Page 21 of Beyond the Grave
It did hurt a little. I decided to take them up on their suggestion and rest for a few minutes before the guests arrived. "The new Lady Harcourt sounds nothing like the dowager. I certainly wouldn't callhermind malleable."
"And she weren't rich," Cook noted from where he stood at the opposite end of the table, layering cream in a halved sponge cake.
"What's the current Lord Harcourt like?" I asked.
"Very different to Andrew, his brother," Seth said. "He doesn't gamble, and stopped attending most social engagements once he secured his bride. They rarely come to London and live quietly on the family estate. I didn't know him well, but he seems like a steady fellow, much like his father."
Gus laid out the Spode tea set on the tray. "Wonder if he topped his stepmother too."
"Gus!" both Seth and I cried. Cook chuckled into his chins.
"Go and look out for them," Seth said, shooing Gus off with a sweep of his hands.
"Why can't you do it?" Gus grumbled.
"Because Lord Harcourt will remember me."
"Aw, poor Seth, embarrassed that he has to stoop to my level, eh?" He dodged Seth's fist and shot his friend a grin from the doorway. Seth responded with a crude hand gesture that set Cook chuckling again.
"It's hard on you, isn't it?" I said gently. "Forced to serve the people you once socialized with."
"It's not so bad. I've never been all that proud anyway, and I am grateful to have a roof over my head and my debts paid. But the Buchanan brothers are of a similar age to me, and we have several acquaintances in common. Or should I say,hadthem in common. Andrew has offended most, and Donald—Lord Harcourt—has simply not remained in touch. And I've only kept up with a few."
"Aye, the wives," Cook added.
I patted Seth's arm. "Don't envy Andrew Buchanan or his brother too much. They appear to have problems of their own."
"At leasttheirmother didn't run off to America with thesecondfootman."
Gus entered and announced the coach was approaching, then he disappeared again to open the front door. Upon his return, he reported on the initial encounter between Lincoln and Lord Harcourt. It was their first meeting, apparently.
"Fitzroy told his lordship that he was doing everything he could to find his brother, and you know what Harcourt said?" Gus shook his head. "He said he supposed his brother was just up to his rapscallion, selfish ways again, and he'd turn up sooner or later."
"He's not worried about him at all?" I asked.
"Not that I could tell. The dowager lady looked like she wanted to clock him there in the entrance hall. She said it weren't like Buchanan to disappear for this long, partic'larly without clothes, money, nothing."
"And what did the other Lady Harcourt say?"
"Nothing, just stared daggers at her mother-in-law."
"And Fitzroy? How did he respond?"
"Said he was going to continue looking for him anyway, as a favor to his friend, the dowager. Can't go mentioning the ministry to his lordship without a bunch of questions coming up."
"Or the occult books," Seth said. "Fitzroy did the right thing in not talking about the ministry."
Seth seemed determined to remain in the kitchen, so when it came time to deliver the cake and tea, I volunteered to help Gus.
"You can't carry a tray and use the walking stick," Gus told me. "Let Lord Muck do it."
Seth pouted and heaved a sigh. I set aside my stick and picked up the tray with the cake and plates. "Come on. Follow me."
I did my best not to hobble or limp and discovered my foot didn't hurt much. Perhaps I could dispense with the walking stick altogether. Lincoln's gaze narrowed upon seeing me enter the parlor, and I suspected he would admonish Seth later for allowing me to serve.
I conducted myself as any good maid would and didn't acknowledge the guests, not even Lady Harcourt—the dowager, that is. I did, however, study them from beneath lowered lashes as I sliced the cake.
The younger Lady Harcourt was a short woman with nut-brown hair arranged in ringlets that spilled out from beneath her brown, wide-brimmed hat. The ringlets gave her soft, round face a sweet youthfulness. That very same soft roundness made it difficult to see her eyes, sunken into the puffy flesh as they were. Her high lace collar frothed beneath her multiple chins, in an attempt to hide them, I suspected, but the russet colored skirt and matching jacket brought out the apples of her cheeks. Beside her mother-in-law, she looked like a country school mistress, and I think she felt it too, if her twiddling fingers were an indication. She had moved herself to one end of the sofa, as far away from the dowager as possible, as if she were afraid of breathing the same air as her.
