“Staying to home would certainly benefit your financial affairs, Your Grace. While it is not my place to ask, whatever did your Duchess do with 1500 ells of pink silk gauze?”
“Oh, you may ask, Mr. Beedle. She had the ballroom in our manor house made into a pavilion by draping the ceiling with the stuff. She then hung the edges of it with strings of glass beads.”
Mr. Beedle peered at his ledger. “Well, that explains the barrel of beads and silk thread. And what was done with these things after the gala?”
“Either sent to the rubbish bin or the attic, I believe. I did not ask.”
“Just a suggestion, Your Grace, next time, ask. The silk alone could have been cut up and sold in smaller pieces to support our fighters in France. Or the fabric could have been sent to Spain to use as mosquito netting.”
Jonathan sighed. The man meant well, but he didn’t live with Margery. Even the merest suggestion of either sort would have implied a sort of poverty that his Duchess found abhorrent. Still, that had been a lot of fabric.
What did become of it?
He gave himself a mental shake, and returned to the question of oysters and vigor. “I’m glad the scheme has your approval. I’ll ask the steward if he can procure some. Word has it that an iceberg floated in near the harbor, so we might be able to get some cod on ice instead of pickled herring.”
But Margery was no longer focused on the dinner menu. “What do you mean we aren’t going to London for the Season?”
“Exactly that, my dear wife. Your expenditures before Christmas coupled with reversals on some of our investments on the continent have brought us to the necessity of economizing. However, we can continue to live very well if we forego the spring London Season.”
“Live!” Margery’s voice took on a dangerously shrill edge. “Do you call this living? London is my one chance to get away from this moldy old pile! I demand that we go to London.” Her voice increased in shrillness and volume with each word.
“Margery! The servants!” Jonathan said gently, touching the hand she rested on his arm gently by way of remonstrance.
“Bother the servants!” she muttered, but subsided as they entered the dining room.
As soon as they were seated the butler intoned, “Clarified broth with fresh green onions.”
This, of course, set Margery off. “Does he have to do that? And why does my soup have bits of green floating on top?”
“It keeps him in practice.” Jonathan tried to keep the weariness out of his voice. He refrained from reminding her that she was the one who requested that the butler announce each dish by name.
By the time they made it to dessert, a dried apple cobbler that was quite good, he was heartily tired of her voice. No dish, not even the apple pastry made with cinnamon in the American fashion, had won her approval. Jonathan was glad to escape to his study while Margery retreated to her rooms. Once there, he could settle down to a second repast that was far less formal and no less palatable.
With a snifter of brandy, a slice of cheese, and a wedge of the despised dried apple cobbler he settled in to read the newspaper. The news did nothing, however, to settle his stomach so he set the paper aside and replaced it with a history of Gwyndonmere. He had read it dozens of times but it soothed his ravaged nerves to read about his ancestor receiving the original grant, the purchase of the upper pastures from a family that wanted to escape the highlands.
Chapter 6
The Duchess often spent hours in the afternoon out riding. Celeste found the time after cleaning up her rooms and before she returned to move very slowly with nothing to do. She sought out the housekeeper to see if there were any small chores with which she could assist.
Martha Sedgewick raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I thought you were to take on the floral arrangements,” she said.
“I am. But Mr. Hammonds tells me that the head gardener will meet with me later and help me get started. He has been doing the larger arrangements, leaving those for the Duke’s study and the rooms for the maid.”
“Well. If you are to be waiting for Gran’ther Tim you would be waiting a while. He always does the orangeries before he carries up the flowers, and today he went to the orchard to see what damage has been done by the late frosts. Meantime, I could use some help. It is time to change out the winter linens for the summer ones. I’ve a mind to see to their condition and lay fresh herbs in the cupboards as we do so.”
“That sounds like an easy enough task,” Celeste commented.
As they went up the stair to the big linen presses where the seasonal fabrics were kept, they met Mr. Murchadh McOwen, the hound master coming down the stair.
“Good morning, Mr. McOwen,” Miss Sedgewick said. “I trust all is well?”
“Just taking the young ratters up to the attics, Miss Sedgewick,” the tall man said. “They’ve done right well.” He held up a bag that wiggled and thrashed. Two small dogs sat by his foot, their pink tongues lolling out of little white muzzles and two sets of red ears pricked up with interest.
Miss Sedgewick nodded her approval. “Would it be amiss to give them a treat?”
“Not at all,” Mr. McOwen replied. “Benny and Brodie did an excellent job today. I’ll take up another pair from the litter tomorrow. If they do as well, we should soon have all the vermin flushed out of the castle.”
“Well, now, wouldn’t that be the trick?” the housekeeper commented. “Old places like this are always full of mice, rats, and snakes.” To Celeste’s astonishment, the housekeeper pulled a wrapped bundle from her pocket and extracted two objects that looked like fried dough. She reached down and presented one of the objects to each small dog in turn. At a hand sign from the hound master, each dog took a tidbit politely then gulped it down.
