Anne Barbour (2 page)

His air of submissive respect seemed to Claudia wholly spurious, and she bestowed on him what she hoped was a regal nod, wishing she did not look so awful—or smell quite so bad. “Yes, I am,” she replied. “And Jonah is right, I’m afraid. We are not hiring just now.”

Jem’s eyes grew wide. “But a lady like you—mucking out the stables. It ain’t fit, mum. You need another hand, sure.”

“That may be.” Claudia spoke harshly. “However, we maintain a very small operation here, and to be very frank, young man, we cannot afford to hire any more help—at the moment.”

“I’d work for board and a place to sleep, mum.” Jem allowed a hint of desperation to creep into his voice. “And I could double as a footman, or valet—or even a butler.”

Claudia had begun to turn away, but at these words, she spun about again.

“Butler?” She stared at him dubiously. “You don’t look like a butler.”

As she looked, a startling transformation came over the stranger. He drew himself up as though someone had thrust a poker up the back of his coat, and he swept his disordered hair into a semblance of smoothness. Making a bow that nicely combined a certain degree of subservience with the disdainful arrogance of a gentleman’s servant, he spoke in accents utterly unlike those Claudia had just heard him use.

“Quite so, madam. However, it has been my experience that looks can be deceiving.”

“Apparently so,” Claudia said with some asperity. She chewed her lip and glanced at Jonah.

“Thomas and Rose will be here in a few days, and I have done nothing about a replacement for Morgan. Aunt Gussie is becoming most agitated.”

Morgan. Jem wrinkled his forehead at the sound of the name. What had happened to Morgan? Passed away? He had been getting on in years when Jem had seen him last. He shook himself slightly and listened to Mrs. Carstairs’s next words.

“Thomas will be highly affronted if he is greeted at the door by one of the maids. We don’t even have anyone who can stand in as a footman.”

“I’m your man, then,” interposed Jem bestowing on her the most charming smile at his disposal. He became the immediate target of three suspicious pairs of eyes. The young widow stood for several moments in frowning abstraction.

Claudia did not trust this personable stranger any farther than she could throw the horse that stood behind him in its stall. Despite his air of candor, he had been asking questions. On the other hand, perhaps it would be better to keep him nearby, where she could monitor his curiosity.

“If you are indeed willing to work for board and a place to sleep, we will take you on. Jonah will show you where you will stay.” She handed him her pitchfork. “After you’ve finished here, Jonah will give you additional duties.”

Jem knew a tinge of disappointment and some apprehension. He hoped he would not be called on to perform any tasks calling for any actual knowledge of horsemanship. For, despite his claim to expertise, he doubted that the position he had held for a few weeks several years ago as sweeping boy in a livery stable would qualify him for anything more complicated than wielding that pitchfork or carrying water. Well, he would just have to trust in Providence to wangle him into the butler’s job. Too bad about Morgan—although it wouldn’t have done, he supposed, to have yet another old retainer about the place to recognize him.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Changing into the only other pair of breeches he had brought with him, and donning a shirt donated by young Lucas, who still hovered suspiciously, Jem wielded his pitchfork to good effect. After that, he carried water and distributed feed. His other chores proved no more difficult than currying and brushing and oiling leather. He began to think that he might be able to carry off his little charade without incident, after all.

His composure nearly deserted him, however, when he entered the tack room for the first time. Dear God, it was as though he had stepped out of it only yesterday. There, in one corner was the big, scarred desk used for the business of the stable operation. Next to it were the cabinets, dark with age, where generations of records had been kept. Against another wall, row upon row of ribbons and trophies rested in glass cases, and even—yes! There was the sketch he had made of Trusty, his first pony. It had been framed, and still hung between the portraits of two of the stable’s most notable mares.

An unfamiliar pricking sensation stung between his eyes, and he gripped the back of a chair. A sound behind him made him whirl.

“Are ye in need of rest already, then, Mr. January?” asked Jonah in a caustic voice. He did not wait for a reply, but continued brusquely. “Ye’ll find the gear that needs mendin’ in the next room.”

Wordlessly, Jem turned and fled from the little chamber.

He knew another bad moment when the supper hour approached. As he followed Jonah and Lucas into the main house, past the kitchen, he was again almost overwhelmed with memory. True, he had not spent much time in the nether regions of Ravencroft, but visions of gingerbread eaten in the warmth of a bustling kitchen rose up before him. Just there, he had sat nursing a scraped knee one December afternoon, while Cook plied him with salve and damson tarts.

Supper was taken in the lower-servants’ hall, and Jem sat quietly, absorbing the chatter that flowed about him. It was apparent that the house was understaffed, too. He wondered how many tenants worked the fields. From what he’d heard in the village, the widow Carstairs kept sheep, though not nearly as large a flock as had roamed the Ravencroft pastures in years past.

At least she set a good table, he reflected appreciatively as he swallowed a succulent morsel of chicken, and she didn’t skimp on the under servants. She seemed to be well-liked among her staff. He heard only fondness in the voices that spoke her name. He found his thoughts dwelling on the diminutive figure in outsize shirt and breeches. How in God’s name had she come to marry Carstairs? he wondered. It had been hard to tell what she looked like with that equally oversized hat pulled about her ears, but she seemed a decent enough sort.

He shook himself. He did not want to think about the possible decency of Mrs. Emanuel Carstairs. One of his purposes in coming to Ravencroft had been for revenge. He had thirsted so badly for it for so long. He recalled his unbelieving rage when he discovered that the new owner of Ravencroft had been in the earth for nearly a year. He relaxed the fists that had clenched involuntarily. Retribution may have been denied him, but he would still accomplish his other goal. And when he had, the young widow would have to find somebody else’s stables to muck out.

Slightly ashamed of his rancor, he finished his meal and hurried out to the stable to take care of the first of the evening chores allotted to him by Jonah.

It was some hours later when he was dismissed. After washing up at the pump in front of the stable yard, he strolled around to the front of the house and for many minutes simply stared at the facade of weathered, local stone, glowing in the late afternoon sun. It was a beautiful old manor, he thought affectionately, looking rather as if it had grown from the gently rolling landscape of the Cotswolds. The original building had formed a modest square, but subsequent generations, rejoicing in a fairly consistent prosperity, had added to the structure. Now a long, curving pair of wings embraced a sweeping drive and behind them, unseen, were other enlargements and additions. How was the widow managing to keep it all up, he wondered, turning to cast a sweeping glance about the now unkempt lawns surrounding him. It seemed to him that every tree, every shrub, and every crevice of the place held a special memory for him.

Soon, now, he thought exultantly. Soon…

He returned to the stable yard, and in the gathering darkness he perched on a railing in front of one of the buildings. He breathed in the scents of summer.
I
am home.
The words formed themselves contentedly in his mind.

He became aware of Jonah’s rangy form approaching, and made leaning room on the rail for the old man.

“Ye done pretty good t’day, laddy,” Jonah said grudgingly. “Fer somebody new t’ the job, that is,” He stared off into the distance for several minutes, chewing ruminatively on a straw. Without looking at Jem, he continued. “And how does it feel t’ be back home, Lord Glenraven?”

Chapter Two

Jem swiveled to face Jonah, his face a mask of blank surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

Jonah answered with a derisive bark of laughter. “Nay, don’t be playing off yer tricks on me, me lord. I suspicioned it was you when I first clapped eyes on ye this morning. An’ it weren’t long before I was sure.”

Jem studied the old man for a long moment before replying. “What was it that gave me away?” he asked finally.

“Oh, ye have the family look about ye. And there’s the way ye carries yerself. Y’ always did act more the lord than the lord hisself. Then, when I told you to fetch a new harness, you knew right where to go without bein’ told.”

Jem grinned sheepishly. “I should have known better than to try to fool you, you crafty old devil.”

The creases in Jonah’s face deepened. “Aye,” he chuckled.

Jem’s expression grew serious. “Can I trust you to keep my secret—for a little while?”

Jonah’s smile faded. “That depends. I don’t like the idea of keeping secrets from Miz Carstairs. Have you come to cause her hurt?” he asked suddenly.

“No!” exclaimed Jem. “Of course not. Well—at any rate...”

Jonah grunted. “If it ain’t too much t’ ask, just why have you come back? T’ make trouble?”

Jem studied the old man, wondering how much to tell him. If he confided in Jonah, and Jonah went right to Mrs. Carstairs, to whom the stable man evidently felt he owed some allegiance, everything would be ruined. On the other hand, an ally somewhere on the estate would be of great help to him— someone who was familiar with the workings of the house under its new management. He knew Jonah to be an honest man who had always been devoted to the master and the master’s family in the old days.

He drew a deep breath. “Jonah, how much do you know of what happened—when Father ...?”

“The day the old lord died and the place fell to Emanuel Carstairs was the blackest day ever t’ befall Ravencroft and them whose lives are bound here.” Jonah’s expression was bitter. “Meanin’ no disrespect, but none of us could ever understand how yer pa could have let it happen.”

“But you seem to favor Carstairs’s widow.”

“Ah, there’s another story. Word was she was well-nigh forced t’ marry the old bastid. Her pa owed Carstairs money —just like your pa did—and bein’ the randy old goat he was, he’d had his eye on Miss Claudia for a while. He always liked the pretty ‘uns.”

Jem shot him a startled glance. The pretty ‘uns? A vision flitted through his mind of a shapeless figure, swathed in an unattractive assortment of rank male garments.

“I give ‘er this, though,” Jonah continued. “She didn’t put up with much from ‘im.”

“Oh? Under the circumstances you’ve described, I would have thought her completely under his thumb.”

Jonah’s rough cackle sounded softly in the night. “Aye, that’s what ye’d think, but the missus ain’t one fer stayin’ under anybody’s thumb fer long. Oh, he tried his tricks with her, just like he done with his two wives afore her. Yup,” he said in response to Jem’s look of startled inquiry “Two. He took a wife within two weeks of his comin’ to Ravencroft. She died a year later, and he took another within six months. She lasted a little longer—hung on for three years.”

“How did they...”

“Oh, there was talk, of course. It’s my belief Carstairs killed ‘em both,” he said baldly. “Oh, not apurpose, exactly—but I saw him hit Mrs. Julia, his first wife. Well, he hit her lots of times, but this one day—they was right out here in the stable yard. She was a little thing, and I guess she done somethin’ t’ rile him. Anyway, he lashed out at her with his fist, and she went down like a felled sapling. Hit her head on the  side of that water trough.”

“My God,” breathed Jem. “And there was no one by to help her?”

Jonah uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “There wan’t anybody who could do that, don’t ye know. It’d be worth a man’s livelihood—and mebbe his life—to have stepped in. After a few minutes, she got up of herself and she seemed all right, but about a week later she took to her bed. Doctor called it a brain fever, and not three days after that, she died. I’ve always thought—well, I guess it don’t matter what I thought.”

“And his second wife?” Jem whispered the words.

“She ran out o’ the house one night. He’d been at her, we heard. Her maid said you could hear the blows land. It was a cold night, and pourin’ rain. She ran and ran. Carstairs went after her with some of the house servants, and it was hours before they found her, soaked and shiverin’ in the churchyard. She went into an inflammation of the lungs, and was cold in the earth inside of a week.”

“I knew the man was a monster.” Jem’s voice was choked. “But it appears I didn’t know the half. To look at him, you’d never know what evil lurked below the surface.”

“Yup,” replied Jonah musingly. “Big feller, he was, bluff and hearty.” Jem nodded, remembering, “always had a laugh and a clap on the back for them he considered important. The neighborhood nobs thought he was grand—they never saw the kicks and the curses for them that served him.”

“But,” continued Jem, “you say he was different with the present Mrs. Carstairs?”

“Aye. Oh, he started off just like with the others. I understand he thrashed her bloody one night. But,” Jonah scratched his grizzled pate. “It never happened again. I dunno—he acted almost scairt of her after that, he did. Treated her with—well, I guess you could call it respect. Leastways, he took more back talk offa her than anybody else I ever saw. And—”

“But how did Carstairs die? I heard in the village he simply fell off his horse.”

“Um—well, I guess that’s about the right of it. He came home drunk one night, it seems. He was with another feller, and they were roisterin’ along, singin’ songs an’ all. The other feller, Minchin, his name is, says all of a sudden Carstairs’s horse took fright at somethin’ and shied and took off runnin’. Next thing Minchin knew, Carstairs was dead in the ditch, that thick neck o’ his broke like kindlin’. Twere’nt no one sorry
to
see him gone, neither. Leastways nobody that knew him very good.”