Page 66 of A Duke Under Her Spell
When they reached Marybeth’s croft, they both climbed out of the horse drawn contraption. Not seeing the Duke’s horse anywhere, they entered through the front door. The croft had been freshly cleaned from top to bottom. There was not a fire in the hearth, but someone had used it recently. Oliver moved toward the bedroom door and knocked. He did not wish to walk in on an indelicate situation.
“Marybeth!” he called out through the closed door, but there was no reply. “Marybeth, I am coming in,” he warned easing the door open.
Oliver entered the bedroom only to find it empty. He opened her wardrobe and found all of her clothing, save one dress, still inside.So she did return from Bath. Why did she not come to Arkley Hall?His head swayed and he grasped the edge of the armoire to steady himself.
“Did you find anything?” Mr. Wheatly enquired, entering the bedroom behind him.
“She has been here recently, but not within the last two to three days. Her medicinal bag is gone,” he answered indicating the peg on the wall where it normally hung when not in use, “but she did not take any of her clothes other than the dress on her back.”
“Could she have been summoned to aid someone?” Mr. Wheatly suggested.
“It would have to have been severe for her to abandon both her croft and Arkley Hall over for so long.”
“Lord Enfield’s second son, Alexander, came by the estate looking for Marybeth while she was away in Bath. I turned him away. Do you think perhaps she has gone to Enfield?” Mr. Wheatly offered.
Oliver frowned. “I do not like the idea of her being at the mercy of Lord Enfield.” He thought over the butler’s suggestion and knew that if a person needed care, no matter how terrible a person their father might be, Marybeth would not have hesitated to render aid.
“To Enfield?” Mr. Wheatly asked.
“To Enfield,” Oliver confirmed with a nod.
Chapter 30
Oliver and Mr. Wheatly left the croft and set out for the Enfield Estate. Oliver dreaded the probable confrontation that was to come if Lord Enfield were in residence. He hoped to slip unnoticed through the servants’ entrance and inquire if any of them had seen Marybeth, but he doubted such a thing was possible in the contraption they were in. He voiced his thoughts to Mr. Wheatly, and they did what they could to remain out of sight coming up behind the manor house.
They dismounted and walked over to the servants’ entrance. They entered the house and moved toward the sounds of the kitchen. When they reached it, they found the house to be in a state of mourning. Black arm bands were worn by every member of staff within the room. Half of the women in the room looked as if they had been crying.
“What has happened?” Oliver asked a young kitchen maid without introduction, his concern overtaking his manners.
“Lord Stephen, heir to Enfield, has died,” the maid sobbed, catching the attention of the cook.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?” the cook demanded.
“Please excuse our poor manners, madam,” Mr. Wheatly bustled forward, bowing in respect to the cook, the epitome of butlery decorum. He kissed her hand causing the cook to blush. “We are looking for a young woman, a healer, Miss Marybeth Wright. Do you happen to know if she has been here? Tending to Lord Stephen perhaps?”
“Yes, she was here, but she is not here now. You would need to speak with the new heir, Lord Alexander, about her as I know very little myself on the matter.”
“Is Lord Enfield at home?” Oliver asked, hoping that he was not.
“No, Lord Enfield is not present at the moment,” the cook answered eyeing him suspiciously. “You do not look well, lad.”
“I am well,” he lied, grabbing the edge of the table to steady himself as the world moved around him most unsettlingly. When it stopped, he attempted to speak once more, “Where might we find Lord Alexander?”
“I will inform the butler of your presence and he will decide whether you are worthy of speaking with His Lordship,” the cook announced. “Until then you may wait over there out of the way.” She waved them over to a side table with chairs. “You look famished,” she observed. “I will have a maid bring you something to eat and drink in a moment.”
The cook bustled out of the kitchen in search of the butler. A young kitchen maid brought them each a cup of water. “Do you think we will be granted an audience?” Oliver asked her.
“I have no way of knowing that, now do I,” the maid snipped then went on about her business.
“Not the friendliest, most well-mannered of persons are they,” Mr. Wheatly noted disapprovingly.
“No, they are not,” Oliver agreed. “I suppose working for such a terrible man as Lord Enfield would have something to do with it.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Wheatly murmured, taking a drink of his water.
Moments passed and the cook returned, bringing them each a bowl of vegetable broth and a crust of bread. “The butler is inquiring with His Lordship now. Eat,” she instructed, then returned to her own work.
Oliver and Mr. Wheatly did as they were told and quickly ate the food before them. It had been a long day of riding about the forest. They were both more tired and hungry than they had realized. They finished their brief repast and sat waiting for a reply to their request. They were not made to wait very long. A cacophony of thundering footsteps greeted their ears no sooner had they finished eating. The kitchen filled with tall, broad-shouldered, dark haired, grey eyed men, seven in all.
