‘You’re a good lad, to be sure,’ she said with a nod. ‘You thinks about what’s needed. You got a good head on your shoulders. I can see why Weatherby thinks so highly of you already. Take a candle.’
Praise from the cook? And Weatherby? His efforts seemed to be paying off. More reason to make sure he didn’t put a foot wrong. Hefting the black iron bucket, Robert made his way through a low door and down the stairs. The coal cellar sat on one side of the narrow passage, the wine cellar on the other.
Helping the cook had paid off in spades, or rather in vegetables and the odd loaf of fresh bread, but he wanted far more than that. He needed the respect and trust of his new peers if he was going to get ahead.
He tied a neckerchief over the lower part of his face. Dust rose in choking clouds, settling on his shoulders and in his hair as he shovelled the coal up from the mountain beneath the trapdoor through which the coalman deposited the contents of his sacks. Removing the kerchief, Robert ducked out of the cellar and heaved the scuttle back up the wooden flight.
‘Set it by the hearth,’ the cook instructed. ‘Wash up in the bowl by the door.’
Robert washed his hands and face in the chilly water and dried them off on a grubby towel hung nearby. He’d wash properly at home.
‘Drat that girl,’ Mrs. Dorset said. ‘I need her to turn the spit while I finish this pastry.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Robert made his way around the wooden table and grasped the iron handle. It took some effort to turn. How poor Maisie managed he couldn’t imagine.
The aroma of the meat sent moisture flooding in his mouth. God. He hadn’t tasted a roast for months.
‘Slower, young Rob,’ the cook said, her rolling pin flying over the floured pastry.
He grinned and complied. ‘I met Miss Bracewell in the garden on my way in,’ he said casually, hoping to glean a little more insight into the troublesome lass. ‘Is she the only relative to the master?’
The cook’s cheerful mouth pursed as if she’d eaten a quince. ‘The devil’s spawn, that one. You want to stay well clear of her.’
The venom in her voice rendered Robert speechless and…angry. He kept his tone non-committal. ‘She seemed like a pleasant enough young lady. Not that she said much more than good day.’
‘I likes her,’ Maisie said, returning with basket in hand. ‘She opened the door when I had me hands full once.’
‘Goes to show she’s not a proper lady,’ the cook said and sent Robert a sharp stare. ‘A blot on the good name of Bracewell, she is. Her and her mother. My poor Lord Wynchwood is a saint for taking her in. Mark my words, it’ll do him no good.’
‘What—?’ Robert started to ask.
‘Mrs Doncaster.’ The butler’s stern tones boomed through the kitchen.
Robert jumped guiltily. Old Snively was a tartar and no mistake. All the servants feared the gimlet-eyed old vulture. A smile never touched his lips and his sharp eyes missed not the smallest fault according to the house servants.
Snively’s cold gaze rested on Robert’s face. ‘Gossiping with the outside staff, Mrs Doncaster?’
Robert felt heat scald his cheeks. Arrogant bugger. Who did the butler think he was? Robert gritted his teeth, held his body rigid and kept turning the spit, lowering his gaze from the piercing stare. This man had the power to have him dismissed on a word, and from the gleam in his eye the stiff-rumped bastard wasn’t done.
‘If you’ve no work to keep you occupied, Deveril,’ Snively said, ‘perhaps Mr Weatherby can do without an assistant after all.’
‘I’m here to fetch a list for tomorrow, Mr Snively,’ Robert said.
‘Now see here, Snively,’ Mrs Doncaster put in, clearly ruffled, ‘if you kept that good-for-nothing footman William at his duty, I wouldn’t need Rob’s help, would I? Fetched the coal up, he did. Without it, his lordship would be waiting for his dinner.’
Snively fixed her with a haughty stare. ‘Planning, Mrs Doncaster. The key to good organisation. If you had William bring up enough coal for the entire day, you wouldn’t need to call him from his other duties.’
‘Ho,’ Mrs Doncaster said, elbows akimbo. ‘Planning, is it? Am I to turn my kitchen into a coal yard?’
It was like watching a boxing match threatening to spill over into the crowd, but Robert had no wish to become embroiled. It was more than his job was worth. It didn’t help that the old bugger was right, he had no business coming here this evening.
Across the room, Maisie had her lips folded inside her teeth as if to stop any unruly words escaping. Robert knew just how she felt. The portly, stiff-necked Snively was terrifying. Mrs Doncaster’s bravery left him in awe.
‘Planning,’ Snively repeated and swept out of the kitchen.
‘Hmmph,’ Cook grumbled. ‘Johnny-come-lately. Thinks just because he worked in London, he can lord it over the rest of us who’s been here all our lives. Hmmph. His back’s up because he heard what we was saying. Always jumps to defend her, he does.’
The butler rose a notch in Robert’s estimation. ‘I’ll be on my way now Maisie’s back.’
‘Yes. Go.’ Mrs Doncaster, still in high dudgeon, waved him away.
Holding out the basket, Maisie lifted a corner of the cloth covering its contents. ‘I’ve put a nice bit of ham in there for your breakfast,’ she whispered with a wink, then trundled off to her spit.
A cold chill seemed to clutch his very soul with icy fingers. They were all at it. Handing him food, putting him under an obligation. One day, by God, he would repay their charity. Somehow he’d find the means.
More debts to pay.
He pulled his cap on and made his way out into the growing dusk. ‘Spawn of Satan’ ? What the hell had Mrs Doncaster meant? And why the hell had he bristled?
‘Bring the light closer, Frederica, for goodness’ sake—how can I read in the dark?’
Frederica rose from her chair and moved the candlestick on the tea table two inches closer to her uncle.
Looking up from the most recent missive from Simon, Mortimer peered over his spectacles at her. ‘That’s better.’ He coughed into his ever-ready handkerchief.
Frederica handed him his tea. She hated tea in the drawing room. A senseless torture for someone who had not the slightest chance of making polite conversation under the best of circumstances. Which made her almost easy conversations with Mr Deveril all the stranger.
‘You s-said you needed to talk to me about something, Uncle?’ She needed to get back her drawings of squirrels. She hadn’t yet decided which ones to colour.
‘Is everything prepared for Simon’s visit?’
Inwardly she groaned. ‘Yes, Uncle.’ She took a deep slow breath. ‘I’ve asked Snively to have the sheets for the guests’ rooms aired and instructed him to hire help from the village for the day of the ball.’
He glanced down at the letter in his hand. ‘Radthorn is bringing guests, too, I gather. They will stay at the Grange with him. The ball is going to be far grander than usual. Simon has raised a concern.’
Hurry up and get to the point. She tried to look interested.
Uncle Mortimer lifted his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. ‘He worries you have nothing appropriate to wear. That you won’t be up to snuff. In short, he says you need