Beth didn't relax. "Tell them I'll be up soon," she said.
Ian nodded once and walked away.
Beth got to her feet, picking a minute piece of porcelain out of her skirt.
Curry stared at her, round-eyed, still holding the dustpan. "What happened?"
"I don't know. It slipped out of my hands." Beth dropped the last piece into the dustpan, her breath hurting as she spoke. "Oh, Curry, I feel so very awful."
"No, m'lady, I mean, what did 'e do?"
"He . . . fetched a broom and swept up the pieces. But I could see he was upset."
"That's all?"
"I wouldn't say that was all. He had trouble looking at me, and I know I've hurt him. He wanted that bowl so much."
Curry turned away, laid the dustpan next to the opened box, and propped the broom against the table.
"'E broke another bowl once," he said in a slow voice, "about a year before 'e first clapped eyes on you.
It were 'orrible, m'lady. Screaming like . . . I've never 'eard a sound like that come out of a 'uman throat.
Me and Lords Mac and Cameron had to sit on 'im to keep 'im from 'urting 'isself. 'Is Grace wasn't 'ere--off politicking at the time--but 'Is Grace had to come back from wherever 'e was to calm Lord Ian down. It were days to get 'im to quiet, and none of us slept a wink."
Beth listened, disquieted. She'd seen Ian in what he called his "muddles," when he lost control of his rage or performed an action over and over, desperately trying to make sense of whatever had happened to set him off. But he'd not done that in years, not since their marriage ceremony in their cozy house not far from here. Beth's domestic life so far had been nothing short of blissful.
Ian had broken Beth's heart the night she'd met him, when he'd explained that he had no ability to love, had no idea what love felt like.
He'd since proven he did know how to love--he proved it every day.
"Ian's become quite good at controlling his rages," Beth said, but the words didn't come out with the conviction she'd hoped they would.
"Aye, and we all breathe a sigh of relief, we do, knowing you're looking after 'im. But this were a Ming bowl. Maybe 'e's just 'olding it in."
"He'd never let himself go into one of his muddles in the nursery. He'd never do anything to hurt the babies." Her conviction was firmer now.
"If ye recall, 'e didn't actually say 'e were going to the nursery. 'E only said the kiddies were finishing their naps."
Beth and Curry shared a worried look, then both of them rushed to the door. At the last minute, Curry stepped back to let Beth exit first, then they hurried down the hall and up the long staircase to the huge nursery the cousins shared when the family gathered.
Nanny Westlock, who considered herself in charge of the rest of the nannies, looked up from her darning in surprise as Beth and Curry ran inside the sunny room.
Near one of the wide windows, Ian was just lifting Belle out of her cot. Two-and-a-half year-old Jamie had already headed for the large wooden rocking horse he'd received from Cameron for his second birthday.
Ian set Belle on the floor and held her little hands while she walked eagerly toward Beth. "Mama!"
she said brightly. Ian slowed his giant steps for her, his boots alongside her chubby legs.
"Look at me, Mama!" Jamie yelled from the horse. "Like Uncle Cam."
"Excellent, Jamie," Beth said. "Uncle Cameron says you have a good horseman's seat." She lifted Belle as Belle dropped Ian's hands and raised her arms for her mother.
Ian put his hand on Belle's back, Ian always worried that the little girl would fall. Beth hugged her close, determined to prove she wouldn't drop this precious package at least.
Ian met Beth's gaze and gave her one of his rare, full smiles. No pain lingered in his eyes, only the warmth he showed when he was in the nursery. The bowl might never have been broken.
"Yes, Mr. Curry?" Nanny Westlock said as Curry lingered in the doorway. "May I be of assistance?"
"Just going, Miss Westlock. Ye run your kingdom to your 'eart's content."
Miss Westlock only gave him a look, but Curry grinned at Beth and shut the door behind him.
Ian moved to Jamie and started showing him how to hold the reins between his small fingers. Jamie was already tall for his age and robust. He'd be a towering Mackenzie before long.
Beth cuddled Belle in her arms and watched her husband become absorbed in his children. She hoped Curry would take the broken pieces downstairs, but she'd have to worry about the bowl and what to do about it later.
*** *** *** The at least twenty people in the servants' hall listened in horror and then surprise as Curry related his tale. John Bellamy, his blunt fingers working a needle to repair the lining of one of Lord Mac's riding coats, listened while Curry spoke with his usual flair for dramatics. Curry finished by dumping the contents of the dustpan across the table, what was left of a very expensive Ming bowl.
"'Er ladyship wants it put together again," Curry finished. "So 'ow 'bout it?"
The servants around the table leaned forward, white caps and dark and light heads bent as hands reached for the pieces and started sorting.
Bellamy stayed out of it, his hands with their ill-healed broken fingers not good for lifting delicate things like shards of porcelain. A needle and thread was about as nimble as he could get. He usually asked a maid to help him with mending Lord Mac's clothes, but there was so much to do to ready the house for Christmas that he didn't feel it right to bother them.
As he watched the others start fitting pieces together and arguing about what went where, he again thought about his decision to retire. Lord Mac should have a younger man, one more like the suave Marcel who waited on the duke, instead of a broken-down former pugilist.
Lord Mac's lady wife was looking after him fine now. No more did Bellamy need to lift a limp and drunken Lord Mac, undress him like a child, and put him to bed.
Bellamy was nearing forty, and he'd been in one too many fights. He'd worked for a crooked fight manager who'd staged every one of Bellamy's matches, but that didn't mean the punches hadn't been real.
Time for him to move on. He'd run a pub, or he'd train young boxers and teach them how to avoid working for outright thieves.
Wouldn't be easy to tell Lord Mac, though. Lord Mac's feelings would be hurt, but Bellamy knew that his lordship didn't truly need him anymore.
Feeling slightly sad, Bellamy laid aside his mending and left the hall, seeking the back door. He heard the others' exclamations of surprise when Curry explained that Lord Ian hadn't had one of his fits when the bowl broke, but Bellamy was not amazed. Lord Ian had been a changed man since he'd married little Mrs. Ackerley.
There was another reason Bellamy wanted to go. He was lonely.
Outside, all was dark, and freezing. The sun had gone, night coming swiftly this far north. Bellamy's breath fogged out, and his feet crunched on the frozen ground. No snow at the moment, but it was coming.
He walked around the corner of the kitchen wing, out of the wind. He heard a gasp, saw another fog of breath, and stopped. At his feet crouched a bundle of clothes. Not rags--the person inside had piled on as many layers as possible against the cold.
A face inside a hood stared up at Bellamy, terror in her eyes flaring as she took in his height and breadth.
"Please," she said. "Don't make me move on yet. Just a while longer, out o' the wind."
Her accent wasn't broad, but it put her from right here in the Highlands. Bellamy had never seen her before.
"Who are you?"
Bellamy's voice came out harsh and scratched. His east London accent couldn't be reassuring either.
The woman flinched, but she held on to her courage. "I'm no one. But please, if you could spare a bit of bread before I go."