Celeste opened the little book, and gently turned the pages. It was clear that it held records of several years of household accounts, and that it had been kept by more than one person.
Then Jonathan handed her a polished board covered with charcoal markings. “And here is the poultryman’s accounting for yesterday. When you have his accounting recorded, we can scrub the board clean and give it back to him.”
Celeste took up the rude slate, careful not to disturb the charcoal markings. “2 gr. Eggs for the house.” She looked up at the Duke. “Two . . . gross? That’s 288 eggs?”
“Yes. It takes a lot of eggs to feed a staff of fifty. Imagine what it might be like if I maintained a household in grand style. Some of the larger duchies have a household staff of three hundred or more. We only have that many when it is time to harvest the hay or the grain.”
“Gwyndonmere is a small duchy?”
“Very small. After all, it and Mabway were created as something of a joke.”
“I would think it might be a rather expensive joke,” Celeste observed.
“Oh, quite. I believe it was set up as a sneer at a nobleman of the time. The king stated that his court jester could do a better job of running a duchy. The king laid a bet that if he gave his court jester and his taster each a small bit of land that they would do a better job of running them than the nobleman in question.”
“Who won the bet?”
“The king, of course. We are still here, although my marriage to Margery has merged the two duchies. Mabway was situated higher up the mountain, and had even less cultivable land than Gwyndonmere. The two have always had to cooperate to survive. Then, two years ago, the main house at Mabway burned to the ground. No one knew why. The last few of its folk moved to the valley, except for the herdsmen and shepherds.”
“How very strange it all is, making bets with people’s lives.”
“Such is the business of kings,” Jonathan said gently. “Gwyndonmere and Mabway were a rather gentle bet, comparatively. Even a small war is far more expensive, and that is a bet of sorts.”
“I suppose so.” Celeste returned her attention to the account book.
“Here, let us move the chair to a corner of the desk so that you can have a good writing surface.” Jonathan rose and suited action to words.
When Celeste was seated comfortably at the corner of the desk, she carefully dipped the pen that Jonathan handed to her into a bottle of ink. With equal care she entered the eggs into the household account book. She wrote with in a clear, schoolgirl script, and the numbers she added were neat and legible.
“Very nice,” Jonathan commented. “Now, here is an entry from the cook that will go with that one. And he pushed over a sheet of foolscap paper, enumerating the stores the cook had drawn from the pantry. About halfway down the page were three entries that read: 100 eggs scrambled with milk added for morning meal, general. Twelve eggs, beaten into cake. Two eggs, soft-boiled, for the Duchess. Two eggs, hardboiled, for the Duke. Ten of remainder reserved for immediate use, the rest set in brine for pickling.
Celeste made the entry, then observed, “He used almost all the eggs up at once.”
“Eggs do not keep well in summer,” Jonathan said gently.
“I suppose not. We never had enough eggs to worry about it. We had two hens once, but a stray dog caught one of them, then the other died of age. At least that’s what Papa said happened to it.”
“Most likely,” Jonathan nodded. “According to my last tutor, they only live a year or two. He set me a mathematical conundrum having to do with hens, eggs, roosters and the feeding of an army. I suppose he thought I would need it.”
“Did you, Your Grace?”
“No, Celeste, I did not. I have been fortunate. I was my father’s only heir. We produce a good bit of meat in the high meadows and sell our surplus to Edinburgh or send it as taxes to the king.”
“How do you send meat to London?” Celeste asked, incredulity coloring her voice.
“On the hoof,” Jonathan replied. “My herdsmen are very good at getting them down the mountain and to the lowlands with flesh still on them. It takes a bit of planning, I believe. I’ve never tried doing it myself.”
Celeste narrowed her eyes, looking at the ledger. “Yet Her Grace has complained for weeks now that there is little real meat to be had. Are you taxed heavily, Your Grace?”
“Not as heavily as some, but enough. The real problem this year was the dreadful winter. We were reduced to feeding out a great deal of hay at a time when the herds are usually eating grass. We even had to put hay out for the deer lest we lose the wild herds completely. As a result, we had a great deal of meat in midwinter when we put down all but essential breeding stock. We have a good supply of salted and dried meat, but the Duchess does not like it.”
Celeste frowned at the little book for a moment, but did not say anything. Instead, she picked up another foolscap paper. This one read “Culling Inventory” in Miss Sedgewick’s neat hand across the top. Beneath that, a less legible hand recorded, “One-bushel sound winter apples to the kitchen. One-peck rotten apples to the poultryman.”
Then she laughed. “I think I saw this happening. The hens were so happy to get the apples. They pecked and scratched and cooed at them. Then the rooster came and ate his fill before allowing the hens back to the food.”
“My Shanghai, I don’t doubt. He is nearly as good as a watchdog when it comes to announcing intruders, but he is a dreadful bully.”
Celeste looked up at him from the papers. “You know so much about your estates. Do all dukes take such interest?”
