the table still talking among themselves. The next chance he had, Frederick whispered to Bess, “Then what happened?”

Bess stopped clearing the table to gaze at Frederick. “It was dreadful. Sorrow and grief for months afterward. Lord and Lady Schofield were so sad.”

“About the fox, I meant. What happened to the boy with the fox?”

“Oh, to the Spartan boy?” Bess went back to stacking dirty plates. “He died, of course.”

“That's it? He died?” Frederick was disgusted. “That's a terrible story! And what's the point of it? Lady Schofield can't die. His lordship is a wizard. He wouldn't let her.”

“Women do die in childbirth,” Bess retorted. “It happens all the time.”

“Not to rich women,” Frederick insisted. “Not to ladies.”

“Yes, it does so, and anything could happen to Lady Schofield,” Bess whispered fiercely back. “If anything goes wrong, you can forget your promises. I won't tell your secret unless I must. But if Lady Schofield is in any danger, I shall. I'll tell everyone.”

“Are you waiting for those plates to grow hands and wash themselves?” Mrs. Dutton demanded. “Away with you, Frederick, and let Bess get on with her work.”

A week after Lord and Lady Schofield's arrival at Skeynes, a visitor arrived. Frederick was just tying Lord Schofield's cravat when Mr. Kimball, looking solemn as an owl, joined them.

“My lord, I regret to disturb you, but the mail coach has brought a—gentleman.” Mr. Kimball hesitated over the word just long enough to make it plain that he didn't mean it. “He says his name is Pickering. He insists he is here because you summoned him. I've put him in the tapestry room.”

“Pickering? Laurence Pickering? That's all? Those blockheads!” His cravat secured, Lord Schofield brushed Frederick aside to address Kimball. “I wrote to the Royal College of Wizards asking for them to send me the wizards who broke the spell on this place. But do they send me the eleven wizards? Do they send me ten? No! They send me one! Pickering!”

Eager to see even one of the wizards who had broken the Skeynes curse, Frederick followed Kimball as Kimball followed Lord Schofield downstairs to the tapestry room. There, folded up into a corner of one of the armchairs, they found a skinny young man, more than half asleep. When Hetty had talked about wizards, she had made this one, Mr. Pickering of the torn sleeve, with his fondness for her mother's pastry, seem almost like an ordinary person. Frederick could see why Mr. Kimball had been doubtful about the man's social position. The clothes he wore were too old to be fashionable, but although soiled by the journey, they were well cut and well cared for. Frederick suspected Mr. Pickering's chin had not yet seen a razor that day, but his fair hair was clean and combed.

“Pickering!” Lord Schofield loomed over his visitor. “It is the height of rudeness to fall asleep during a social call.”

Frederick knew from the tone of Lord Schofield's voice that his employer was annoyed but not truly angry. From the way Mr. Pickering completely ignored his host, it looked as if the newcomer knew it too.

Eventually Pickering stirred and yawned. When at last he opened his eyes, it seemed that his first and only concern in the world was to polish and adjust his spectacles.

Frederick felt deep admiration for Mr. Pickering's air of calmness. If he had been a complete stranger to the scene and asked to guess which of the two men was a lord, Frederick would have put his money on Mr. Pickering.

When Mr. Pickering was finally satisfied with the condition of his eyeglasses, he gazed mildly up at Lord Schofield. “But I haven't come here on a social call. Far from it. You sent for me. You said it was a matter of the gravest urgency.”

“I? Sent for you?” Lord Schofield took the armchair opposite. “I did no such thing.”

For a moment, Lord Schofield's denial took Frederick's breath away. Then he perceived that the two men were joking with each other.

“You did. You wrote to the Royal College of Wizards demanding a further consultation on a matter of domestic spell-breaking.” Pickering sighed a little. “That is why I spent much of last night and all of this morning atop a coach, rattling my bones along the Bath road for your benefit. Have I suffered merely to gratify a whim you've since forgotten you had?”

“I see you haven't changed in the slightest. Still completely useless until you've been fed.” Lord Schofield turned to Mr. Kimball and Frederick. “Kimball, see to our guest. He's hardly what I'd hoped for, but we must make the best of what little the Royal College of Wizards has seen fit to send us.”

“Very good, my lord.” Mr. Kimball bowed to Lord Schofield and Mr. Pickering before he turned to Frederick. “Show Mr. Pickering to the blue room, Frederick, then fetch him towels and hot water so he can make himself more comfortable. I will have a breakfast tray prepared and sent up at once.”

Frederick marveled at the way Mr. Kimball's whole attitude toward the young man had changed. Now anyone would think young Mr. Pickering was royalty. So this was what a real wizard was like.

Frederick led Mr. Pickering upstairs to the blue room, the most comfortable of the guest bedchambers, and brought him soap and a razor along with the towels and hot water.

Mr. Pickering thanked Frederick and set about cleaning up. Frederick hovered at the door, reluctant to cut short the chance to talk to a real wizard.

“If you're waiting for me to tip you, I'm sorry. I haven't a farthing to spare,” said Mr. Pickering.

“No, sir!” Frederick gathered his wits. “I was just wondering if there was anything else you need.”

“Of course you were,” Mr. Pickering agreed. “Very dutiful of you. Frederick, that's what you're called, isn't it? I've been promised breakfast as soon as possible, so there's nothing else I need just now. But even if there were, I still don't have the means to tip you.” He devoted his full attention to drying his face.

Frederick stayed put.

Mr. Pickering looked up from the towel. “Was there something else?”

“Are you truly one of the wizards who broke the curse on this place?”

“I am.” Mr. Pickering didn't seem to find anything unusual in Frederick's question. “It was my first official assignment. I'm not likely to forget it. Strictly speaking, it was a curse on Lord Schofield, not on the house itself. If you and your colleagues are concerned for your safety, you needn't be.”

“Not my safety,” Frederick said. “Lady Schofield's.”

“Ah.” Mr. Pickering looked thoughtful. “I cannot tell you anything about the spell until I've had a chance to discuss it with his lordship, but let me reassure you. If there were any danger to Lady Schofield whatsoever, there would be at least ten other wizards here with me, possibly more.”

“So the curse isn't a danger?” Frederick asked.

“I'm not at liberty to discuss the curse with anyone until I've discussed it with Lord Schofield. Perhaps not even then.” Mr. Pickering smiled at Frederick. The suddenness of it transformed his face, made him look hardly more than a boy himself. “But don't you worry. Skeynes has magic of its own. For every curse ever laid on this place, there have been at least seven spells of blessing cast to counter it.”

Frederick was on pins and needles lest Mr. Pickering help Lord Schofield detect Billy Bly's presence at Skeynes. But late that afternoon, when Lord Schofield had finally finished his private consultation with Mr. Pickering, all he said when he summoned Frederick to his workroom was, “You may tidy up for us, Frederick. Take extra care when you clean the floor. Don't miss anything.”

Despite a large breakfast and a thorough scrub, Mr. Pickering was looking sleepier than ever. He had arranged himself in the corner nearest the fireplace and was paging slowly through a stack of books he'd selected from Lord Schofield's shelves. “There's nothing to worry about,” he said without taking his attention from the book before him. “As ever, the Royal College of Wizards stands by its work.”

Frederick admired Mr. Pickering's confidence. Lord Schofield seemed less impressed. “As ever, the Royal College of Wizards stands by its own good opinion of itself. But in this instance, I think I can trust it. That is, I trust
you
.”

“You'd better. At least you can be certain I was properly trained, having done most of the groundwork yourself.” Mr. Pickering opened another book and held it side by side with the first, comparing them critically, before closing the first book and devoting himself to the second. “I owe you a great deal.”

Frederick had never imagined that Lord Schofield had trained Mr. Pickering. Intent on learning as much as possible, he worked as slowly as he dared.

“Poppycock. I taught you alpha and beta, and very little more. As soon as possible, I turned you over to Mitchell. He did the heavy lifting.” Lord Schofield considered for a moment. “Or rather, you did. Mitchell is renowned for his wizardry, but as an instructor, he's a steep climb uphill.”

Frederick swept the same bit of floor over and over again. If he moved, Lord Schofield might remember he was there and stop gossiping.