The Belligerent Miss Boynton AND The Lurid Lady Lockport (Two Companion Full-Length Regency Novels) (47 page)

This particular afternoon he had ridden his horse along the cliffs bordering the Channel—known locally as the Straits of Dover—and he'd spied out more than one cave handy to smugglers, with tramped-down grass paths leading to them from the cliffs above.

When Kevin had told Gilly he intended to restock The Hall's cellars with liquors from Bigelow's in London, she had been careless enough to blurt, "Whatever for? The best brandy's right here," before belatedly clapping her hand to her mouth. Kevin hadn't needed her to complete the sentence. He was sure the brandy in the area was excellent—as French brandy usually is outstanding.

He was already convinced that boats were put out from this very shore on moonless nights and, much as he despised the practice of trading with the enemy, he couldn't but hope the enterprise was helping to supplement his tenants' meager incomes.

Tying his mount's reins to a nearby scrub bush, Kevin walked to the rim of the hill overlooking The Hall. From this excellent vantage point he had a clear view of the impressive sprawl of buildings, and he stood for a long time, looking at the physical evidence of his inheritance.

The Hall, as he already was aware, was a great, cavernous edifice, rambling as it did up and down the hillside; its many additions tacked on by previous generations willy-nilly, until it resembled no style in particular but was a hodgepodge of too much wealth, poor taste, and worse architecture. It was homely in the extreme, so much so as to make itself curiously attractive, he thought, with its brick mellowed by salt and sea breezes to varying shades of silvery pink, depending on the age of the brick in each addition.

The Great Hall, from whence the place supposedly acquired its uninspired name, was constructed in 1360, along with accompanying cross-wings branching out at right angles from either side of the long, tall Hall. The whole business was then encircled by walls and towers some half century later, and it seemed the primary object of every generation since that time was to extend the original building outward in all directions until every last bit of wall (by then crumbling with age) and every outlying tower were swallowed up whole.

Kevin could see the sun reflecting off windows of all shapes and sizes which looked out onto the long, curving drive that threaded through the overgrown lawns and partially encircled a large, stagnant lily pond sporting a broken fountain with the stained statue of some forgettable minor Greek god at its center. Weed-choked cobbled walks edged by hedges and rose bushes gone wild ambled in all directions, and to each side of the building lay the remains of terraced lawns and stone steps grown over with moss, leading up to the debris-cluttered balustraded flagstone terraces.

The Hall was ugly. Beautiful. Daunting. Exciting. A weight around his neck. A sight to lift his heart.

And it was his now. All his. And Gilly's.

Kevin's eyes traveled to encompass the once-formal gardens to the rear of The Hall, gardens which were liberally strewn with winding paths meant to entice the casual stroller. At the bottom of the garden, reached by means of a wide stone stairway, was the crowning glory of The Hall's extensive grounds, the huge, wildly overgrown, intricate yew maze.

The maze, a product of one of the initial brainstorms of the late Earl, was an exact duplicate of the famous Troy Town maze of Pimperne, Dorset, which unfortunately had been plowed under in 1730. Working from sketches he had unearthed, the Earl had the maze copied exactly, its overall triangular shape stretching to cover two full acres of hedge and pathway. When it had been completed, it included thirteen entrances composed of one long way to the center, one short-cut at the left rear, and eleven false entrances.

There were no sharp angles in the maze, all the pathways being made up of curves and curlicues, and there were four open areas inside, with a small temple at the very center. The only deviation from the original was that, instead of mounded dirt edging the pathways, the Earl had employed yew hedges, which were encouraged to grow to a height well above the average man's head. Allowed to grow unchecked in recent years, the hedges had now spread themselves out to almost obliterate the pathways, even from Kevin's elevated view, and all that was left was a jungle fit only for vermin and nesting birds.

Skirting the grounds with his gaze, Kevin looked more closely at the various distant outbuildings The Hall was dependent upon: the bakehouse, brewhouse, laundries, dairy, stables, icehouse, greenhouses, kennels, blacksmith's forge, sawpits, cider mill, and, of course, off in the far distance, the gatehouse. Near the dovecot Kevin could see the stew pond, where fish were kept until needed for the dinner table at The Hall.

In addition to the many domed temples, free-standing Doric columns, sham fortifications, obelisks, and pseudo-pyramids built for the sole purpose of ornamentation, there was, tucked away in one corner of the park, the family mausoleum, last resting place of the Rawlings family for untold generations. Kevin gave it a jaunty salute before turning away.

All in all, he thought as he sank to his haunches in the grass and looked out over the Straits, The Hall was an imposing piece of work. Or at least it had been. But during nearly the last twenty years of his life, the late Earl had slowly allowed the buildings and grounds to deteriorate.

It was the same within the walls of The Hall itself. With all but a few of the servants dismissed, the large building had quickly fallen into rack and ruin. Being a very large domicile, the horror of neglect was compounded by its repetition everywhere throughout the building. Having spent the better part of two days touring The Hall, Kevin was well aware of the impact of that neglect.

The chapel and the theater were indicative of the conditions in all the rooms. The pianoforte in the music room had been allowed to go out of tune, and the harp stood tilted in a corner, several of its strings missing. Two of the large saloons, considered state rooms, were now open only to the weather, thanks to broken panes in the French doors, and sodden leaves covered the Aubusson carpets.

Cobwebs hung from proud noses and strung from ear to marble ear in the second floor sculpture gallery, and the green baize of the table in the billiard room gained most of its color from the mold that grew upon it.

The orangery served only as a repository for dry, withered plants, and the two formal dining rooms, one of which had been hastily pressed into service for the wedding dinner, had been closed for nearly two decades, their long tables layered in dust.

The Egyptian room on the ground floor was as silent as any pharaoh's tomb, and the nursery wing, upstairs in the oldest portion of The Hall, lay behind a solid oak door that had been nailed shut by the late master himself.

In the armory, the suits of mail had been doomed to rust and discolor, and the Great Hall itself hadn't seen a fire in its huge fireplace for at least fifteen years.

The one hundred chimneys had been denied the services of a sweep for untold years, and the twenty-odd staircases had not a single change of rug and only a few rare and infrequent scrubbings. According to Kevin's calculations, of the hundred rooms in The Hall, forty of them bedrooms, only a half-dozen or so had been used by the Earl. These half-dozen were cluttered and dusty.

The remainder didn't bear thinking about.

The late Earl had commandeered for himself the Long Library, the study on the half-landing, his bedchamber, and several of the small salons on the ground floor. In these rooms, he housed his most prized possessions—his collection of timepieces, his account ledgers, his countless books, his journals and charts covering subjects and events of interest to, and understood by only himself.

When damp from a leaking ceiling or cold wind through a broken pane intruded into one of these rooms, he had, according to Mrs. Whitebread, ordered his possessions loaded up and carted off to another room, locking the door of the unusable chamber behind him as he went.

The few servants Sylvester had retained, now growing older themselves, saw no purpose in trying to maintain any sort of order in The Hall beyond the baize door that led from their own backstairs domain. Besides, they already were hard pressed in keeping the servants' wing tidy. That area included, in just a partial listing, the boot-polishing room, a candle and lamp-fluing room, kitchens, butler's pantry, workshops, housekeeper's room, the servants bedchambers, sitting rooms, and both a large and small dining hall.

In its heyday, Kevin knew, The Hall had been a self-sufficient community, capable of employing two hundred men in the gardens, workshops, and conservatories alone, and another hundred to serve as shepherds, bailiffs, herdsmen, farm workers, rangers, keepers, foresters, masons, thatchers, carpenters, and painters—not to mention the many tenants and their families.

Inside The Hall itself another half-hundred servants had been kept busy in the laundries, dairy, kitchens, and sewing room, in addition to the responsibilities for keeping The Hall so spotless a person would be hard pressed to find a cobweb to wrap around a cut finger, and for catering to the master's guests and their servants. Since it was not unusual to have up to forty house guests and their attendants in occupation at one time, this last was a considerable responsibility.

Now, turning away from the sea to look down at his inheritance from this clear vantage point, it was difficult for Kevin to believe that those days of glory could ever come again. The task of restoring The Hall to its former splendor seemed impossible to accomplish.

"I wouldn't even know where to begin," he mused aloud. "It's obvious to me that my first consideration must be that of finding a way to make the estate a profit-producing enterprise once more. The funds on hand, as I shall not pay any more of my personal debts than is necessary to keep me out of debtors' prison, will have to go for tools, stock, and general repairs. Half the tenant cottages must be rethatched, but we can use our own combed straw left over from the threshers for that, thank God. Any money remaining, and Heaven knows it won't be much, I'll have to use to hire a few servants at The Hall and to present my ragamuffin wife with both some new clothes and a dresser to instruct her on how to be a lady."

He chuckled as he remembered Gilly's appearance at breakfast only that morning. She had been, as usual, attired in a faded kerseymere gown of indiscriminate color and totally lacking in style. Her hair, that lurid cloak of orangey red fire, had been scraped back into a tight bun, making her look even more a babe than she normally did, which Kevin was sure must be the direct opposite of her intentions.

Even so, Gilly might have pulled it off, this aping of ladylike behavior and demeanor, if it hadn't been for the egg cup. As soon as the pedestal-based cup holding a whole egg was placed before his wife, Kevin knew she had no idea what she was to do with the thing.

Presumably, egg cups were not standard table equipment in the servants hall, where Gilly had merely cracked the egg on the side of the table and taken it from there.

But now she was a Countess, and a Countess has her egg served in a fine Spode egg cup. His sympathies aroused by her apprehensive eying of the egg as it sat perched in its cup, Kevin had cleared his throat and set about demonstrating the proper technique by way of gently tapping the end of his egg all round, and then delicately lifting off the top of the shell.

Gilly had picked up her spoon and, being careful not to rest her elbows on the table, then gave her egg a tentative tap or two. The shell remained solid, and Gilly had to try again, her intense young face oddly appealing in the sunlit room.

"Having a bit of difficulty, my sweet?" Kevin had not been able to resist asking as the spoon struck again, more determinedly this time.

"Not a bit," Gilly had answered, stressing the last word as she struck out again at the egg. Her spoon succeeded in cracking the shell this time, but may have succeeded too well, thanks to Gilly's forceful tap. The spoon severed the top of the egg in one blow, sending the small circle of shell and egg white straight up into the air—and depositing it on top of Gilly's head.

At the same time, since she had neglected to hold the pedestal, the remainder of the egg and its cup parted company, the egg (with its oozing yolk) landing in her lap, and the cup skidding off the table to crash into a hundred pieces on the hard floor. But, Kevin remembered, he hadn't laughed, embarrassing his bride. His cheek still smarted where he had bitten it, but he hadn't laughed. He wasn't that brave, or that foolhardy.

"A pox on all these fancy dishes and namby-pamby manners!" Gilly had exclaimed heatedly, retrieving the egg from both her head and lap and slamming them none-too-gently on the table. "A person could starve to death trying to eat like this. What idiot said we had to look genteel even while filling our bellies? It's downright dumb, and I, for one, am not going to do it!"

"I appreciate your attempts anyway, child, especially as I had yet to talk to you about your dress or table manners," Kevin had put in. "That talk, however, will most assuredly take place soon, as I do strongly desire you to begin conducting yourself according to your station. I do not," he'd added before Gilly, whose face was flushed with anger, could interrupt, "intend to spend the rest of my days looking down the table at a girl who possesses the table manners of a wallowing pig. You may have a few days in which to decide, wife. Either you agree to lessons in table manners and, while we're about it, proper everyday social conduct, or your meals will be served outside, in the trough. It makes no never-mind to me."

Gilly's teeth had clenched together so tightly she could not utter a word. All she could do was glare down the length of the table at her immaculately groomed, socially correct husband (Kevin had known he'd looked his best that morning), and most probably imagine him with egg yolk dripping down his face and onto his beautiful clothing. She did not dare throw the egg, however—she must have known he could be counted on not to take such an insult lying down. But, he also been sure, the temptation must have been great.