The Moon by Night (10 page)

Jauncy nodded. “Shall we make the bed now, Sketes? And perhaps also do the straightening up and cleaning the chamber and Mr. Shiloh's dressing room, if I can manage. If you show me the daily routine, I'll be happy to do it from now on.”

Sketes scrutinized him from head to toe. He was still pale and obviously was weak. But he had had no fever the night before or this morning. He had insisted he had no headache from the mild concussion, and Sketes had been watching him carefully to see if he showed signs of lightheadedness, but she had observed none. He was managing well so far, going up and down the stairs with hardly any help from her. Sketes sensed that he would feel better if he were doing something, some work, anything to repay Shiloh and Cheney—and herself, she realized—for the kindness they'd shown him. “All right,” she agreed. “And we might as well do up Dr. Cheney's dressing room, if you're feeling well enough, for today's Fiona's day off, so you can see what needs doing if you should ever have a mind to help her out.”

“Of course,” Jauncy said happily. “She's such a sweet, shy young person. I'll always be happy to help her with her duties.”

They talked as they worked, and naturally Jauncy was burning with curiosity about his new employers. “Now that I've recovered from the shock, I realize that indeed Mr. Irons-Winslow was wearing faded dungarees both today and the other night when…er…we…that is, I—”

“Why don't we just call it something nice, like Dr. Cheney's great-aunts call the War between the States ‘the late unpleasantness,'” Sketes said kindly. “They're southern gentlewomen, you see.”

“Ah, just so,” Jauncy said gravely. “Then perhaps we may refer to…it…as ‘that difficult night.' On that difficult night, Mr. Irons-Winslow was wearing faded dungarees, as I said, and I did note a long rather travel-stained duster and a wide-brimmed much-worn hat. Would this be the coat and hat that Dr. Irons-Winslow was speaking of? So loudly?”

“They would be the ones.”

“But he has some very nice clothing in his wardrobe,” Jauncy said with curiosity. “By any chance is Dr. Irons-Winslow the wealthy one, with control of the money? And Mr. Irons-Winslow is poor?”

Sketes frowned with concentration as she picked up scattered clothing from Cheney's dressing room and straightened her five rows of shoes. “I don't think so. I mean, it's easy to see that Dr. Cheney's people have money. But I happen to know that part of Mr. Shiloh's inheritance from his Winslow father was half ownership of a shipping company,
and
he has his own clipper ship, nine-hundred-fifty tons, with a crew of fifty-plus. That takes money, lots of it, to keep a clipper running, even if she's showing a nice profit. Upfront money, you see.”

Jauncy looked rather bewildered. “I suppose so. I was just wondering if he felt more comfortable in those old clothes because he had been poor.”

Sketes smiled. “He's been poor. I do know that, and I don't think he's now got anywhere near the money Dr. Cheney does. I don't know much about his past, but I know him. He's just more comfortable in those hardworking clothes than in front-door clothes, as he calls 'em. Instead of the servants' entrance, you see.”

“Of course,” Jauncy said. “I'm just trying to get a sense of them, Sketes. They're an unusual couple. I've never met anyone quite like them. Either of them.”

“Oh, they're unusual, I'll give you that,” Sketes agreed heartily. “But you'll never have a bit of trouble with them, Mr. Jauncy, if you do your work and learn how to fit yourself into their lives, like.”

“How do you?” Jauncy asked intently as they finished up the master bedroom and went down the stairs to the parlor floor.

His question was of paramount importance to live-in servants; they must make their own lives inside those of their employers. Jauncy had to know as soon as possible if this was going to be difficult or easy. With his former employer it had been impossible. Thomas Rawlings IV had no interest in, or consideration for, any servant. Phinehas Jauncy was not an idiot. He knew he deserved punishment for the reprehensible incident. But his punishment had been much too severe for a longtime family retainer, and it was because his gentleman was not a gentleman at all, in any sense of the word. Jauncy had no recourse when Rawlings chose to throw him out onto the street without a thought as to what would happen to him. Jauncy didn't
think
that Shiloh was that type of man, but he desperately needed to be certain of it. Asking the other servants was a surefire way to find out the whole truth, good and bad, about their employers.

Sketes was taking her time considering, and before she answered she said rather absently with a wave of her hand, “So here's their private drawing room and library, as you can see, Mr. Jauncy, and here's the study. I did these rooms yesterday, and Mr. Shiloh and Dr. Cheney haven't even touched them. They're always so busy and on the run that these rooms hardly get used. Let's go on down to the kitchen, for now you've seen it all, save that, Mr. Jauncy.”

They continued down the stairs and finally Sketes answered his question thoughtfully, “I didn't mean to, at first. You know, be a full-time live-in. I just took a job cooking for them on their honeymoon when they sailed on Mr. Shiloh's ship to the West Indies. I already had a nice living and a full life, working my way on different ships, cooking.

“But we went through so much together, and I came to admire and respect both of them so much that when they came back here and set up house, we all of us—Fiona too—just sort of knew that we were part of their lives. It's not as if we're their family—that's always different—but I guess you might say that Dr. Cheney and Mr. Shiloh have made us part of their home. Why, we even have fun and laugh together. Don't mistake me—they're not panderers like some people who are uncomfortable with their servants. Neither are they too strict. They're just good people. Honest, Christian, charitable, good people, Mr. Jauncy, and I decided I'd find no better place in my life.”

Jauncy swallowed hard and said in a low voice, “That sounds almost impossibly wonderful, Sketes. Do you—do you suppose…” His voice faded away.

Sketes looked at his face, and for the first time truly saw how young—and frightened—Phinehas Jauncy was. He had told her that he was twenty years old, and Sketes had been shocked. But now he didn't look so much like a starving, wizened elderly man, since she had been spooning gruel with sherry and beef tea with oatmeal into him every two hours since he'd been carried in and tossed on the parlor floor.

In a carelessly cheery tone that hit just the right note for a stiff-upper-lipped British gentleman's gentleman, she said, “I'd bet Mr. Shiloh is glad you showed up just as you did, even on such a difficult night. The house is sadly lacking in servants. They've always told us they planned to add a valet, a parlor maid, and a kitchen maid to the staff. Dr. Cheney's lately been after him to find him a valet, but as I say, they don't just go out and hire the first person who agrees to the wage, because their servants are
always
a part of their home. And Dr. Cheney will be glad of you because
he's
glad of you. She loves him that much, though it can't be said that Mr. Shiloh doesn't practically worship her.” Sketes kept chattering on in this mindless way until she could tell by Jauncy's face that his high emotional state was receding into calm.

They finally made it all the way down the stairs into the big kitchen. Sketes insisted that Jauncy sit on one of the high stools at the enormous oak worktable while she prepared them some tea and warmed some blueberry muffins. “Now, take today. Today is my day off, but Mr. Shiloh asked me to stay here this morning and get you settled in, like. Now anyone else who asked something extra like that, would they make it up to you?”

“They most certainly would not,” Jauncy said vehemently.

“My Mr. Shiloh and Dr. Cheney, they do,” Sketes declared. “Mr. Shiloh told me as soon as I feel you're on your feet, like, I can leave; and tomorrow, instead of a half day I can take the whole day. He also asked me to go buy you some things—a couple of ready-made shirts, some small clothes, and a pair of socks,” she said matter-of-factly as she prepared a tray with butter, jam, sugar, honey, and two large mugs for their tea. “And he gave me some extra spending money for myself—he knows I do love to walk up and down the Ladies' Mile, and now I might have enough to buy the new hat, with cherries, that I've had my eye on for forever now.”

“I'm sure it would be stunning on you, Sketes. Cherries would suit your complexion admirably,” Jauncy said automatically. “But are you saying that Mr. Irons advanced my wages so that I might have these items which, I am obliged to admit, I so desperately need? That I actually tried to rob—I mean, after the other difficult night—”

“That's Mr. Shiloh for you,” Sketes said. “And I wouldn't wonder if you didn't see it come out of your wages for a long time to come. Anyhow, you look to me like you're doing very well, so after I finish this nice cup of tea, I'll be going on. You'll just have to let me know some sizes and your likes and dislikes, Mr. Jauncy.”

“But,” he said again, his wide brow wrinkling, “you mean you're going to leave me? Alone? In the house?”

“Mm-hmm,” she answered, pouring his tea. “Why? Are you afraid of being alone?” Her blue eyes twinkled.

Seeing her expression, he offered her the muffin tray with an elaborate flourish. “Not at all, Sketes. It's just that I shall be
désolé, trés désolé, sans votre compagnie.”

“Fancy that,” she said admiringly. “Such a well-spoken gent in Latin too.”

And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us:

and establish thou the work of our hands….

Psalm 90:17

In a wild flurry Cheney rode Eugènie Le Fain into the barn of Roe's Livery and Stables. Jumping down without waiting for help, she cried, “James! John! Hurry, unsaddle her and get her out in the paddock!”

The two young Roe brothers jumped up and ran as if they'd been hit by lightning. “What is it, Dr. Cheney? Is Herself shot or something?” None of the Roes could pronounce Eugènie—when trying, they said something very close to Jenny, and Eugènie Le Fain was most definitely nothing like a female donkey—so they just called the fiery little thoroughbred “Herself.” At this moment she was prancing, snorting, rearing, her eyes rolling with tremendous excitement.

Cheney, who was also breathing hard, gasped, “No, no, she's fine. Just hurry before Shiloh gets here on his stuffy old donkey! Hurry!” Smoothing her skirt, she ran to the door of the stables and assumed a careless pose, leaning against one side of the opened double doors, her arms crossed, one booted foot cockily crossed over the other.

Mr. Thaddeus Roe, the patriarch of Roe's Livery and Stables, and Mr. Jack Gaines, the Duvalls' longtime retainer, who everyone called Mr. Jack, were sitting at the far end of the stables close to an ancient potbellied stove. Their conversation had been interrupted when Cheney and Eugènie had made their entrance, and both men had half risen when they thought that something terrible was amiss. But now the two old gentlemen exchanged meaningful glances, settled back down in their comfortable cane-bottomed chairs, and picked up their coffee mugs from the floor. An old blue-spattered coffeepot was on the stove, and the delicious heavy smell of strong coffee wafted from it.

“Yep,” Mr. Jack said with a long-suffering sigh, “Miss Dr. Cheney Duvall Irons-Winslow has done made her reg'lar entrance.”

“Yep,” Mr. Roe agreed. The two had been friends ever since Cheney and Dev had opened their offices just around the corner from Roe's. “I must say, Mr. Jack, that for a young lady who rides like she's not got her fair share of common sense, she does have good horse sense. That is one fine filly, is Herself.”

Thaddeus's grandsons, catching Cheney's intent and grinning like two mischievous monkeys, hurried frantically to get Eugènie unsaddled and out the door to the riding paddock. Mr. Roe and Mr. Jack watched, nodding like two solemn old owls. “That she is,” Mr. Jack finally agreed, “for a furrin horse. Miss Victoria, Mr. Devlin's lady, bought her for Miss Cheney's birthday present off in that
Californy,
you know.” He pronounced the name of the state in a half whisper, as if it were vulgar.

Mr. Roe, his eyes still eagerly watching Cheney and the open stable doors, murmured, “I did hear that, I surely did, Mr. Jack, but I could hardly credit it. Surely Miss Cheney didn't ride that poor little princess all the way from the other side of the world, as it were?”

“Oh no. She does have better horse sense than that,” Mr. Jack said with clear reluctance. “No, she and Mr. Shiloh sent their friends, Mr. and Mrs. Blue, all the way out to Californy on that new railroad to fetch Herself and that wicked old Balaam. You just watch, he'll be a- limpin' and a-groanin' fit to break your heart when Mr. Shiloh rides him in.”

“And then that old joker will be lame on t'other leg when we get him out to walk it off,” Mr. Roe said knowingly. “I've never seen a horse that could act as good as that Balaam. He should be on the stage, I'm of the firm belief. He can make you believe more nonsense than most of them hoity-toity players ever did, such as that murderin' John Wilkes Booth, and you can't tell me his brother is any better, for all his Shakespeare. Now, let me see, Mr. and Mrs. Blue…Blue, oh yes, I remember now. Mrs. Blue, that sweet-faced lady and Captain Blue from the orphanage. They've got that poor little tyke what's not right, don't they? Little angel she was, that day they came to the hospital grand opening, in her little blue coat with the white fur.”