Chapter 19
Celeste sighed with relief as the chamber door closed behind the Duchess. She had been especially difficult this week, fussing over her clothing, accusing Celeste of taking up the seams when she wasn’t looking, and of trying to starve her because there wasn’t enough food on her breakfast or tea tray.
Precisely what was going on with the Duchess, Celeste had no idea, but the respite from trying to please her was welcome. Celeste could now go to her own dinner, and then to bed. Rising early to take care of the house floral arrangements, then stitching all afternoon on new dresses for the Duchess, and finally getting her ready for her evening meal with the Duke was beginning to take its toll.
Celeste was just pouring herself a cup of tea from the pot on the upper servants’ dining room table, when Miss Sedgewick bustled in through the door. “Have you seen Sally Ann?” Martha asked without preamble.
“No, not since breakfast.”
“Jill Hammonds, the cook’s helper, said Sally Ann told everyone she was going for a walk, and then practically ran out the door. That was in the late afternoon, shortly before the footmen and serving maids began to take up dinner for the Duke and Duchess. Cook needs her to scrub some more pots, and she isn’t anywhere to be found. Neither Betty nor I can be spared to go look for her. Can you walk down toward the lake to see if you see anything?”
The last thing Celeste wanted to do was to walk toward the lake in twilight, especially since the wind was bringing a promise of rain. “I can go,” she said.
“Take my warm shawl,” Martha said. “It is there on the chairback. That way you won’t have to go back up to your room.”
“Are we sure she hasn’t simply gone up to bed?” Celeste asked. “It wouldn’t be the first time she’s lain down to nap and not heard the bell.”
“Betty went up and checked. She’s not there.”
Celeste accepted the loan of the warm shawl and hurried out into the growing dusk. Without realizing it, she took the same path Sally Ann had taken earlier. At the gate heading down toward the lake, she paused. There was something white on the path. When Celeste came closer to it, she recognized it as Sally Ann’s mob cap, the one she wore to keep her hair out of the dish washing in the kitchen. It was slightly damp, but not wet, for the rain was just beginning to patter down.
“Sally Ann? Sally Ann!” Celeste called into the growing dark. She walked a few steps farther on, then stopped. The path she was following led straight into the Lolly Mire.
Without even stopping to think, Celeste turned and ran back into the house, clutching the white cap in her hand.
Chapter 20
Jonathan settled into the big chair in his study with a sigh of relief. Dinner had turned into an ordeal, with Margery recounting every word of the gossip from London, and berating him soundly for not allowing her to attend the spring session. Between alternately extolling the secondhand accounts of operas, musicales, and crushes, and the other male guests’ ability to attend “at least part of the season”, she had interspersed her discourse with disparaging remarks concerning the food that was being served.
Jonathan and the herdsman had picked out two older bulls who were too far past their prime to trade for new breeding stock to roast. These, in addition to the sheep that had strayed into the mire, provided roast meat for their guests at the fair. The cook had put the kitchen staff to work drying part of the meat that was left, but a good portion had gone into a stew that could be kept over the fire for several days.
Margery had said a great deal about that, too, and about his other “cheese paring” ways. It was a great relief when they reached dessert, an almond and cinnamon flavored custard. The dish turned out well, but Margery turned up her nose at it, declaring that eggs had been on both the breakfast and lunch menu in some form or another.
Jonathan liked eggs. He enjoyed them poached, boiled, and made into custard. He appreciated the cook’s frugality in taking advantage of the abundance of eggs available in spring and summer. He had finally had enough of Margery’s dinner conversation. Flinging down his napkin, he announced that dinner was at an end, and had fled to the sanctity of his study.
Perhaps he should do as Warner suggested and have his meals in his rooms. Goodness knew it would probably do his digestion good. But the suppers together were the last vestige of pretending that he actually had a marriage. With his recent observations of Margery’s behavior, he wondered why he even bothered.
He opened the book of family history that he had been reading, but somehow the accounts of the late 1600s didn’t hold his interest as had those of the earliest days of the estate. Perhaps it was because he came upon a section where an especially pious ancestor was writing about a woman being tried as a scold.
Jonathan closed the book, and stared into the fire. The papers requesting advice were already on their way to one of his father’s friends, a minister in Edinburgh, and another copy on its way to a junior member of the Regent’s court. The Prince Regent was rumored to have his own marital problems, so Jonathan was hopeful that he might be sympathetic. Of the minister, he was not as hopeful. The elderly man was more likely to tell him to keep his house in order.
What should I really do about Margery? She has no idea of how the world works. I had such hopes for this marriage. She was the daughter of my father’s friend. The old Duke of Mabway was a jolly fellow, quite the card at hunts and always glad to lend a helping hand when needed. Margery must resemble her mother, but who can say? Maybe it was being raised by servants. But other children have been raised by servants and turned out all right.
Jonathan sighed, and used the poker to stir the fire. As sparks rose up the chimney, he continued his ruminations.
I might almost as well have consigned my messages to the flames and let them be delivered by the fire fairies for all the good the ones I have sent are likely to do. How did I ever land in such a toil? I made a promise, but it is hard to keep good on a promise when the other person is fighting against your efforts.
Jonathan sighed again. How had he and Margery gone so wrong? They did not move in the same circles, attend the same parties, or know the same set of people unless it was official business that benefited the estate. They did not sleep together.
He tended to the traditional duties of landlord and legal owner by hearing the villagers’ small grievances against one another. She belonged to a very fast set that was focused on the latest fashions, the best wines, and the juiciest bits of gossip. She truly loved the London Season, and it had been the one thing he could give to her and count on her pleasure. He had not enjoyed telling her that this year they would remain at home.
Jonathan set his book aside and strode up into his sleeping chamber. The fire on his hearth had burned low and the spring air was chilly. Rather than ring for a servant, he carefully placed another log on the fire, using the fire tongs to finish settling it in place. He then replaced the tongs and drew the fire screen across the blaze.
There came a soft tap at the door.
“Yes?”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Warner sent me up with your night tray.”
