As he moved through the cold, wet wreckage, James wondered if his father’s illness could be contagious. He felt as though madness lurked a heartbeat away. Without closing his eyes, he rubbed at his forehead, willing the headache to subside. The pain refused, persisting as a dull ache behind his eyes and at the back of his head. It radiated into his neck muscles and down his back so his entire body felt the insult.
He eyed the doorway, tested the floor, and stepped carefully into the remains of the library. This room had burned with spectacular fury, the flames fed by the books, maps, and paintings. All lost.
Mixed with the charred wood were the ashes of the book he had been reading before he had left for town. Rousseau, he recalled.
He sat heavily on the rock foundation. Yesterday he’d found this place ablaze. Only yesterday. He felt years older, felt as tired as a man could and would not deny the guilt that made his pounding head a kind of just dessert.
If he had stayed home this would not have happened. He had needed to meet with the trustees, but his trip to London had been nothing less than an excuse to run. And it had worked. The trip had tilted his world to a more appealing angle. With the help of the voluptuous and generous Henrietta he had managed to forget the responsibilities of the estate for hours at a time. He had traded three days of pleasure for this catastrophe.
James kicked at a scorched and empty frame and wondered if they would find anything worth salvaging. Not here. But there could be bits and pieces in the other wings, the ones that had escaped complete destruction. He looked around the room, up toward the place where the ceiling mural had once been. Verrio’s months of long hard work destroyed, as were the world maps and globes his father had collected, the three marble busts of the Greek gods his grandfather had commissioned from Italy. Did marble burn? He supposed anything would if the fire grew hot enough.
He stood up, started to shake his head and stopped as the headache rose up again. He walked down what he thought was a hallway and through what he recognized as a doorway and then realized this opening had once been a window. He stood in the inner court in the shade of the burned-out walls. The sun beat down with merciless brightness. What he wouldn’t give for a little rain, or a cloudy day? Something that would ease the dust and the smell.
He heard footsteps and turned towards the sound. Simon Marfield approached, his expression full of apology. He might be the bearer of bad news, but James felt a spurt of relief at his arrival. Seeing Marfield reminded him that life went on. Somewhere beyond this, the world smelled of more than smoke.
Marfield looked around, shook his head but forbore to comment on the wreckage. “My lord, several items have come to my attention this morning and they will not wait.”
James nodded. “And I have news of interest from London.”
Marfield nodded in encouragement.
“First, the good news.”
Marfield’s smile grew.
“The trustees say that the marquis can rail all he wants. He can send a notice to every newspaper in the land. Any threat to the succession is impossible. I am his heir, his marriage to my mother is valid despite what happened after. He can do nothing to keep me from inheriting.”
James looked at the charred remnant of frame dangling from a wire. “And, should I ever marry, my sons are the legitimate heirs, regardless of his intent not to recognize them.”
“Very good, my lord.” Marfield spoke the words with emphasis.
Simon Marfield currently viewed marriage as the most wondrous of estates. James did not share that opinion. From his vantage point, marriage promised little more than a nightmare of deceit and dominance. It was enough that his father could not disinherit him. He had decided long ago that he would have no wife, no sons. His brother’s children would inherit the title. He and his father might agree on nothing else, but in that they did find common ground.
“Further than that, Simon, the trustees will not go. Since the Marquis continues to recover from his apoplexy they are unwilling to formally turn the estate over to me. To quote Beaufort, ‘we would need more compelling proof of permanent incompetence.’”
Marfield shook his head.
“Those were his exact words. They would need something more before they wrest control from him and give it to me.”
Marfield pursed his lips and nodded. “Do you think that they would reconsider after this?”
“He really did start the fire?” The ache in his head thrummed more urgently.
“We have no proof, my lord, and no one has tried to question him, but his bed in flames roused his nurse from her stupor. She said that she saw him standing by the bed, staring at your stepmother’s portrait with flaming bed curtains behind him and an empty candle holder in his hand.”
With a grunt of exasperation, James pressed his fingers to his forehead. “Yes, and we have no true way of knowing the truth of it. Though she did save his life. That nurse presents another matter we must resolve. God knows that most of them drink to excess. It’s her superstitions that are intolerable.”
“I can watch out for her, my lord, especially with the marquis in the cottage near mine.”
“You have enough to do without becoming a guard dog.” James leaned against the rocky wall outcropping. “I must admit I have more than a little sympathy for the royal family. At least we Braedons are not in the public circus. With a quiet nod from the trustees, I am the one who runs Braemoor.”
“Yes, my lord and I see no reason for it not to continue that way.”
Oh, how he appreciated that loyalty. Simon had the heart of true gentleman, more so than half of the ton. “My only worry has been that my signature would not be binding on any agreements that I might consider.”
“Like the land at Highton Rock you are trying for?”
“Some day I will grow used to the idea that there are no secrets here.” James shook his head in a long-suffering gesture of resignation. “How did you learn of it?”
“Collington asked me what you could want the land for. He always thought it worthless and has been trying to find a use for it for nigh on thirty years.” Marfield looked disgusted. “As if I would tell him why you wanted it even if did know.”
“My brother Rhys has a need for it, but let that be our secret, eh, Marfield?” When Marfield nodded, James smiled. “I will call Collington’s confusion a triumph, even if it is a very small one. I must take my pleasure where I can.”
He looked around the ruin.
“And you, Marfield, have some news for me.” He gestured to the crumbling wall. “My new study.”
Marfield was an intense sort and James could tell that he saw no humor in the suggestion.
“I thought that since the estate office is still useable, my lord, you might prefer to move your work there.”
“Very generous of you.” James stood up, turned his back to Marfield and stared up at the sky visible through the jagged beams overhead. “Or is it that you think I have wasted enough time in self-pity?”
He wheeled back to face Marfield who shook his head in urgent denial. James waved off his embarrassment.
“You might not think that, but I do.” He nudged a toe through a pile of ash and shards of porcelain. “I really came here to see if anything could be rescued.”
Even as he spoke he bent over and picked up a box he had unearthed. Gaming counters, the white of the ivory box only a little streaked with soot. He dusted the top and flipped open the lid. The counters inside rested on unmarked velvet. He held it out to Marfield. “How can it be that something this fragile survives and there is not a trace of the statuary or even the library ladder?”
Marfield’s face lit up as he took the box. “Huzza! my lord, how encouraging! Who knows what else lies buried here?” He looked around as though several other items might magically appear. “We will have to organize a careful search before we clear away the debris.”
They began to walk along the outer wall, toward the estate office. “Why do you speak as though you were in charge of this? Prentice is abed with his broken arm but surely the Lannings, both Mr. and Mrs., will want to supervise.” Indeed he would have thought the housekeeper would be here right now, glorying in her seniority.
Marfield did not answer. His silence stretched to a full half minute.
Finally, James stopped walking and looked directly at him. “Come on, man, it is not possible to make this ache in my head any worse.”
“My apologies, my lord.” He began worrying the crown of his hat with nervous hands. “There is no easy way to say this. Mrs. Lanning has left her post. She told me today that no respectable housekeeper would tolerate the marquis’ behavior. And, according to her, a fire started by him was the final insult. She took her husband and her two daughters with her.”
“She quit? Lanning too? Good God, Lannings have been here for generations!” Why did he feel surprise? If he had an option, he would be long gone himself. “Did you offer to increase her pay? A housekeeper and butler will be difficult to replace.”
“She said it would take a fortune to keep her here.”
James leaned forward. “Did you ask what she considered a fortune?”
“No, sir,” Marfield shook his head decisively. “That would only set a bad example for the others. If we pay the Lannings to stay, the rest will find out quick enough and think loyalty inadequate compensation.”
“True enough. Still, there is a message here.” James rubbed his forehead. “Pay a bonus to the staff who remain. That will convey, I trust, the value that we place on their continued service and include the house steward. Prentice may be abed awhile but he is still a valued employee.”
Marfield nodded.
“I suppose the under butler can assume the butler’s post, but where will I find another housekeeper, especially with Mrs. Lanning’s daughters gone with her? Is there anyone else on the staff who is prepared to move up? Do we even need a housekeeper? There is, after all, so little house to keep.”
James had meant that as a joke, granted a morbid one, but Marfield took it as seriously said. “My lord, if I could help I would be happy to. I can organize some of the servants.” He looked back toward the burned out shell. “First, we would have to make sure it is safe for them to work. After that we must make an inventory of the loss and arrange some living space and items essential for your comfort.”
“My rooms are untouched, Simon, and as for the rest, comfort is the last word any of us would use to describe Braemoor. Why should that change? My father’s second wife used to say that the only thing Braemoor did well was breed ghosts. Unhappy ones.”
“Yes, my lord, but you will need some place to work and we must arrange some room for dining.”
They turned the corner. The smell of burnt offerings lingered, tickling the nose and poisoning the air, but the west wing had escaped any damage. Marfield pushed open the door halfway down the wall and held it for James. The land steward followed him into the office that until this moment had been his.
“Please sit there, my lord. This is yours now.” He gestured James to the seat behind the desk. Marfield took the seat opposite and placed the box of gaming counters on the desk between them.
What a generous soul you have Simon Marfield, James thought, as he sat carefully in the creaking leather chair. “Simon, you might have to sacrifice your desk to the estate’s greater good.” James noted that Simon had already cleared it of papers and ledgers. “But I will not have you give up the work you do so well. Continue with the planting. We are all depending on you. A good crop, healthy sheep, and a good price for wool will do more than anything else to convince everyone that Braemoor and the Braedons are not living under some ill star.”
“But who will direct the indoor staff?”
“I suppose we must send to one of the agencies in London.”
“Yes, but the Season starts shortly and town fills rapidly. Besides the situation here would require a personal interview.” Marfield’s voice trailed off at James’s questioning look.
“Exactly how would you describe the situation here?”
“Difficult.” Marfield spoke without a moment of hesitation, raining his conviction with a stammering apology.
“For God sake, stop the apology man. Calling this a ‘difficult situation’ is like the war with Napoleon as slight misunderstanding. You are too kind.”
They sat in glum silence. James looked at Marfield and nodded, ignoring the wince of pain echoing in his head. “You are right, Simon. There is little likelihood that the agencies will be able to find anyone acceptable at this time of year, especially on such short notice.” James rubbed his forehead.
“Sir, could you ask some of the ladies in the neighborhood for assistance?”
James nodded, but who to ask? Who would help and not consider the request a general invitation to involve themselves in Braemoor? “Most have gone to London. There is Mrs. Heron.”
Marfield straightened and shook his head slightly.
James nodded and did not even consider asking why Mrs. Heron was not a wise choice. Who else had not gone to town?
“My wife, my lord?”
Marfield mentioned her so tentatively that James was loathe to say no. Jenneth Marfield hated him. It had been all his doing and seemingly impossible to resolve. He was still trying to find a way to gently refuse and save all three embarrassment when Marfield spoke.
“I’m sorry, sir, I spoke without thinking. That would not work at all.” Marfield grinned at some private joke. “She would help in any way, my lord, but her housekeeping skills are too new and she is still confined to bed most mornings. Our child makes his presence felt even before he takes a breath.”
James sat back in the chair and pressed his temples. “My lord?” Marfield’s tentative voice had James looking at him with a sideways glance, nodding slightly.
“Could you ask the widow in Penfield?”
“No.” Marfield knew of Janet? Of course he did. They all did. Never mind that he and Janet had both been discreet. Their relationship was of many months standing, certainly more established than his recent distraction with Henrietta in London. Everyone would know of his regular visits to the “widow in Penfield.” Still, he would do nothing to encourage his mistress to think of their liaison as anything more than temporary. “No, Simon, I will not ask her.”
“Yes, my lord. I beg your pardon.” Marfield blushed. His embarrassment was vaguely irritating.
“One year of marriage has turned you staid, Simon.”
The steward raised his shoulder in a half shrug of agreement.
James could almost hear the man speak, though his lips remained pressed in a tight line: The Braedons live by their own code, my lord, and I want none of it.
“Your loyalty and obvious affection for your lady is everything that is admirable, Simon Marfield. Please let me blame the headache for my meanness.”
Marfield nodded and the tightness left his lips. He looked away for a moment and then spoke with enthusiasm of a new discovery “There is a French woman staying in the village with the Vicar. Mrs. Marfield tells me that she came in hopes of a post at the Young Lady’s Academy in Little Madison. However it appears that they did not wish to hire a widow. She might be available for an interview.”
“Your theory being?”
Marfield shrugged. “I thought that since she’s French she might be more accustomed to dealing with our difficult situation.” Marfield’s self-satisfaction increased as he repeated the phrase and claimed it for his own.
James smiled with genuine humor. He wondered in what way Marfield considered a French woman better equipped to handle this household. Because everyone knew the French were an odd lot or because they were actually able to speak that nonsensical language? He’d heard both explanations more than once as the émigrés from the Revolution had moved from London and into the countryside. “I wonder, but it is at least a possibility.”
“I could speak with the Vicar and see if he thinks she might be suitable.”
“I think the suitability of our all-male household may be more to the point. Mrs. Lanning had age and that hulking husband of hers to protect her. I hope this Frenchwoman is as desperate for employment as we are for help.”
“Oh, my lord, no one has ever implied that this household is not a safe one for any maid or lady. Your father is ill, everyone knows that, most especially the Vicar.”
James considered his options for a moment. There were damned few. “Be sure she does not drink.” Though how anyone could tell that in advance, James had no idea. “We can already lay one disaster at that door. If she is not too old or feeble, we can only hope that she finds the Vicar, his wife, and all those children as boring as I do and is longing for an escape.”