“Nothin’ to it.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Hester led her to the long, low stewing hearth, where several pots were bubbling and simmering already. She picked up an earthen pot with tripod feet and handle.
“First off, you melt a pound of yellow wax and an ounce of black resin in this pipkin.” Hester gathered the ingredients from various drawers and shelves in the room. She added the wax and the resin to the pot and handed Margaret a wooden spoon. “Once it’s melted, pour in two ounces of spirit of turpentine. Give or take. Now give ’er a good stir.”
Margaret stirred, and once the concoction was fully melted, added the spirit of turpentine.
“All there is to it. I believe that’s the first thing Mrs. Budgeon taught me to make when I come here. So I could make sure the footmen made it correct-like.”
Hester took the covered jar to the stillroom basin, washed it out, then returned to the hearth. “Let’s pour it in here. Careful now. Don’t want to burn yourself. Tell Thomas he needs to wait until it cools before he uses it. He knows, of course, but he’s not above skippin’ a step if he can get away withit.”
Margaret picked up the jar, but the heat singed her hand and she quickly plunked it back on the worktable.
Hester shook her head, bemused. “Your apron, love. Your apron.”
Margaret nodded and took up the jar once more, protected by a corner of her apron. She felt oddly pleased with herself at her small accomplishment, even though she had done little more than stir.
Thomas was waiting in the drawing room when she returned, staring idly out the window. He whirled when she came in, then smiled, relieved not to be caught by a senior servant. Striding over, he gave her nose a cheeky tweak. “There’s a love.”
He took the pot from her, cursed, and bent to quickly set it down. “Dashed thing’s hot!”
She bit back a smile and returned to her own duties.
As arranged, Nathaniel met Hudson outside in the arcade—a long, covered walkway from the house through the rose gardens. It had been a later addition to the original manor. The arcade’s open-air walls consisted of a series of arches supported by ornate pillars. It was there the men met for their morning fencing bout with practice swords.
Fencing was Nathaniel’s favorite way of taking exercise, with riding second, and rambling with the dog third. He was in far better physical condition now than he had been before sailing to the West Indies. When he met Hudson soon after arriving there, the two men had formed the habit of taking regular exercise together, whether fencing, hunting, riding, or even boxing, though the latter had proved a failure never to be repeated.
Nathaniel was the quicker of the two, and his skills finer, which was no surprise considering the classical training he’d received, while Hudson was primarily self-taught. Still, what the man lacked in finesse, he more than made up for in endurance and sheer determination. And how the man perspired! Nathaniel nearly felt sorry for the laundry maids.
After exchanging good mornings and comments about the fine weather, the bout began. Advance, lunge, retreat, retreat. Strike, parry-riposte. Feint, attack, parry-riposte... On and on it went in a rhythmic cycle. Now and again a balestra was thrown in, or a rare flèche, until one man slipped up or tired and gave his opponent an opening to score a hit.
Half an hour into the bout, Hudson struck with impressive speed, but Nathaniel parried. Nathaniel lunged and Hudson countered... but too late.
“Touché,” Hudson acknowledged.
“Bravo,” Lewis drawled.
Nathaniel glanced up and saw his brother leaning against one of the columns. He had not noticed him come out of the house.
Hudson wiped his forehead with a pocket handkerchief, preparing to continue. He addressed Lewis, “Would you like to give it a go, sir? I don’t mind bowing out.”
Lewis waved away the offer. “Heavens no. Too much dashed work. You two go on.”
Nathaniel panted to catch his breath. “Was there something you wanted, Lewis?”
“Just to let you know I return to London tomorrow.”
Irritation surged. Lewis had yet to help him prioritize the repairs needed at Fairbourne, nor had he agreed to expense-reducing measures for the London house. “Already? But—”
Lewis held up a hand. “Don’t start. I have several things to attend to in town, but I will return soon, I promise.”
That afternoon, Margaret stepped from the servants’ hall just as the under gardener appeared in the basement passage, carrying a basket of long-stemmed cut flowers.
“Hello there, love. New, are you?”
“Yes. I’m Nora Garret.”
“Well, Nora. I would be much obliged if you’d deliver these to Mrs. Budgeon for me. Mr. Sackett’s nippin’ at my heels to get back to work.”
“Of course. They’re lovely. For Miss Upchurch’s apartment?”
