Drake's Lair (2 page)

Inside, another maid had just finished making his bed. He acknowledged her with a grunt and a nod, though he had no recollection of her, and moved on to his dressing room, where footmen were already carrying water for his tub under Griggs’s supervision. He peeled off his coat, tossed it down on the lounge with the gathering basket, and sank into the boot chair extending his foot.

“Get me out of these,” he said to the valet, “I’ve been in them forever.”

“Yes, my lord,” Griggs replied, straddling his outstretched leg, while the earl planted his other foot squarely on the man’s narrow behind, and pushed.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” the earl mused, around a grunt as the first boot gave, “—pleasantly surprised. Have I paid you?”

“Yes, my lord. I’ve served Mr. Ellery in your absence.”

“Ahh, good. Sorry about leaving you like that, old boy, but you wouldn’t have wanted to go where I’ve been, unless of course you’re fond of the stink of blood and death and warring.”

“No, my lord.”

“Same old Griggs,” the earl observed. A wry smile creased his lips. “The one constant in my life. Just as eloquent as ever, I see. I don’t know how I got on without you at Salamanca. You’d have made the perfect batman.”

“Yes, my lord,” the valet responded. “Will you be staying… long, my lord?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he replied. “That will depend on how well Jim Ellery has been running things in my absence. Where is my illustrious steward, by the way? I missed him in the lineup downstairs. Isn’t he in residence?”

“Mr. Ellery has gone to St. Kevern for the day, my lord,” the valet gritted, pulling off the other boot at last along with what remained of a tattered stocking. “Things are in sixes and sevens at the Terrill croft, since the last flaw damaged the roof.”

“Ummm, I’ll want to see him as soon as he returns—pass the word.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The earl had forgotten about the
flaws
—the great, howling maelstroms that plagued the Cornish coast wreaking havoc on the land whenever the prevailing wind stirred them.

“How long ago was that storm?” he queried, since the terrain showed no evidence of it now, none of the usual fallen limbs, broken glass and wounded outbuildings synonymous with Cornish flaws. It hadn’t seemed as though the beck had overflowed its banks recently, either.

“‘Twas last month, my lord.”

“And the roof’s still not repaired?”

“‘Twas more than just the thatch, ‘twas the old plum tree that came down and staved the roof in, my lord… and more.”

Something in the sound of the last that the valet had spoken through a dark mutter sent shivers down the earl’s spine—something in what Griggs hadn’t said—something that perhaps he was afraid to say, and he honed in on that with all the finesse of a pig sniffing for truffles.

“What ‘more’? Was someone injured?”

“Y-yes, my lord.”

“Come—come, man, out with it! If someone was injured at the Terrills, I need to know.”

“‘Twas more than an injury, my lord, there was a… death,” the valet said low-voiced.

“A death? Whose death? Don’t make me drag it out of you, man. I haven’t the patience for parlor games just now.”

“‘Twas one of the wee ones… little Will,” the valet said awkwardly.

The earl groaned. Now he understood Griggs’s hesitation. Little Will was scarcely five, the same age his own son would have been if…
no
. He wasn’t going to think about that—not now. Sorrow and anger did battle for his voice. Anger won.

“Griggs, let us get something straight from the outset,” he said. “You needn’t tread on eggs around me. Pass that on as well. I’ll not have you all whispering and clucking in corners trying to spare me. I’m hardly made of glass. People die. Children… die. ‘Tis a plain and simple fact of life.” They were the right words, but they had a hollow ring to them. It was still too soon.

“Y-yes, my lord,” the valet murmured awkwardly.

“All right, then,” the earl responded, softening. “I don’t mean to fly at you. I’ve had a rather… difficult morning.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Has anything else untoward happened in my absence… anything else I should know about?”

Griggs hesitated. “N-no, my lord.”

The earl couldn’t decide whether the valet was wracking his brain to be sure, or hiding something. He wasn’t going to labor over it. The footmen had readied his bath, and every inch of his body ached for it.

“Let’s get me into that, then,” he said, nodding toward the steaming tub. “I’ve dreamed of nothing else since I left Spain.”

*

An hour later, dressed respectably in a white shirt and neckcloth, black pantaloons, a white embroidered waistcoat under a coat of gray superfine, and polished black Hessians, the earl sat behind his desk in the study, Demelza’s gathering basket, tools, and gloves on the blotter before him. Drumming his fingers on the desktop he waited somewhat less than patiently for Mrs. Laity. When she finally entered, her skirts sweeping the door jamb, for she was very stout, he leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest until she’d waddled closer.

“What can you tell me about this?” he said, exhibiting the basket once she’d reached the desk with her plump hands clasped over her apron.”

“That, m’lord?”

“Yes, and the young woman to whom it belonged.”

“
B-belonged
, m’lord?” the housekeeper breathed. The apples of her cheeks turned crimson suddenly. Veined with broken capillaries, they made her look like a cracked painted doll, and her lips began to quiver.

“Now, now, I haven’t murdered the gel, I’ve simply divested her of this,” he said, brandishing the basket. “A Miss Demelza Ahern, I believe. I found her gathering herbs by the beck earlier. What do you know about that?”

“I didn’t see where there was any harm in it, m’lord,” the woman defended. “The herbs are all going to waste, and—”

“The devil take the herbs!” he thundered, assaulting the desk with a vicious blow of his white-knuckled fist that levitated the basket. “Is Jory Bell still groundskeeper on this estate?”

“Y-yes, m’lord.”

“Good! Have him come up to the house first thing in the morning. I want every herb on the place uprooted—burned out if necessary—clean to the beck.
Every herb
, Mrs. Laity, am I plain?”

“Y-yes, m’lord, but—”

“But what?” he demanded. Yes, bigod, he’d been away too long. When the servants defied him—let strangers run roughshod over his property—much too long. Picking
herbs
, no less. Could their memories really be that short? “Well, speak up!” he prompted.

“The little miss has been gathering herbs on Drake’s Lair land for nigh on a year now, m’lord. She does no harm, and—”

“Who gave her permission?” he interrupted.

“Why, nobody, m’lord. You weren’t here to ask, and, well… nobody.”

“Are you going to stand there and tell me you thought I would approve, considering?”

“I… we—”

“Is everyone on the place aware of this?”

“Well, yes, m’lord, but—”

“Jim Ellery included?”

“Y-yes, m’lord. Begging your pardon, but will you let me explain?”

“I wish you would, Mrs. Laity, I certainly wish you would.”

“The lass came to St. Kevern a year ago—dirt poor, she is, though she didn’t start life that way. Her father was a duke, or a baronet or some such up north. When he died, he left her sailing the river Tick. Lost all his blunt in the gambling hells, and left her with nothing but a passel o’ bills.
Killed himself
, he did.

“She never had a Season in Town—no fancy balls and fêtes and teas like the other gentle ladies. Instead, she came here to live with a poor relation cousin o’ hers, twice removed, on the west side o’ St. Kevern—Calliope Dane was her name, poor old thing. She died soon after as well, and left the lass all on her own to fend for herself out there.”

“What has all that got to do with this?” He queried, brandishing the basket again.

“It’s how she makes her living, m’lord, from the simples and ointments and balms she makes from her roots and herbs. Old Calliope must have taught her, that’s how she kept herself from swimmin’ in low tide before she passed on, poor old biddy. You must remember her, m’lord—
Calliope Dane
? Folks hereabouts used to call her a
witch
.”

He vaguely did, but he didn’t address it, the housekeeper didn’t give him the chance. What Griggs lacked as a conversationalist, Mrs. Laity made up for ten fold. He’d forgotten how the woman could go on and on, like a wound up mechanical toy.

“That’s what they call Miss Melly… Miss Demelza, that is—a witch,” she chattered on. “But it don’t mean nothing, and she don’t mind. She’s a fine-looking lass to be living way out there all alone, ‘tisn’t safe, and letting folks label her a witch helps keep undesirables away, if you take my meaning. I don’t have to tell you how superstitious folks are ‘round here.”

“And you let her harvest the herbs for her… potions?” A surge of hot blood expanded the veins in his neck, they straining against his stiff collar, and he loosened his neckcloth. How could he be having this conversation after what happened five years ago? He raked his damp hair back with painstaking control.

“Well, y-yes, m’lord, except I wouldn’t call them ‘potions’, exactly,” the housekeeper replied.

“Just what would you call them, then… exactly?”

“More like toiletries and medicines, m’lord, but don’t take my word for it, ask the vicar, or old Dr. Hale, they’ll tell you. She’s a blessing to us all, is Demelza Ahern.”

“I suppose you’ll say next that old Calliope Dane used to steal my botanicals, too?”

“No, m’lord. She had her own kitchen garden chockfull o’ herbs, but the soil went sour about the time she passed over. Some say ‘twas a blight o’ some kind, or too much salt in the ground from the flaws. Others say she really was a witch and took her secrets with her. But how anybody could accuse Miss Demelza of witchcraft with all the sorrows what’s come upon her since she came here is beyond me, m’lord. If she truly was a witch, she’d be able to cast a spell and prosper herself better to my thinking.”

“So now you’re telling me that there are no other un-blighted herbs for her to gather in all of St. Kevern Parish except ours, then, I take it?” he said sarcastically.

“Well, no, m’lord, I haven’t said
that
now. It’s just… ours are the closest.”

“Ummmm, well, no matter. They’ll be gone by day after tomorrow, if I have to pull them up by the roots one by one myself. I have returned now, and you will take no more liberties with my property unless you consult me beforehand. Have I made myself plain?”

“Y-yes, m’lord.”

“Very well then, that will be all, Mrs. Laity. You may go.”

“Yes, m’lord,” she murmured, backing out of the room with a surprisingly graceful curtsy for a woman of her proportions.

“Oh and, Mrs. Laity,” he called, halting her in the doorway. “If I ever have need of a solicitor, remind me to engage you. You’d make an excellent counsel for the defense.”

Two

By the time Melly reached St. Kevern, it was well past nuncheon, and she stopped at the Terrill farm to pay her respects. She’d done that several times a week since the tragedy, bringing fresh herbs, and salves—whatever she had on hand for the cuts and bruises they had suffered when the roof caved in. There would be no token today. Her gleanings had surely been scattered, the stars alone knew where by now, and so she went empty-handed. That, however, did not prevent Bessie Terrill from setting out fresh buttermilk and scones, and taking a break from the chores and the children to join her, while her husband, Will, consulted with James Ellery, the earl’s steward, over the repairs.

Had Melly known Ellery was there, she would have passed right by the cottage. She’d had her fill of Drake’s Lair inmates for one day, and Ellery always made her a little uneasy, only because she knew that he was interested in her. It didn’t take a witch to figure that, the way he hovered and strutted whenever their paths crossed, and she didn’t want to encourage him. There was no place in her life for distractions now. Not that he wasn’t attractive because he was, in a Corinthian sort of way. A man she supposed to be in his thirties, with coloring not unlike her own honeyed hair in the popular close-cropped style swept forward
a la Brutus
, and brown eyes. He wore a mustache, was always impeccably dressed, and smelled of mint scented shaving paste. Unfortunately, there was nothing else to recommend him.

No, she wasn’t ready for complications. It was taking all of her wits and all of her time to keep a roof over her head. Looking now at the scathed remains of the Terrill’s roof, draped in sagging tarpaulins and weighted with planks and bricks above, was an acute reminder that nothing could be taken for granted when Mother Nature turned her attention toward Cornwall.

She hadn’t mentioned her encounter—more at clash—with Tristan Hannaford that morning to the Terrills. James Ellery obviously didn’t know the earl had returned, or he wouldn’t be lollygagging about with Will. She was saving that tidbit in case she needed it to send the steward on his way to avoid pursuance. That she was dressed as a common field laborer in her dowdy, soiled twill frock, buttoned up to her chin, and scuffed ankle boots that looked like they belonged in the ranks of Wellington’s army was a plus. Such frumpy attire was hardly conducive to attracting a member of the opposite sex—even in provincial St. Kevern.

Looking down at her grass and dirt stained skirt, she assessed the situation with a critical eye, and her spirits fell like a burst balloon. Had she presented such an image to the earl? No wonder he’d treated her like a common laborer—she was one. She certainly looked the part at any rate. That she was a lady by propriety’s standards went without saying. But she’d almost forgotten that underneath it all she was a lady by society’s standards as well, or would have been if her father hadn’t robbed her of the chance to be. Such a notion wasn’t even thought provoking until now. Her heart took a tumble at that. No one’s opinion of her had ever mattered before now. She was fending well on her own, making a respectable way for herself in a world that had rejected her—excluded her. She was proud of what she’d accomplished—proud of the good she had done among the people of St. Kevern. It had been enough until now. Gray twill and practical boots had been satisfactory… until now.