Lord Iverbrook's Heir (14 page)

His lordship flushed, muttered something indistinct, and fled.

* * * *

In the mysterious but inevitable country way, news of Peter’s mishap had spread far and wide. Throughout the morning a series of grooms and maidservants arrived with enquiries, gifts, and messages of sympathy.

“Lady Anne Russell’s compliments, Mr. Bannister, and how does Master Peter go on? Her la’ship’s sent this bunch of grapes from her greenhouse.”

“Oh sir, Miss Pauley sent me to see if the little boy’s a-goin’ to live and here’s some beef tea made by her own hand an’ ever so strengthening, she says."

“Mr. Brightwell, greengrocer of distinction, begs acceptance of a dozen fine lemons, brought from Spain, and how’s the lad?”

“Blackcurrant cordial” . . . " a receipt for honey gruel” . . . "a tame thrush in a cage” . . . " a hop pillow to help the poor mite sleep” . . . The neighbours, great and small, rallied round to repay Lady Whitton for the care she had lavished on them for so many years.

Even Mrs. Parcott had the good sense, that day, to send a groom rather than appearing in person. If she feared a reprise of the humiliation of the previous day, she was justified. She would have found Lady Whitton occupied with her grandson, Selena out on farm business, and the viscount sound asleep.

* * * *

Lord Iverbrook was woken by a ray of afternoon sun, which broke through the clouds, squeezed between the curtains, and came to rest on his face. He lay for a few minutes feeling warm and comfortable and happy, not remembering why. Then he sat up and swung his long legs out of bed. Peter was on the road to recovery and Selena had forgiven him! Was it true? He scrambled into the nearest clean clothes and ran up to the nursery.

Delia had taken her mother’s place with Peter and was singing to him. Iverbrook paused in the doorway, admiring the picture they made. The sunlight on Delia’s hair made it shine with gold lights. It was just the same shade as Selena’s, the prettiest colour hair could be.

She finished her song and noticed him.

“Peter, it’s your Uncle Hugh. He’s much better, sir. He just drank a whole cup of veal broth, didn’t you, Peter?”

“‘Lo, Uncle Hugh. Auntie Dee’s singing to me till I go to sleep. She knows lots of songs.

“And sings them beautifully. How are you feeling, young man?”

“Under the weather. Jem says that means sort of wobbly and maybe sleepy and like not doing nothing. Will you stay till I go to sleep?”

“If you close your eyes right now and Auntie Dee sings a lullaby. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

That made Peter laugh. “Don’t eat Leo,” he said. “He’s only a pony.”

Weak and tired, he was soon asleep.

“I’ll watch him,” said Delia. “You go and have something to eat, but don’t you dare eat Lyra!”

“I won’t. Do you know where your sister is?”

“I don’t know if she’s come in yet; I expect not, because she would have come to see Peter. She went to choose the lambs to send to market.”

“The market in Abingdon? I found myself tangled up in it the first day I came to Milford.”

“Yes, it’s held every Monday. It’s one of the things she hates doing, dickering with the buyers and all that, but she can get a better price than John Peabody does.”

“Not so good as I can, I’ll wager! I wonder if she would let me do it for her?”

“Ask her. I wish you lived here always, to bring in the harvest and go to market and geld the bull calves. Those are the things that throw Selena into high fidgets, though in general she is the most amiable sister in the world.”

“Geld the calves! I hope Selena does not do that herself!”

“Not precisely, I believe, though she has never let me see it. In fact, she will not even tell me just what they do. Will you tell me?”

“I will not!”

Delia sighed. “Well, she has to make sure that it is properly done, and that the men do not hurt the poor little things more than is necessary.”

The viscount shuddered. “I’ll offer to take the lambs to market, but I make no promises about the calves! And now I go in search of food. Take good care of our nephew.”

Heading for the kitchen, Lord Iverbrook passed the butler’s pantry. He heard voices within, Bannister’s and Lady Whitton's, and knocked on the door.

“Do I interrupt?” he asked. “I was going to try and coax something to eat out of Cook, but methinks propriety demands I consult my kind hostess first.”

“Nonsense, Hugh. You know you are more than welcome to raid the larder, with or without Cook’s permission. Bannister has been recounting to me all the messages people have sent about Peterkin. What delightful neighbours we have! And only look at the presents. A singing thrush from old Mrs. Garfield! I’m sure I don’t know what to do with the poor bird.”

“Set it free. I will do it for you. Whoever sent the port? Peter will be drunk as a wheelbarrow for a week!”

“It’s from Mr. Liddell, my lord, the landlord at the Royal Oak in the village. There’s a message for you, my lord. Mrs. Parcott sent her groom over to ask after Master Peter, and he was very particular you should be told of it.”

The viscount grimaced. “Thank you, Bannister. I’m off to the kitchen now, ma’am, to tell Cook I have your blessing for my depredations on her larder.”

Iverbrook was seated at the kitchen table, attacking a large beefsteak, when Tom Arbuckle arrived.

“Young Jem says Master Peter’s getting better!” He gave Cook a hearty kiss and a squeeze.

“Which is more nor you’ll do, an his lordship sees you,” she retorted, waving a wooden spoon in the viscount’s direction.

Tom started and blushed. “Beg pardon, m’lord, I’m sure.”

“That’s all right, Tom, go ahead. After all, I am an intruder in Cook’s territory. Just let me know when you are done.”

Tom’s face deepened to beetroot red. “All done, m’lord,” he assured his master. “Is it true, then, about Master Peter?”

“True enough. He is not yet in prime twig, but goes on as well as can be expected. What news from London? Sit down, man, and ask your sweetheart for something to eat.’’

Tom flushed again, but he sat down at the table. Cook drew him a mug of ale and set another piece of beef to fry.

“I give your letter to Mr. Crowe, m’lord, and he says as how he’s had his eye on that Hubble for many a year and he’ll fix it up all right and tight.”

“Good. Did you see Joshua?”

“Aye, m’lord, and that’s another thing Mr. Crowe said, that Mr. Joshua’d be the best clerk he ever had and he’ll give a tryout like to the other young man you recommended. Mr. Joshua and Mr. James Goodenough kindly invited me to dine with them, m’lord, and we was joined by Mr. Hastings’s man. Mr. Dimbury that is. And one thing leading to another, Mr. Hastings come down with me and he’s putting up at the inn in the village.”

“Hasty’s here? Good heavens! I must go and see him right away.”

“I hope I done right, m’lord, to bring him?”

“Of course, though how the devil you could stop him if you’d wanted to I’d like to know. I suppose he has Dimbury with him?”

“What do you think, m’lord?”

“Now, Tom, don’t be cheeky to his lordship!” put in Cook.

“Don’t worry, Cook, Tom is almost as necessary to me as Dimbury is to Mr. Hastings. Mark that ‘almost,’ Tom.”

“Yes, m’lord!”

The viscount finished his meal and went in search of Lady Whitton. He found her in the stillroom, making up a dose for Peter.

“What are you giving him now?” he asked with interest.

“He is still somewhat feverish, so here is more yarrow. Then a general tonic, made from betony, pennyroyal, St. John’s wort, and agrimony.”

“Ugh. No eye of newt and blood of bat?”

“‘Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool
of bat...’”

“‘...and tongue of dog.’ Was Shakespeare acquainted with a witch or two, do you suppose, or did he invent the whole?”

“I suspect he made it up,” said Lady Whitton with a twinkle in her eye. “At least, many of the country folk hereabouts think me a witch, and I have certainly never used such ingredients.”

“What, no scale of dragon? No tiger’s chaudron? You disappoint me. Perhaps only wicked witches use them, for you are certainly a good witch. Do you wish me to help you pour your potion down Peter’s throat?”

“Not unless you choose to. Now that I have time, I sweeten it with honey and anise, and he takes it without trouble.”

“Then I will leave you to it. My servant is just now come from town and he tells me a very good friend of mine is staying at the Royal Oak, so I shall walk down to see him. My legs need stretching. Can I perform any errands for you in the village?”

“I think not. Mrs. Tooting sent one of the maids earlier. But Hugh, I cannot allow a friend of yours to put up at the inn. You will invite him to stay with us while he is in the neighbourhood.”

“Have I ever told you that I adore you?” he asked, kissing her cheek. “You are quite the nicest person I know.”

“Silly boy! You will tell him that we do not entertain a great deal, but he is to treat the Manor as his home and come and go as he pleases."

“You do not even know his name! Besides, I must tell you that he is very much attached to his valet and will not go anywhere without him. You are already housing and feeding an extra servant, and cannot wish to take on another.”

“Fustian! Perhaps his valet would consent to help with Aubrey’s clothes, for if I have heard him complain of Bannister’s attentions once I have heard him a hundred times. And I’m sure poor Bannister cannot be expected to learn the business at his age, besides having his own duties.”

His lordship grinned a wicked grin. “I look forward to hearing Dimbury’s reaction to Sir Aubrey’s wardrobe,” he said. “Never fear, I shall advise Hasty of your kind invitation.”

“Hasty?”

“Mr. Lennox Hastings, known to his friends as Hasty because of his tendency to speak before he thinks. He will amuse you, ma’am. I’ll not fail to bring him back with me to pay his respects at least.”

* * * *

As Iverbrook left the house, he heard the church clock in the village striking five. It was a pleasant evening, sunny and warm for the time of year. The lane was still muddy, so he walked along the grass verge, shuddering involuntarily as he passed the spot where he had met Peter.

A flock of rust and blue chaffinches was gorging on the crimson berries in the hawthorn hedge. At his approach they rose, flashing the black and white bars on their wings, then quickly settled again behind him. A cock pheasant, its plumage even gaudier, ran ahead of him for a few yards, then forced its desperate way through the hedge as if it knew the shooting season was no more than a fortnight away.

The viscount reached the crossroads and turned left to Kings Milford. A couple was strolling towards him arm in arm. One glance at the man's mulberry coat told his lordship his identity, and the pair was not much slower to recognise him.

“My lord!” exclaimed Polly, pink faced, and pulled away from her companion. “I come across Sir Aubrey in the village and he up and offered to carry me parcels.” Nervously she smoothed her black stuff gown, then snatched a basket from the baronet and fled, showing a very neat ankle as she passed Iverbrook.

Sir Aubrey’s face clashed abominably with his jacket.

“I suppose you will tell my aunt,” he growled.

“You are foolish beyond permission,” said his lordship gently. “What sort of despicable wretch do you take me for?”

“Then I can count on your discretion, my lord? She’s a pretty piece, is she not? But reluctant, I must admit, very hesitant. Not like those hot-blooded wenches in the Indies, eh?” He smiled and winked.

“You mistake me, sir. I will not tell because I mislike bearing tales, not because I have any sympathy with your conduct. The girl’s unwillingness serves to raise
her
in my estimation, but not
you,
sir, most certainly not you. Have a care what you are about.”

A shade of grey entered Sir Aubrey’s complexion, so that it nearly matched his coat. He muttered something and hurried round the corner after the maid.

Lord Iverbrook strode on into the village. At the Royal Oak, a low brick building with a gilt sign proclaiming the proprietorship of Jacob Liddell, Esquire, he enquired for Mr. Hastings.

“Where’d ya put the gemmun, Maisie?” roared Jacob Liddell, Esquire.

“In the front room, Jacob!” roared back his wife, an enormous woman presiding at the bar in the taproom.

“Alf, take the gemmun up to the front room,” bellowed the landlord at a tired-looking waiter.

Alf scurried up the stairs in front of Lord Iverbrook, tapped timidly at a door, and announced in a high, squeaky voice, “Gemmun to see you, sir.” He then twitched past Iverbrook and scurried down the stairs again.

“Come in?” said Hasty’s voice, uncertainly. “My dear fellow, how good to see you! I thought I heard that wretched waiter scratching at the door.”

“Pour me a glass of brandy, Hasty,” said his lordship, sinking into a chair. “I think I must be entering my dotage. Can you imagine
me
in the role of defender of virtue?”

Chapter 12

“Indeed I cannot, sir,” said Dimbury tearfully. “His coats are all different shades of red. It makes me bilious only to look at them. And the waistcoats!”

“They cannot all be as devilish as that green and pink affair he wore last night.” Mr. Hastings, sitting up in bed with a cup of chocolate, had never seen his correct manservant so nearly succumbing to emotion.

“Oh, can’t they!” My lord Iverbrook lounged in a chair in the corner of the narrow chamber. The scene was providing quite as much amusement as he had foreseen. “Still, never mind, Dimbury. Lady Whitton will find a prescription to settle your stomach.”

The valet eloquently ignored him.

“Sir, if you saw his linen! Ready made, I am certain of it.”

“The exigencies of life in the Indies. It is your duty to remedy the defects in his wardrobe,” said his inexorable master.

“That will not be easy,” said the viscount. “Sir Aubrey, or ‘the Bart’ as the servants call him, is purse-pinched if not quite at point-non-plus. His intention is to marry Miss Whitton and allow her to feather his nest.”