“Not many, just my aunt, Lady Gosforth; my brother, the Earl of Alverleigh; my half brother, Mr. Morant; and his wife, Lady Helen Morant; and possibly some others. And, of course, their servants—my aunt will bring her dresser, her coachman, and several grooms. Oh, and of course the bride, Miss Madeleine Woodford, and her siblings—five children under the age of twelve, so the nursery will need to be opened.”
“Five children?” Ferring quavered.
Nash frowned. “Is that a problem?”
The old man looked about to burst into tears. “Oh no, sir, it’s just that, that . . .”
Mrs. Pickens stepped forward. “It’s just that the last child that was in this house was yourself, sir. And may I say”—she glanced at the butler—“and I speak for us all, sir, that it’s been too long since this old place had children running about in it.”
Ferring pulled out a handkerchief and blew on it loudly, nodding vigorously to show his agreement with the sentiments expressed. “Whitethorn will be a family home again, as it was when I was a boy.”
“Only for a week I’m afraid, and then I’m closing it down—”
“Closing it down?”
“For repairs and refurbishment. I’ll be returning to Russia shortly, but this will be our country home. I will, of course, keep you all on here. Those who wish to retire will receive a pension.”
There was an almost audible exhaling of breath.
Nash continued. “First things first. I want the house thoroughly cleaned, the rooms opened up, the bedrooms scrubbed, the sheets and bedding aired, and . . .” He made a vague gesture. “You will know better than I what needs to be done.” He turned to Grainger. “I haven’t inspected the stables yet—”
“All tidy and shipshape, sir,” Grainger said.
Nash wasn’t surprised. “Good man. You’ll be busy, too. Most of the visitors will bring their own grooms and drivers, but you’ll need to get in supplies and manage the whole.”
Grainger’s eyes gleamed. “Like the old days, it’ll be, sir. Be good to see the stables busy again.”
Nash looked at the cook. “Mrs. Goode, can you cook for that number of guests? And for a small reception for the wedding guests, after the ceremony?”
“I can, as long as they don’t mind good country cooking—there’ll be none of your fancy French dishes, sir.”
“Excellent. Now, Ferring—”
But the cook wasn’t finished with him. “Andifyou give me a proper budget, freedom to order what I want, andifyou give me the help I require.” She tilted her jaw pugnaciously.
Mrs. Pickens and Ferring whispered in an agitated manner to her, but she only set her jaw more firmly and said, “AndI want my wages. And Emily’s.” At which Ferring and Mrs. Pickens fluttered in visible distress. Grainger stared at a spot on the carpet, plainly wishing himself elsewhere.
Nash raised a brow. “Your wages?”
“She didn’t mean anything by it—” Mrs. Pickens began, but Nash held up his hand.
“What do you mean, you want your wages, Mrs. Goode?”
“I’m owed nearly six months,” she told him with nervous belligerence. She jerked her head toward the other servants. “And they’re owed more, though they won’t say how much. I’ve gotten some money out of him but only when I’ve threatened him with the law.”
“You’re speaking of Harris, I presume?”
“I am.”
“He’s in arrears with your wages?” Why was Nash not surprised? “How long?” he asked each of them, and when they told him, he was shocked.
Except for the cook, who was obviously a woman to be reckoned with, the others hadn’t been paid in more than a year—since before Sir Jasper had died. Harris had claimed he had no authority to pay wages. The heir’s instructions, he said; he was only following orders. It would all be sorted out when the heir took over. All Harris did was pay for their food, and even that, according to Mrs. Goode, was a niggardly amount.
“But why have you all stayed so long?” Nash asked, appalled, and found they couldn’t afford to leave. They had nowhere else to go.
“I will sort everything out,” he promised them. “I sacked Harris yesterday.”
“Sacked him?” All the servants brightened.
