Chapter Ten
The magician was dragged before King Heartless, who didn’t bother looking up from his supper before ordering the man whipped and banished. But the magician wasn’t alone, for he had a daughter who always traveled with him.
Her name was Prue and when she flung herself at the king’s feet and begged for her father, the king looked.
And looked again.…
—From King Heartless
It was near midnight three days later when the carriage pulled down a long, winding drive leading to a castle silhouetted against the waning moon. Watching out the window, Bridget couldn’t help but shiver. One tower in particular, taller than the others, seemed quite ominous in the moonlight.
She let the curtain fall.
It had not escaped her notice that Val, usually such an irreverent, talkative, restless man, had become quieter the closer they’d driven toward his childhood home, until now that they’d arrived he was almost a pale statue, sitting in the corner.
He caught her eye. “Imposing, isn’t it? My ancestor acquired it centuries ago by storming it, skewering the previous owner, killing his infant heir, and raping his widow over the banquet table before marrying her.” He shrugged at the horrified look she gave him. “The castle was from her family. I suppose he was just making sure everything was legal.”
“What is skewering?” Mehmed asked.
“To pierce with a sword,” Val said very precisely, omitting his usual verbal flourishes.
Bridget had an odd urge to take his hand. Which was ridiculous. He was a duke.
The carriage came to a halt.
There was a small jolt as one of the footmen descended, and then the carriage door was opened.
Pip bounded down the steps and disappeared into the darkness, the boy not far behind.
In the distance a series of yips and then canine yodeling started. Nearby, the terrier answered to the best of his ability.
“What is that?” Bridget glanced curiously at Val.
He grimaced. “Foxhounds. My father kept a pack and I suppose they’ve been maintained. Filthy things.”
Bridget’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t been back to Ainsdale since I left England when I was nineteen and spent a decade traveling the world. It’s been eleven years since I’ve seen this place.”
He looked morosely at the open carriage door.
He’d not told her why they’d hurried away from London so precipitously, but she’d decided on the long journey north that it must be that he was worried his enemies might poison him again. Watching him now, she thought the fear must be very great to drive him here.
Bridget hesitated, and then said gently, “Shall we get out?”
Val seemed to come to himself. “I suppose we must.”
He gestured for her to precede him and she stepped down with the aid of Bob the footman. The second carriage had drawn up behind them and she eyed it thoughtfully. Yesterday evening she’d noticed that the servants who manned it were all strangers to her. And this morning, when they were stopped for a change of horses, she’d happened to stroll near the second carriage. Her way had been immediately blocked by one of the unfamiliar menservants.
He’d been rather a rough-looking fellow, too.
“Ah, the seat of my forefathers.”
She turned at Val’s murmured words to find him standing and gazing with what looked like frank distaste at Ainsdale Castle.
“Why did we come if you hate it so much?” she asked softly.
His eyes flared wide and then he smiled gently. “Oh, Séraphine. Some things can neither be outrun, buried, nor burned. One must bear them like a twisted, degraded limb, dragged behind, odiferous and loathsome, forever reminding one of the most horrible time in one’s life.” He shrugged. “And if this foul disgusting thing becomes useful once and again? Should I not then make use of it?”
Without waiting for her reply, he strode to the great double doors to the castle. The footmen seemed to be having some trouble rousing the staff within.
Bridget followed more slowly, glancing around the dark drive. Tall trees were rattling their branches against the moon. The windows of the castle were dark and they were obviously not expected.
Pip came trotting up to her, his tongue hanging out of his agape mouth happily.
Mehmed looked less cheerful. “English castles are cold.”
“There’ll be a warm fire inside,” Bridget assured him. At least she hoped so.
One of the doors opened with a screeching creak, revealing a tall, thin man in hastily donned breeches and coat over a nightshirt, a soft nightcap covering his head. Behind him was an elderly woman, a thin gray braid trailing from under her mobcap, a gray shawl thrown over her nightdress.
“Your Grace!” exclaimed the man at the sight of Val. “We hadn’t expected you.”
“Few do,” replied the duke. “And yet here I am, weary and famished, and on the doorstep on a cold and dreary night. Oh, will you let me in, kind sir?”
The last was said with more than a touch of irony and the tall man, who must be a butler, flushed, looking very young. “Of course, Your Grace. Yes, of course, do come in.”
At the same time, the elderly woman’s face had darkened. She muttered, “No notice. Beds aren’t made. Don’t have meat nor bread laid by in the kitchen, don’t know what we’ll feed such a crowd.”
But the younger man had already moved back, letting Val stroll in, followed by Mehmed and the dog.
The duke continued into the castle but when it was Bridget’s turn to enter she stopped and smiled at the two confused servants. “I am Mrs. Crumb. How do you do?”
The man made to remove a hat, remembered he was wearing only a soft cap, and ended on an awkward bow. “Erm… how d’you do? I’m John Dwight. Th’ butler?”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dwight,” Bridget said, and turned to the elderly woman. “And you are?”
“Mrs. Ives,” the woman grunted. “Housekeeper and aunt to this one.” She tilted her head toward the butler.
“Splendid.” Bridget gestured to the boy, standing and gawking up at what were admittedly rather sinister-looking carvings in the ceiling high above them. In the flickering candlelight they seemed to be writhing. “This is Mehmed, the duke’s valet. And this is Bob, one of his footmen. We have a party of a dozen or so.” She was still uncertain about how many men traveled in the second carriage. “What sort of food do you have on hand?”
If possible, the housekeeper looked even more disgruntled. “Just enough to keep castle staff together, body and soul.”
“And how many are in the castle at the moment?” Bridget asked smoothly. She gestured for Mehmed and Bob to precede her.
“A skeleton staff.” The housekeeper snorted. “Don’t know what Himself will do w’out proper help. Half a dozen maids, four footmen, the cook, her two scullery maids, an’ me and John. Course that don’t count the outside help—the stablemen, the groundkeepers, an’ such.”
“You’ve done very—” Bridget had begun in a conciliatory tone when Val interrupted her.
“Come, Mrs. Crumb,” he said, appearing suddenly by her side and catching her by the upper arm. “You’re not on staff here.”
He began walking back the way he’d presumably come, down a dark and gloomy corridor, his hand still on her arm. There were paintings crowding the walls, men posed haughtily in doublet and hose, women staring blankly, their fingers beringed, starched ruffs about their necks.
“Then why did you bring me along?” she asked rather tartly, and then, before he could answer, “And I was in the process of seeing to your supper, Your Grace. I’d think you’d be more concerned about your comfort.”
“I’m always extremely concerned as to my comfort and creature needs,” Val replied as they came to a wide stone staircase. He turned to her and touched her lightly on one cheek, his azure eyes bright in the low light. “And I brought you along because I like you.”
She inhaled and all thought fled her mind. He stood so close that they seemed to share the same breaths.
His lips slowly curved and he grasped her hand in his.
“But,” he continued as they mounted the stairs, his hand wrapped firmly about hers, “I am not going to wait for my esteemed castle housekeeper to rouse my equally esteemed cook in the middle of the night to find something worthy of my palate. No. Instead I shall simply retire to my rooms and partake of the victuals Mrs. Bram packed for us when we began this journey. There are plenty left, for I instructed her to be generous, foreseeing a situation such as this.” He shivered suddenly. “Dear God, the place is even colder than I remembered.”
They made the upper floor, where the doors to what were obviously the ducal chambers were thrown open. A small dark-haired maid in nightclothes knelt by the enormous fireplace, coaxing a flame, while another girl turned down the bed—though it looked as if she was merely causing the dust to fly about—and a third was bringing in hot water as they arrived.
Mehmed and Pip were standing by the hearth watching the dark-haired maid work at the fire.
Bridget sniffed discreetly. She could smell mildew and, faintly, something decayed.
Val was less inclined toward discretion. He inhaled deeply. “Ah, the stink of my ancestors’ rot. That does bring back memories—all of them quite vivid, if not pleasant. Now away, you sprites, and climb into your beds under the eaves. I’ll have need of you in the morn, I’m sure.”
The maids froze, and the one kneeling at the hearth pushed a lock of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist and said, “Pardon, Your Grace?”
“Go. Away,” Val enunciated quite insultingly.
Bridget glared at him—and then switched to a smile as the maids trudged, yawning, to the door. “Thank you!”
She waited until the door was closed before whirling on him—he seemed to let go of her hand without regret. “You needn’t be so rude.”
“No,” he agreed, rummaging in the provisions basket, “but I’m paying them and I’m a bloody duke besides, so I needn’t be polite, either. Apple?”
He held out the piece of fruit with a smile that was both innocent and faintly derisive.
She set her hands on her hips. “You’ll find that you’ll have better service if you treat your servants as human beings, capable of both thought and feeling.”
He threw himself into a chair, one leg over the arm, swinging lazily. “If a servant’s service displeases me in any way I have them dismissed. The remaining servants see this and act accordingly. I have the best service money can buy.”
He took a large bite of the red apple, chewing as he watched her.
She came to him and knelt by his side. “It isn’t right to treat other people as things that you can buy and sell.”
He smirked. “What is right and wrong?”
“Would you like to be treated that way?” She didn’t know why this argument, so late at night after three days of constant, exhausting travel, meant so much to her, but it did.
It did.
He pointed a finger at her, beautiful, confident in his wealth and rank, his gold thumb ring winking in the firelight. “If anyone were to treat me in such a way I’d cut his nose off and make him eat it.”
He took another bite of the apple.
“Would you like others to treat me in this way?” she whispered. “As a thing to be ordered about, without regard to my feelings or thoughts?”
He froze, looking at her.
Her eyes never leaving his, she took the apple from his hand and bit into it.
Chewing, she rose and left the room.
VAL WOKE TO a freezing room and the sight of a ginger cat sitting at the foot of his bed. It had a white blaze on its chest and was washing itself quite unconcernedly.
The cat paused and looked up at him and he saw that it had green eyes, like Pretty, his first cat, the one that Father had strangled.
He’d had terrible taste in cat names at the age of five.
Val sneezed.
The cat was off like a shot and gone before he could blink.
And then he wondered: had it been there at all?
He sat up and looked at the spot on the dusty coverlet where the cat had been. It had left no impression.
Madness.
The room, in the light of day, still smelled like death and decay.
He got up, dragging the dusty coverlet from the bed, and wrapped it about himself. It trailed on the floor as he crossed to the diamond-paned window. It overlooked the inner keep, barren save for a gnarled oak tree at the center. Everything was mantled in the night’s frost. He remembered men in masks, gamboling by firelight around that tree. Laughter and screeching.
Whimpering and soft crying.
Those masked men had terrified him as a young boy. Had once sent him running from his spying place, high in the widow’s tower, back to his room, to hide under his bed. The nursery maid had found him only late the next morning.
Now he saw those masked revelers for what they really were: opportunities pure and simple. Nothing more. And like any opportunity’s their benefits and their risks must be assessed.
He’d put that process into motion when he’d written the Duke of Dyemore before they’d left London. Whether the old man had gotten the letter, whether he was interested enough to come to Yorkshire and meet him, wasn’t certain, of course. But Val would be very surprised indeed if he hadn’t heard from the duke by next week.
A harsh cawing drew his eye upward and Val caught sight of a flock of jackdaws taking wing over the castellated walls.
He’d been created here, the result of as careful breeding as any Arabian stallion’s. A dam from bloodlines that came from the Norman invasion and wealth to boot. A sire with a title, land, and beauty.
And he’d been formed here, drop by frozen crystalline drop, until he gleamed, translucent like a diamond, sharp and pure, and without any softness.
That had been frozen clean away.
Those who professed shock, disbelief, nay, even horror at the result, had not been paying sufficient attention to the depth of the ice.
Act not surprised when frozen ground yields naught but death.
And now he was returned to the seat of his ancestors. Ah, but it was past time he took his rightful place.
Val turned away from the window and strode to the door, opening it and sticking his head out into the hallway.
To his surprise a footman was actually without, apparently awaiting his appearance.
The man jerked nervously. “Your Grace?”
“Bring hot water and plenty of it,” Val said. “A maid to make my fire. Tea, milk, sugar, eggs, ham, kippered herring, sausages, cheese, bread, butter, and jam. Oh, and Mrs. Crumb.” He remembered the conversation of the night before. “Please.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace?” the footman said, looking dazed. “Who?”
“Mrs. Crumb,” Val repeated. “The woman I came in with last night. About this high”—he placed the side of hand at his chin—“wears dreadfully ugly mobcaps and is probably someplace ordering someone about.”
“Oh,” said the footman with dawning comprehension. “Her.”
BRIDGET HAD WAKED earlier that morning to the stink of mildew and a damp coverlet in a cold, dark room.
She was of two minds about the matter.
One was sympathetic. It was never nice to be the servant in charge of a country house who was expected to be ready with no notice for the whims of a feckless master turning up in the middle of the night. The aristocracy seemed to think that beds made themselves, pantries were magically stocked, and staff could be hired at the snap of one’s fingers.
On the other hand, mildew, dust, and damp denoted incompetence and that was another matter entirely—one that rather scandalized the housekeeper within her.
Right, then.
Bridget rose, shivering in her chemise. This disturbed Pip, who, despite his wiry fur, had been forced to seek warmth beneath the covers. He bumbled about, searching for a way out of the covers, until he found the edge and emerged, looking like some medieval cowled monk.
The dog stretched and then sat, watching as Bridget dressed.
She felt grimy, irritably aware that there was no water to wash in. Nevertheless she tied her mobcap firmly beneath her chin, hung her chatelaine at her waist, and snapped her fingers. She and the terrier ventured forth into the hall outside her room.
She’d been given a little room on one of the upper floors, not a servant’s room, but certainly not a guest room, either.
Betwixt and between.
She marched down the unlit hall, noting the finely carved dark woodwork of the walls—and the dust above eye level and on the ceiling. Down the stairs—the carpet needed taking up, beating, and sponging, and the banister a good polishing with beeswax. Paused on the landing—smoke stains from years of candles on the upper walls, definite signs of damp on the lower. Down another flight of stairs—shaky banister. Dangerous, that. Must get in a carpenter at once. The lower hall was flanked by a row of gorgeous high Gothic windows looking out on the inner courtyard, all of which were dusty and smudged.
Bridget tutted under her breath.
Farther back she found the servants’ passage and another, much narrower flight of stairs leading to the kitchens.
Great groined ceilings met her gaze, stained a tea brown from decades of smoky fires. Taking up one entire wall was the hearth, big enough to roast a side of beef. Since this was a castle, no doubt it had been used for that very purpose in its time. A venerable table stood to one side of the hearth, wide and battered. Around it were gathered what must be nearly all the castle staff, with varying shades of belligerence, curiosity, and fear on their faces. To one side, huddled in a little defensive group, the obvious outsiders, were the footmen who had traveled from Hermes House: Bob, Bill, Will, and Sam. Presumably their coachman was either still in the stables or had fled, screaming, from the hostile atmosphere.
Bridget let Pip outside by means of a back door and then turned and folded her hands at her waist. “Good morning. I am Mrs. Crumb. Where is Mrs. Ives?”
Mr. Dwight, the butler, stood, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his thin throat. “My aunt went home to her cottage this morning. Said she was too old for midnight comings and goings.” He gulped as if swallowing more that his aunt might’ve said.
Well, that might be easier anyway.
“Whom do you use as washerwomen?” she asked Mr. Dwight.
But a tall, thin woman with brown hair pulled tight against her skull interrupted aggressively, “Who are you?”
Bridget affixed a small, firm smile to her lips. “Mrs. Crumb, as I’ve said. And you are…?”
“Madge Smithers.” The woman folded her arms across her thin chest. “The cook.”
“Ah. Then I presume you’ll want to start preparations for the duke’s breakfast. I know he’s particularly fond of eggs in the morning.”
The cook didn’t move—nor did anyone else.
Bridget sighed regretfully. “You see, the thing is, the duke will need to make decisions about his staff in the coming days: who will remain and who will have to find other places of employment.”
“He’s a devil, everyone hereabouts knows it,” one of the footmen said. His words were over-loud and seemed to echo off the ceiling of the kitchens.
Bridget studied the footman. He didn’t look more than five and twenty and she wondered how much personal experience he might have of the duke. “What is your name?”
“Conners.”
“Well, Conners, if you think His Grace is a devil then why are you working here?”
“What d’you mean?” Conners scowled. “Only work hereabouts, innit?”
Bridget nodded. “Then I suggest you think on it. If you truly hold the duke in such contempt and fear I suggest you leave. If you wish to remain, then reconcile yourself to the fact that you have made a pact with a man you consider the Devil—and treat the Duke of Montgomery with respect.”
She paused, waiting while that thought sank in. She understood working from necessity—didn’t they all do that?—but she didn’t allow ill talk of their master.
Or mutiny, for that matter.
“Now.” She glanced brightly at the cook. “Breakfast, I think?”
Mrs. Smithers didn’t exactly skip to her duties but she did start her preparations, with the help of two of the scullery maids.
“We have some women who come from the village,” Mr. Dwight said when Bridget again asked him about washerwomen. “But my aunt was in charge of them. I’m not sure…”
“Do you have their names?” Bridget asked.
“Yes?”
“Then please ask them to come today.”
“But…” Mr. Dwight looked helplessly around the bustling kitchens. “Today isn’t washday. It’s not for several days. Are you sure there will be things that need washing?”
“Oh, yes,” Bridget said. “In fact, tell the washerwomen that we’ll need them for at least a week.”
“Very—”
“Now, maids,” Bridget said briskly.
“Maids?” Mr. Dwight sounded as if he’d never heard of the creatures.
“Yes, I’ll need at least another dozen more,” Bridget said. “And I expect you’ll want at least a half-dozen footmen.” She nodded to herself. “Maids, footmen, washerwomen, carpenters, stoneworkers… really, I think you ought to just send word to the village that we’re hiring workers of all types. We’ll set up in the hall this afternoon so as not to be in the way of Mrs. Smithers in the kitchens and do the interviewing and hiring together. This morning after breakfast we’ll walk through the entire castle, you and I, and make note of what needs to be done. But first, tea. I really can’t do anything without tea in the morning,” she confessed to Mr. Dwight. He seemed like such a nice young man.
But a little scatterbrained.
He gazed wide-eyed at her. “Tea…?”
One of the brutish-looking men from the second carriage entered the kitchens from a door Bridget hadn’t even realized was there. “She needs ’er breakfast.”
“Who?”
At Bridget’s query everyone stilled.
Bridget’s eyes narrowed and she addressed the man, who was short, but with a barrel chest and a flattened, scarred face. “Who needs their breakfast?”
He sneered. “None of your business.”
“It’s a lady.” The dark-haired little maid from the night before spoke up bravely. “Down in th’ dungeons.”
But Bridget was already crossing the kitchens and ducking through the door the strange manservant had entered through.
Behind her someone yelled, “Oi!”
There was a narrow passage back here. She hurried along it, ignoring doors that obviously led to storage rooms, until she came to an arched opening with a flight of bare stone steps that led downward in a spiral.
These she took.
The walls were moist and cool and she could see light below her. The circular steps spilled out into an open flagstone floor with a small, cozy fire on one end. Three crude wooden doors were set into the walls, all with small holes cut at roughly the height of a man’s head. Four bedrolls were laid out on the floor and a table was next to the fire with four chairs around it.
Bridget was almost relieved. Dungeons had sounded quite horrific.
Three men were sitting beside the fire, and all three looked up at the sight of her, although none seemed particularly alarmed.
Behind her the man from the kitchens ran out of the spiral staircase, panting. “Tried to stop ’er.”
Bridget drew herself up. “Where is she?”
One of the men sighed, pushing out his chair. “Now, look ’ere, miss.”
“Mrs. Crumb! Mrs. Crumb, is that you?”
The man standing behind her made a grab for her.
Bridget dodged and ran to the middle door, the one from which she’d heard the woman’s voice. She stood on tiptoe and peered through the little cutout hole and saw Hippolyta Royle.