Page 235 of The Ladies Least Likely
“I cannot be precise about what he may or may not have taken,” Mssr. Golledge said in his thin, reedy voice. “But it appears that he stopped authorizing payments on household accounts in the middle of June, and he has not been available since then to deal with any business pertaining to the Manor, including, ahem, some necessary repairs.”
Ren clamped his lips together. He’d approached the Manor earlier to find the front door locked. So was the side gate set into the infamous Blinder Wall that his grandfather had erected to keep his neighbors and the prying eyes of the town from surveying his property and making judgments about his use of it. With no porter to let him in, no steward to provide passage, and no key of his own, Ren had come to throw himself on the mercy of Mssr. Golledge.
“But you say de-deliveries have continued. Who paid for them?”
“The manager of your cloth factory covered those payments, your lordship, at the request of your housekeeper, Mrs. Oram. But when he refused to pay Mrs. Oram’s salary, that, I believe, is when Mrs. Oram departed the household. Since then, it appears there has been no coming or going from the house. Not that anyone can, er, really say, given the nature of the—ahem—decorative wall.”
Decorative. That was rich. His maternal grandfather had been a notoriously difficult man, the miserly kind who would squeeze blood from a stone if he could. He had built his fortuneby forcing fugitive artisans from Belgium and Huguenot silk makers, forced out of Catholic France, to make gorgeous fabrics for a pittance of wages, then collected enormous profits on their sale because English law protected English-made silks through enormous taxes on imports. Styling himself William Cotterell, Esq., he had gained large enough influence, and a large enough dowry for his eldest daughter, to attract the eye of an earl’s heir, and after that his arrogance was unlimited. Constance Cotterell, Countess of Renwick, had returned to Shepton Mallet precisely once after she had been married from the Manor House, and that was to tell her detested son that he might finally go to school.
“Where might I find Mrs. Oram, do you suppose?” Ren asked with a heavy sigh, taking up his cane. More walking, and his leg was still stiff from the days of travel. But he was not yet reduced to hiring a chair.
“In my official capacity, I cannot say, your lordship. But as—ahem—a matter of hearsay, I understand she has sought new employment at the Swan, just up the street.”
“And the man-manager of my factory—where can I find him? I should like to hear his—er, perspective on the discussions that seem to be currently occupying everyone in t-town.”
Mssr. Golledge blinked rapidly and regarded Renwick as if he had just turned a somersault in the rather cramped and very shabby environs of his office. “Er.” He appeared at a complete loss, faced with the notion of a lord and factory owner condescending to learn what his manager thought on any aspect of his business. “I may be mistaken, but I believe that Mr. Fripp is, er, often seen in the environs of the Swan as well.”
“How convenient.” Ren levered himself to his feet, masking a grimace as his bum foot collided with the leg of a table crowding the narrow space. “I may w-return for his direction if I amunable to locate him otherwise. Would you care to accompany me to the Swan for a drink, Golledge?”
“A-a-a drink, your lord-lordship?”
Ren held back a smile and the comment that Golledge stuttered worse than he did. He had been away from London for all of three days and was already weary of the notion that earls swam in rarefied air, slightly above and unattached to the realm of lesser mortals. He had not seen that nobility was treated with reverence anywhere else on the Continent. Certainly English nobility, being as common as dirt along the routes of the Grand Tour, was nothing out of the way. The populace of other countries seemed to regard their very wealthy as spectacles put on earth to entertain them; only the English seemed to attach some special favor to noble birth.
He wondered fleetingly how the Prussians felt about such things. Would Harriette be treated as special because she was a duchess? Or did Frederick the Great, like other rulers of the Enlightenment, believe that integrity of character could be separate from privileged birth?
His Harriette ought to be revered by all as the goddess she was. Though he, of course, was biased, Ren reflected as he made his way to the Swan.
The public room of the inn was thronged with working men, and none of them appeared to be taking their leisure. The loud buzz of conversation was punctuated here and there with an outburst of rage. A pair of well-dressed men passed him on the street, their white stockings, buckled shoes, powdered wigs, and fine coats proclaiming them men of some station. Coins clanked as one man clasped a hand over the leather pouch he carried. Both men hurried into a small office with a sign proclaiming it a bank.
The rich men were hustling their savings to safety. Something was afoot, indeed.
Ren stepped carefully over the uneven wooden threshold into a room that had to be at least two hundred years old, with a low timbered ceiling, smoke-stained plaster on the walls, and oiled paper rather than glass in the windows. As he straightened, sweeping off his tricorne hat, every eye in the room turned in his direction, and every conversation stopped.
“R-Renwick, at your service.” He swept a shallow, cordial bow, proud that his stutter was not obvious, that his cane held him steady. A gentleman only put himself at the service of other gentlemen, an earl to none but his colleagues or those above him in rank. That he made this courtesy to a room full of workingmen meant he was greeted with a lift of several glasses, a chorus of “Well come, yer lordship!” and a crowd of pointed fingers when he asked where he could find Mrs. Oram.
He navigated a narrow passage and another dangerously uneven set of steps to a courtyard behind the inn, where several flat tables were set up on crossed logs, an enormous chunk of meat roasted over an open fire, and a flock of hens clucked and scraped in the dirt against a far wall. A woman in a calico dress and cap stood at the spit, using her apron to protect her hands as she gave the meat a turn. A boy stood beside a smaller table set well away from the fire, taking chanterelles out of a woven basket and laying them out in neat rows.
“Mrs. O-Owam?” Ren practiced his shallow bow once more, hoping she didn’t notice he’d mangled her name. “I am R-Renwick. I see that you are oth-otherwise occupied, but I hoped to have a w-w—a word with you. About the Manor House.”
“Oh, gor. Yer lordship.” She dropped a curtsey, wiping her hands in her apron. Her eyes ran down his frame, noting the cane, and he supposed she had been told about him, though she’d never before had occasion to see him. “If there’s owt missin’ from the ‘ouse, milord, it’s that rotter Mr. Erle, and that’s the way of it.”
“I have reason to believe Mr.—” He paused. There was no way he was going to manage the word ‘Erle.’ He ought to have objected to hiring the man from the very beginning based on that alone. “My steward has, sh-shall we say, neglected his post. I ca-came for other reasons, Missus.”
He wasn’t going to be able to manage her name, either. Her curious, wary look, and the frank stare of the boy with the mushrooms, were as much as his nerves could handle.
“I was ho-hoping you might return to the house, with the right incentive,” he blurted. “And possibly have p-p-possession of a key.”
“I’ve nowt fer a key,” she answered, glancing at the boy. “But Jags and I might be persuaded, if ye offer the right terms, sir.”
“Terms?” Ren hadn’t the faintest notion what a housekeeper in a small market town could command for her services. He was more interested in the way the boy was now rearranging the chanterelles on the table, moving the golden funnel-shaped items into rows of the similar size.
“Half again my salary,” Mrs. Oram said promptly, “and I might have Jags with me.”
The boy hummed slightly as he worked, but emitted a sound of distress as he found his columns uneven in length. He counted the last column again and began to rock side to side on his feet, the hum growing in volume.
“’Ere, luv.” His mother strolled over and laid a hand on his arm. As the boy calmed, she reached for the mushrooms in the uneven row. “Shall we give ‘is lordship a taste?”
The boy subsided to a happy hum as his mother scooped the extras into her apron and left him with a complete, neat square. Softly he touched each one, counting to himself.
