Magic Below Stairs (18 page)

“No, wait—” Frederick began.

“Time has come!” Billy Bly called out, “The child is here!” Between one hard-thumping beat of Frederick's heart and the next, Billy Bly had vanished.

“No!” Set to follow Billy Bly, Frederick pulled his hands free of the sheets. At once, he discovered his mistake.

The black thing's headless coils ripped free of the knotted sheets the moment he released his grip. Quick as thought, the scaly end of the thing wrapped around Lord Schofield's throat. Only Piers's desperate grip on the thing kept it from snapping the wizard's neck. Lord Schofield made a noise that would have been a scream if he'd had any breath for it.

Piers swore.

Frederick, struggling beside Piers, knew exactly how he felt.

So the child was here, was it? That was enough to pull Billy Bly away, to leave Frederick and Piers alone with this monster? Hot resentment flooded Frederick as he fumbled for the razor. What more did Frederick need from Billy Bly? With a razor in his hand, he was far from harmless. Frederick had more than a razor; he had the knowledge it took to use it well.

Determination brought icy calm. “Mind your fingers, Piers.” Frederick's anger made him quick and his fear made him careful. With a deft flick of the wrist, he slid the steel blade between Piers's hands and pulled downward. Deftly, Frederick cut Lord Schofield free. The wizard fell back against his pile of pillows, hands to his bruised throat. No help from that quarter.

With great care, Frederick used the blade, slice upon slice, to carve the thing. The creature had no head, no mouth, no means to scream. Yet, furious, it screamed. Frederick felt it in his hands. The hairy tail caught Frederick a stinging blow on the forehead as he worked to free Lord Schofield. Another struck his nose. Frederick tasted blood.

The creature was oozing something black and sticky as slices of it came away. The pieces that fell on the floor wriggled toward each other, as if hoping to reunite. Piers sprang away and gathered bits up before they could touch. He tossed one in the chamber pot, one in Lord Schofield's top hat, one in each of the boots discarded on the floor. In isolation, the bits went still. Frederick didn't trust that stillness. Hands covered in ooze, he kept on cutting, carving, slicing, chopping.

By the time he had the creature reduced to bits small enough to fit in a pocket, Frederick was out of breath. “This razor is done for. The edge will never be the same.”

“Never mind.” Piers was shoulder to shoulder with him, equally soiled and sticky. “It died honorably. Still six left. Never saw a closer shave, lad. Well done.”

Lord Schofield sat up in bed. “Kate's done it!” he croaked. “The child is here!” With a bound, he left the bed to leap to his feet. At once his knees buckled, and he fell to the floor swearing. “Give me your hand, Piers. I must go congratulate Kate. What a woman. She's turned the trick.”

“Congratulate Frederick first,” Piers retorted, levering Lord Schofield to his feet. “He saved your life.”

“Yes, by God, he did! Although the task isn't finished until these, these . . .” Lord Schofield searched for the correct word and snapped his fingers when he found it. “These cutlets have been disposed of. But thank you, Frederick. I'm grateful to you. The moment I have a bit of peace and quiet, I'll dispose of this disgusting debris properly. No time now, though. Do hurry, Piers!”

Piers hauled Lord Schofield away. Frederick found himself alone in Lord Schofield's bedchamber. Everywhere he looked was soot and ooze and soiled linen. His nose had stopped bleeding, but the bruise on his forehead grew more painful by the moment.

Frederick washed the black stuff off the ruined razor. Ruined it might be, but it deserved respect, so he buffed it dry out of habit, oiled it, and put it carefully away. The simple ritual helped him calm down. Little by little, his heartbeat came back to normal.

Doggedly he set about tidying the worst of the mess. Frederick's head was aching, his eyes burning with tiredness. By the time he was finished, the word was out, from the cellars to the attic rooms of Skeynes. Lord and Lady Schofield were proud parents of an heir, a son. The child was healthy, strong, and loud. So loud, indeed, that in the vicinity of Lady Schofield's bedchamber voices had to shout to be heard over the infant's wails.

The whole house was a hubbub of relief and joy. Frederick scrubbed his hands and took himself down to the servants' hall. Bess was there before him. She beamed at him as he joined her. “Isn't it wonderful?”

Mrs. Dutton was serving out bread and milk in bowls to anyone who asked for it nicely. Frederick looked around the kitchen. “Where's Grant?”

“Gone to fetch the champagne from the wine cellar,” Mrs. Dutton answered. “We'll not see him again in a hurry, nor Mr. Kimball neither.”

“Have you seen the baby? He's ever so tiny, for all he's so loud,” Bess continued.

Frederick made it a point to spoon up bread and milk so that, instead of joining Bess in her raptures over the new heir, he had his mouth too full to do more than smile at her and nod. He didn't want to talk about how wonderful the new child was going to be. Miserable brat.

Bess said, “Did you know there's blood on your shirt? Frederick, what have you done to your head? It looks like you're trying to grow a horn. Does it hurt? Mrs. Dutton, may we have something for Frederick's head?”

Mrs. Dutton chuckled, “Bless you, have what you please. It will be a holiday around here for days. What about a nice slice of plum cake? Do either of you fancy that?”

Mrs. Dutton took care of the bump on Frederick's forehead. Then Bess and Frederick ate as much plum cake as they could hold. When at last he rose from the table, Frederick was feeling much better. Still, the thought of those pieces of the black thing troubled him. Lord Schofield had given orders to leave them until he could dispose of them properly. But the wizard was likely to be distracted by the arrival of his son. What if two of those pieces managed to wriggle back together?

Back upstairs, Frederick found the door to the bedchamber locked. He put his ear to the door panel and heard nothing. He knocked.

After a moment, Lord Schofield opened the door. “Ah. Frederick. You aren't needed just now.”

Frederick could not see beyond Lord Schofield's bulk, but he had the sense there was someone else in the room within. It made him curious. “I can help.”

“You have helped.” Lord Schofield smiled down at Frederick. “You have helped tremendously. But just now, I am rather busy. Go away.”

“I sleep in the dressing room,” Frederick reminded him. “With this door locked, I can't go to bed.”

“Is it that late?” Lord Schofield looked surprised. “So it is. Well, it's a big house. Find somewhere else to sleep. Good night.” With that, the wizard closed and locked the door.

Typical. Frederick glared at the door. Not so very long ago, he had saved Lord Schofield from death by strangulation. The wizard had said he was grateful, but how did he show it? Save a man's life and he locked your bed away.

When he put his ear to the door again, Frederick heard Lord Schofield intoning something. As usual, Frederick could not make out any words, but just once he thought he heard Billy Bly's deep voice.

To his horror, Frederick felt his eyes sting with tears at the sound.
Crying,
that would never do. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and squared his shoulders. Leave tears to babies, he told himself. Assistant valets don't cry.

Frederick listened at the door a long time, but the deep note did not recur. At last he gave up and went downstairs to sleep by the kitchen fire. The loudest of the reveling in the servants' hall had worn itself out, so the place was almost quiet. Frederick told himself it was no worse than he'd had it at the orphanage, sleeping in the kitchen. The floor was cleaner. Even banked for the night, the fire was warmer.

There was even a saucer of cream left beside the hearth, Grant's offering to Billy Bly. Frederick drank the cream himself, curled up beside the fire, and slept.

Almost before he knew he'd been asleep, Frederick woke to the smell of fresh bread. He scrambled out of the cook's way.

“Rough night?” Grant asked. “There's a lot of that about this morning.”

Frederick couldn't think of anything to say to that. He leaned against the wall while he yawned and stretched himself awake.

“Half the household stayed up drinking themselves stupid to celebrate the new heir.” Grant's tone made his low opinion of less hardy drinkers plain. “They'll be sorry when they finally wake up and find they still have all their work left to do and only part of the day to do it in.”

“Not guilty,” said Frederick. “Never touched a drop.”

“Then why were you sleeping on the floor?” The cook sliced the end of a loaf of bread in two, buttered both halves an inch thick, and pushed one piece over to Frederick. “Hang about. There's a bit of bacon coming.”

“Locked out.” Frederick licked his fingers and waited for the bacon. When it came, still sizzling from the fire, he ate his share so fast he burned his tongue. He sucked in air and fanned his mouth. “Thank you,” he mumbled, when he was able to speak again.

“Oh, greedy.” Grant seemed to take Frederick's enthusiasm as a great compliment. “No more for you, lad.”

Frederick wiped his mouth and brushed the last bread crumbs to the floor. “Good, that. Well worth the pain.”

“Praise indeed,” said Grant. “Will his lordship want his breakfast any time this morning, do you think? Or will he stay in bed the whole day and sleep it off?”

Frederick remembered that he was angry with the whole world, most particularly with Lord Schofield. It would suit him fine if the ungrateful toad missed breakfast for a week. Still, he didn't want Grant to get in trouble. “I'll go see if he's likely to stir any time this year.”

“Thanks.” Grant returned to his work, readying breakfast for the entire household.

By the halfhearted light of the rainy autumn morning, Frederick climbed the back stairs, marveling at how silent the house was. After the noise of the night before, the place seemed cold and lonely. The sense of warmth and belonging he had known in the months he'd lived in the house was gone. Had it all been Billy Bly's influence on him? Had he ever truly felt at home at Skeynes?

The door to Lord Schofield's bedchamber stood open. The wizard was nowhere to be seen. From the state of the wash basin and the wardrobe, Frederick guessed he had gone to see his wife and child the moment he was washed and dressed.

Marveling, Frederick gazed around the bedchamber. Scarcely a trace remained of the battle they had fought here the day before. Nothing betrayed the magical work Lord Schofield had performed in the night. Had Billy Bly been at work here? Frederick looked around more closely.

Except for the unmade bed and his lordship's usual morning disorder, everything was where it belonged. Most of it was clean, so clean Frederick had to pinch himself to believe his eyes. Only his lordship's top hat, kicked into a corner, lingered to hint at yesterday's struggle.

Frederick inspected the top hat as he brushed it clean. Restoring the glossy black gleam to the exterior was easy enough. Careful examination of the inside of the hat revealed lingering traces of the sticky black stuff. Frederick got out the powdered chalk used to clean the tops of Lord Schofield's hunting boots and rubbed it into the stains. When the chalk had soaked up as much of the stain as possible, he brushed the powder out and started again with a fresh handful.

As he worked, Frederick hummed a little tune, oddly content with a task that asked nothing of him but patience and persistence. Persistence, it occurred to Frederick, was a particular strength of his. It made him feel good to work stubbornly away, knowing he was going to triumph eventually. Sitting there, saving the top hat from the stain, the work gave him a sense of peace. All might not be right with the world, but just for that moment, all was right with Frederick.

After the top hat, there were the second-best riding boots, forgotten in all the excitement, still to be polished. Frederick worked his way through the bedchamber and dressing room, cleaning what was already gleamingly clean, tidying what was already tidy. Half the morning had slipped away before Frederick noticed.

The work was easy because, except for a thimbleful of stain in the top hat, none of his efforts were needed. Frederick pondered that thought. Perhaps none of his work ever had been needed. Perhaps it was time, very likely it was past time, that he moved on. Found a better situation. Somewhere his skills would be truly appreciated.

Frederick was still considering that idea when the door flew open. Lord Schofield sprang into the room. “Frederick! I want boots! Bring me my driving coat, my hat—oh, and gloves. But boots first! Boots above all! First, last, and always, I must have boots.”

Frederick did not need a single word of these orders to gauge his master's temper. The speed and ease with which Lord Schofield moved made all plain. Despite his shouting, he was in a wonderful humor.

“Can you believe it? That dunce of a man-midwife has found his way here at last. Finally thought to read the letter I sent when I summoned him, I suppose.”

“The child was born early,” Frederick reminded him. “He wouldn't have expected to hear from you for another week.”

“Not
those
boots. Don't toy with me, lad. Your senses are keen. Your instincts about the soot in the chimney prove it.”

Before Frederick could thank him for the compliment, Lord Schofield was chattering on. “Keener wits than Pickering's, and don't think for an instant I won't give him a wigging for missing a warning sign plain even to my assistant valet. Now, given the sharpness of your eyes and wits, how can it have escaped your attention that it is raining? I don't fancy ruining my best pair of boots to help that dozy wretch avoid the rain.”