Page 99 of The Ladies Least Likely
Voices drifted up to her parlor from the floor below, the steady thump of Mrs. Blackthorn at work in the kitchen, Eyde’s low murmur as she chatted with the cook, and the small, piping voice of Derwa, Edye’s daughter, as she ran back and forth on her errands. Amaranthe liked the soothing reminder that there was someone else in the house, so long as the voices weren’t clear enough to interrupt her concentration, since after all it was her labors that supported the household.
After a time, she grew aware of an altercation in the lane outside. Some thoughtless nob had driven his fancy coach into George Court, a passage barely large enough to admit a sedan chair or a wagon. A carter with a load of furniture comingfrom the Blue Posts, the public house, chided the driver of the coach for such a booby-headed act as to block the conduct of honest business, leading to unkind speculations on the groom’s parentage. The groom rallied with suspicion as to whether the carter’s business was indeed honest, and as passersby gravitated to the scene, the temperature of the debate rose quickly.
Amaranthe watched with fascination through the large display window in her front parlor. The house was designed to accommodate a shop, and she had leased it for this reason, acquiring it from a watchmaker who had conducted his business on the ground floor and lived in his private rooms above. She was not yet prepared to open her antiquarian bookshop, but she had procured the premises with that aim in mind. The large display window admitted the light she needed, and there were rooms above for her and Joseph and rooms below for the servants and whatever poor souls came to them in need of aid.
“There’s to be blood in a moment, right enough,” Mrs. Blackthorn commented, and Amaranthe looked around to see that not just the cook but Eyde and Derwa hovered in the parlor doorway, watching the spectacle through the display window with her, as good as a farce or a puppet show at a fair.
Amaranthe put down the small brush with which she was applying gold paint to her parchment. “I suppose one of us ought to go calm the waters, if anyone will listen. Where is Davey?”
The small Welshman was Eyde’s husband. They pretended he didn’t live with them in George Court so Amaranthe might avoid the tax on male servants, and instead of quarterly wages she paid him piecemeal for errands run and other services performed about the house. He was their butler, boots, jack of all trades, and running footman when called for.
“He popped round to the Blue Posts for our small beer and the porter you like, mum,” Eyde said. “Shall I have Derwa fetchee?” Despite their years upcountry, small bits of Cornish dialect still crept into Eyde’s speech.
“No, because then Derwa might find a playmate, and we won’t see her till she wants her supper,” Amaranthe answered. She smiled at the small girl who leaned against Eyde’s hip. Derwa, who treated Amaranthe more like a favorite aunt than their employer, was the reason she never for a moment regretted their hard flight from Cornwall six years before.
She regretted the loss of her manuscript, daily, but she never spoke of it.
The three women looked at one another in surprise as a knock sounded at the front door. Amaranthe was not out in Society, and so not in the habit of making or receiving the social calls that would have filled her days as Favella’s companion were she yet living in her cousin the baronet’s house. Any friends she had would send a note in advance so they might be met with some of Mrs. Blackthorn’s excellent seed cakes. Amaranthe’s clients were arranged through the booksellers she worked with; they were not given her home address. And Sundays were Joseph’s holidays from his tutoring post, so they rarely expected to see him at home.
It was not like Joseph to forget an appointment, but then he had been distracted lately; Amaranthe suspected a young woman and not any intellectual preoccupation was the cause. She herself knew what it was to look up from her work to find that hours had gone by.
“Eyde, would you—” Before she could finish Derwa slipped out, grunting as she heaved open the front portal, nearly as heavy as she was. An exclamation of surprise followed.
Amaranthe stifled astonishment as three strange children filed into the room. Aside from Derwa, children were not entities she had much to do with, and these three looked more expensive than most. The two boys wore full suits with coats andwaistcoats lined with large silver buttons and white stockings below buckled breeches. The girl, slightly larger than Derwa, was lost in a froth of silver-blue satin. All three looked nervous and miserable.
“We’ve come to—” the younger boy began, but the elder cut him off.
“We haven’t been announced,” the youth said with a gravity that made Amaranthe want to laugh.
“I beg your pardon,” Amaranthe said, keeping her voice serious so he would not think she was having fun at his expense. “My butler is employed elsewhere. Can you perhaps give your names to my maid?”
“Introduced by the maid?” the youth said in disdain, and an inkling visited Amaranthe as to who these children might be.
“Oh, stuff it, Huey!” the second boy burst out. He held his hand with its folded tricorn cap to his chest. “This is the duke, I’m Ned, and this is Millie. We’re looking for Mr. Joseph, please.”
The little girl clutching his hand bobbed a curtsey and stared at Amaranthe with a beseeching look.
“I am Algernon Francis Hugh Delaval, the Duke of Hunsdon,” the elder boy proclaimed with all the hauteur of the nobility, and Amaranthe had the satisfaction of knowing her suspicions were correct. “This is Lord Edward—” he indicated his brother— “and Lady Camilla.”
Lady Camilla executed a deeper curtsey that put her off balance. Lord Edward caught her before she toppled.
“We,” the duke continued, “are here to see Mr. Joseph Illingworth.” He did not sayplease.
A footman in livery huffed through the door behind them. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, I’m here to announce?—”
“We’ve done introductions already, Ralph,” the young duke said. He gave Amaranthe a commanding look.
“I’m afraid Mr. Illingworth is not home at present,” Amaranthe said, at a loss what to do with these very proper and unexpected ducal children. “Would you care to leave a card?” That might be going too far. Would a young duke have a card?
“Do you know where he is?” the duke asked, while the younger boy wailed, “We must find him!” and the girl cried, “Not home? But where else could he be?”
“I can send him to Hunsdon House when he returns, if the business is urgent,” Amaranthe suggested. “Am I correct that you are his pupils?”
“He is tutor for Ned—Lord Edward and I,” the duke said freezingly. “Notfor Lady Camilla.”
Amaranthe glanced out the window and saw the ducal arms on the doors of the carriage blocking traffic in the court. It pulled away while the carter, muttering crossly to himself, set his team in motion, and the passersby drifted off, the entertainment over. Eyde sidled close to Amaranthe, looking at the children’s rich clothing with wonder.
“And why should the cheelin be on your doorstep, Miss Amaranthe?” she whispered. “’Oo ’as the charge of een?”
