“I’ve invited Bradley and his wife to come with us,” Gabriel informed them after breakfast as everyone gathered in Thicketford’s opulent foyer, ready for the off.
Some might think an earl who invited his valet to participate in a family outing had lost his mind, but Bradley had served as Gabriel’s batman in the army. They’d fought together at Waterloo, and, well, Bradley had shot one of Patsy’s kidnappers and helped save the child’s life.
As the earl’s valet and the countess’ abigail, Bradley and his wife occupied an unusual status somewhere between valued servants and respected friends.
“Lucy’s declined to accompany us,” Bradley informed them when he appeared. “She don’t cotton to horses.”
“Right,” Gabriel said. “That makes things simpler. Bradley and I will ride to Chester, the ladies can squeeze into the carriage.”
“Perhaps I should stay with the baby,” Emma said, though Susan knew she was keen to go.
“Nonsense,” Gabriel countered. “Rafe is perfectly fine with Amelia.”
“He’s right,” Susan said, “and you don’t want to miss the fun. Amelia is well qualified to take care of one infant.”
She didn’t voice her opinion Amelia Southwell had always struck her as rather overqualified to be a nanny, but it was gratifying to see a young woman keen on learning new things from every book she could get her hands on. She reminded Susan of herself in younger days.
“If you think so,” Emma conceded.
“Let’s go,” Patsy urged.
The Roodee
Glad to disembarkfrom his carriage in the yard ofThe Pheasantin Chorley, Griff handed Frederick a few pence and sent him off to the taproom. He entered the dining room, his agitation calming when tempting aromas wafted to his nostrils. He’d hoped to be at Thicketford Manor by now, but it had taken a half-hour for him, his footman and a stable lad roused from his bed in the hayloft at Clifton Heights to rid one of the carriages of several roosting hens and their revolting mess. Locating and harnessing a horse that didn’t look like it was on its last legs had consumed another half-hour.
It was fortunate Fothersgill was nowhere to be found. Griff was in a mood to throttle the fellow by the time they set off for Preston with Frederick taking the reins.
Waiting to be served in the crowded dining room ofThe Pheasant, Griff hoped no one would pay much attention to the abysmal state of the carriage in the yard. He almost wished he hadn’t made the stable boy scrub the grime off the Pendlebury coat of arms. The Earl of Farnworth wouldn’t be impressed, and Griff had no one but himself to blame for the disgraceful state of his stables. Two or three of the once pristine carriages might be beyond repair.
“What’s thy wish and pleasure, lovey?” a serving woman asked, interrupting his thoughts when she plonked a tray of empty tankards on his table.
“I’m ravenous,” he replied, hoping she didn’t mistake his meaning. A bountiful bosom directly under his nose was difficult to ignore, but she was old enough to be his mother—or perhaps his grandmother. “What do you recommend?”
“We’ve a nice pork pie. Comes with chips and gravy.”
“And bread?”
“Penny extra. Tuppence if thee wants it buttered.”
“Sounds good. And a tankard of ale.”
After smiling a toothless grin, she hefted the tray onto her hip and tottered off. On her way into the kitchen, she came close to colliding with a surly young man on his way out. She cringed when he raised his fist.
Used to dining at one of his clubs in London where clean, liveried adolescents served meals, Griff experienced a peculiar pang of disquiet. The woman should be sitting in a comfortable armchair in a warm cottage, chuckling at the antics of her grandchildren for whom she was knitting…
“Get a grip,” he growled under his breath.
It wasn’t his concern that an elderly woman had to tote heavy trays and probably endure all kinds of abuse from patrons and employers alike.
His appetite had diminished somewhat by the time she returned with his food. However, the thick slab of crusty pork pie and the heaping mound of chips smothered in gravy revived his spirits. There was only a faint hint of butter on the bread, but he willingly paid the price of the meal, slipping a shilling into the pocket of the crone’s pinny. “For you,” he said softly. “Not the landlord.”
After glancing in the direction of the scowling youth who’d accosted her earlier, she peeked into the pocket. “Thanks ever so much, yer lordship. It ain’t often a toff like thyself is generous with ’is coin. God bless thee.”
Tucking into his meal after she left, Griff pondered her words. A shilling to him was neither here nor there. It had cost him nothing, but the pittance obviously meant a lot to her. Perhaps Lady Susan Crompton was right—cocooned in his opulent London townhouse for too long, he’d given little thought to the daily struggles of people who weren’t “toffs” like him.
However, that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? He couldn’t be expected to solve all the problems of the working class. The “great unwashed” were usually the architects of their own misery, according to the prevailing opinion among the members of all his London clubs. As he swilled down the last of his meal with the ale remaining in his tankard, he thanked his lucky stars he’d been born into wealth.
Exiting the inn, he found Frederick perched on the driver’s bench. “On to Thicketford Manor,” Griff shouted, holding his nose as he entered the carriage. At least his destination was only a few miles away.