A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,60
Hall, and Nathaniel wanted to plant him a facer too.
“Please ensure the medicinal stores are replenished,” Nathaniel said, striding past Treegum. “Illness is no respecter of season, and if the housekeeper can’t be relied on to manage the herbal, somebody else will be given that responsibility.”
Treegum shuffled along beside him. “Did Your Grace have anybody else in mind?”
“You. You’re my steward, or the closest thing to it.” Thatcher ought to have been next in line for such a task, but Thatcher was growing more hopeless by the day.
“But sir, I have no familiarity with the remedies and tisanes. That is the province of the ladies.”
“Then approach the under-cook.”
“She cannot read, sir.”
Very likely, she was so old she could not see. “Then I will do it myself, Treegum. When the household includes a member in unreliable health, the last inventory we can neglect is the herbal, wouldn’t you agree?”
Treegum mumbled something, and like a fool, Nathaniel took the bait. “I beg your pardon?”
“I daresay, sir, anything needed urgently could be borrowed from Lynley Vale. Lady Althea seems quite competent to manage a household.”
She was a wildly competent kisser too, a thought that made Nathaniel want to plough his fist into the nearest pier glass.
“Have the housekeeper prepare a list of supplies we’re lacking, and pick up what we need in York when you and Elf make the monthly trip next week.”
“Very good, sir.” Treegum bowed, though something about his tone was less than deferential.
“If Master Robbie had fallen three feet closer to the river,” Nathaniel said, pausing at the bottom of the steps, “he could well be dead. Somebody ought to have told me he was venturing beyond the walls, Treegum.”
“Agreed, sir. Perhaps you and Master Robbie will see fit to discuss the matter now.”
Treegum glided away, leaving the distinct scent of a scold in the air as Thatcher came doddering up the steps.
“I don’t want any damned toast,” Nathaniel said.
Thatcher exchanged a look with Treegum, then tapped a bony finger against his temple. “Oh, the Quality. As if I’d be bringing up toast when the day’s half gone.” He shook his head and retreated down the steps. His knees popped as he reached the landing, and he disappeared into the lower reaches muttering about back-in-the-day and the King Across the Water.
“Can we pension him?” Nathaniel asked, hating himself for posing the question.
Treegum turned, his expression unreadable. “If we pension him, Thatcher will spend his remaining years sitting in the snug at the posting inn, reminiscing about his time in service here at the Hall. Is that what you want, Your Grace?”
Nathaniel wanted to gallop hellbent in broad daylight. He wanted to have a rousing argument with anybody about anything. He wanted—heaven defend him—to get drunk.
“Valid point.” Though Thatcher had earned the right to sit with a pint wherever he pleased. “We need to hire somebody else who can manage a footman’s duties.”
“Right, sir. Any suggestions where I might find such a fellow? The staff now at Rothhaven knew you and Master Robbie when you were in leading strings. Some lad brought in from the village will be loyal to his wages, rather than to the family.”
What family? A ducal family ought to consist of more than two grown men, neither of them bound for marriage, and an aging duchess who hadn’t been to the family seat in years.
“I’ll mention the matter to Vicar,” Nathaniel said. “He might have some suggestions.”
Another shallow bow, and then Treegum followed Thatcher down to the kitchen. They would likely sit in the servants’ hall swilling tea and longing for the good old days, but when had those days been?
Nathaniel took himself to the estate office and found Robbie still asleep on the sofa. A hand to his forehead revealed only normal warmth, which was cause for guarded relief. Fever and ague could take some time to develop, and for Robbie, fevers were to be dreaded.
Nathaniel gently extracted Lady Althea’s shawl from among the blankets covering Robbie’s sleeping form, and wrapped it around his own shoulders. He took the place at the desk and prepared to deal with ledgers and correspondence until Robbie wakened.
Lady Althea’s rosy scent should have soothed Nathaniel’s temper, but all it did was force him to admit that what he really truly wanted was not to race headlong over the same worn bridle paths, not to sack an old fellow after decades of loyal service, and not even to brace Robbie on the same issues they’d been struggling with for years.