He tentatively gave a gentle pat to Lucy’s shoulder which only caused her sobs to intensify. He flicked a frightened look at Grace, but she waved his concern away. She and Lucy turned their backs on Hugh and Duncan and walked slowly back toward the Abbey. Lucy’s bright crimson carriage dress stuck in his line of vision so long as he watched her trudge away that he could still see the bright color when he closed his eyes, even though the two women had already disappeared through the side garden gate.
At a weird rustling at his feet he looked down to see three of the blasted three-toed cats undulating in circles around his boots. He shooed them away so he wouldn’t accidentally step on one of them.
Duncan joined him to stare after Grace and Lucy and after a long few moments finally spoke. “Some things are better left unsaid. Let’s give them some time by themselves to work out how they’re going to move forward. You and I should visit the long hall to sample some of the syllabub and biscuits Cook was going to put out this afternoon.”
“So you’re not going to have tea first, but proceed directly to the alcohol?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do, and you’d be well advised to keep me company. We can guard each other fromavaricious mamas showing off their daughters on the marriage block. It’s damnably cold out here.” Duncan lengthened his steps into a brisk trot down the path toward the warmth of the Abbey, and Hugh followed suit.
7
BOXING DAY
26 DECEMBER, 1834
Montcliffe Abbey
Duncan thanked the war gods for all the Christmastide celebrations he’d been forced to miss. He’d nearly forgotten the bustle and mayhem of Boxing Day in English homes he’d been in a guest in over the years. However, in his own home, his family had celebrated only Hogmanay, consisting of a few days before New Year’s Day, and after.
A glass of whisky, a bit of Yule bread and an early morning viewing of the sunrise were about the only things he and his physician father had celebrated over the years, whenever the two of them could snatch a bit of time together after he’d entered the King’s army. Most holiday seasons had been spent in one station after another, all over the world, mostly countries along the Mediterranean. He tended to follow along with whatever his comrades considered a proper celebration, but he’d never given up his wee dram of spirits to welcome the new year’s sunrise.
The confusion and noise this Boxing Day in the Viscount Rumsford’s household was well above what he’d ever experienced before. He’d arisen early to take a mind-clearing walk before the rest of the household was up and about.However, the sounds emanating from the lower kitchen level did not bode well for whomever was the object of all the shouting of oaths. Damn the besotted English. He’d better investigate before Rumsford’s household of guests were without sustenance for the day.
He walked to the very end of the Abbey’s long, echoing hallway and finally spotted the stone steps circling down to the kitchens below. All of the Rumsford ancestors lined up along the wall seemed to be mocking the tall Celt walking past them.
“That’s right, we’re all beneath your contempt, but we do a damned fine job of fighting your wars.” He was glad the hall was empty at that hour so no one heard his muttered oath, but then he started and nearly fell over when he was joined by three of the damned six-toed cats. Christ. Did the creatures have no sense of self-preservation? Despite his long strides, the feline devils kept perfect measure with him, even trying to thread their way between his boots. “Away ye beasties,” he ordered. A shiver ran down his spine when they obediently disappeared. Where the hell had they gone?
As he approached the bottom of the steps, the shouts grew louder and the sounds of battering pans entered the mix. When he finally cleared the bottom of the winding servants’ passage, the scene in the kitchen was utter chaos. A young man sat cross-legged in a corner near the pantry holding his hands above his head, trying to defend himself against Cook, who brandished one of the heavy sauce pots behind her and was about to clout the lad with all her strength.
Behind Cook, at least a half-dozen maids and footmen brandished a variety of “weapons,” ranging from carving knives to a huge walnut crusher.
Duncan’s military instincts kicked in. “Halt—.” He bellowed out the word. “Who’s in charge here?”
Cook charged toward him, the sauce pan gripped tightly by her side, as if she hadn’t decided yet if he were friend or foe. “I am,” she bellowed right back. “Who are you?”
“Major Duncan MacKenzie, at your service. What has this young scamp done to incur your wrath?” Duncan settled back against a nearby wall and folded his well-muscled arms across his chest. He let his gaze travel lazily over all of the would-be combatants. Suddenly, the former cacophony subsided to a silence not unlike that of the crypt.
“He came to the merchant’s entrance as if he’s Father Christmas himself and demands to see his mum, and would we please see to a meal for him while he waits?”
Apparently not sufficiently cowed as yet, the young man in question shouted out his version of the events, pointing rudely at Cook. “She thinks she’s the viscountess or sommat.”
Duncan strode easily to the side of the mysterious young man and grasped him firmly by one of his ears.
“Owwww—.” He screeched in pain.
Duncan leaned down and quietly explained. “I’ll have you before the Romford magistrate before you can say Jack Robin if you don’t quit your caterwauling and explain politely what you’re doing - uninvited - in this lady’s kitchen.”
“Mrs. Phippen’s my mother. I just wanted to see her for the holidays.”
“Then why, young man, did you not knock on the door and ask to see her like a proper gentleman would?”
“Because I can’t knock on the front door like you lot. My mother’s always been nothing but a servant here.”
“I do not believe your mother has ever been treated as such at Montcliffe Abbey. She and your cousin Lucy are like members of the family.”
“You don’t know nothing about my mother.”
Duncan did not know where to start, and he was afraid to unleash his own temper on the greenhead, so he dragged the young ruffian by his ear back to the servants’ dining room at the rear of the lower level kitchens. He settled him onto a chair with a thud and a warning. “If you leave that chair and cause any more trouble for the Rumsford servants, I will personally see you receive a sound flogging, with your mother’s permission. Duncan walked back into the kitchen area and begged Cook for a plate with a crust of bread and a slice of ham. At the last moment, she also slid a hefty slice of Christmas pudding onto he plate.
