He frowned at the thought. He’d never before seen anything particularly wrong with fashionable marriages of that sort. The ones in which the interested parties produced an heir or two and then went their separate ways socially and sexually. It was the type of marriage that was almost usual in his tier of society. The type of marriage he himself had been expecting. Now, however, the thought of a marriage in which the man and wife were civil and nothing more seemed . . . cold. And rather unpleasant, actually.
Jasper shook his head. Perhaps matrimony was having a morbid effect on his brain. That might explain these odd thoughts. He stood and set the glass by the decanter on a side table. His rooms were more than twice as large as his new wife’s. But that fact only made the space hard to adequately light at night. Shadows loomed in the corners near the wardrobe and around the big bed.
He disrobed and washed himself in the chilly water already in his rooms. He could’ve sent down for fresh, warm water, but he didn’t like anyone entering his rooms after dark. Even Pynch’s presence made him restless. He blew out all but one candle. Picking that up, he took it into his dressing room. Here there was a small bed such as a valet might use. Pynch, however, had other rooms, and this bed was never used. Beside the bed, in the corner against the far wall, was a rather wretched pallet.
Jasper set the candle on the floor near the pallet and checked, as he did every night, that everything was here. There was a bundled pack with a change of clothes, water in a tin canteen, and some bread. Pynch refreshed the loaf and water every couple of days or so, even though Jasper had never discussed his pack with his valet. Beside the pae’sBeside ck was a small knife and a steel and flint. He knelt and wrapped the one blanket about his naked shoulders before lying down on the thin pallet, his back to the wall. He stared for a moment at the flickering shadows the candle cast against the ceiling, and then he closed his eyes.
Chapter Four
By and by, Jack came upon another old man in tattered rags sitting by the side of the road.
“Have you aught to give me to eat?” the second beggar called in a disagreeable voice.
Jack set down his pack and took out some cheese. The old man snatched it from his hand and gobbled it down. Jack brought out a loaf of bread. The old man ate the entire loaf and then held out his hands for more. Jack shook his head and dug to the very bottom of his pack to find an apple.
The old man devoured the apple and said, “Is this rubbish all that you can offer?”
And finally Jack’s patience broke. “For pity’s sake, man! You’ve eaten the last of my food and not a word of thanks in return. I’ll be on my way and damn you for my trouble!”
—from LAUGHING JACK
Renshaw House was the grandest place Sally Suchlike had ever seen, and she was still a bit in awe. Cor! Pink and black marble floors, carved wood furniture so delicate the legs looked hardly more than toothpicks, and fancy embroidered silks and brocades and velvets everywhere, yards and yards of them, much more than was needed to cover a window or chair, all just draped for the finery of it. Oh, Mr. Fleming’s house had been lovely, but this, this was like living in His Majesty’s own palace; it was so beautiful. Indeed it was!
And wasn’t it an amazing step up from the Seven Dials area where she’d been born and had lived? If you could call living working every day from sunup until sundown, picking up horseshit and dog shit and any other shit to be found and sold again for just a scrap of bread and a tiny piece of gristly meat if she and her pa were lucky. She’d stayed until the age of twelve, which was when her pa had talked about marrying her off to his friend Pinky, a large, stinking man with all his front teeth missing. She’d seen a life full of shit and sorrow if she married Pinky, stretching away until she died too young in the same neighborhood she’d been born in.
Sally had run away that very night to seek her fortune as a kitchen wench. She’d been clever and quick, and when the cook had found a better house—Mr. Fleming’s—she’d taken Sally along with her. And Sally had worked—hard. She’d made sure not to find herself alone with any footman or butcher’s boy. For the last thing she needed was to get herself with child. All along, she’d kept herself neat and her ears open. She’d listened to how the Flemings spoke, and at night in her narrow bed next to Alice, the downstairs maid, who snored like an old man, she’d whisper the words and the inflections over and over until her speech was nearly as good as Miss Fleming’s.
When the time came—when Bob the footman had run into the kitchens, breathless with the news that Miss Fleming, who had such a plain, sad face, had somehow caught herself a viscount—Sally had been ready. She’d folded the mending she’d been doing and quietly crept from the kitchens to make her plea to Miss Fleming.
And here she was! The lady’s maid of a viscountess! Now, if only she could learn all the passages and floors and doors in this great, grand house, everything would be perfect. Sally straightened her apron as she pushed open a door in the servant’s passage. If she’d calculated correctly, she would enter into the hallway outside the master bedrooms. She peeked. The hall was large, with dark wood-paneled walls and a long red and black carpet. Unfortunately, it looked quite a bit like all the other halls in the house until she turned her head to the right and saw the scandalous little black marble statue of some ancient gentleman attacking a naked lady. She’d noticed the figures before—well, they were hard to miss—and she knew they stood outside the door of the viscount’s room. Sally nodded and shut the concealed panel door behind her before pausing to examine the little statue.
Both figures were naked, and the lady didn’t look all that worried. In fact, she had a dimpled arm thrown around the gentleman’s neck. Sally cocked her head. The gentleman seemed to have furry goatlike flanks, and on his head were stumpy little horns. Actually, now that she peered closer, it occurred to her that the nasty stone man looked quite a bit like the viscount’s man, Mr. Pynch—if Mr. Pynch had hair and horns and furry flanks. Which made her gaze drop lower on the statue gentleman and wonder if Mr. Pynch also had a long—
A man cleared his throat behind her.
Sally shrieked and spun around. Mr. Pynch stood directly behind her, as if summoned by her thoughts. He had one eyebrow raised, and his bald head shone dully in the dim hallway.
She could feel a hot flush rise up her neck. She planted both fists on her hips. “Cor! Was you trying to give me a start? Don’t you know you can kill a person that way? I knew a lady once, got killed by a lad sneaking up behind her and yelling, ‘Boo!’ I might be lying stiff and dead on the carpet this very minute. And what would you say to my lord had you gone and killed me the day after his wedding, I’m wondering? Fine fix you’d be in then.”
Mr. Pynch cleared his throat again, a sound like rocks being rolled around in a tin pail. “Perhaps if you had not been so engrossed in your examination of that statue, Miss Suchlike—”
Sally blew out a snort, which was quite unladylike but fitting at the moment. “Are you accusing me of staring at this statue, Mr. Pynch?”
Both of the valet’s eyebrows rose. “I simply—”
“I’ll have you know that I was merely checking for dust on that statue.”
“Dust?”
“Dust.” Sally jerked her head in a single sharp nod. “My lady can’t abide dust.”
“I see,” Mr. Pynch said in lofty tones. “I shall keep that in mind.”
“I should certainly hope you do,” Sally replied. She tugged at her apron to straighten isay straigt and then looked at her mistress’s door. It was already eight of the clock, late for the new Lady Vale to rise, but on the day after her wedding . . .
Mr. Pynch was still watching her. “I suggest you knock.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I know well enough how to wake my mistress.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Perhaps she’s not alone.” She felt her hot blush rise again. “You know. What if he’s in there? Right fool I’d look if I go trotting in there and they’re not . . . not . . . not”—Sally inhaled deeply, trying to get a grip on her runaway tongue—“right. I’d be most embarrassed.”
“He isn’t.”
“Isn’t what?”
“In there,” Mr. Pynch said with utter certainty, and entered the room of their master.
Sally scowled after him. What a nasty man. She gave a last tug to her apron and rapped smartly on her mistress’s door.
MELISANDE WAS SITTING at her desk, translating the last of the fairy tales when she heard a rap on her door. Mouse, who’d been lying at her feet, jumped up to growl at the door.
“Come,” she called, and was unsurprised when Suchlike peeked in.
Melisande glanced at the china clock on her mantel. It was just after eight o’clock, but she’d been awake for over two hours. She rarely slept past sunrise. Suchlike knew her routine and usually came to dress her much earlier than this. The maid probably had been circumspect because of Melisande’s newly wedded status. She felt a flash of mortification. Soon the entire household would know that she’d slept apart from her husband on their wedding night. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d just have to get through it.
“Good morning, my lady.” Suchlike eyed Mouse and edged around the terrier.
“Good morning. Come here, Mouse.” Melisande snapped her fingers.
Mouse gave a last suspicious sniff at the maid and ran to sit under the desk next to Melisande’s legs.
She’d already pulled back the drapes from the window over the desk, but Suchlike went now to open the other drapes as well. “It’s a lovely day. Sunshine, not a cloud in the sky, and hardly any wind. What would you like to wear today, my lady?”
“I thought the gray,” Melisande murmured absently.
She frowned over a German word in the story she was working on. The old book of fairy tales had belonged to her dearest friend Emeline, a memento from her childhood. It had apparently come from Emeline’s Prussian nanny. Before she had left to sail to America with her new husband, Mr. Hartley, Emeline had given the book to Melisande so that she could translate its stories. When she’d accepted the task, she’d understood that it meant much more to both of them than a simple translation. Giving the cherished book to her was Emeline’s way of promising that their friendship would endure this separation, and Melisande had been touched and grateful for the gesture.
She’d hoped to translate the book and then have the stories copied out and hand-bound to give to Emeline when next she visited England. Unfortunately, Melisande had run into a problem. The book consisted of four related fairy tales, each the story of a soldier returning from war. Three of these stories she’d translated handily enough, but the fourth . . . The fourth was proving to be a challenge.
“The gray, my lady?” Suchlike repeated doubtfully.
“Yes, the gray,” Melisande said.
The problem was the dialect. And the fact that she was trying to translate the written word. She’d learned German from her mother but had mostly spoken the language, not read it, and the difference was proving to be key. Melisande stroked her finger across the brittle page. Working on the book reminded her of Emeline. She wished her friend could have been there for her wedding. And she wished even more that she was here right now. How comforting it would be to talk to Emeline about her marriage and the puzzle that was gentlemen in general. Why had her husband—
“Which gray?”
“What?” Melisande finally glanced at her maid and saw that Suchlike wore an exasperated frown.
“Which gray?” Suchlike opened wide the doors to the wardrobe, which, admittedly, was filled with a rather dull-colored collection of gowns.
“The bluish gray.”
