“Foot-and-mouth,” a voice said, sounding aggrieved.
Anthony turned his head to see that his pigman Johns had come stumping up to the pig-cote, and now stood looking over the balustrade, his big round red face creased in bitter lines.
“I beg your pardon?” Anthony said, resisting the urge to look nervously down at his own feet which, so far as he knew, were in tiptop condition.
“That there Cremwell’s been saying the Duchess has foot-and-mouth, guv’nor.”
“A filthy lie.”
“You’re not wrong there. I mean, look at those hooves, guv’nor. Ever seen anything more beautiful in your life?”
“Well,” said Anthony, hesitating, torn between honesty and loyalty, but Johns was on a roll.
“It hurts, don’t it, to know that damned blabby lickspittle’s spreading such things about. And here’s me, despite all his flams and clankers, the very soul of politeness! But it’s trying, guv’nor, very trying. Why, old Moore came shamble-legging up to me yesterday, blathering on about vinegar remedies till it was all I could do to not land him a facer.”
“Vinegar remedies? What rot. I’d have been incensed too.”
“Right waspish I was, guv’nor, that I’ll not deny.” Johns shook his head morosely. “But it’s just this sort of ill-meaning tittle-tattle that might sway them there judges come festival time.”
“By God, so it might,” said Anthony, much struck. “We can’t have that.”
“Weren’t you gonta tell Mr. Penhallow to make Cremwell stubble it, guv’nor?”
“Well, I was, Johns, if not quite in those terms, but I’ve been tethered to the ancestral pile by the miserable chains of hospitality.” Even as Anthony said this, he felt a sudden burst of exuberance overtake him. The Preston-Carnabys were now little more than an exhausting memory, and he was (for now) a free man again. This, he thought jubilantly, straightening up, was no doubt how mighty Samson felt upon regaining his strength in the temple, casting off his shackles and toppling all those pillars.
Although, of course, he did die right after that.
A sobering detail.
Anthony cast a glance past the Duchess’ pig-cote and to the lake beyond, where, on the opposite shore, stood the full-scale replica of a Greek temple built by his great-grandfather Osbert who, for some obscure reason, had seemed to think it an appropriate use of ducal resources.
It was easy to imagine Samson, arms outstretched, poised between two of those massive columns.
As he gazed thoughtfully across the lake, it also occurred to Anthony that it had been quite a while since his last haircut.
Hadn’t Margaret been nagging him about that, in fact? He seemed to recall some pointed remarks on the subject recently at breakfast, but as he preferred at all times to read the papers while he had his eggs, toast, and so on, his memory was rather vague.
Dismissing the question from his mind, he handed the Duchess’ stick to Johns, gave a loud whistle, and said cheerfully:
“I’m off, then.”
Four dogs came dashing out of the nearby woods with flattering alacrity. Bounding on long powerful legs, his wolfhound Breen came first, followed by—rather neatly in order of size—two dogs of uncertain parentage, Joe (possible retriever) and Sam (maybe a shepherd), and finally the lame little pug Snuffles, a runt and Wakefield’s favorite among the four, whom Anthony had rescued from certain extinction at the hands of the small-minded village draper. Strictly speaking, Snuffles didn’t dash—given the infinitesimal length of his legs, his run was more like a lolloping skitter, but it was, as he and Wakefield often agreed, the most adorable thing they had ever seen.
“Come on, you lot,” he said to them, and together they made their way to the stables where he left them to hobnob with the horses and shamelessly importune the grooms for treats. And then he was on his horse and on his way to Surmont Hall.
Oh dear, Jane thought anxiously, she was going to be late.
She had overslept (again)—what she’d intended to be only a brief afternoon nap turned into a deep sleep of some three or four hours—and she’d gotten lost (again) in the dizzying maze of corridors, galleries, hallways, and staircases within this vast, ancient house.
Too, if truth be told, she had wandered (again, but by accident this time) into the Picture Gallery, and it was impossible not to stop and stare at the portraits of Grandfather Titus, marveling (again) at their uncanny resemblance to herself. Also, it was helpful to see the paintings of her cousin Gabriel when he was a little boy, and Great-grandmother Henrietta, too, as a girl, for it was a reassuring reminder that they too had once been actual children and, perhaps, not quite as self-assured as they were now as fully fledged adults. Jane also marveled once more at how nice everyone had been to her these past few days, how kind and accepting of her, as if she weren’t a little lost sparrow but actually a swan like them. Nantwich seemed further and further away, and with each passing hour she was beginning, slowly but surely, to feel more and more at home here.
Breathlessly Jane turned a corner, found herself at last in the hallway which led to the Little Drawing-room, and—still amazed at finding herself in a house so large that the various rooms actually had names—hurried to the open door, then stopped abruptly on the threshold when she saw that the family, at the moment represented by Great-grandmother Henrietta and Livia, had two guests for tea.
This would be her first real encounter with people from the neighborhood.
Reflexively Jane ran her hands along the smooth pale-green muslin of her gown—one of Livia’s, actually, which she had generously given to Jane. Great-grandmother had directed one of the maidservants to quickly alter it to accommodate Jane’s very different dimensions, and had also consigned forevermore to the rubbish heap the old, dirty gown in which Jane had traveled from Nantwich, saying that it wasn’t even fit to be cut down into floor-rags.
Jane had not been sorry to see it go.
She glanced down at the hem of her new gown, saw with satisfaction that her ankles were neatly concealed, and also noticed with satisfaction that three days of food and sleep and baths and also kindness did wonders for one’s confidence, then stepped into the room feeling more like herself than she had in a long, long time.
“Here she is,” said Great-grandmother Henrietta, smiling at Jane, and introduced her to Miss Humphrey, a plump bespectacled middle-aged lady with lustrous brown hair and kind soft eyes, and to Miss Trevelyan, also middle-aged, slim, elegant, vigorous-looking, dressed in a plum-colored gown of modish cut and with a dashing coiffure of graying curls swept high on her head.
“You’re quite the nine days’ wonder, Miss Kent,” said Miss Trevelyan, who had stood up to affably shake hands with Jane. “To think that you’ve only recently learned your true identity! How delightful. You may inspire me to try my hand at a novel—it would make a splendid plot, you know. A lovely young woman, born to a life of humble obscurity, discovers at twenty she’s actually a member of one of England’s oldest and most distinguished families.”
Miss Trevelyan paused, on her face a look of dreamy enthusiasm, then went on thoughtfully:
“Although it would hardly be innovative, would it? Been done to death, really. Also, it would probably be better if the young woman turned out to be a princess or a duchess or something along those lines—especially if there’s some sort of dark, enigmatic hero, too, with a fine curling lip of disdain. I daresay the book would sell better that way.”