Another heavy sigh left him, but this one was a smidge happier. Such a sweet, gentle maiden she was, and her cooking? Exemplary. Perhaps once he married, he could hire her away from the Atterleys. Oh, to have a cook again would be the sheerest delight. Not that their housekeeper’s boiling of the vegetables didn’t fill one’s belly, but Mrs. Pepperhill tended to cook the potatoes until they were more like gruel than a hardy, satisfying bite. Meat was an impossibility unless he had a successful hunt, which he had not had of late. Thankfully, the kitchen garden was flourishing and providing more choices for their pitifully sparse plates.
He had to win a Broadmere sister, marry her, and hire that kitchen angel away from Lady Atterley. More’s the pity, the delightful girl had no worth other than her beauty and ability to coddle an egg. If only she had a dowry. Now,therewas a woman he would happily pursue. Sadly, as a servant, the best he could do was appreciate her cooking, since he would never sully a maiden as sweet as her by making inappropriate advances or suggestions. He might be desperate and a bit of a cad because of his current situation, but at least he had kept a few scruples. Uncle George hadn’t completely debauched him. He ground his teeth until his jaws ached. No, he was not debauched at all.He had simply done and was doing all that was necessary to keep his uncle alive. After all, the man had always doted on him and was his father’s only brother, the eldest of the family. And, gads alive, Drake missed his father. He took care of Uncle George in honor of his father and the memory of how he had often bailed out the errant brother of the family.
As he rounded the bend, a single lit window at one end of the large manor house greeted him. Good. Mrs. Pepperhill and their butler, Yateston, had finally heeded his order to conserve the candles and lamp oil as much as possible. Such things might be necessities, but they were expensive and had to be handled judiciously.
“Evening, sir,” Yateston said as he opened the door before Drake even reached it.
“Good evening, Yateston. Is the old man in his room or the kitchen?” The window with the candle was in the vicinity of the kitchen, and Uncle George had a tendency to go foraging this late at night. With his bedchamber on the main level, even though Yateston was available to push him through the home, Uncle had become quite adept at wheeling his bath chair to wherever he wished to go, even though it was rather awkward.
“In the kitchen, sir. Eating the last of the stale bread.”
All the bread had gone stale, but they could hardly afford not to eat it. Mrs. Pepperhill only attempted baking every two weeks in order to make the flour go farther. Her loaves and buns were hard and heavy, more suitable for cannon fodder than human consumption. But, again, they could ill afford to let anything go to waste.
“Tomorrow is baking day,” Drake said, after counting backward to make sure. Baking day was always a good day. It made the house smell as if they actually possessed something worth eating. He wondered how well Lady Atterley’s lovely young kitchen maid baked. If her breads and other baked goods were as sweet as her nature, her foods would be beyond compare.
As he entered the kitchen, his uncle was brushing crumbs from his lap.
“Sorry, lad. I et the last of it.” Uncle George belched as if he had just enjoyed a feast. “I believe she is getting better.” He squinted one eye shut as he picked his teeth. “Last time I nigh on broke a tooth on that crust. This time it was not nearly so tough.”
“Good to hear.” Drake pulled out a chair from the worn table, sank into it, and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. “I fear tonight was a complete loss. The only maiden I managed to charm was the one in the kitchen.”
“What the devil were you doing in the kitchen? You should have been on the dance floor or playing one of those ridiculous games Lady Atterley contrives to torture gentlemen with each year.” Uncle George tried to clean his glass of its coating of milk, but upon failing to claim the last of the creamy-white residue, he ran his finger around its insides and sopped up the rest. “Soured its way to buttermilk, but milk is milk.” He slid the glass back onto the table and settled more comfortably back amongst his cushions. “Were the Broadmeres not in attendance? And again, I ask, why the blazes were you in the kitchen?”
“I was in the kitchen because I missed the meal and was famished, and yes, the Broadmeres were there. Or at least the eldest sister was, but the look she gave me left no doubt whatsoever that I would do well to keep walking and leave her alone.”
“Perhaps she was being coy.”
Drake slowly shook his head. “I think not.”
“What about the other two? Or some of the other ladies. Their dowries might not be as ample as a Broadmere bird, but no amount of blunt would go amiss.”
“I could not locate the other two Broadmere ladies, and do not call them birds. You understand they have to marry for love for their brother to allow it?” Drake scrubbed a hand across his eyes. The night had wearied him.
“They are all of age,” Uncle George retorted with a gravelly laugh. “They can marry whomever they wish. The dowry would still be paid whether or not they received the duke’s blessing.”
“They would desire their brother’s blessing.” Sometimes, Uncle George’s crassness was more than Drake could bear. “And I am certain the remaining sisters desire a love match. From what I am told, the first four achieved that rarest of states.”
His uncle snorted a disgruntled huff and folded his spindly arms across his chest. “You, dear boy, are a hopeless romantic. Just like your father.”
“Thank you. I consider that the highest praise.” Drake couldn’t resist poking the old bear. “That hopeless romantic saved you many a time because he loved you.”
Uncle George bowed his head while pulling in a deep breath and exhaling a heavy sigh. “God rest his soul.”
“God rest his soul,” Drake said, then pushed up from his chair and went to the window. With the moonlight shining in, he was tempted to pinch out the candle, but decided against it. Uncle George’s arms were already battered and bruised from bumping into things in the dark. “It is late, old man. Time for rest.”
“Yes. Time for rest,” his uncle repeated softly. He stretched forward and took hold of the wheels, then dropped his hands away and fell back into his chair. “Push me, boy. This old man is weary.”
“Glad to, Uncle. Glad to.”
*
Drake rose earlyand trudged out to the stables before he had even had his tea. The horses needed tending, and with only John choosing to stay on at Wakefield for nothing more than room and meager board, help was needed for mucking out the stalls and seeing that everyone was fed and brushed. Thoroughbreds were costly, and finedraft horses for carriages were not much cheaper. The animals would be seen to before Drake saw to himself.
“Morning to ye, m’lord,” the aging Scot said as Drake grabbed a pitchfork. “How be ye this fine day? Any luck in yer hunt for a wife?”
“Not yet, John.” Drake went to the first empty stall and started scooping up the soiled hay and dumping it into the wheelbarrow. “Dancer still limping? The farrier should be here today.”
“Aye, the rascal is not having any weight on that foot, to be sure.” With a curled hand gnarled by years of working in the stables, John gave the gleaming black stallion beside him an affectionate rub. “He be a good ’un, though, my lord. Glad I am that ye be getting him seen to.”
