The Viscount's New Housekeeper
Author
Lucy Ashford
Reads
18,1K
Chapters
21
Chapter One
There was mud. There was rain, hurling itself across the hills and fields, turning the road into a quagmire. James Brandon, the Seventh Viscount Grayford, pulled up his big horse on the crest of a hill and gazed around. The black gelding—ugly but strong as an ox—pawed the ground.
‘Eager for more, Goliath?’ said the Viscount. ‘You’re a glutton for punishment, like me. Well, then. On we go.’
He was heading home at last. But he’d never wanted to return like this. Never.
For five long years he’d been an officer in Wellington’s army, fighting in the battles of the Peninsular War. But now the war was over; indeed, life as he’d known it was over, because early in March his older brother Simon, the Sixth Viscount Grayford, had died, leaving James not only with the title, but with the responsibilities that went with it.
By all that was holy, he didn’t want to be a viscount! He wanted neither Simon’s grand Mayfair house, nor the sprawling Oxfordshire mansion to which he was heading on this rain-soaked spring evening. He wanted his old life again. But that was impossible.
Goliath whinnied and shook his head, as if to remind him there was no going back. Sighing, James turned up the collar of his long grey riding coat and cantered onwards. There was no doubt about it, he told himself grimly—his army career was finished. What was more, his reputation as a trusted servant of Crown and country had gone too.
‘We can find,’ the government enquiry had concluded in London last week, ‘no evidence that Viscount Grayford has committed any wrongdoing.’
In other words, there was no proof of his guilt—but neither was there proof of his innocence. As the old saying went, mud tended to well and truly stick, just as it did now to Goliath’s hooves and fetlocks. Back in London he’d heard the whispers everywhere, observed too the sheer relish with which people muttered that James Brandon wouldn’t have escaped nearly so lightly if it weren’t for that new title of his.
‘Maybe it’s best to face your enemies out,’ his cousin Theo Exton had advised as they sat till late in a Strand tavern some days ago.
‘I’ve been fighting my country’s enemies for years,’ James had answered. His mood had been bleak and too much ale hadn’t cheered him, rather the opposite. ‘I’ve been a fool, Theo, not to realise I have so many enemies here. I’m planning on leaving London for Oxfordshire just as soon as I can.’
‘But what about the house in Mayfair?’
‘The staff are capable enough. Anyway, for them I imagine my absence will be a considerable relief after all the parties my brother used to hold.’
Theo nodded. ‘I can see you’ve made up your mind. But don’t forget that hiding away when the world’s treated you badly doesn’t get you anywhere.’
James silently acknowledged the warning. Theo was not only his cousin but his oldest friend, who’d once longed to join the army too. But a childhood illness had left Theo lame and his widowed mother had no wealth, so while James pursued military splendour, Theo had resigned himself to a desk job in the Home Office.
‘Let’s say,’ replied James at last, ‘that I need a little breathing space away from London society. I also ought to take a good look around the Oxfordshire estate, now that I’m responsible for it all, God help me. But after the army I’m going to find it devilishly quiet.’ He glanced at his cousin. ‘I’ve an idea. Why don’t you visit me there?’
Theo looked startled. ‘You mean it? You want me to come to Oxfordshire?’
‘I do, and the sooner the better. You told me you were due some leave and I’m sure to need your sound advice, especially since it’s over three years since I set eyes on the place!’
Theo was nodding slowly. ‘It could take me a day or two to make all the arrangements. But, yes, I really think I can manage it.’ He grinned and raised his glass. ‘Well, Major Brandon—here’s to your new life as the Seventh Viscount Grayford!’
Already James was aware that he was starting off on the wrong foot, because the new Viscount should be arriving at Grayford Hall with pomp and ceremony, accompanied by servants and luggage. But coming here as a solitary traveller—journeying to Oxford by overnight mail, then riding the remainder of the way—had given him plenty of time to reflect on how his life had changed. Hell, he still found it hard to believe that his brother had been thrown from his horse in some midnight adventure and killed instantly! All right, so the two of them had never been close, but James had assumed Simon would always be there. Would marry and produce heirs, leaving James free to pursue his army career.
Years ago, James had imagined in his vanity that he could help his country in its hour of need. He’d even imagined himself coming home a hero... Ha! Another bitter exclamation escaped his lips. Theo had advised him to move on with his life, but this, he reflected as he looked around the dismal landscape, was more like hiding himself away at the back of beyond. In the dark recesses of Grayford Hall, to be precise, because now he could see the stern façade of his ancestral home looming through the trees.
It still looked just as he remembered, its turrets black with age and its gaunt stone walls draped with great clumps of tangled ivy. Visitors used to joke that there really ought to be a ghost here and indeed, as James rode up the familiar driveway, he noticed that the old oaks around him were stretching out gaunt fingers as if...
As if to welcome him? Or to warn him?
There would certainly be nobody here to make him welcome. How could there be, when he’d not sent word he was coming? He was also noticing signs of neglect: fallen branches left to rot on the lawns, flower beds strewn with last year’s dead growth, tiles missing from the roof of the pavilion where his mother and father used to entertain in the summer. No groundsmen or grooms busied themselves around the outbuildings. No smoke rose from any of the chimneys. He could almost have believed the vast building to be abandoned.
Then James reminded himself that his brother spent very little time here, so he never employed the number of staff a place of this size demanded. In fact Simon once told him that he left most of the management of the household to the steward, Francis Rowley; James had met him once and considered him a shifty character. Would Rowley be pleased to see him? He doubted it.
By now Goliath’s hooves were clattering loudly over the cobbles of the Hall’s forecourt, but still no one appeared. Frowning now, James dismounted and was about to loop the reins over a metal post when a skinny lad came hurrying out of the stables.
‘Are you one of the grooms?’ James spoke brusquely.
‘Y-yes sir. I’m the only groom. My name’s Gregory, if you p-please, sir!’
The lad was thin as a rake with wild, spiky hair. ‘Take this horse,’ James instructed, ‘and see that he’s well cared for. I’m the new Viscount Grayford.’
The lad’s mouth fell open as James thrust the reins at him. ‘You’re the—the...’
‘I am.’ This nervous youngster was the only groom? But then, he noticed how the lad had moved to stroke Goliath’s neck and was assessing his strong forequarters and that scar on his right flank.
‘Is he an old army horse, m-my lord?’
‘He is indeed. I bought him yesterday at a horse fair in Oxford, where he was destined for the knacker’s yard. He’s not pretty, but he’s strong and willing, so take good care of him, won’t you? His name’s Goliath.’
‘I’ll look after him well, my lord, I promise!’ Gregory began to coax Goliath towards the stables while James strode up the great stone steps with the rain dripping from his coat and pulled open the mighty oak doors.
Only to step back in shock.
What in hell’s name...?
Straight away a powerful smell invaded his nostrils, catching at his throat and eyes like the acrid smoke of cannon fire. Blinking hard to clear his vision, he saw three housemaids on their knees in the vast hall, scrubbing away at the stone-flagged floor. Two were in grey dresses, one in brown. On seeing him standing in the doorway, the two in grey simultaneously gave faint screams and dropped their brushes with a clatter.
The third rose to her feet. Like the other two she wore an unflattering white cap that completely concealed her hair, while soap suds stained the skirt of her brown gown. ‘Sir,’ she began, ‘may I ask—?’
She broke off as one of the older housemaids hissed to her, ‘Miss. It’s His Lordship. It’s the new Viscount!’
He saw the younger woman’s eyes widen in mingled shock and dismay. ‘My lord,’ she said, with an ill-balanced attempt at a curtsy. ‘Welcome to Grayford Hall. We had no idea you were returning today. I am so sorry...’
She sounded shaken and confused and looked years younger than her fellow housemaids. The other two were curtsying also, their heads bowed low.
He frowned and was about to speak, but at that very moment a footman walked in with a pail of water. At the sight of James he dropped the thing and it landed with a crash, sending yet more water swirling over the already soaking floor. ‘My lord!’ he gasped.
James’s brow was dark. ‘What,’ he pronounced, ‘in the name of God, is going on here?’
The footman answered promptly. ‘It was pickles, my lord.’
‘Pickles?’
‘Yes. It was her idea, my lord—Miss Bryant’s.’ The footman was pointing an accusing finger at the maid in the brown dress.
Why the deuce, thought James, was the footman referring to a housemaid in such a formal manner? But the footman was still talking, so he listened.
‘She ordered Robert and me to lift the pickle vats from the cellars and carry them outside, my lord. She said they were starting to leak. But once we got them up here, they exploded. There were bits of pickle everywhere—cauliflower, beetroot, the lot.’
Exploding pickles? James listened in stupefaction. ‘Where is the steward? Why isn’t he taking care of this? And where on earth is Mrs Padgett, the housekeeper?’
At first he thought no one was going to answer him, but once more it was the young housemaid in the brown dress who spoke up. ‘It’s me,’ she said. Her voice shook a little, though she did manage to meet his icy gaze. ‘I’m your housekeeper, my lord.’
For a moment he was unable to speak. Good God, she could be no more than nineteen or twenty! Then he said, in a dangerously soft voice, ‘Do you seriously expect me to believe that?’
‘My name,’ she said, ‘is Miss Bryant. Miss Emma Bryant.’ This time she spoke more steadily. ‘I’m very sorry there are pickles everywhere, but those casks had been in the cellar for far too long and they were fermenting. Besides, as I said, we did not know you were coming.’
He was staring at her with incredulity. He said at last, keeping his voice calm with an effort, ‘What has happened to Rowley and Mrs Padgett?’
‘They’ve gone, both of them, my lord. Mr Rowley appointed me three months ago after Mrs Padgett’s departure, then in March Mr Rowley himself left.’
Good God. So this inept young creature was currently in charge of the Hall? James said at last, ‘What did my brother think of these extraordinary changes? What did he think of your appointment, Miss Bryant?’ The stink of pickles was making him quite dizzy.
She said, ‘I’m not even sure he knew of it all. You see, your brother has not visited the Hall since I arrived.’
He realised she’d folded her hands in front of her and was speaking again, this time even more quietly. ‘We were all shocked to hear of Lord Grayford’s death. I am most sorry for your loss, my lord.’
He nodded curtly. ‘Thank you.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Have you any luggage?’
‘I travelled without,’ he told her. ‘It will be arriving tomorrow.’
‘Very good, my lord. I’ll ensure that your bedroom is immediately prepared. In the meantime, might I suggest that you wait in the front parlour? The fire in there can be lit straight away. Perhaps I can offer you refreshment of some kind?’
He frowned again, puzzled because she was so damned well spoken! He pulled off his dripping greatcoat and one of the footmen hurried to take it. ‘I’ll go to the parlour,’ he said. ‘Bring me some brandy. And at some point this evening, Miss Bryant, I’d like a private word with you.’
‘You would, my lord?’ She said it a little tremulously.
‘Yes. I’d like a full explanation as to what, exactly, has been going on here in the last few months. I’ll send for you when I’m ready.’
She bowed her head then turned to the footmen. ‘Robert, please light the fire in the parlour. Thomas, you see to the fires in His Lordship’s suite upstairs.’
The footmen set off. The two housemaids, he realised, were still staring at him, mouths agape. Shaking his head, he set off in the direction of the parlour, pausing only to call over his shoulder, ‘And don’t forget the brandy!’
If Miss Bryant answered, he didn’t hear it. James wasn’t normally a heavy drinker, but it struck him that over the next few days, he might be indulging a little more frequently than usual.
