Brody stood in front of the mirror, scrutinised his image to ensure his attire was straight and checked his somewhat rushed shave hadn’t left any clumps of bristles. It was no good; he really would have to sort out a valet as an immediate matter of necessity. Especially if he was to act like the Duke. With a final smoothing of his jacket sleeve, he picked a minute piece of thread from his cuff and retraced his steps to the hall. Thence to head down the servants’ corridor and into the cavernous kitchen of the castle. Mrs Loveage, flour up to her elbows, looked up from where she was kneading the contents of a large earthenware bowl.
‘Now then, my lord, nice to see you back to your old self again.’
Good grief, did everyone think he was his nineteen-year-old persona again? It was a chilling thought. Never in a millennia.
‘As you say Lovey.’ Not for anything would Brody do anything to upset her. Along with Boleyn, she’d been a constant supporter throughout his life. ‘I see you’re moonlighting as the cook. For the love of god, and me, do not over-do it.’
‘Ha, as if I would.’ Mrs Loveage thumped a lump of dough onto the floured surface of the table and began to knock it down. ‘It’s nobbut a few cakes and pies for a few days. We eat plain-like when the family’s not here…oh…’ she shook her head. ‘I don’t mean we’ve stinted for you, my lor… oh I mean Your Grace. Bear with me, I’ll get the hang of it now you’re home.’
She wasn’t the only one to forget his new title. On several occasions, Brody had looked around to see who was being addressed.
‘Cut out the “Your Graces”, Lovey, they’re not needed. My Lord is more than enough.’ As long as she didn’t call him “you little rascal”. ‘So, what are the cakes?’ Brody sniffed the air, redolent of lemons, spices and the homely scent of warm sponge, and almost sighed in appreciation. ‘Lemon curd?’ He bussed the comely woman on the cheek. ‘Will you marry me?’
She laughed and all her body jiggled as she took a swipe at him with her dishcloth. ‘Get on with you. Loveage and I aren’t up to the high jinks some of you gentlemen are.’ She glanced at him and even though she laughed, Brody could see speculation writ large on her face.
He conveniently forgot some of his antics on the continent and grinned with one hand over his heart. ‘Wounded. I’m the epitome of all things correct.’
She chuckled. ‘Good. Now get that basket over yonder and off you go. The two cloth-covered parcels for the ladies, the rest for the school.’
Brody grunted and hefted the large oval basket into his arms. Unwieldy, heavy, and not a convenient shape or size, he’d have to take the curricle or the gig. The thought of that basic jolting vehicle made him shudder. No more bone-shaking unless it was unavoidable. In this case it was.
‘I’ll get my curricle and go.’
‘My lord?’ A freckle-faced youth of about seventeen had sidled into the kitchen and now, as his Adam’s apple bobbled nervously, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Boleyn wondered as if I could be of ‘elp… um help to you.’ His accent was one hundred percent Rutland. Brody slowly raised one eyebrow, and looked the boy up and down. He looked gangly and nervous; Brody wasn’t really in the mood to put up with some stripling’s fumbling attempts to ‘elp him. The boy faltered under his employer’s scrutiny and blushed. Mrs Loveage scowled.
‘Ignore the face like a pig in someone else’s muck not his own, Ronald,’ she said in a tone guaranteed to cut leather. ‘His lordship got out of bed on the wrong side these past months. But, but, that is no excuse for bad manners.’
She glowered at Brody who felt his skin heat. It was true, he had behaved like a boor, and had no excuse. He put the basket down on the floor – it was heavy –—and wiped his suddenly clammy hands over his trouser clad legs. ‘I…’ he began but Mrs Loveage cut him off with the ruthlessness of one who had changed his nappies and walked the floors with him when he was colicky or teething.
‘Seeing as his lordship has lost his civility,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ll give you thanks on his behalf. Now if you go harness up…’ she glanced at Brody.
‘Hester and Hero to my curricle,’ he supplied the answer, and named two horses who had recently arrived. ‘And my apologies, Ronald. Having not been in polite company for so long, indeed I have forgotten my manners.’ It wasn’t, Brody knew, strictly true. He still had a black dog riding on his shoulder and it was unfair to take it out on his loyal staff.
Mrs Loveage stared at him fixedly and then let her eyes flicker to Ronald and back again. Brody frowned. What was she getting at? She sighed and with one final pat of the dough she’d been working she covered it with a cloth and put it to the back of the stove. He glanced at the lad and saw an expression of yearning on his face.
‘If you wish to accompany me, Ronald, I’d be grateful.’
The expression changed to one of incredulity.
The smile Mrs Loveage bestowed on Brody made him understand he’d done the right thing.
Ronald reddened again and bobbed a half bow. ‘Yes um… yes, you sees I’d like to be a tiger or sommat one day. I loves the ‘osses – horses.’
‘Then now’s the chance to show me what you’re capable off. Do you have boots?’ Brody asked as a swift glance at the other man’s work boots told him neither would feel happy with Ronald wearing them.
Ronald’s face dropped. ‘Ah, no. ‘S all I got, m’lord.’
‘Then wait one minute whilst I nip upstairs. I have a pair, which should fit you. And a suitable jacket.’
Ronald gasped, then went white. He swayed, and gulped. ‘M’lord…’ he said weakly.
‘There now…’ Mrs Loveage said complacently, ‘…I knew His Grace would see you right and tight. You stay put, m’lord, and me and Boleyn will sort out what’s needed.’ She wiped her hands on a cloth and nipped out of the room before Brody could pass comment. To his amusement, he heard two sets of footsteps hurrying up the servants’ stairs. It seemed his staff knew his wardrobe as well as he.
Brody turned to Ronald who stood, mouth agape and with a stunned expression on his face.
‘As you see…’ Brody said with a grin, ‘… even I do as I’m told when Mrs Loveage dictates. I assume you know our route?’ He himself did, but surmised it would make Ronald feel more at ease if he let him dictate that small thing.
Ronald nodded enthusiastically. ‘My ma lives a few cottages along from Mrs Wiggins and the school’s nowt but a step nearer. Mind you, I reckon you best go to Miss Cinderford first like, or she’ll be a mort put out and you’ll get the edge of her tongue.’ “Now you’re finally going to see her,” hung in the air between them.
‘Then Cinders first it shall be,’ Brody said amicably as Mrs Loveage puffed back into the kitchen, followed by a slightly less-breathless Boleyn, who carried a hacking jacket and an old but highly polished and serviceable pair of riding boots. He held them aloft. Idly, Brody wondered where they’d been stashed, for he couldn’t remember seeing those particular items since his return. No doubt they’d been removed from his orbit in case he chose to wear them.
Brody inclined his head ‘Perfect. If you shape up, Ronald, we’ll see about proper clothes for you, but for now, I think these should do. I’ll see you in the stables in twenty minutes. Just time for Mrs Loveage to pretend she doesn’t see me sneak a cake for each of us.’ He plucked what that lady called a queen cake from the pile cooling on a rack, passed it to an astonished Ronald, took another one