He offered it to Anthony, who accepted it, blew off what looked like some dog hairs, and took a bite. “I say, it is good.”
Wakefield looked pleased. “Isn’t it? I ate five of them.”
Anthony took another bite, then said, “Look here, old chap, these are all very worthy activities, but you and I made a bargain. I agreed to let you stay at home and not go off to school, and you agreed to have lessons with Mr. Pressley. So you ought to stick to the bargain, don’t you think?”
Wakefield opened his mouth, closed it, kicked at the gravel, hopped on one foot, lagged behind, ran to catch up, and finally said, “Yes, Father.”
“Splendid. Want the last bite?”
“Yes, please.” Wakefield took what was left of the biscuit and ate it. “I say, Father, I don’t think Aunt Margaret meant it when she said you’re the worst duke in the world.”
“Oh yes, she did,” answered Anthony dispassionately.
“There’s probably worse ones in China, Father, or in the Colonies, or Antarctica.”
“You’re a great comfort to me, my boy.”
“One does try.”
Anthony ruffled his son’s tawny hair, repressed a sigh at the thought of the predictably ghastly tea that lay ahead of him, and then the two of them passed into the stables which smelled so pleasantly of horse, hay, liniment, cheroot, and manure.
Meanwhile, over at Surmont Hall . . .
Shivering, Jane Kent stood on the porch of the intimidatingly vast old house, gazing with considerable uneasiness at the massive door of dark knotted wood and the polished knocker which was just a little above her eye-level. She was uncomfortably aware that the hem of her shabby old gown was rather short, showing far too much of her scrawny ankles in equally shabby stockings and also entirely failing to conceal the fact that her dark half-boots, though sturdy, were (unfortunately) shabby too.
She tightened her grip on the small battered valise she held in both hands, additionally aware that she was ravenously hungry, underdressed for the winter weather, not as clean as she would like after traveling in various dingy coaches for four days, and that in the tatty reticule she carried looped around her bony wrist was all the money she had left in the world.
Three pounds, four shillings, and sixpence.
No, wait, that was wrong.
She had given the shillings to a nice old man named John Roger who had conveyed her from the village—Riverton—in his gig. He hadn’t wanted to take the money, but she had insisted.
It was his wife, curiously enough, who had helped her find her way here.
Jane had just climbed out of the coach from Bristol, and was standing, stiff and cold and bewildered, on the high street, when a stout old lady had come marching up and said in a satisfied way:
You’re right on time.
Of course, the old lady, who then introduced herself as Mrs. Roger, could have been referring to the coach’s traveling schedule, but somehow Jane didn’t think that was quite what she had meant. Still, before she could gather her scattered wits to try and frame a rational inquiry, Mrs. Roger had taken her over to where her husband happened to be standing with his gig and horse, hustled Jane up onto the high front seat, and said:
You’re to ask for old Mrs. Penhallow.
More bewildered than ever, Jane had thought about the fragile, yellowed letter she had in her possession, and only said, haltingly:
At Surmont Hall?
Mrs. Roger had looked up at her and calmly answered, Well, of course.
And just for a second Jane felt like she had asked a stupid question.
A loud complaining rumble from her empty stomach abruptly reminded her that she’d been standing on the wide gracious porch of Surmont Hall like a wax dummy. Well, it was now or never, she supposed.
So Jane lifted her hand and rapped the knocker in a way that sounded, she hoped, neither too assertive nor too timid—the easy, casual knock of a person who was certainly going to be admitted into this very, very grand house despite looking as if she really ought to be going around the back to the servants’ entrance and begging for a bowl of soup.
Which she might, in fact, shortly be doing.
A blast of cold sharp wind whipped at the hems of Jane’s gown and pelisse and, as if embodied in an unseen malevolent hand, it also ripped from her head her old flat-crowned straw bonnet, which flew high into the air, did three or four jaunty somersaults, and landed gracefully onto the tranquil waters of the large ornamental pond which lay beyond the curving graveled carriage sweep.
Jane was just about to go darting after it (as it was her only hat) when the big dark door opened and instead she was startled into immobility again. A beautifully dressed, well-fed, very clean young footman stood there, looking inquiringly at her.
“May I help you, miss?”
“Yes, please.” Jane realized that her voice had emerged all weak and croaky, like that of a despairing frog, perhaps, and hastily she cleared her throat. “I’ve—I’ve come to see Mrs. Penhallow.”
“Which one, miss?”
Jane gaped at the footman. Was this a trick question? How many Mrs. Penhallows could there possibly be? A dozen—a hundred—a thousand? Into her muddled mind came Mrs. Roger’s instructions and she said rather wildly, “The—ah—older Mrs. Penhallow, if you please.”
A little doubtfully, the footman said, “Is she expecting you, miss?”
“I—I have a letter.” This was true, although Jane was miserably conscious that her answer was more than a little opaque. Her stomach rumbled again, as if to helpfully remind her of just how miserable things were.
“Very well, miss. Won’t you please come inside?” The footman stepped aside, and gratefully Jane went into the light and warmth of an immense high-ceilinged hall, catching quick glimpses of an enormous fireplace flanked by gleaming suits of armor, a coat of arms carved into the massive chimney-piece, a large and unnerving display of old weapons on one wall, a wide curving staircase leading to the upstairs.
Everything was so big—and it made her feel so very small.
Jane shrank a little inside her pelisse, feeling extremely out of place among all this elegance and grandeur, and also hoping she hadn’t tracked mud inside. Her idea back in Nantwich, to upend her life because of a yellowy old letter discovered by chance, had seemed so brilliant and important at the time, but now it struck her as reckless, demented, asinine, ruinous folly.
Still, maybe there would be soup.
She thought of a nice fragrant steaming hot bowl of it, filled with, say, chunks of beef, and with carrots and parsnips and onions. Maybe some celery and diced potatoes, too.
Then she pictured a lovely thick slice of fresh bread, with a spongy tender crumb and a crisp chewy crust.
No, two slices. Why not?
In her mind’s eye she pictured herself lavishly spreading onto the bread as much butter as she liked.
Lots and lots of it, fresh-churned and creamy, with a little sprinkle of salt, perhaps.
Covering every bit of the slice, all the way to the crust.
She would eat these two buttery slices very methodically—it would give her soup a chance to cool a little.
Next she imagined another slice of bread, which she wouldn’t butter, but would instead dip into her soup. It would soak up the rich beefy broth, and get all soft and drippy, and she’d have to carefully bite at it so as not to spill a single drop.