Page 3 of The Butler and the Bluestocking
Chapter Two
York, March 28, 1817
Just as dawn broke, the Honorable Malcolm Kentigern Marr, younger brother of the current Earl of Strathnaver, stared at the front door of their godmother’s York townhouse. Exhausted and bleary-eyed, he tried to figure out why the knocker was off and the house locked tighter than a medieval chastity belt?
Had he gotten the dates wrong? He was certain Godmama Rose, had said he could visit with her while attending the York Antiquarian Society seminars which would begin on April twenty-third. Most likely it was Godmama who’d forgotten. Travel was her passion, and she could be quite hare-brained when a journey was involved. She would drop everything at a moment’s notice, if opportunity arose to voyage to new and exotic locales. On those occasions it was surprising that she remembered to dismiss what servants she did not take with her.
What do I do now?
Finding a hotel would be the logical choice. However, the York Season was beginning, and the town was full to overflowing. Besides, arriving at this hour of the morning would not make any reputable innkeeper happy.
The idea of taking a room in a less than reputable hostelry made him shudder. That way was a near certain invitation to damp sheets, fleas, and two-legged vermin. He was much too tired to deal with such nonsense. Damn the hidden pothole that had destroyed a perfectly good curricle, given him and his tiger innumerable bruises, and forced him to pay a needlessly high amount for a ride on the slowest oxcart imaginable. Leaving the curricle in the care of his tiger, Mal and the thick-brogued driver—who drank entirely too much ale as he drove—had arrived at the outskirts of York shortly after midnight. Mal had begged the man to go all the way to the townhouse, but the oaf refused. “‘Tis too lang a way fer me puir beasties. Yer welcome t’ sleep in me wagon. I’ll be heading t’ th’ markets first thing in th’ morning. After I deliver me onions, happen I’ll take ye t’ this townhouse ye talk of, but it’ll cost ye another three shillings.”
Mal wanted no part of the proffered bed of onions, nor the opportunity to waste more blunt on the most uncomfortable ride in Christendom. The driver had actually charged Mal tuppence for every sip of ale—the water he carried was reserved for his ‘puir beasties’—during the long drive. Now Malcolm was cold, thirsty, exhausted, stank of onions and ale, and frustrated at finding his godmother not at home.
No, in his condition a hotel was out of the question. He would stay here, but how to get in?
In the end, he was forced to break a pane in the glass of the door from the herb garden to the house, and cut himself on a shard as he reached to unbolt the latch to open the door. He managed to wash the cut and stanch the bleeding with a clean rag from a barrel in the kitchen. No food could be found save for some bins of flour, sugar and tea. Of course not. If Godmama was traveling, she’d not leave food to spoil. Giving up on the idea of eating, he headed for the study to see if he could discover when Godmama Rose had left and where she had gone.
He found nothing in the study to tell him about his godmother. However, he did find a decanter of Strathnaver Whisky. From the scent of the brew, it must be a good century old or more. Some of the best whisky available. Aye, that was Godmama, nothing but the best. He poured a tumbler full of the beverage and, taking both glass and decanter, headed for the wingback chairs that flanked the hearth.
Finally, God smiled on him. The woodbox was full of kindling and logs. Soon he had a fire going to warm himself. He settled into the closest chair, put his feet up on an ottoman and sipped his whisky while planning how to tell his godmother that he’d broken into her house. He was in the midst of a complicated story about letters gone astray and misunderstandings when he closed his eyes to ponder the logic and promptly fell asleep.
Chapter Three
York, noon, March 28, 1817
