Read Online Sheri Cobb South by A Dead Bore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A Dead Bore
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Lady Fieldhurst?”
“Yes, Sir Gerald, as a matter of fact, I did.” The viscountess plunged eagerly into speech, lest the family notice her distraction. “The vicar of a neighboring parish arrived today to conduct the burial service for Mr. Danvers. I understand you made the arrangements yourself, as Mr. Danvers had no family. I find that very thoughtful of you.”
“Nonsense!” declared Sir Gerald, looking pleased nonetheless. “Least a fellow can do, under the circumstances. And then there’s my duty to my position— noblesse oblige and all that, you know. You’ll learn all about that someday, my lad,” he added as an aside to his son.
Philip muttered something unintelligible which gave the company to understand that he was not looking forward to assuming the mantle of his father’s responsibilities. Sir Gerald glowered at the boy, and Lady Fieldhurst judged it time to intervene.
“The general consensus in the village seems to be that the funeral may be held before the end of the week, assuming the weather holds,” she observed.
“Aye, and I for one will be glad to have it over. The sooner everything gets back to normal, the better off we’ll all be.”
“But what of the vacant benefice, Papa?” asked Miss Hollingshead. “Will you grant the living to our cousin Mr. Meriwether?”
“Harrumph!” Sir Gerald cleared his throat noisily. “No sense in rushing into things, I always say.”
His wife concurred. “It is unseemly, Emma, to speculate on such things when poor Mr. Danvers has not yet been laid to rest. I am sure when the time comes your father will make the best decision for all concerned.”
Emma Hollingshead wilted under this mild rebuke, and the conversation thereafter grew more general and considerably less interesting. At last Lady Anne rose, and Lady Fieldhurst seized the opportunity to make good her escape.
“My head aches most vilely,” she declared, pressing one black-gloved hand to her temple. “If you will excuse me, Lady Anne, Miss Hollingshead, I shall seek my bed.”
“By all means,” said her hostess. “I thought during dinner that you did not look at all the thing. Depend upon it, it is all this walking to the village. A little such exercise is all very well, but you will wear yourself to the bone if you go on in this way.”
Lady Fieldhurst agreed readily, having previously given no thought to how she might abandon, now that it was no longer needed, the habit she had so firmly established.
She climbed the curving staircase to the accompaniment of the ladies’ best wishes for her improved health, forcing her steps to remain slow and steady until she reached the floor above, well out of sight of anyone in the hall below. Then she picked up her gray silk skirts and hurried the last few feet down the corridor to her assigned bedchamber, where she shut herself in, turned the key in the lock, and tugged vigorously on the bell-pull. She had not long to wait, but to Lady Fieldhurst, pacing the carpet, every moment seemed an eternity until at last she heard a faint tap on the service door. To her relief, it opened to reveal not Rose bearing a freshly laundered nightrail (or, worse, a vile-tasting concoction for her nonexistent headache), but her counterfeit footman bearing a scuttle filled with coal.
“You rang, my lady?” he asked with a formality belied by the twinkle in his eyes. While she struggled for words, he stepped past her and knelt before the fireplace, where he emptied his scuttle into the grate.
“What is that?” she asked, momentarily distracted.
“Coals for your fire. Mrs. Holland is already inclined to distrust me, and since she rules the servants’ hall with a rod of iron, I thought it best to provide myself with an errand.”
“But why should you care for Mrs. Holland’s good opinion, and what are you doing in the servants’ hall, and in such a guise?”
Having finished his task, he rose and brushed the knees of his blue satin breeches.
“Yes, Sir Gerald, as a matter of fact, I did.” The viscountess plunged eagerly into speech, lest the family notice her distraction. “The vicar of a neighboring parish arrived today to conduct the burial service for Mr. Danvers. I understand you made the arrangements yourself, as Mr. Danvers had no family. I find that very thoughtful of you.”
“Nonsense!” declared Sir Gerald, looking pleased nonetheless. “Least a fellow can do, under the circumstances. And then there’s my duty to my position— noblesse oblige and all that, you know. You’ll learn all about that someday, my lad,” he added as an aside to his son.
Philip muttered something unintelligible which gave the company to understand that he was not looking forward to assuming the mantle of his father’s responsibilities. Sir Gerald glowered at the boy, and Lady Fieldhurst judged it time to intervene.
“The general consensus in the village seems to be that the funeral may be held before the end of the week, assuming the weather holds,” she observed.
“Aye, and I for one will be glad to have it over. The sooner everything gets back to normal, the better off we’ll all be.”
“But what of the vacant benefice, Papa?” asked Miss Hollingshead. “Will you grant the living to our cousin Mr. Meriwether?”
“Harrumph!” Sir Gerald cleared his throat noisily. “No sense in rushing into things, I always say.”
His wife concurred. “It is unseemly, Emma, to speculate on such things when poor Mr. Danvers has not yet been laid to rest. I am sure when the time comes your father will make the best decision for all concerned.”
Emma Hollingshead wilted under this mild rebuke, and the conversation thereafter grew more general and considerably less interesting. At last Lady Anne rose, and Lady Fieldhurst seized the opportunity to make good her escape.
“My head aches most vilely,” she declared, pressing one black-gloved hand to her temple. “If you will excuse me, Lady Anne, Miss Hollingshead, I shall seek my bed.”
“By all means,” said her hostess. “I thought during dinner that you did not look at all the thing. Depend upon it, it is all this walking to the village. A little such exercise is all very well, but you will wear yourself to the bone if you go on in this way.”
Lady Fieldhurst agreed readily, having previously given no thought to how she might abandon, now that it was no longer needed, the habit she had so firmly established.
She climbed the curving staircase to the accompaniment of the ladies’ best wishes for her improved health, forcing her steps to remain slow and steady until she reached the floor above, well out of sight of anyone in the hall below. Then she picked up her gray silk skirts and hurried the last few feet down the corridor to her assigned bedchamber, where she shut herself in, turned the key in the lock, and tugged vigorously on the bell-pull. She had not long to wait, but to Lady Fieldhurst, pacing the carpet, every moment seemed an eternity until at last she heard a faint tap on the service door. To her relief, it opened to reveal not Rose bearing a freshly laundered nightrail (or, worse, a vile-tasting concoction for her nonexistent headache), but her counterfeit footman bearing a scuttle filled with coal.
“You rang, my lady?” he asked with a formality belied by the twinkle in his eyes. While she struggled for words, he stepped past her and knelt before the fireplace, where he emptied his scuttle into the grate.
“What is that?” she asked, momentarily distracted.
“Coals for your fire. Mrs. Holland is already inclined to distrust me, and since she rules the servants’ hall with a rod of iron, I thought it best to provide myself with an errand.”
“But why should you care for Mrs. Holland’s good opinion, and what are you doing in the servants’ hall, and in such a guise?”
Having finished his task, he rose and brushed the knees of his blue satin breeches.
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