Mayfair, London
"So you are the fellow who comes to me most highly recommended."
The lady examined him sternly through a lorgnette. Although suspended from a gold neck-chain that suggested a place of importance and necessity in the wearer's daily life, this instrument had previously languished in her lap whilst she put sugar in her coffee, used her handkerchief to remove a dandelion seed from her little dog's eye, complained to a footman about a miniscule smudge of spilled soot upon the hearth, lamented a spattering of pigeon droppings on a window at the far end of the room, and then perused the bundle of letters presented to her on a silver salver. Only now, it seemed, did she think to reach for her eye-glasses, leaving the man she finally regarded through them to surmise that she did not really need their assistance at all. Perhaps it was simply a method by which she cast awe in the hearts of her victims, letting them know she saw all their imperfections and sins— that they could hide nothing from her.
A clever ruse, but not one that worked on him. Gideon Jones was not a man to be intimidated. While she kept him waiting for her undivided attention– no doubt thinking this gave her the upper hand— he had spent his time standing quietly by the door, counting the dozen ways an assassin could enter the room uninvited and do the old lady in. It was a pastime of his. Folk generally had no idea how vulnerable they were, but Gideon was prepared for anything and everything, his eyes always watching and his mind always at work.
He'd very recently been called to the scene of a murder in Bethnal Green, where a solicitor was found dead in his office, with a slender, sharpened letter opener through his neck and all the doors and windows bolted from the inside. His neighbors thought he must have done it to himself, until Gideon proved to the magistrate how such a lethal implement could have been shot like a dart through a knot hole in the door— the hole then plugged up again with a circle of wood, undetectable to any but the most observant eye and suspicious, poking finger.
It all began with a pork pie, left half uneaten on the dead man's desk. Who, as Gideon pointed out, would decide to kill themselves halfway through supper? He had then undertaken, on his own time, a thorough survey of the dead man's friends and clients, eventually discovering an angry, failed litigant who had very recently been practicing his archery skills, according to the cluster of holes patterning the wallpaper in his lodgings and the nervous demeanor of the neighbor's cat.
Few folk would have bothered to investigate the cause of death, since it had, at first sight, seemed an evident suicide, and without an injured party to make claim there had not officially been any crime to answer. The dead man had no relatives caring to question the matter or speak for him. But Gideon could not let it drop. His curiosity and dedication was such that he must always solve the puzzle. He could not rest until he had justice.
Bow Street Runners, like himself, were merely meant to apprehend wrong-doers; they did not investigate crimes. Gideon hoped, one day, that would change. For now, however, his nose for detection remained simply something he was teased about and, whenever there was a shortage of reward purses for captured villains, he supplemented his income by providing "protection" services, guarding the person of those with enemies— real or perceived— and the money to pay his fee.
The woman now studying him through her lorgnette certainly had the means to pay well for his time, but he was not yet entirely sure what she wanted from him in return. She did not look the sort to have political enemies. Perhaps it was a relative she suspected of working to dispose of her for the sake of an inheritance; a case of blackmail for some indiscretion in her past; a daughter's suitor she wanted investigated, or a lover of her own she needed spied upon. All such matters he'd dealt with before.
"Apparently you excel in skills and services about which I am urged not to pry too deeply, Mr. Jones. I suppose they believe it might disturb my... feminine sensibilities." She chortled softly as she stirred her coffee. "However, I am promised that you are dependable and capable. You are not easily frightened, I hope?"
Frightened? He almost laughed. "No, ma'am."
Gideon wondered at her question. She did not look the sort to be frightened by much herself.
What did she want with him? He grew more curious by the second.
It was rare for grand society ladies like this baronet's widow to deal with him directly. He was generally hired on such a person's behalf, by a servant or acquaintance further down the "ranks". The upper classes were very fond of layers and doors between themselves and the lower orders, preserving the distance at all costs.
But this lady, evidently, liked to manage matters for herself.
Those busy eyes narrowed. She gripped the chain of her lorgnette again, but did not raise it to her face this time, merely toyed with it, testing the gold links with her fingertips. "A professional acquaintance of yours —Mr. Heath Caulfield— is married to a young protégée of mine," she explained. "I asked him to find me a person and you, he tells me, are the very thing."
"Oh, lor'! Don't believe nuffin' that blackguard says." He grinned and winked.
She remained solemn and after a stiff pause, replied, "Do you suggest that Mr. Caulfield is deceitful?"
Ah. He had forgotten that folk like her had no sense of humor. Tucking his own smile away, he said, "I am a person o' sorts. Whether or not I am The thing, I couldn't say. Ma'am."
She sipped her coffee, her eyes watching him steadily above the gilded china brim. Once again without the aid of her lorgnette. "We shall see, shan't we? That is why I summoned you here today, so that I might ascertain your suitability for myself. I never take another soul's opinion as truth. I make up my own mind and seldom am I swayed from it." She paused as if waiting for some comment from him. He looked at her, stifled a yawn, smothered a burp and scratched his head.
Finally, her brows lifting very slightly in disdain, she continued. "You have acquired an interesting history, I understand, Mr. Jones."
"Ain't we all?" Oops. Probably shouldn't have said that. Caulfield would say he was too familiar. Too late now, though. "You must 'ave kicked up a lark in your day," he added, surging ahead.
Her eyes glittered as she tapped the lorgnette against her palm. "Indeed, Mr. Jones, but I am not being interviewed in consideration for a post. I alluded to your work history, not any other matter, or larks in your past. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me as to your experiences and talents."
He shrugged with difficulty, for his borrowed coat was tight, pulling across his shoulders. "I've done a bit o' this and a bit o' that. Still 'ere, ain't I? Still alive and kickin'." That, he thought proudly, ought to be proof enough of his abilities. "Well, ma'am, what you see is what you get."
"A big man in a small coat, unpolished boots and a cocky attitude?" she replied drily. Before he could say anything more she made a frustrated motion with her lorgnette and sighed. "It seems I am to be satisfied with no more detailed testimonial than the fact that you have survived to the grand age of eight and twenty. In any case, I suppose I had better explain my purpose, for we waste valuable time." She stared out of her nearest window at a row of pigeons perched on the black iron railings that bordered the pavement. "This couple to whom I would send you— Mr. and Mrs. Wilding— are very dear to me. I am concerned for their safety since the gentleman came, unexpectedly, into a considerable inheritance. I'm sure I do not need to tell you how much danger there is out in the world for a man with a fortune quite suddenly at his disposal. More fortune than that to which he has ever been accustomed or raised to anticipate. Nor need I enlighten you as to the wickedness of those who would make it their business to prey upon him."
"Right you are, ma'am."
She turned her gaze back to him and continued, "You have provided similar offices before, I understand, during your years at Bow Street. Mr. Caulfield tells me that you have guarded the person of various dignitaries in times of great danger."
"Right again, ma'am."
"Mr. Caulfield was not at liberty to tell me exactly for whom you had worked, so references are not available to me."
Gideon looked at her steadily, hands behind his back. "Right, ma'am."
"Your clients, however, have been people of great consequence. The highest in the nation, perhaps?"
"Hmm. Right."
Lady Bramley stirred her coffee again, apparently forgetting that she'd already done so, and much more violently this time, the silver spoon clanking loudly against her china cup. "You have nothing more to say for yourself? You are most curiously and frustratingly unforthcoming, young man."
Gideon was amused. Did she really think that, finding one door to his secrets barred, she could sneak around another way to gain access? "Ma'am, I don't reckon you really need to know who else I worked for. Like you said, you don't go on the word of others. You can make up your own mind. And I daresay, you know already everything you need to know about me, or I wouldn't be standin' 'ere now. Ma'am."
She squinted hard, tapping the lorgnette to her lips. "I suppose you show discretion and I should approve of that."
"Right, ma'am."
"For pity's sake, I know I am right, I do not need your constant reassurance of it, man."
"But I were told that you like to do all the talking, ma'am, and that, when I must speak, I should nod me 'ead and agree that you're in the right."
After a moment of stunned silence, she went on a sudden, desperate search for a handkerchief and clutched it to her face, as if expecting an enormous sneeze. Nothing but a slight wheeze came out of her and, after a moment, she lowered it again and managed a somewhat breathless remark, "And this is what I must make into a valet. We have our work cut out for us."
"A valet?" He frowned. "Nobody said nuffin' about that."
She fluttered her handkerchief dismissively. "It is only the reason I shall give for sending you there. It will provide you with an excuse to remain close to the Wildings and yet inconspicuous. You may keep an eye on matters for me. As a valet, you can—"
"I ain't no servant."
"There is no need to take that tone." Up went the lorgnette again, ready to glare him into quivering defeat. "To work for a grand house is a worthy pursuit and not to be sniffed at."
"If there ain't no other choice. I daresay you wouldn't want to work as a housemaid. Ma'am. Taking orders from dawn to midnight and wearing your bleedin' knees out on the parquet."
Immediately he imagined his friend Caulfield cringing, but Gideon didn't believe in pandering to the upper classes. He owed them nothing, saw no cause to cower and demean himself, to save their dainty brows from the furrows of vexation, or shelter their backsides from the bruises of reality. Often he found that they appreciated his manner, for in most cases they were surrounded only by sycophants and his brutal honesty made a refreshing change. In small doses. "They hire Gideon Jones, then they get Gideon Jones. Exactly as he is, scars and all," he liked to say, when people complained about his undecorated form of speech.
Besides, when he kept telling her she was "right"— as he'd been advised— she did not seem to appreciate that either.
Lady Bramley exhaled a little snort. "I see you are more forthcoming when it comes to your opinions. Which are given with considerable impertinence."
Gideon scratched the back of his neck, where the high collar of his borrowed frock coat chafed uncomfortably. He barely held back a weary sigh. "Have you any cause to suspect that these folk are in danger, ma'am?"
"No particular cause. But a very strong sense of something amiss. A lurking menace. And my senses are never wrong, Mr. Jones."
"'Course they ain't. I reckon they wouldn't dare be."
She attempted a stern look, but he smiled, unflinching.
"Mr. Adam Wilding is a proud man and would object most strongly if he knew you were there to protect him and his wife," Lady Bramley continued. "He is a typical male in that he will assume he can do the job for himself, and if anybody dares offer a willing hand he will take offence. Hence the need for disguise. A valet is inconspicuous and to be expected in the household of a gentleman. You will not be required to excuse your presence to anybody, and I need not explain my reason for sending you. A valet is self-explanatory."
"But why me? Why not just send a valet?"
"While he is a capable fellow in many respects, a great burden has recently been placed upon Adam Wilding's shoulders, changing his life in ways he has yet to fully appreciate. Although a good, honest, generous fellow, he is not sophisticated. He has never ventured far outside the village in which he was born and this fortune will open new worlds— bring new society to his door. For a while at least he will need somebody at his side to help see through and deter those who would take advantage. Those who would befriend him while concealing their true purpose." She paused again to sip her coffee. Her lips pursed, as if she had something more to say, but considered first the merits of telling it. Finally she set down her cup and saucer on the small tray table by her chair and said, "You should also know that his young wife is especially dear to me. Indeed, I consider her my family. I must be sure that Mrs. Wilding is kept safe, and I could not rest until I know that she is. Your presence there, Mr. Jones, will provide additional insurance of that, in ways that a simple valet could not. We can never have enough heart's ease when it comes to our loved ones, can we?"
He thought it was one of those questions people ask without requiring an answer— couldn't think what they were called— but it seemed as if she'd expected something, for after a pause she added, in a louder voice, as if he might be hard of hearing, or slow to comprehend, "Do you have family, Mr. Jones?"
"No," he bellowed back, just as loudly.
She leaned away slightly and sniffed."I suppose that's just as well in your line of work."
"Yes. It's lucky I've got nobody. I often think that."
She pinched her lips together, her eyes narrowed. "I must warn you that the house in which the Wildings live is very old. It has a bleak history and there are deeds afoot there, even today, which are quite beyond me to explain."
"History?" He was interested now.
"The house stands on a patch of rising ground, where once there stood an abbey. In the early half of the sixteenth century, during King Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries, the monks were chased out, their wealth purloined by the crown and the abbey itself left in ruins. Some years later, the land was sold to the Wilding family— parvenus who had made their fortune in the wool trade— and in time they built a grand manor house where the abbey once stood, atop those old stone foundations and overlooking the village of Slowly Fell." Her gaze wandered away from him and clouded over, like the sky outside her window. "Amos Wilding expanded his fortune by purchasing coal and ironstone mines nearby, but his character was not as rich as his business acumen. He was an exceedingly unpleasant man, a cruel, demanding master and an avaricious neighbor. He would not rest until he had acquired all the prosperous opportunities around him. On at least one occasion he resorted to accusations of witchcraft, just to get his covetous hands on fertile land that belonged to others."
"Sounds a right charmer."
"Quite. Well, that is only the beginning of the story, but perchance it will suffice. For our purposes." She looked at him again, her focus sharpened. "Do you believe in witches and curses, Mr. Jones?"
Now he laughed out loud. "No. I don't believe in fairies, ghosts, pixies, mermaids and unicorns neither, ma'am. Nor hobgoblins and dragons. Nor the man in the moon."
Was this some practical joke put on by his fellow "Runners"? Kept expecting one or two of his comrades to leap out from behind the curtains, roaring with laughter at his expense. This "Lady Bramley" character was certainly entertaining and might have wandered off a stage. She had lungs and wind enough to reach the furthest seats.
"No. Of course, you do not. Fortunately, Mr. Jones, your concern will not be the supernatural, but the physical dangers, the flesh and bone troubles that might come to the living inhabitants of the house called Slowly Rising."
"Ah. Right you are then." Barmy: the lot of 'em. He'd always thought the upper classes had soft heads as well as soft hands. When a person was born comfortably off and didn't have to worry about where their next meal might come from, they had more time to fret over non-existent troubles and make things up, just to give their brains something to do before the parts froze over from lack of use.
Gideon Jones knew the real monsters and horrors of the world, and they were far worse than any mystical whobejigger.
"But this valet business," he said again, bringing the conversation back to more sensible concerns. "I don't reckon I'll get away with it. Standing about like a fancy bookend, dressed in tight knee-breeches and frilly blouses."
"You appear to have some misunderstanding of the valet's craft, Mr. Jones, if you assume that to be the limit of their duties."
"I'd be more credible as a gardener, ma'am. Or a groom."
"Mr. Wilding keeps only one horse, which he tends himself, and thus requires no groom at present. A gardener would not have access above stairs or to the master's person and his ear. A valet, on the other hand, is indispensible to a gentleman, and must be at hand in all hours, whenever necessary. He takes his orders directly from the master, accompanies him on journeys, and attends to his personal accommodation, his clothing and appearance." Her eyes grazing his form with a swift up and down assessment, she added, "You're certainly no Beau Brummell, but at least you know how to handle a razor and dress yourself. The outcome is somewhat ramshackle and lacking in sartorial elegance, but—"
"I don't get no complaints from the ladies," he muttered wryly.
"A double negative, Mr. Jones?"
"A what?" Sounded a bit saucy to him, so they must be at cross purposes. Or else the old dear had more energy than she ought to have at her age. "P'raps another time, yer ladyship," he replied diplomatically. After all, he hadn't even had his breakfast yet.
Shaking her head and with a slight rolling of the eyes, she continued, "But of course, a valet should never outshine his master. In this case, it is permissible for you to keep a few rough edges. As long as they do not hurt anybody."
"Where I come from, ma'am, a fellow who dresses too poncified gets his arse handed to him in a bucket."
Her bemused gaze passed over him again from boots to head. "I must ensure that you receive a few swift lessons in etiquette, deportment and polite conversation before you go into Shropshire. Fortunately, Mr. Wilding has no former experience of a valet, so he will not be aware of the occasional error, but you must manage the act in front of other household staff. They will, undoubtedly, be more critical than your master." She got up and reached for the bell pull on the wall beside the mantle, tugging it just once and briskly. "You put me in mind of an irreverent coachman my dear departed husband hired before our marriage. A strapping fellow who always looked to be wearing somebody else's livery and forever smirked at me with guilty eyes, as if I had come upon him immediately after his telling of a raucous and unseemly joke. On more than one occasion he shut the hem of my petticoat in the carriage door, or forgot to put the step down for me. Deliberately, no doubt. My husband found him amusing, but then he would. Sir Melchior Bramley enjoyed a touch of the cheeky impudence. Few things amused him more than to see somebody trip and fall flat on their face."
Impudence. What did that word mean? He searched his mind hastily, turning the pages of his memory as if it were that dog-eared, third-hand dictionary he squinted over every evening by candlelight. "I beg your pardon, ma'am. It weren't my intention to seem... impudent."
"Was it not?" she sputtered. "Although you have been careful not to answer all my questions, you have certainly managed to speak up when you feel it necessary, which suggests you give thought to the words that do come out of your mouth and that you use them for a purpose. I have also noted that your 'h's come and go like my little dog's desire to chase footmen around the table. One never knows what it is about the fellows' shoes that suddenly cause him to fly off in rapid pursuit, when, at other times, they can walk by quite unmolested. So it is with your lapsed consonants, young man."
He winced, hands curled tightly at his sides now. Suddenly he was a boy again and standing before the governor of the orphanage, sent there for some misdemeanor. His back and his palms were already stinging, old scars and welts throbbing anew.
He saw why his friend Caulfield had described the Dowager Lady Bramley as a daunting woman. She put on a good display, like a sergeant major inspecting the troops—ramrod spine, shoulders to rival cathedral buttresses, and a voice that would have stirred reluctant, outnumbered soldiers to victory at Agincourt. She reminded Gideon of a self-satisfied, well-fed, well-groomed cat he saw years ago, sitting in the window of a tea shop, where he once pressed his nose in wistful admiration of the hot cross buns a penniless urchin such as himself would never be privileged to taste. That cat, carefully licking cream from her whiskers, had looked at life from her cushion in the window with a cool, pitiless, calculating stare.
Women and cats were very much alike in his opinion. As mice were to cats, men were to women. Both suffered the same fate once the creature that toyed with them grew bored of its sport.
He'd sworn off women himself, for his own good. Three or four times, at least.
"You're a brash fellow, Mr. Jones. You have no time for older ladies like me and think you have a better idea of how the world turns because of the life you've led. You feel my concerns are silly and frivolous. I am silly and frivolous. Your brain is sharp whilst mine is dulled with age. Naturally you cannot help your impatience from showing itself upon your face. And your tongue. You imagine that by stressing your origins with a manner of speech so different to my own— and exaggerating the effect on occasion— you raise your defiant, rebellious colors proudly aloft." Returning to her chair, she picked up her coffee cup again. "Yes, Mr. Jones, this is not my first dance at the ball. I have given audience to a great many young people here in this drawing room. And I have seen your revolutionary attitude more times than I care to count. You are not so very unique as I'm sure you think you are."
"I didn't—"
"Mean for me to sum you up so quickly?" She gave a short laugh. "An advantage of old age, Mr. Jones, is that there are few new things in the world, few surprises. Oh, they tell us that the world changes, but people never really do. Intrinsically they remain the same. Do not frown, sir. It matters not what you think of me, as long as that confidence makes you capable of the task at hand. My husband used to call it a healthy disrespect for nonsense. He preferred it to the tugging of forelocks. Fortunately, once we were married, he left the hiring of staff to me, or who knows what would have become of us." She paused, eyes shining with those happy memories of her husband. "But for our present needs I see the benefit of this uncowed, outspoken and slightly churlish attitude. Yes, you will do very well at Slowly Rising. There is a certain disarming quality to your smile, even if it is impertinent. Mr. Wilding will no doubt feel at home with you and take you into his confidence."
She'd briefly lost him at "intrinsically", but he got the gist of it. He was hired.
"My h's are like your eye-glasses then, ma'am." He couldn't resist it. Couldn't let her roll over him completely. "They come and go for effect too."
For a moment he thought she would laugh out loud. Her eyes warmed another degree and, if he was not very much mistaken, her rigid shoulders relaxed just a little. She looked at him as if he'd reached over, stroked her nose and tickled her ears. So she did have a sense of humor after all.
But behind Gideon the door opened and her regard quickly turned to the man who had entered. Clearly, the confusion she felt from having her fur ruffled by a naughty hand must now be taken out on the new arrival.
"Ah, Filkins, there you are, at last! I began to think my bell was broken. But perhaps you were absorbed by the pages of The Sporting Chronicle once again, and I must wait my turn in order of importance." How quickly she regained her composure.
"No, indeed, madam. I was merely—"
"If I had a fancy to hear outrageous fibs, Filkins, I would ask my grandson how the china spaniel in the morning room came to be broken the last time he was here. The resulting babble would be every bit as fascinating a work of fiction, I'm sure, as your reason for ignoring my bell. Now, you will take Mr. Jones down to the kitchen with you for a good breakfast and then kindly provide him with a thorough explanation regarding the duties of a valet. I'm sure Mr. Volkov's man at number seventeen can be of assistance too. Arjun Das knows everything worth knowing."
From the deepening lines upon Filkins' gravestone face, he did not entirely approve of Arjun Das, whoever he was. And from Lady Bramley's countenance she was well aware of this fact and enjoyed it. With a quick nod of her head and a wave of her lorgnette, they were dismissed from the room and her day.
Just like so, it seemed, she had decided that Gideon Jones, despite his shortcomings— or perhaps because of them— would do for the post. She did not ask him if he still wanted it. Truth be told, he had never been to the country for any extended length of time, only in pursuit of villains who fled London. But as an orphanage-dumped, workhouse-abused, self-raised and street-educated man, Gideon Jones considered himself prepared for anything that might arise in his life.
A small village in Shropshire and the duties of a valet might provide a different experience, but they could not possibly hold more horrors than the places in which he spent his childhood, could they? As for ghouls, goblins and haunted houses— they were nothing compared to that place. There were hidden pitfalls in every path, however straightforward they looked to the eye; in his experience, nothing and nobody was ever quite what they seemed.
The Dowager Lady Bramley herself, he mused, was like a glacier in the ocean; only a small, craggy portion showed above the surface. He was certain much more lurked beneath, mysterious and dangerous.
Well, he liked a bit of that in a woman, it must be said.
The world would be a very dull place indeed, he thought, if everything were visible at once, with no secrets to be unveiled, no depths to be explored, no mysteries left to be solved. Like a book that explained everything in the first chapter.
"I shall send Filkins to secure a place for you on the stage that leaves for Shrewsbury from the Bull and Mouth next Friday evening at eight o' the clock. That should give you adequate time to make any arrangements you require. Be sure you are there a good half hour before the expected time of departure, for the stage will not wait. I shall also send word to my son, Sir Mandrake, who can surely provide some form of transportation from Shrewsbury onward to the village of Slowly Fell. Now be off with you for I have letters to write."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Oh, and Mr. Jones," she added, raising her voice as he followed the butler out, "it will not be necessary to borrow more clothes from Mr. Caulfield. I recognize his new coat and I suppose he lent it to you in the misguided belief that I would not notice. As if one can squeeze a marrow into a walnut shell. Kindly take it off, before Mrs. Caulfield— a sorely inadequate seamstress— is required to mend it for her husband."
Gideon's own coat had, only that morning, been stolen for the third time from the Covent Garden boarding house in which he lived. His friend had loaned him the replacement coat for this audience with Lady Bramley when he called in to make sure Gideon was out of bed on time, sober and shaved. A clean face and a smart coat, apparently, were necessities in this lady's drawing room.
"And try to mind your manners," Caulfield had warned.
"What manners?"
"Precisely. I know how you get when you're spoiling for a fight, Jones."
"Now why would I want to fight some daft old baronet's widow?"
"Wait till you meet her."
He'd laughed at that, of course. But now he understood his friend's concern, for there were few things that rubbed Gideon the wrong way with greater efficiency than some imperious aristocrat looking down their nose.
In the Dowager Lady Bramley's case, however, there was something more amusing and less frosty than expected. He couldn't dislike her half as much as he wanted to and it seemed as if she felt the same about him.
"I shall order more suitable clothing for you immediately," she added. "I'm sure we can do better than the current motley garb." She must have seen the reluctance and mild horror in his countenance, for her eyes gleamed archly. "Fear not that I mean to poncify you, Mr. Jones. Your posterior will be in no danger from those who, for some strange purpose known only to the male animal, might feel inclined to forcibly remove it from you, only to deliver it back again. In a bucket."
Damn. She still managed to get the final word. He had to admire her for that too.
* * * *
"Bit of a tartar, ain't she?" he muttered to the butler as they descended steps to the kitchen.
"I beg your pardon?"
"'Er bleedin' ladyship." He jerked his head upward. "Bit of a sergeant major."
"Indeed. She is all those things and more, Mr. Jones."
"I don't know 'ow you stand it. All that bowin' and scrapin'."
The elderly fellow turned to look at him with heavily-lidded grey eyes and just the hint of a smirk. "You have never worked in service, I take it, Mr. Jones."
"Crikey, no." He chuckled. "This ain't the life for me."
"Are you not entering Lady Bramley's employ?"
"Oh, this is only temporary. I ain't really a valet."
"From your appearance, Mr. Jones, I didn't think, for a moment, that you were." Nose in the air, the butler proceeded down the stairs, and Gideon followed.
"I just need to know a few simple things about dressing a gent and all that, Mr. Filkins. Enough to get by."
"To get by?"
"Look the part. Stand about to open doors, shine a button or two and run a brush over a shoulder." Having reached the bottom step, he looked around and added cheerfully, "Ain't forever. How hard can it be?"
The butler turned again and studied Gideon for a moment, as if he had carried something unsavory indoors on his shoes. Then he gestured stiffly toward the table, with a grand flourish that, like his mistress, would not be out of place on the theatrical stage. "Mrs. Weston will provide you with breakfast bacon and small beer, if you would be so good as to sit. There. Do try not to be a bother. If you can."
Several young men and women dashed about the kitchen, all solemn and seemingly intent on their tasks, while swiftly dodging not only each other but also the wrath of a red-faced cook whose forearms were as muscular as Gideon's own. The difference between this busy, industrious scene and the calm, leisurely quiet above stairs was quite marked, of course. A different world.
"Should I come back when you've got a quiet minute?" he asked. "Don't want to be in anybody's way."
Filkins leaned to one side, like a slow falling tree, his eyebrows lifting and separating, two bristling, wind-ruffled branches. "A quiet minute? What exactly is that? I fear it is a term with which those of us in service have not the fortune to be familiar. But, as you say—" His nostrils flared. "How hard can it be?"
As the butler turned away, he slipped a folded newspaper from the table and tucked it smoothly under one arm. But not quite quickly or slyly enough to prevent Gideon from reading the printed masthead of Bell's Life and Sporting Chronicle.
He smiled to himself. Lady Bramley must have eyes in the back of her head, or else she really did "know" people and their habits.
A kitchen maid set a plate of bacon and a mug of beer in the spot vacated by Mr. Filkins' newspaper, and Gideon, whose stomach had begun to grumble quite loudly, gave her a grin and a wink of gratitude. "Best watch out, darlin', or I'll eat you too. I like a bit o' sweet with my salty."
She flushed, giggled and scuttled away like a mouse from a tomcat. Her progress, which he followed with his smile, took her rapidly by the butler, who had paused under the arch to his pantry and looked back over his shoulder. He cast Gideon a dark, warning scowl, accompanied by a crisply folded "a-hem".
Oops. Expression as chagrinned as he could make it, Gideon reached for a fork and was soon digging into his breakfast with an eagerness that caused the cook to forget her bad temper for a moment and laugh. "For pity's sake, young man, let your food touch the sides on its way down or you won't taste it!"
Lady Bramley had certainly read him well, he realized. She knew he'd come out without breakfast, even before his grumbling belly gave it away.
He laughed at the cook's comment, but not for long, too busy enjoying this unexpected bounty as if it were his last meal. Never quite having outgrown the habit of hunching over his plate, he shoveled the food in before somebody might try snatching it away.