The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4) Page 4

  “Now that His Majesty had a son, his daughter Mary was no longer first in the line of succession, assuring a Protestant monarchy, and fear began to spread.” Beth looked so defeated that Hugo decided to spare her the pain of telling the rest of it.

  “Beth, I know what happened, but where is Brad? Where had he gone?”

  “Brad couldn’t reconcile himself to just hiding in the country while the rightful king was being forced out by a foreign prince. He joined His Majesty’s forces on Salisbury Plain, determined to do his bit in fighting for his king. I haven’t heard from him since, nor do I know what’s happening.” Beth sniffled, her eyes turning to Hugo again. “I’ve heard rumors, terrible rumors that the king’s forces were defeated and he fled to London, leaving his men behind, but that couldn’t be true. Could it? Only yesterday I heard that James had tried to flee the country, having thrown his seal in the Thames. The fight is lost, but where is my husband? He should have returned by now, unless he was wounded — or killed,” Beth wailed, finally losing control.

  “Beth, I don’t know exactly what happened on Salisbury Plain, but I do know that it wasn’t a bloody battle. There were hardly any casualties.” Of course, Hugo knew this from having done research on the Glorious Revolution while in the twenty-first century, but he could hardly tell that to Beth. There was another battle that was fought only a week ago at Reading, but it had also been a defeat for the Royalists, although not a terribly bloody one.

  “I hear that the queen has escaped with the child,” Beth sighed. “They are running like rats from a sinking ship.” Hugo smiled at the comparison. Beth’s father had been a sea captain, one who liked to use naval metaphors around his children.

  “Beth, I fear it’s over,” Hugo said gently, knowing for a fact that it was. James would make one more attempt at recapturing his throne, but it would fail miserably, and he would live out his life in exile at the palace of Saint Germain-en-Laye just west of Paris, where he would die — defiant and fanatically pious till the end.

  “Find him, Hugo,” Beth pleaded as she grabbed his arms and stared into his eyes. “Please.”

  “Beth, I can’t.” At any other time, Hugo wouldn’t have thought twice before rushing to the rescue, but he simply couldn’t leave, not now. “Beth, I can’t leave Neve and the children alone. I need a few days at the very least to make sure that they are settled and provided for. There isn’t even enough firewood to last the week, and there’s no food and no staff. I must see to my family.”

  “Before you see to mine,” Beth replied bitterly, releasing Hugo. “Thank you for calling, Lord Everly. Mary will see you out.”

  “Beth, please,” Hugo replied, feeling a crushing guilt settling over him. “Just give me three days. If Brad is not back by then, you have my word that I will go and look for him. Please,” he repeated, needing her understanding and forgiveness.

  “All right, Hugo; I understand. Of course you must see to your family. I’m just distraught; that’s all. Please give my regards to your wife.” Beth looked deflated, but she managed to give Hugo a weak smile as he got up to leave.

  “He will be back, Beth. I know it.” She just nodded and left the room.

  Chapter 7

  I gazed out the window, judging it to be past noon based on the position of the sun. The sky was that particular shade of winter-blue, a pale, but bright expanse with not a cloud in sight. Frost shimmered on the diamond panes of the windows, and the world outside looked like a winter wonderland; the snow covering all the imperfections and blanketing the ground in a sparkling quilt. But, in less than four hours, it would start to grow dark, and we would be faced with spending another night in a cold, gloomy house. We had no food, barely any firewood, and were running short on candles.

  The children were huddled in the parlor with Frances, looking at an illuminated text which she’d found in the library. It was one of the few books that had any illustrations, and the children seemed mesmerized by the brilliant colors and gold leaf used as the background for the images. Frances and I tried to clean some of the rooms, but it was impossible with the children underfoot. They were restless, agitated, and bored. Michael had his wooden horse, but the girls had little to occupy them and weren’t the type to play quietly at the best of times. Not for the first time, I reflected on how much the world had changed in its treatment of children.

  In the seventeenth century, no one paid much heed to the needs of children. Children were to be had, raised, and married off. There were no toys, no books, no educational tools, and certainly no entertainment geared toward children. The offspring of nobility had tutors, but the rest of the children were put to work as soon as they were old enough to help. The boys assisted their fathers, while the girls were taught to sew, embroider, cook, and care for younger children. Childhood was short and joyless, since the parents were either too indifferent or too poor to indulge their children and see them as anything more than an heir or another mouth to feed. I hoped that my children would be the exception, since I planned to be involved in every aspect of their lives. I would not be passing them on to nursemaids and tutors and see them for an hour a day as a matter of duty.

  I threw down the dusting rag and wedged myself next to Elena, smiling as she leaned into me in that trusting way of children. Michael immediately forgot about the pictures and climbed into my lap, making Valentine glare at him in disgust before she moved closer to Frances for a better look. Soon, we would have to figure out what to feed the children for supper and get the fires going in the bedrooms, but for the moment, we were content, although I was starting to worry about Hugo. He’d been gone for hours. I hoped that he was enjoying a glass of brandy with Bradford before returning home, but deep down I knew that even if everything was well and Bradford was at home, Hugo would not linger while we were trapped in a cold house with no supplies or food. And Archie had gone out on some mysterious errand, leaving Frances and myself to hold down the fort.

  “Where’s Archie?” Valentine demanded petulantly. “He promised me a pony.”

  “Pony,” the twins repeated in awe as they looked at their sister. They were just beginning to talk, so every new word was like a gem, to be admired and fought over, to see who could say it better.

  “If Archie promised you a pony, then I am sure he’ll get you one, but perhaps when it gets warmer. It’s too cold to ride just now,” I answered, aware of the impatience in my voice. Knowing Valentine, this was the first inquiry in a series of hundreds. She wasn’t one to just take no for an answer. If Archie had promised her a pony, he’d have to deliver, and soon.

  “I think someone is coming,” Frances said as she set aside the book and walked over to the window. The children instantly jumped up and ran after her, but couldn’t see anything since they weren’t tall enough. Frances picked up Valentine and I grabbed the twins. They pressed their noses against the glass, eager to see what was happening outside.

  “Pony,” Michael breathed, enraptured.

  I thought Frances had spotted Hugo or Archie coming up the drive, but what I saw was a wagon train. There were three of them; two piled with firewood, and another with its contents covered with some sort of cloth. The third wagon was driven by Humpty Dumpty himself. He looked around nervously as he helped a woman down from the bench. A young girl sat in the back of the wagon, a cloth bundle clutched to her chest. She looked awfully young, and I felt a wave of pity for her as I saw her gaping at the house, her mouth open.

  “You mustn’t let them see that you pity them,” Frances suddenly said as she stepped away from the window and set Valentine down.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are no longer the mistress or the wife of an exiled traitor. You are now the lady of the house, and you must act accordingly,” Frances instructed me. I was surprised by her advice, but realized that she was probably right. I’d never had to run a household, not on this scale, and I’d had some trouble with the servants in France who hadn’t treated me with the respect or deference they
should have shown. I didn’t really care as long as they got the work done, but this was different. This was Everly Manor, Hugo’s home, and I had to learn to act like Lady Everly.

  “They must respect you — and fear you a little, otherwise you will not be able to run a household effectively. You are not their friend; you are their mistress,” Frances reminded me. She’d never actually asked me about my background, but Frances knew that I didn’t come from either nobility or landed gentry, and wasn’t raised to run a nobleman’s home. I would need some help, and although Frances had little say in the running of the household when she was married to Lionel Finch, in some ways, she knew more than I did.

  “You are right, Frances. How should I approach this?” I asked, hoping she’d have some good advice.

  “You are desperate for staff, but that doesn’t mean that you should hire anyone who comes to your door. Interview them, ask them questions about their background and work experience; show them that you want nothing but the best for your family.”

  “That might be a stretch given the circumstances,” I mumbled, but, of course, Frances had a point.

  “I’ll mind the children. Go on,” Frances said with a small smile.

  “I want to come too,” Valentine demanded, but Frances was already beckoning to her.

  “I don’t think you’ve seen this beautiful picture,” Frances observed shrewdly. “Is that a fairy?”

  Of course, it wasn’t a fairy, since it was a religious text, but Valentine was sufficiently intrigued, so I seized the moment and made my escape. Godfrey Bowden was already in the kitchen, having entered through the back door. The two women stood in the middle of the cavernous room, grasping their bundles as if someone were about to set the dogs on them. The older woman looked familiar, but I’d never seen the girl.

  “My lady,” Bowden said as he bowed to me from the neck. “Welcome home. I do apologize for not anticipating your arrival.” This was total rot, of course, since he clearly had no idea we were coming home, but to insinuate that Hugo was somehow at fault for not informing him just wouldn’t do. “Lord Everly indicated that you are in urgent need of staff and provisions. My men are unloading the wood and will bring in the foodstuffs shortly. There’s enough to last for at least a few weeks. It was rather difficult to get more on such short notice,” he added reproachfully.

  “Thank you for your efforts on our behalf, Master Bowden,” I answered politely. There was something about the man’s blunt features that set my teeth on edge. Perhaps it was his utter lack of humor or the cold judgment in his eyes. He didn’t think I belonged here, and having to treat me as a lady gave him a turn. The old me would have felt inadequate and uncomfortable, but I’d been with Hugo long enough to have learned something. People always looked for a chink in your armor, so it was best not to have one. I stared at Bowden imperiously, finally forcing him to lower his gaze.

  “My lady, this is Abigail Fowler,” he began, eager to fill the awkward silence. Now I knew where I’d seen her. I’d visited Bowden with Hugo once and had seen Abigail in his home. She used to be his housekeeper, and according to Hugo, his lover. I wondered what happened there, but couldn’t come out and ask.

  “Mistress Fowler has never worked in a great house such as this, but she’s an excellent cook,” Bowden rushed to reassure me. Judging by Bowden’s round shape, Abigail Fowler must be at least a decent cook. I was about to agree when I remembered Frances’s advice. I had no idea what to ask a seventeenth-century cook, but I had to pretend that I knew what I was talking about. Simply taking her on without any kind of interview would mark me as gullible.

  “Mistress Fowler,” I began, “what type of culinary experience do you have?” The woman looked nervous, but Bowden gave her a barely perceptible shove.

  “Before working for Master Bowden, I worked for Master Garwood for ten years; you might have heard of him. He wasn’t a titled gentleman, but did entertain frequently, and liked to dazzle his friends with the finest dishes. He’d spent some years in France, seeing to his eh… importing interests, and had developed quite a taste for the exotic,” she added lamely.

  “And why did Master Garwood dismiss you?” I asked, trying not to feel sorry for this plain, simple woman.

  “He died, my lady. Quite unexpectedly,” she added, the color drenching from her face as her eyes slid downward in the general direction of the floor.

  I had heard of Master Garwood from Hugo. He was a colorful character whose father nearly brought the family to ruin with his gambling. Thankfully, he died before losing everything, leaving his son to rebuild the family fortune through some less than honorable channels. The younger Garwood amassed a fortune through smuggling, and according to Hugo, mixed with some dangerous types. He had been a fervent supporter of the Duke of Monmouth, since a Catholic monarchy would, in time, ruin his profitable business by means of increased trade with France and the lowering of taxes on French imports. I wasn’t sure if I was reading correctly between the lines, but it seemed that Master Garwood had met with a sorry end when he stepped on someone’s toes. Abigail Fowler wouldn’t be so distressed if the man died of an illness. Death at a young age was common enough, so her reaction would have been one of acceptance rather than fear. However, if Abigail knew something of French cuisine, I was happy to overlook her association with hardened criminals.

  “And who is this?” I asked, glancing at the young girl who kept backing up until she was practically in the hearth.

  “This is Ruby Henshall, my lady,” Bowden made the introduction.

  “How old are you, Ruby?”

  “Seventeen, me lady,” the girl mumbled as she clutched her bundle to her chest even harder.

  “And what type of domestic experience do you have?” I asked, already knowing that I was going to hire her no matter what she said. She looked so desperate that I couldn’t bear to send her away.

  “I’ve never been in service, me lady, but I’m the oldest o’ eleven, so I’ve had to help me mam with me siblings and do everything ‘round the house from cooking and cleaning, to laundry. I’m not afraid o’ hard work, me lady,” she added.

  I figured that at seventeen, Ruby was already a drain on her parents. With so many mouths to feed, Ruby’s wage would help them tremendously, and save them from providing for an extra child. Ruby was a pretty girl with dark wavy hair and large dark eyes, but her hands were red and raw, and her clothes were threadbare and way too large for her nearly emaciated frame. This girl’s only chance of escaping her hard life was to either marry or find employment in a house where food and lodging would be provided. This poor girl must have been worked as hard as a slave, as her mother birthed one child after another and relied on her eldest to pick up the slack in running a household.

  “Very well,” I said, trying to sound like a mistress. “I will show you to your rooms, and then you can start on supper if you will. Whatever you see fit to make, Mistress Fowler. Ruby, please help Cook with whatever she needs, and we will work out your exact duties once we have more staff. I daresay this house needs to be cleaned from top to bottom, and there’s laundry to be done, but that can certainly wait a few days.”

  “My lady, Harriet Pilcher — you might remember her from before — would like to come back to work, if that’s all right. She’s been ill these past few days, but should be able to start tomorrow or the day after. What shall I tell her?”

  I did remember Harriet from before. She was a docile girl who got her work done. Not the sharpest knife in the box, but much better than Liza, who was entirely too sharp for her own good, and had sold Hugo out to Lionel Finch for a few coins.

  “Yes, you may tell Harriet that she can return. And what happened to Liza?” I asked carefully.

  “Liza hasn’t been seen in these parts since she followed her captain to London,” Bowden answered, clearly uncomfortable with gossip. “I hear she took to the streets.” I had a sneaking suspicion that Bowden knew more than he was letting on, but decided not to press him. As long
as Liza wasn’t in Cranley, we had nothing to worry about.

  I wished Master Bowden a good afternoon and led the two women up to the top floor where their rooms would be. They both looked relieved at having been hired, and I was tempted to reassure them and tell them that everything would work out well, but decided not to get too friendly. The attic rooms were colder than the inside of a refrigerator, and I was shocked to see that they had no fireplaces. Servants froze in the winter and sweated in the summer.

  “I wonder if we might share a room, your ladyship?” Abigail asked timidly.

  “Why?” I asked, not immediately grasping the problem. Who wouldn’t want the privacy of their own room, especially when coming from a family of thirteen like Ruby?

  “It’s just that it’s warmer to sleep with another body in the bed,” Abigail explained.

  “I will have Master Hicks bring a brazier up here,” I promised as I left them to get settled. I didn’t want them to see the compassion in my eyes, but I did feel sorry for them, and at that moment didn’t particularly relish my position as lady of the house.

  **

  “We have a cook and a maid,” I announced to Hugo as he finally came in, dusting the snow off his cloak and tossing his hat onto a table in the foyer. He looked tired and hungry, and I suddenly realized that he probably hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. I followed him into the parlor where a merry fire was burning bright. Hugo held his hands out to the fire and just stared into the flames as he allowed himself to thaw.