Chapter Nine
Paul admitted exhaustion when the party finally returned to the hunting box.
The wagon boasted a massive log, missing a few chunks where Sir Geoffrey had insisted on being allowed to wield the axe, but otherwise most respectable. Sir Geoffrey, on the other hand, sported a rather large bandage—improvised from one of the Tisdale twins’ sleeves—around his left hand. Thankfully it hid not an axe wound, but a gash from a flying chip.
Since that was the only injury, Paul had to be grateful, although he doubted Sir Geoffrey would agree.
The flasks had been emptied, so the party was noisy, clumsy, giggly and half-asleep. The latter state reflected Sir Farren, who had to be nudged several times by his wife as they dismounted, clambering awkwardly around the roots of the Yule log and staggering up the steps and into the house.
Harriet, bless her, seemed to have anticipated their state, and a couple of maids awaited the ladies along with two footmen, who assisted the gentlemen with their coats. Sir Ambrose was helped up the stairs by the twins, and Paul kept an eye on them to make sure all three didn’t return to the hall head first. When they disappeared down the corridor, he heaved a sigh of relief and even managed a smile as Harriet herself appeared.
“Goodness, my Lady,” she curtsied and smiled at Lady Aphrodite. “I would hazard a guess that you have all enjoyed your outing…”
Lady Aphrodite nodded, then reached out and clung to the banister. Her eyes opened wide, she darted a glance around, then dashed to the ornate brass urn intended for wet umbrellas, and promptly vomited in it.
“Oh bollocks,” breathed Paul. “That’s all we need.”
Harriet ignored him, hurrying over to the woman who was now clearly not well at all. “My Lady, let’s get you upstairs. A good rest and you’ll feel much more the thing.”
Surprising Paul, Lady Aphrodite gave Harriet a sincerely grateful look and placed a hand on her stomach. “I apologize, Mrs. Harry. But I don’t think I’ll be truly well for a few months yet.”
Harriet gasped, then nodded. “If that is the case, then you will have no more liquor here, Ma’am. We shall take care of you, but you must also learn to take care of yourself.” She glanced at Aphrodite’s belly. “And the little one as well.”
Putting an arm around Aphrodite, Harriet gentled her up the stairs and the two of them vanished from sight.
There was no time for reflection though. Paul busied himself with making sure the hall was cleared, the wagon left outside so that they could bring in the log, and assigning a maid to take care of Lady Aphrodite’s “accident” in the brass urn. “Take the damn thing outside and bury it,” he said with a grimace.
The maid giggled. “Oh, now, Mr. Paul. Yer don’t got young brothers or sisters, do yer?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Ne’er yer mind. ’Tis as good as done.”
Making a mental note to slip that young lass an extra sixpence, Paul turned to the business of unloading the log.
It took almost all the male members of the household, excluding the guests of course, to tug, lug, lift and push the monster piece up the steps and into the hall. One lad split his breeches as he leaned over to free a root from the door hinge, making the rest of them laugh. And of course, once laughing it was hard to stop.
Paul joined in, since he found pleasure in hearing such a joyous sound.
They managed a few feet more, snickers and guffaws notwithstanding, until it was mere inches from the fireplace. The andirons were well clear and it only took one more massive shove to get it exactly where they wanted it—snugly tucked within the large darkened stones of the hearth.
That massive shove, however, resulted in something else as well. An enormously loud fart from one of the footmen. Given the open hall, the amount of tile and polished wood, and the height of the ceiling, the sound was little short of a cannon firing at close range.
And the effect was not dissimilar, since most of the room’s occupants lost what little was left of their composure and collapsed with laughter.
Five minutes later, Harriet walked down the stairs, an expression of bewilderment on her face as she observed several men helplessly clutching their stomachs and rolling around the floor in mirth.
Paul managed to pull himself together. “Never mind, Mrs. Harry. It’s been quite a long day, so far, and it’s only four o’clock. We’re all rather tired.”
“I can see,” she commented dryly. “I suggest a nice cup of tea in the kitchen, gentlemen. You’ve all worked hard, and you deserve it. I believe Cook has made gingerbread too…”
They took her hint eagerly, nodding and touching their forelocks as they scurried for the stairs.
“Thanks, Mrs.”
“Oooh, I loves gingerbread.”
“Me ma bakes that fer Christmas too.”
