The Heiress Companion (6 page)

It was not much longer until Lady Bradwell reluctantly
agreed that she
was
fatigued, and permitted
Rowena to help her to her room and ring for her maid. Although the party
continued for some time after the departure of the hostess, by the time Rowena
reappeared in the hall, Lord Bradwell and his brother were sending the last of
the guests out to their carriages. Feeling that domestic matters could safely
be left to the staff, Rowena collected her shawl and a rather sleepy Margaret
from the drawing room, and retired for the night.

o0o

In the morning Miss Cherwood thought to be the only person
so early at breakfast, perhaps the only one at all. She had seen both Lord
Bradwell and his brother retire to the library to fortify themselves with
brandy, and suspected that they had returned there when the last guest was
gone, to drink deeply to the evening’s success. She was surprised, therefore,
to find Lyn Bradwell seated in the breakfast room, desultorily picking at a
plate of eggs and bacon, and reading the London papers. He looked up when she entered,
smiled and rose from his seat, folding the paper.

“There’s no need to do that on my account,” she said as she
inspected the array of chafing dishes on the sideboard.

“Surely you cannot like to eat your breakfast confronted by
the back pages of the Times?” Bradwell protested.

“I assure you, I am quite used to do so. My father was not a
fit conversationalist if deprived of his morning paper, and my mother was not a
fit conversationalist if awakened at any time before noon. I early became adept
at amusing myself between the kippers and the jam.”

“I admire you for it, but I had almost done with the papers
anyway. How do you do this morning?”

Helping herself to beef, egg, and a few waferish slices of
toast, Rowena settled herself and poured her tea. “May I offer you some hot? I
am very well, and pleased to see the house in such good order after last
evening.”

“You’ve been inspecting already?” Bradwell raised a quizzing
eyebrow.

“Certainly. It only takes a minute or so to look through the
public rooms, and to ask Mrs. Coffee how everything went on. And to tell truth,
I am surprised to see anyone else about this morning.”

“You take my family for very shabby stock, Miss Cherwood.”

“Not in the least, but you will at least admit that I was
not very far wrong, was I? I know Meggy was quite done up when I left her in
her room, between the party itself and the excitements of the last few days.
And that your mamma should spend the next few days abed to recover herself is
certainly not odd. But you know my views on
that
subject.”

“If you mean her folly in giving the party at all, I imagine
our ideas march very closely. You blame me for it, I collect?”

“Not at all, sir, unless you wrote your mamma a letter I did
not read to her which commanded that —”

“That the fatted calf be slaughtered, Miss Cherwood? The
image is yours, you know.”

“I apologize for a stupid remark, Mr. Bradwell, and would
consider it highly obliging in you if you would forget I ever made it. To
continue my first line of thought: To be quite frank, I suspected, after seeing
you and Lord Bradwell retire to the library last night, that neither of you
would wish to arise early this morning. Certainly not if you had been making
depredations of a heavy sort.”

“Very mild depredations, Miss Cherwood. Mine, at least. I
collect that Jack was a trifle rattled to see Jane Ambercot — not to mention
having that beastly little schoolroom chit hanging on his elbow half the night.”

“Entirely dreadful, isn’t she,” Miss Cherwood agreed
sympathetically, recalling that Lord Bradwell’s was not the only elbow to which
Miss Eliza had attached herself. “Well, in any case, that explains why I didn’t
expect to breakfast with company this morning.”

Bradwell speared a bite of bacon and egg and consumed it
with every indication of relish. “But more seriously, Miss Cherwood, how do you
think Mamma will go on now? Has the party truly set her back?”

“She is better — O lord,
far
better than when I first came to Broak. But she’s so tiresomely headstrong! I
will
read my letters and I
won’t
wear my spectacles, and I
shall
sit in the sunlight. I had as lief argue
with an obstinate five year-old. The doctor says that if she will only take
proper care of herself she will mend very quickly. And honestly, the progress
she has made — it’s beyond anything.”

“Should I try to scold her? I feel rather foolish doing so;
she turns it against one, you know. Yesterday, when I suggested that she lie
down for a spell, she told me she had no intentions of taking orders from a man
she knew in his diapers!”

“O yes, I know about
that
—” Rowena began, but Bradwell had risen to his feet again as Margaret entered
the room. After seating her, he helped her choose her breakfast, serving her
with more eggs, toast, bacon, and tea than she could ever have hoped to consume
in one sitting. Margaret thanked him prettily, altogether unaware of this
preferential treatment, and Rowena, sitting forgotten across the table, watched
with amusement, sparing a pitying thought for the absent Ulysses Ambercot.

“And what do you intend to do today, Miss Margaret?”
Bradwell asked solicitously. Margaret looked expectantly at Rowena.

“I hadn’t thought. That is, if Lady B — your mamma — wishes
to sleep today — well, I had hoped there might be some sort of chore about the
house that I could do.”

“Such as what, goose? Polish the bannisters? Black the
kitchen range? Mend the drawing room curtain where that fat gentleman stepped
through it last evening?”

“That’s just it, Renna. I’ve no idea what one
does
in a great house if one is not a servant or
in the nursery being fitted for dresses. Mamma talks of housewifery, but she
never explains a thing.”

“Whereas my mamma never talked of it, but showed me
constantly how to manage a household. Mrs. Coffee and her people have the house
well ordered now, though. What would you like to do? For once I am free of
those odious lists and arrangements, and I can spend some time with you. Shall
we descend to the kitchen and cast Cook out, and make some sort of mess
ourselves?”

Margaret looked a little startled at this original
proposition, and Mr. Bradwell downright skeptical. “You mean, truly cook
something?” Margaret asked, and:

“Toss Cook out of her kitchen? Sooner face the dogs of
Hades, Miss Cherwood,” Mr. Bradwell admonished.

“Well, I have no doubt that the Regent is not going to hire
me away from your mamma apurpose to set me up in his kitchens,” Rowena agreed
sedately. “But I can cook any number of dinners and pastries. There were times
when we could not rely upon local people to help us, let alone maid or cook for
us, and sometimes, while Mamma was arguing with the poulterer in what
she
called Portuguese — though none of the people
ever understood her — I would make supper, and Mamma and Senhor Algues would
make up over the dinner.”

“Very picturesque, Miss Cherwood; you really have lived a
rather unconventional life.” It did not sound as if Mr. Bradwell was
particularly interested in Rowena’s unconventionality; he turned to smile at
Margaret again. “Would you mind” — the question was obviously aimed at the
younger woman — “if I made myself a part of your party? I don’t think I’ve been
belowstairs here since I was fourteen and hiding from my father’s wrath over
some trifling thing.”

It was Rowena who answered, assuring him that he was more
than welcome, and suggesting that they reconvene in the hall at one o’clock. “That
will give me time to discuss things more completely with Mrs. Coffee.”

All three were agreed. Rowena, with a backward glance and a
certain feeling of pity for Ulysses Ambercot, unable to defend his interest,
left Margaret to an absorbing discussion of nothing in particular with Mr.
Bradwell.

Lady Bradwell, Miss Cherwood was informed, was fast asleep,
and likely to remain so for some hours to come. After a short confabulation
with Mrs. Coffee, Drummey, and the cook, Rowena was able to retire to her own
room and change into a plain round gown which would not show the fatigues of an
afternoon spent in the kitchen. The clock was striking one when she came down
the stairs; Margaret was waiting, and Lyndon Bradwell joined them not a minute
after.

Descending into the well-ordered cavern over which ruled
Mrs. Teggetbury, familiarly known as Cook, they found only Amy, the scullery
girl, and Susan-Amelia, her sister, who were comfortably settled shelling peas
for dinner. Both girls jumped to attention at this unexpected appearance by
folk from abovestairs, and even Rowena’s assurances that they were not to
trouble themselves could not bring the girls to relax. Finally, Miss Cherwood
requested of Amy a general idea of where the stores were kept, and released the
girls to play blindman’s buff in the kitchen garden. Bradwell, with an amused
appreciation of this scene, asked Rowena what had possessed the chit to start
and stammer as she had.

“They’ve probably never been spoken to by one of the family,
Mr. Bradwell. When Mrs. Coffee deigns to talk to one of them, that’s probably
as close to the ‘upstairs’ as either of them has been. Come along, Meggy. What
would you like to make?”

Margaret, so applied to, could think of nothing, but when
Mr. Bradwell suggested that he had always been fond of ginger nuts, she readily
seconded the notion. Rowena, on her part, professed herself disappointed. She
had been hoping for a test of her mettle. “But if it’s to be ginger nuts, then
take this” — she handed him a vast apron — “so that you do not spoil your coat,
and you may crack nuts and grate coconut and ginger for us.” Margaret was
assigned to the task of Cook’s helper, outfitted with a similarly huge apron,
and darted about discovering bowls and measuring trenchers. Rowena was stirring
in the last of the flour, hands sticky with gingery dough, when Drummey entered
the kitchen and coughed deprecatingly.

“Yes?” Lyn looked up from his chopping board, trying to
assume a sober mien despite the disadvantages of coconut curling in his cravat
and nutmeats dusting his shoulder.

“If you please, sir, Mr. Ambercot and the Misses Ambercot
have called, asking to pay their respects to the family and to the Misses
Cherwood, sir.”

Bradwell’s face fell ludicrously. “Damme, discovered!”

“Well, oughtn’t we to invite them in?” Rowena asked levelly.
“After all, it would only be courteous, and truly, Mr. Bradwell, if you can
stand the indignity of being discovered in your mother’s kitchen, I would like
to talk to Jane and Lully.”

Bradwell frowned fretfully at Miss Cherwood. “I know nothing
of your reputation, ma’am, but I misdoubt that mine can stand the ignominy of
being found doing violence to this coconut.”

“But if we leave now, won’t that spoil the ginger nuts?”
Margaret protested softly.

Bradwell cast her a speaking look.

“Cook would hardly hire you on as an apprentice scullrier,
Mr. Bradwell,” Rowena observed, glancing into the bowl he held. “But I see
nothing to be ashamed of in your work here. And Lully and his sisters were
always in our kitchen with me, and I with them in theirs, plaguing the life out
of their very patient cook. In fact, as I recall, Lully was partial to ginger
nuts as well; he will be quite handy as a critic.”

“Very well, Drummey. Admit our guests,” Mr. Bradwell said
gloomily.

“Meggy my love...” Rowena grasped her spoon and began to
stir the dough again. “That is a charming dress, and I wish you will not stand
so close to the hearth. It will scorch that way.”

Margaret obediently moved a few inches away from the fire.

“The Misses Ambercot and Mr. Ambercot,” Drummey announced
despairingly as he ushered the visitors to the highly unusual scene before
them. To his privately felt disgust, neither Mr. nor Miss Ambercot showed the
least dismay at their surroundings. Only Miss Eliza Ambercot made a great deal
of fastidiously lifting up her skirts and showing a rather surprising amount of
ankle. And close behind the visitors stumbled Lord Bradwell, looking for all
the world like a sleep-ridden puppy absurdly dressed in cravat and riding coat.
Every few steps his lordship would stop, shake his head carefully, and assume a
puzzled air before continuing. Loud noises seemed to distress him.

“Damme, Renna, I might depend upon you to turn the place
inside out,” Mr. Ambercot announced admiringly.

“I don’t know why you say such a thing, Ulysses Ambercot,
for I’ve done nothing of the sort. Do you still like ginger nuts? I require
your opinion.” Rowena held out a spoon which Mr. Ambercot, all unconscious of
the threat to his pantaloons, obligingly sampled.

“First-rate. But it lacks something. One of those sweetish
things — nutmeg or cinnamon.”

These ingredients were sought anxiously, and when found and
added to the dough, everyone in the kitchen sampled and opined upon it, with
the exception of Lord Bradwell, who muttered that he was much obliged, and
turned a pale green.

“Now, stop, or we shall have none for tea,” Rowena demanded
at last. “I hope you can stay?” she asked the Ambercots
en masse
. “And let poor Mr. Bradwell redeem
himself by showing you how deedily he can turn himself out when he’s not
encumbered by Cook’s apron?”

Lully, who had introduced himself anew to Margaret’s notice
(hardly necessary, as she had colored prettily, and followed him about with her
eyes since his arrival) asked
her
if that
was agreeable. Margaret eagerly assured him that it was, but added of course
that her wish was nothing to Rowena’s and to Mr. Bradwell’s. And Lord Bradwell,
too, of course. All their various encouragements were secured, and Margaret
adjured not to speak such fustian, but to grease the pans, which were to
receive the sweets. It required nothing more than that for Jane to remove her
mitts and demand the butter and pans for herself, announcing solidly that she
was due for a lark. Eliza watched distastefully: Even to catch Mr. Bradwell’s
eye she could not bring herself to mess with a bowl of sordid batter. It
appeared that neither her brother nor the Bradwells found the project entirely
beneath their notice. Eliza began to feel neglected.