My Unfair Lady (26 page)

   But she couldn't leave Meg. So, in the meantime… "I'd like to see the rest of this place… as long as there aren't any ghosts to worry about."

   Cook startled and stopped her monologue for a moment—although she didn't close her mouth— before starting up again. "Ghosts? Goodness, the only one that's ever passed on here is the duke's blessed mother, and saints don't haunt, now, do they? Such ideas! I suppose it's because you're an American. His Grace did say to overlook any peculiar things you might do. Have you ever seen an honest-to-goodness Indian?"

   Summer's head had started to spin. "Of course."

   "Is it true they scalp people? Never could believe that myself. Do you remember where your room was? Well, His Grace's room, I mean. But he said to let you stay there and not bother making up another one. It's the rheumatism, you see, so I only keep up the rooms that me and Buzz—ah, Bernard—use."

   She waddled out the door, and Summer had to hurry to scoop up her critters to follow. India burped in her ear. Chi-chi and Rosey whined for the bone, but soon both dog and fox were asleep in her pocket, lulled by the rhythm of her walk. And walk they did. Summer tried to imagine how many miles of corridors and drafty hallways they traveled, but her mind couldn't wrap around the idea of an indoors being this big. Besides, it took most of her concentration to keep track of Cook's constant change of subjects. And to keep the woman's ramblings focused on the one person she most cared to hear about.

   Cook opened double doors onto a huge, cavernous room. Summer could just make out the pattern of a starburst inlaid in the wooden floor when she swiped her foot through the dust. Gaping holes in the ceiling showed where chandeliers had hung; the remains of a rickety stage and shredded velvet draperies confirmed that this once had been a very grand ballroom.

   India hopped from her shoulder and made tiny tracks along the dirty floor. The silk-lined walls lay in peeling tatters, showing the outlines of where enormous paintings must have hung. "Why did he do it? Strip the house bare, I mean?"

   Cook clutched at her chest and shook her head sadly. "As to why the old duke stripped Cliffs Castle, and the estate in Ireland as well, is a mystery to many. But I have my suspicions, yes I do."

   India hopped back onto Summer's shoulder, leaving smudges of dirt all over her dress. Cook eyed the little monkey. "It won't piss anywhere, will it?"

   Summer shook her head while India blinked with an almost human expression of outrage. "India's very smart; he knows better than to relieve himself inside."

   Cook shut the doors with a resounding thud and started down another spider-infested corridor. "This is the music room, or was; nothing much to see in there now. Unless you want to, I'd rather not go into all the rooms. Makes me sad to see them now, when I remember how elegant they were in my youth."

   Summer shrugged. Truly, after one empty, dusty room, she'd about seen them all. "About your suspicions, Mrs. Cook…"

   They rounded the corner and went up another flight of stairs, Cook panting so hard that she couldn't speak. Summer tried again. "It's a shame what his father did, taking all the pictures and furniture, isn't it? Did he leave anything at all?"

   Cook wheezed. They reached the top of the landing, went down another hallway, and this time Cook opened the doors. Summer walked into a room that seemed frozen in time. A beautiful dressing table had a brush lying on it that still had golden strands of hair embedded in the bristles, as if it had just been used before it had been set down. Bottles of intricately blown glass contained dried bits of color in their bottoms; a gold case of powder lay open, the puff resting against it, with flecks of the white stuff still on it. She could just make it out beneath the dust. When she walked over to the faded, silk-draped bed, and saw the impression of a head still on the pillows and the tousled bedcovers looking as if they'd just been thrown aside, she shivered.

   "This was her room," said Cook, making Summer about jump out of her skin. "This is what I've been waiting to show you, because even the second duchess didn't dare come in here to take anything."

   "I thought you said there weren't any ghosts here," breathed Summer.

   The old woman shook her head. "I told you, she's a saint."

   "Who?"

   "Why, the late duke's first wife, His Grace's mother, of course." Cook sat on a bench carved into the shape of a lotus flower and caught her breath. "While she lived this old castle was full of warmth and light, and the old duke still cared for his son."

   Summer wandered around the room and noticed how different it was from all the other rooms she'd seen in London. Of course, they all looked old to her. After the newness of America, England reeked of history and age. But this room also felt… exotic, somehow.

   India had been eyeing Cook for some time, and finally bounded off Summer's shoulder and hopped onto the bench next to the older woman, who froze in apparent fear. The monkey leered, and Summer tried not to smile when he jumped onto Cook's shoulder and started picking through the gray hair.

   "Wha-what's it doing?"

   "Looking for lice," replied Summer.

   Cook's back snapped stiff as a ramrod. "Well, I never! Get him off me, Miss Lee. I don't have any bugs."

   Summer picked up a piece of carved stone in the shape of a demonic lion. "Oh, don't be insulted. Monkeys groom each other as a way to show affec tion. It means he likes you."

   Cook sniffed but continued to sit as stiff as a board while India managed to start undoing her tightly wrapped hair bun. "When the first duchess died," she continued, her lips barely moving, "the old duke sent His Grace off to school, and the house was a sad place then. But peaceful, until she came."

   "The second duchess?" prompted Summer, wiping at an elaborately designed vase, revealing slant-eyed people playing odd-looking instruments among blos soming trees.

   "Yes, the second wife. She's the one that poisoned the old duke's son against the boy, I'm sure of it." Cook's posture had started to slouch, her hair tumbling around her face in wild tangles, India's little fingers still intent on their search. "She's the one kept crying about how her own son wouldn't have nothing as second-born, since he wouldn't inherit the lands and title. And when the old duke got sick, she's the one that kept His Grace in school, telling her husband that the boy didn't care to come see him, and look how doting her own little Colin Charles was."

   "Do you mean Lord Karlton, the duke's half brother?"

   "No other. Such a spineless piece of work I never did see, but considering the mother… He talks sweetly, mind you, but behind that smiling face lies a cunning little brain, twice as crafty as the mother, 'cause with him you can't tell he's doing it. But he poisoned the old duke's mind against his firstborn, just as surely as the mother did." Cook took a handkerchief from her pocket and swiped angrily at the tears in her eyes. "Made him sell off everything he could from the estates and leave it in trust to Colin Charles. If it weren't for the law, he'd have disinherited his own firstborn!"

   Summer frowned at the old woman's vehemence and worried when she clutched at her chest. She walked over and took her hand. "I can tell you love Byron; maybe that's why you feel so resentful of his stepmother and brother?"

   Those green eyes widened. "What'd you call him? Goodness, His Grace would scowl something fierce if he ever heard you call him by his given name. Don't you know that's not done?"

   "Remember, Mrs. Cook, I'm an American."

   Her eyes were now half-closed. "That's right, I forgot. My, that feels good, little monkey-boy. And Miss Lee, it's just plain Cook."

   Summer tried not to roll her eyes. The word "American" seemed to excuse anything. "Cook, do you think Lord Karlton, or the dowager duchess, would go so far as to, well, kill him for the title?"

   Cook's eyes shot open, and she rocked to her feet, India still wrapped in her hair. "My goodness, I never did think of that when His Grace told me about all the trouble he's been having." She clutched at her chest again, and Summer winced. That gesture was really starting to scare her.

   The old woman stared at the portrait of Byron's mother. "But I don't think Lord Karlton would have the stomach for it; why, when he was a boy, he'd take one look at His Grace's injured animals and go running for the chamber pot. And as far as the dowager duchess goes, if she could've done it, she would have years ago, when he was a child."

   Summer patted her shoulder. "Please, don't concern yourself about it. I'm sure it's just someone he's insulted once too often."

   Oddly enough, this seemed to reassure her, and she stuffed her handkerchief back in her pocket and stepped to the far side of the room, being careful not to jar India from her shoulder. She pointed at a yellowed map hung on the wall, tiny pins with flags sticking to them puncturing hundreds of areas on the surface. "See all these places they pinned? Mother and son would talk about how when he became a man, he'd travel the world and bring her home presents from every land he explored. She felt too sickly to travel herself. People just don't understand His Grace, all the dreams he had, and how they shattered when his mother died." She sighed and ushered Summer out of the room. "Why anyone would want to harm him is beyond me. Oh, I admit he has a lethal tongue. But it's not his fault if people don't like to hear the truth about themselves."

   Summer thought about her conversation with him earlier and shifted uncomfortably. India hopped back on her shoulder, and Cook's hands flew to her tangled hair, trying to smooth it back into her neat bun. "Let's go back to the kitchen, shall we?"

   Summer nodded. She'd had enough dust and old memories for one day. And she was beginning to feel oddly protective toward the child who Cook described, and couldn't risk that feeling transferring over to the man himself.

SUMMER FOLLOWED COOK BACK TO THE KITCHEN, AND she sipped English tea while Cook fixed a tray to take up to Meg. After Summer made sure her maid was prop erly fed and had fallen back to sleep, she returned to the kitchen and insisted that she be allowed to eat at the same table with Cook and her husband.

   When the meal was completely lain out, Bernard walked into the room. He had a completely bald scalp, with large freckles adorning the top of it, a paunchy belly, and kind brown eyes. He barely spoke a word, for just as soon as he managed a few sentences, his wife would finish the thought for him. And he seemed quite happy with that arrangement.

   "How's the building coming along?" asked Cook as soon as she had introduced her husband to Summer.

   The man nodded politely at Summer, acknowl edging the presence of a monkey, fox, and dog with aplomb. He hung his cap on a hook and grunted in reply to his wife's question.

   "Good to hear. Where's the boy? I suppose he'll be coming along soon?" Summer opened her mouth to ask about the boy, assuming it was their son, when Cook continued on. Summer pressed her lips together and then grinned conspiratorially at Bernard, who winked and set to his dinner with an appreciation for the skill of his wife. "That child, he spends more time in those woods than he does with folks. It'll make him peculiar, it will. Bernard, tomorrow you should take Miss Lee to the village, show her the building that His Grace is having built."

   He nodded, his head lowered to the stew, and Summer thought she could trace the pattern of a halo in the freckles adorning his bald pate.

   "Did I tell you, Miss Lee, what His Grace is trying to do? Although, heaven knows where he'd be getting the money."

   
More answers
, Summer thought in glee. Now she'd find out what he'd done with the money he'd earned, for he certainly hadn't spent it on new clothes or castle renovations.

   "I don't know how he lives himself, when he sends all he can to us." Cook tasted her bowl of stew and nodded in satisfaction. "He has grand plans, does His Grace. But you know they say it takes money to make money, and I'm afraid he's taken on too big of a job, trying to restore the fortunes of this old estate. More bread, Bernard?" The man nodded, and she rose to get it for him. "Since we get a pittance for any grain we grow, His Grace has decided to raise sheep; can you imagine? And not just to raise them, but process and weave the wool. Isn't that right, Bernard?"

   He accepted the bread and her words with a nod.

   "His Grace says that with all this industrili… industrialization, the gentry will want clothing made by hand. Says it's hard to tell the social positions apart these days, what with machines to make lace and dresses as good as any dressmaker. So he'll get the villagers trained in weaving and sell handmade scarves and skirts, and heaven knows what all!"

   Summer tried not to gape at the woman. And Byron said he didn't work! She'd always felt a bit disdainful about his insistence that gentlemen didn't work, for Americans believed in the honest value of it, and using your brains and sweat to get ahead in the world. And here he was, trying to make a going concern out of his estate, when so many other landowners just bled their estates dry to keep them in style.