Ruth Langan - Blackthorne

“My brother can’t speak,” Quenton said simply.

“But I heard...” she began before Quenton cut her off with a warning look.

“He may make a few unintelligible sounds when he is asleep, but awake, he is incapable of speech. Would you care to take a seat?”

He indicated several chairs around the fireplace. Olivia perched on the edge of one. Liat climbed up to another, then settled himself back against the cushions.

Quenton was determined to be civil, if it killed him. “I’m told you lived in Oxford, Miss St. John.”

“Yes.” She felt a wave of pain that caught her by surprise. How she missed her home and her parents, and the friends she had known for a lifetime.

Quenton was watching her closely. As was his silent brother.

“Did your father teach at the university?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice. She swallowed twice before managing, “He was a professor of botany and zoology. My mother and I acted as his assistants.”

“You assisted him? In what way?”

She flushed. “In very minor ways, I assure you. He taught me the names of plants and animals. When he took me into the fields, I was expected to watch for certain species, and collect them for his students.”

“I see. And did you go into the fields often?”

“Every weekend.” Her smile bloomed. “I did so enjoy those times. I thought...if you wouldn’t mind, that is, I’d like to take Liat for walks around Blackthorne and see if he might learn the names of some of the plants and animals.”

He glanced at the lad. “Would you like that, boy?”

“I...suppose so, sir.”

“Good. Then you have my permission, Miss St. John.” His eyes narrowed. “I must insist, however, that you stay away from the cliffs.”

“The cliffs?”

Before he could respond there was a knock on the door, and the housekeeper entered, followed by her serving wenches.

“Come, Miss St. John. Liat.” Quenton signaled to the village youth, who hurried forward to carry Bennett to a seat at the table.

Olivia was left to ponder the wide range of emotions she could read in the two brothers’ eyes before they had turned away so abruptly. A brooding, simmering fury in Quenton’s. And in Bennett’s, stark terror at the mention of the cliffs.

She thought again about what Edlyn had told her. Quenton’s wife had been found dead at the foot of those cliffs. And Bennett had been found nearby, barely clinging to life.

Sadly, whatever Bennett knew about the tragedy was locked away in his battered mind.

Perhaps forever.

Chapter Five

Pembroke stood at attention behind Quenton, who sat at the head of the table. Bennett sat at his left side, with Olivia at his right side and Uat beside her. The housekeeper bustled around the table, directing the servants in the proper way to serve the guests.

Wine was poured in three goblets, though only Quenton tasted his. This was followed by a silver tray of biscuits so light they seemed to melt on the tongue. A second servant followed offering a tray of clotted cream and fruit conserves. There was a platter of new potatoes swimming in gravy, and a second platter of vegetables arranged in a clear liquid of broth.

As each course was offered, Olivia would spoon some onto her own plate and help Liat do the same.

When a serving wench approached the head of the table with a large platter, Quenton glanced at the servant, then at the housekeeper.

“What is this, Mistress Thornton?”

“Mutton, m’lord.”

“Did you inform Cook that my brother dislikes mutton? I specifically told you that he prefers beef. Or kidney pie.”

“Aye, m’lord. But Cook says yer grandfather preferred mutton. So much so that he ordered her to prepare it every night of his life.”

“Then tell her to feed it to my grandfather. And tell her also, if she serves mutton again tomorrow, she may well be joining my grandfather in his grave.”

“Aye, m’lord. I’ll tell that churlish, boil-brained harpy myself.” The housekeeper turned the full weight of her anger and embarrassment on the innocent servant. “Take this maggot-pie back to the scullery and feed it to the animals. That’s all it’s good for.”

Shocked, Olivia looked from Lord Quenton to the housekeeper. “You can’t mean that. You wouldn’t feed this to the animals.”

Quenton glowered at her. “And why not?”

“Because the servants are probably making do with little more than bread crusts and gruel.” The words were out of her mouth before she could snatch them back. Too late, she remembered where such a seed had been planted. By the servant Edlyn. “They would probably consider such a meal as this heaven-sent.”

The housekeeper’s jaw dropped. In her entire life, no one had ever dared to speak to the lord in such a manner. She looked toward Lord Quenton, whose dark gaze was fixed on the young nursemaid with such intensity, everyone in the room could feel the heat.

“Are you suggesting that my mutton should be given to the servants?”

“Your mutton, my lord? I thought you said it was Cook’s mutton? Did you not suggest you would have Cook’s head if she should dare to fix it again?”

Bennett, whose plate was heaped with food, and who had yet to taste a bite of it, swiveled his head to stare at his brother. His eyes seemed too big in his pale face.

Behind Lord Quenton, Pembroke stood stiff as a fence post, his face showing no emotion. But he was watching this battle of wills with great interest.

“It may prove to be Cook’s head. Or...someone else’s,” Quenton said pointedly. “But I’ll remind you it is my food, Miss St. John. And I’ll say who will eat it and who will not.” He pounded a fist on the table. “Mistress Thornton.”

The housekeeper cowered as she moved closer, anticipating an explosion.

“Is it true that the servants are eating bread and gruel?”

“N-nay, m’lord. Well...that is, rarely. Only when Cook’s in a snit over something said by one of the servants. But they have meat and soup at least thrice a week. Ofttimes even more than that.”

His lips thinned. “Then they are better fed than if they found employment somewhere else?”

“Oh, aye, my lord. All in the village are eager to serve at Blackthorne. It has been thus since the time of your great-grandfather.”

“Thank you, Mistress Thornton. Take this to the servants’ quarters.” Though he was speaking to the housekeeper, he kept his gaze fixed on the insolent nursemaid. “Tell them I hope they enjoy the mutton.”

For a moment Mistress Thornton was speechless. Then, recovering, she gave the serving wench a shove. “Go on with ye, now. Ye heard Lord Stamford. Tell all those yeasty, clay-brained mammets to be grateful for his lordship’s generosity.”

As the servant stumbled from the room the housekeeper snatched the arm of another servant and pushed her forward. “Perhaps ye and yer brother would like some fowl, m’lord.”

For the space of several more seconds he glowered at Olivia. Then, dragging his gaze away, he helped himself to a joint of fowl and motioned for the wench to serve the others.

Olivia glanced at Bennett, who had not eaten a thing. “Would you like some help, Bennett?”

Quenton spoke through gritted teeth. “Have you no care for his feelings, Miss St. John? I told you my brother cannot speak.”

“So you have said. But there is nothing wrong with his hearing, is there?” She turned toward his brother. “Would you like some help, Bennett?”

The young man glanced up at her, then looked away, before giving a slight nod of his head.

“I’ll fetch Minerva,” the housekeeper muttered nervously. “She’s a young lass from the village. She has a way with ’im.”