“I won’t be begged,” Mrs. Blodgett said.
“There is no need for you to lift anything inhere heavier than a scone,” Macaulay said. “You are my cook and avalued member of this household. Your cooking alone may win theFrench guests over to our cause. Let Hetty and Tillie help.You’ve trained them well enough, haven’t you? And if anything heavyneeds carting about, call Bragg. Or, better still, I’ll haveStruthers’ lad, Cal, come in here from the stables after fouro’clock and be at your beck and call till bedtime.”
Mrs. Blodgett snorted, “We’ll just trip overhim!” Then she clutched her elbow and released a slow moan.
“I want you to let Tillie tuck you in rightnow, Mrs. B.,” Macaulay said. “And on Saturday, I’m going to bringthe doctor back here to have a closer look at you.”
“I won’t have no truck with witch doctors!”she cried.
Macaulay then did an unexpected thing. Heleaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Try to get some sleep,if you can.”
As Marc and Macaulay turned towards the door,Mrs. Blodgett called after them, “It ain’t been the same sinceAlfred left us, has it?”
The hallway was dark and Marc picked his wayup the steps. As they passed the pantry on their right, Marc hearda giggle, very much female and undeniably sexual. Bragg andPriscilla, he thought, behaving like servants everywhere. Perhapsthe new butler, however, had not approved, which might explain thetension among the three in the dining-room earlier. If Macaulayheard the giggle, he did not let on.
Seconds later they were back in the well-litrotunda.
“Mrs. B. and Alfred Harkness were veryclose,” Macaulay said. “They came here as young employees in myfather’s time, one a widower, the other a widow.”
“Didn’t he have a brother?” Marc asked,recalling some gossip he had heard from Charlene’s beau, JasperHogg.
Macaulay’s face darkened. “He did. GilesHarkness worked in the stables. He was my coachman and a wizardwith the horses.”
“Was?”
“He left in a great huff when he learned thatGraves Chilton was on his way here to take Alfred’s place.”
“But Chilton’s your butler, not thecoachman.”
“Indeed. But believe it or not, Giles hadthoughts of taking over from Alfred. But I wouldn’t let him near achina cup or a scullery maid. I may have let him know that a bittoo sharply. At any rate he’s gone off somewhere, and I’m short aman in the stables.”
“If anyone might have been envious ofChilton’s appointment, I’d have thought it would be Bragg.”
“True enough. But Bragg likes it where he is.The fellow hasn’t an ounce of ambition in him.”
They were at the door to the master bedroom.Through the nearby door to the bathroom they could hear someonesinging lustily, in French.
“Well, it’s nice to see Mr. Tremblay likessomething in Upper Canada,” Macaulay said.
They entered the bedroom, and Macaulay wentover to a table beside the four-poster bed and brought back twolarge tomes. “Tell your Beth that she can keep the Dickens as longas she likes. She may find little time for reading once the babyarrives.”
“It’s not due for another six weeks,” Marcsaid.
“That’s what Elizabeth thought when ourfirstborn surprised us.”
“I’ll have a leisurely gander at thisShakespearean treasure in my spare moments here,” Marc said at thedoor. “You’re not concerned about its security?” he added, strokingthe leather cover of the rare folio.
“Not at all. I trust my servants as I wouldmy family. Leave it beside your bed. It’ll be there whenever youget back.”
Marc thanked Macaulay and wished himgood-night He crossed the hall to his own bedroom door opposite. Ashe was easing it closed, he sensed some movement on the other sideof the rotunda. It was Graves Chilton. He had just emerged from thestairwell to the servants quarters. His jacket was buttonedcrookedly and his pomaded orange hair poked up in unintendeddisarray. He glanced about warily, then scuttled into his rooms afew feet away. That’s odd, Marc thought; Chilton had not been inthe kitchen or within earshot during the noisy incident with Mrs.Blodgett. Where had he been skulking? Just then Marc spotted AustinBragg descending the marble stairway from the upper floor of thenorthwest wing, an empty scuttle in his hand. Marc now had a prettygood idea where Chilton had been, and whom he had been with.Intrigue amongst the servants: that’s all they needed thisweek!
Marc crawled into bed and opened theShakespeare folio. Halfway through Twelfth Night he fellasleep.
***
Breakfast at Elmgrove was offered English-style.Sausages, pancakes, scrambled eggs and French toast were placedover chafing-dishes on the sideboard in the dining-room andreplenished periodically by the staff. The guests were free towander in as they pleased and help themselves. The Thursday meetingwas scheduled for eleven o’clock, which left plenty of time tosleep in, or rise early to prepare for the event or take someexercise outdoors. Marc awoke at eight, made his ablutions (withhot water supplied promptly by the ‘amorous’ parlour-maid,Priscilla Finch), dressed himself in casual clothes, and made hisway to the dining-room. He expected he might find Macaulay alreadythere, as they had arranged to go walking at nine-fifteen. As Marcapproached the half-open door, he was startled by a sudden burst ofinvective, loud and in unintelligible French. The voice was that ofMaurice Tremblay, shaking with rage. Next came a low, cautioningresponse, unmistakeably the voice of Louis LaFontaine. The onlyword that was clear to Marc had been uttered by Tremblay: vendu — sell-out, traitor.
Marc deliberately rattled the door-handle,paused until the voices ceased, and then entered the room with abooming, “Bon matin, messieurs! Un bel jour,n-est-ce-pas?”
LaFontaine had quickly regained his aplomb,and greeted Marc politely. Tremblay had turned away and was tryingto spoon some scrambled egg out of its dish with a trembling lefthand. Fortunately for all concerned, Macaulay and Bergeron cameinto the room at this point, already talking about the racehorsesawaiting their admiration in the stables. LaFontaine excusedhimself, and a minute later, with his breakfast untouched, Tremblayleft also. Bérubé apparently had decided to sleep in.
“I could hear him snoring away in there,”Bergeron said to Marc in French. “Sleeps like a hog. I barely got awink.”
After their breakfast, Marc, Macaulay andBergeron dressed warmly, put on a pair of snowboots, and headed outthe front door. Chilton was back at his desk in the little officeoff the foyer, thumbing through his master’s accounts. In thecrisp, nipping air of the morning, the delegates walked along thewinding trail that eventually met the Kingston Road. No fresh snowhad fallen overnight, so it was obvious to them that no man, beastor vehicle had come into Elmgrove via the main drive. They had goneonly a few hundred yards when Macaulay steered them towards apleasant path — again untrodden — that took them through a sprucegrove and back out to the east side of the manor house. Farther offto the east and slightly to the north, the horse-stables andcow-barn lay hunched down in the snow. A well-used, cleared pathlinked these outbuildings with the back door of the house, alongwhich the hired help would make their way, hauling firewood,bringing in fresh milk for breakfast, or scurrying off to theprivies to empty the chamber-pots.
Undeterred by the language barrier, and withan occasional assist from Marc, Macaulay and Bergeron strolledalong this path, discussing the pedigree and unmatchable qualitiesof Macaulay’s pair of prize Arabians, who awaited them in the barnjust ahead. Marc noticed two things: halfway to the stables a thickgrove of cedars acted as a welcome windbreak; and beyond thecow-barn sat a stone cottage with smoke curling out of itschimney.
“Ah, there’s Struthers now,” Macaulay said.“He’s no horse whisperer like Harkness but a damn fine livestockhandler just the same.”