Chance the Winds of Fortune (19 page)

“Have you indeed,” Kate commented, moving closer.

“Aye, a bit odd, that. Might be wonderin' why ye wasn't stayin' at Camareigh, except that I know there be bad blood between ye and His Grace, and that brother of yours,” the old man said matter-of-factly. He strained his eyes past Kate, to where Rocco was standing silently by the door. “Now, tha's not young Rathbourne, unless he's gone and growed a couple of feet. Is he here with ye, then?”

Kate's clenched hands tightened as she answered shortly, “He's dead.”

“Is he now?” the old man said, voicing little regret at the gentleman's passing. “Come t'bad end, did he? Always suspected he would.”

An uncontrollable hiss escaped Kate's lips as she glared at the complacent old man who had, in a carelessly spoken comment, dismissed her beloved Percy like so much garbage.

“I won't be lyin' t'ye, Miss Rathbourne,” the old man continued. “I never cared much for ye, or tha' brother of yours. Ye've a mean streak in ye, both of ye had it, and I'll never be forgettin' the way ye put the whip to tha' sweet little mare of yours. Dove was her name,” he said with a reminiscent look on his face.

Kate gave a strangled laugh of incredulity. “You actually remember the name of my mare. Lud, but I don't even remember that!”

“Oh, I remember her, right enough,” Mr. Taber said, now with a grim look as he eyed the veiled woman. “Treated her poor bruised flesh time and time again, I did. But ye never learned ye lesson, did ye? Stubborn and hardheaded, you was, until finally ye took little Dove out and broke her leg. 'Twasn't necessary, that. No, sir, t'wasn't necessary a'tall. Said so at the time to the old duke.”

“Yes, you did, didn't you?” Kate recalled. “Since we're indulging in old memories, I recall you carrying tales and lies to my grandfather. Because of you I was forbidden the stables. You caused me a lot of trouble, old man. You always were an interfering busybody.”

Old Mr. Taber nodded his white head. “Ye never did care to be crossed. Always wanted your own way, you and t'other one. I always did think 'twas ye who put him up to most of the mischief. Remember, too, when ye and that brother of yours ganged up on His Grace. Scarred him good, didn't ye? Never thought 'twas an accident like ye said to the old duke. 'Twas cruel of ye to do that.”

“He got his revenge, old man,” Kate told him grimly, her skirts rustling around her as she moved ever closer.

“Aye, been a long time since ye was here in the valley. Strange, ye comin' back now. His Grace never mentions ye. And ye say ye're not stayin' at Camareigh. Right strange, that.”

A deep, throaty laugh came from Kate. “Poor Mr. Busybody. You don't know everything, do you? There are still a few secrets that haven't been ferreted out by you and that long nose of yours. You've lived so long, old man, you think you've seen it all, don't you?”

“I've seen enough to satisfy me, m'lady. Ye be right. I have lived a long time, and I know I've not much longer left,” the old man replied, and even though he was bent over because his spine had curved under the weight of age, and his features were wizened, he possessed a simple and undeniable dignity that Kate knew she herself could never aspire to. “I don't want to know about you. Your kind is bad. Ye be rotten to the core, and I don't want my last days to be tainted by ye. I'm goin' to die soon, I can feel it in me bones, so I don't care what I say to ye, missy. And I'll warn ye now,” he added harshly, his voice trembling. “If ye be up to mischief, then ye'll be comin' to grief. His Grace is a fine gentleman, and much loved around Camareigh, as is his family. And the Tabers of Stone House-on-the-Hill have served the Dukes of Camareigh for centuries, so ye'll not be findin' any allies around here for your mischief-makin'.”

Kate smiled unpleasantly. “I do believe you are prophetic, old man. Although I suspect you will die sooner than you counted on,” she murmured, her gloved hand reaching out to fondle the short handle of a mallet lying on a shelf beside her.

“Now I'll be askin' ye kindly to leave,” Mr. Taber told Kate as he turned his back to her and began, with shaking hands, to put up his special blends and potions for mixing up liniments and poultices.

Mr. Taber of Stone House-on-the-Hill never saw the blow that felled him, nor heard the satisfied sigh that followed. He would have been touched, though, by the despairing moan that came from Rocco when he saw the old man fall to his knees against the wooden bench.

Kate felt nothing, however, as she stared dispassionately at the sprawled figure. “You've lived far too long, old man. You should have died years ago. You really should have.”

Kate glanced up in surprise when she felt Rocco come to stand beside her. “What the devil are you blubbering about?” she demanded as she heard his sniffing and caught the glisten of tears in his eyes. “God help us! You're a fool to waste your tears on him. Don't you know the old goat would've seen us swinging from the gallows just as easily as he'd have said good morning. Now come on,” Kate told the weeping footman, “we've got to get back to the inn before our fine Mr. Edward Waltham discovers we are gone. I don't want him slinking off just when I may need him the most. And do try and stay on your horse this time,” she warned him in irritable impatience, her mind already on her next move. “We have quite a lot of work to do in preparation for the morrow, which promises to be a very fine day,” she predicted as she carelessly tossed the bloodied mallet into a thick pile of straw.

* * *

Thursday morn dawned bright over Camareigh, with an exuberant cock crowing the hour, despite the hint of rain threatening in dark gray clouds hung low over the horizon. The sounds of awakening spread with increasing volume across the estate as servants and guests alike stirred from sleep and began the preparations for the day's work, or play, as fortune might have it.

From the stables drifted the sounds of barking dogs greeting the stable hands, who were yawning and rubbing cold hands together while counting off the minutes until breakfast. Their chores of watering and feeding the horses, as well as mucking out the stalls, seemed endless in the chill morning hours. But in Butterick's book, the horses always came first.

From the kitchen wing of Camareigh the clang and clatter of pots and pans rose to a deafening din as Mrs. Peacham organized her sleepy staff of assistants. The scullery maids scurried about under the threat of a large wooden spoon that was being brandished like a sword by the diminutive cook, who took no less pride in her kitchens than Butterick took in his stables. Fires were stoked in the large fireplaces of the kitchens, bringing the contents of several black pots hanging low over the flames to a fragrant bubbling. A couple of kettles were letting off steam as they bided their time over the heat. Copper and brass saucepans of varying sizes with hardwood handles, pottage pots, fish kettles and pudding pans, as well as frying pans with half-hoop handles, were being selected for breakfast duty, while the slow-burning charcoal braziers were being made ready to keep the prepared food warm for the table.

Soon the aromatic odors of roasting coffee beans, fried sausages, and eggs blended with the appetizing smells of freshly baked turnovers, tarts, and buns. A quarter of veal was already being basted as it turned on a spit over the coals, and a plump ham was baking in the oven—both were destined for luncheon. Across a wide table sitting squarely in the center of the kitchen, fresh vegetables were being scrubbed and peeled, pared and sliced, to accompany the meat as side dishes.

The delicate tinkling of fragile china and glass was added to the clamor of the kitchens as trays were prepared for their journey upstairs. Most of the guests who stayed at Camareigh enjoyed a light breakfast in their rooms as they dressed for the day's activities, many completing their toilette just in time for luncheon. The family, however, breakfasted together: Her Grace liked to see her children before they disappeared on the various pursuits and entertainments, which always kept her wondering what they were up to next.

* * *

“…you should have waited for me,” Lord Robin was saying between mouthfuls of egg. “I wish I could have seen that footman. Was he really eight feet tall? Even bigger than Will and John Taylor?”

“Robin, don't speak with your mouth full,” the duchess cautioned her son as she fed another spoonful of soft-boiled egg to Arden.

“Sorry, Mama. I can't believe anybody would be that big,” he continued after completely swallowing his mouthful of sausage.

“Honestly, he was,” James swore, crossing his heart.

“Well, I don't think he was
quite
that large a fellow,” Ewan corrected his brother. “Although he was uncommonly big.”

“Where did you say you thought he was from?” Richard asked curiously. At times he almost wished he were still young enough to gallivant across the countryside, but as an expectant father he was required to show more circumspect behavior. However, that didn't necessarily mean curbing his curiosity.

“Italy,” Francis told him.

“France,” George piped in at the same time.

“I'm sure it was Italian they were speaking,” Francis said with assurance. “She was certainly a queer one.”

“Francis! That is not a polite way to speak,” the duchess reprimanded him.

“Well, she was,” Francis maintained, standing firm. “She was dressed totally in black and wore this heavy veil. I didn't even see her face.”

“There really isn't much strange in that, Francis,” the duke commented, slowly sipping his coffee as he enjoyed these few peaceful moments with his family. “She is obviously in mourning. People can act strangely when suffering the loss of a loved one.”

“She said she was an old acquaintance of
yours
, Father,” Francis told him, a curious expression on his face as he eyed his slightly startled father.

“Indeed,” the duke said thoughtfully and exchanged an amused look with his wife. “And what was this woman's name?”

“She didn't say. But she certainly knew a lot about us. She seemed pretty sad, so I guess she was in mourning for somebody she loved,” Francis said.

“Hmmm,” the duchess remarked, a twinkle in her eye, “just as I always suspected. I knew one of your old lady loves would show her face around here one day. Grieving for the loss of your very well-lined purse, most likely. Your past, my dear, is finally beginning to catch up with you.”

“My dear Sabrina, 'tis
your
past which I fear catching up with us,” the duke responded easily as he met the general's eye.

“Please, I'm too old for these games. I've retired from all active duty at last. I wish for no more worries than any well-bred gentleman spending a contented rainy afternoon with his family,” Terence Fletcher complained good-naturedly as he finished off his breakfast.

“You're not too old, Uncle Terence,” Rhea Claire said, disabusing her uncle of that idea as she entered the room and placed a kiss on his weathered brow. As she took her vacant seat at the table, Rhea sent an apologetic glance at her parents. “I am sorry for being so late, but I could not find my riding habit. It seems to have vanished,” she informed them unconcernedly, sure that it would turn up eventually.

“I'll ask Canfield about it. Perhaps she is making some alterations on it now that you will be wearing it,” the duchess suggested.

“Where are you going so early, Rhea?” Robin asked curiously.

“I'm paying a visit on Mr. Taber and my foundling pups. He sent me a note asking that I might come by, if I had the time, and see how they were faring.”

“I'll come too,” Robin volunteered quickly, for he always enjoyed a visit to Stone House-on-the-Hill and the menagerie of homeless strays that came close to overrunning the place.

“Me too,” Stuart added loudly, his voice drowning out Maggie's and Anna's.

“And what about all of Mr. Ormsbee's tireless preparations for your Shakespearean play?” the duchess demanded, glancing around at the expectant faces. “You each have a role in it, and Mr. Ormsbee has worked so hard with each of you in helping you to remember your lines,” she reminded them, thinking of how the tutor had been almost obsessed these last few weeks as he coordinated the costumes, stage props, and sound effects, which involved the blowing of trumpets and beating of drums. Single-handedly, Mr. Ormsbee was managing to direct the energies of both the Dominick and Fletcher clans. And although the tutor would never have admitted it, his production of
Twelfth Night
wouldn't have proceeded further than a dull reading in class, if it had not been for Richard's calm, skillful handling of his nieces and nephews.

“I hope you've all learned your lines properly,” Richard was saying now as he eyed each of the participants in turn. But their faces showed only innocent expectation.

“Father made sure
we
did,” George admitted glumly. “He drilled us all the way from Green Willows. Thought I'd joined his old regiment for a while there,” he added, pretending to fire off a cannon at James across the table.

“Mr. Ormsbee will be eternally grateful to you, Terence,” Richard told him with mock seriousness.

“God forbid,” the general declared with a deep laugh as he thought of the mild-mannered Mr. Ormsbee, whose whole world revolved around the schoolroom at Camareigh. “Now, if I'd had your Mr. Ormsbee in my regiment…” the general added, a speculative look in his eye that would have boded ill for the meek Mr. Ormsbee had he been there.

“I fear it would have been the death of the poor man,” the duke said with an appreciative smile. “He's a good enough fellow, though. I think he can barely wait until Andrew is old enough to enter the schoolroom. I do believe the man feels it is his duty and purpose in life to educate my offspring.”