Page 44 of Lady Dramatic
The joy that overtook Mr. Cremble’s features could not be overestimated. “Lady Marchfield, I accept! Heartily! It is my calling to make the church my life’s work.”
Serenity stared at him and thought she ought to be happy that at least one person in the house was happy.
Lady Marchfield nodded graciously. “Go and pack your bags, Mr. Cremble. I will put you up tonight and send you to the estate on the first coach out on the morrow, with a letter of introduction to Mr. Hartshorn. I am certain you will find the vicarage very comfortable—it is exceedingly roomy and affords a pretty little view. Mr. Hartshorn will be grateful for your arrival, as he has been inquiring into when we might send someone. He is arthritic, you see.”
“Mr. Hartshorn will find a willing servant in me, my lady! The lord has sent me through the fires to prove my worthiness,and I have come out of it unsinged,” Mr. Cremble said, hurrying out the door.
Lady Marchfield turned her attention to the tea tray and poured a cup while she waited for Mr. Cremble to pack up his things.
All four sisters surreptitiously glanced at their aunt, waiting for a further scolding. As she did not scold, they did not know what to make of it.
Winsome said, “So I suppose that’s it for the butlers. There won’t be another one coming next year, I would guess.”
Lady Marchfield set her cup down and said, “If you knew what I was thinking on that score, Winsome, it would send a chill down your spine.”
Serenity stared at Lady Marchfield, wide-eyed. Valor cried, “It’s going to be scary!”
“What will be scary, young miss,” Lady Marchfield said gravely, “is if you have the audacity to write one more letter to a gentleman of theton. I advise you do not try it or you will never wed—society has a very long memory.”
“I’m never getting married anyway! It’s terrible!” Valor wept into Mrs. Wendover’s limp body.
Nelson, seeming to come to his own conclusions regarding the tone of the room, staggered up on his three legs, nipped a biscuit off the tea tray, and loped out to have it elsewhere.
“I hope you are all satisfied to have come to such a pass,” Lady Marchfield said.
The last thing Serenity could claim to feel was satisfied. It felt as if all her hopes were crumbling like sand through her fingers. She felt like she could weep for a hundred years, though little good it would do her. Little good it had ever done her.
*
Mrs. Right hadvery sensibly taken herself to her quarters upon the arrival of Lady Marchfield. As she was the senior-most servant in the house, aside from the odd butler coming and going, she enjoyed a large bedchamber and a generous sitting room attached. Both rooms had a view of the back garden, and both had cheery little fireplaces. There was even a very small and narrow dressing room. Though it was not as large as her accommodations in the Dales, she’d always been well satisfied with her quarters in Town.
Just now, though, she paced those quarters. At least Lady Marchfield had not arrived with the bishop in tow, though that might be next.
But what was a poor housekeeper to do when faced with an unwanted butler? It was not as if she’d had any choice. After all, the duke had made clear that he did not wish for a butler. If she was not to rid the place of him, then who would?
There was always the idea that the duke could order Mr. Cremble out of the house, just as he could have with the others who had come and gone. But Mrs. Right knew the duke better than anybody. He would never be satisfied with that idea, as he liked the game of seeing how they would be driven out. He’d been all his life in a cat and mouse game with his sister. He liked to be amused and there was not much amusement to be had in simply ordering them out.
So there it was. She’d had no choice but to convince the pious butler that she was in league with the devil. Anybody would have done the same.
Mrs. Right heard a firm rap on her door and went to answer it, presuming it was one of the maids come to tell her that LadyMarchfield had departed. She opened the door and was accosted by a heavy cross waving in her face.
“Hah!” Mr. Cremble cried. “Are your eyes burning?”
“Mr. Cremble!” she said, fighting him off, “what on earth are you doing in the women’s quarters?”
Mr. Cremble stepped back, still waving the cross as if it afforded him protection. “I came to give you my final adieu, you diabolical woman. Lord Marchfield is to give me a living and I am leaving this godforsaken house forever! And guess what? Guess what, Mrs. Wrong? That’s right, I called you Mrs. Wrong instead of Mrs. Right, which I thought up days ago! Guess what? Lady Marchfield is going to the bishop about you. What do you suppose that great and pious man will make of a wicked housekeeper causing havoc in the town he is sworn to protect from evil forces? Maybe he’ll bring back burning at the stake! Au revoir!”
With that, Mr. Cremble picked up his travel case and fairly skipped down the corridor.
Lady Marchfield was going to the bishop. The very stern and conservative Bishop Porteus.
Well that was a fine kettle of fish.
*
The following daydid not dawn bright, but it was not raining either. It was a rather foggy sort of day and Serenity was wracked with all sorts of thoughts. She and Lord Thorpe had not discussed the efficacy of dog walking in the fog. And then, what if the weather was no matter anyway after Valor’s ill-conceived letter outlining her outrageous demands?
She must go and find out, whatever it was to be. Lord Thorpe would either turn up or not turn up. But if he did not turn up, how was she to be certain of the cause? Perhaps he wouldnot turn up because he thoughtshewould not turn up in foggy weather.
