Blackthorne. Ruth Langan
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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.”
A few minutes later she returned, followed by the pretty little redheaded servant who had been at his bedside. She took a seat beside Bennett.
“Lost your appetite again?” the girl whispered.
He nodded.
“Cook probably prepared mutton again. I know how you hate it. Here. I’ll help.” She placed a fork in his hand and pointed it toward the plate. “You must try at least a little taste of everything on your plate.”
With the gentleness of a new mother she coaxed and praised until he had managed to eat almost everything.
“I suggest you do the same, young man,” Olivia said in an aside to Liat.
“Yes, ma’am.” The boy chewed woodenly while he kept his gaze fixed on the table.
All the while, at the head of the table, Lord Stamford ate in stony silence, speaking neither to his brother nor to the infuriating nursemaid and her young charge.
When the meal was done the housekeeper, eager to atone for the mutton, motioned for a young servant to approach the table with a tray of tarts.
“Ye’ve not had dessert, m’lord.”
Quenton waved her away and lifted his goblet, draining it.
When the serving wench approached Bennett, his eyes lit like a child’s.
“Would you like one or two?” Minerva asked. Without waiting, she removed two from the tray and placed them on his plate.
“Young master?” The servant paused beside Liat’s chair and the boy took one tart in each hand.
“It is proper to take only one,” Olivia whispered.
“Bennett took two.”
“Bennett may have taken two, but you may have only one.”
“What if I’m still hungry after I eat it?”
“Then we shall see about a second tart.”
Olivia sipped her tea and watched as the boy returned one of the tarts to the tray before nibbling at his pastry.
“So, boy.” Quenton sat back and waited until a servant had removed his dishes. “What has Miss St. John taught you so far?”
At Quenton’s booming question, the lad hastily chewed and gulped, then set aside the rest of his pastry and stared at the table. “She taught me—” he thought a moment “—not to be afraid of monsters.”
“Monsters?” There was a long moment of silence. “Now there’s a fine lesson.” Quenton’s sarcasm was not lost on Olivia. “What else has she taught you?”
Liat thought long and hard. Then he smiled as he lifted his head and met Quenton’s direct look. “She taught me to take only one tart at a time.”
A hint of amusement flickered in Quenton’s eyes, then just as quickly was extinguished, leaving only his familiar frown. “So much knowledge, Miss St. John.” He gave a mocking bow of his head. “I can hardly wait to see what he will know in a fortnight.”
The harshness stung. But Olivia held her head high and refused to be goaded into another outburst She was still mortified that she had allowed her temper to rule her tongue. Her sweet, docile parents would have understood her need to champion the hungry, but would have been sorely embarrassed at her lack of manners, as was she.
“Is the boy in need of anything, Miss St. John?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him once more of the boy’s name. But she cautioned herself that one scene was more than enough for this, her first dinner in his presence.
“Liat’s clothing seems a bit inadequate for our English weather. Especially if he is to accompany me on walks through the countryside.”
He nodded. “I’ll have Pembroke take you and the lad to the village tomorrow. I’ll trust you to buy him whatever he needs.”
“Thank you.”
Just then Liat slipped from his seat and walked around the table.
Quenton sent him a look of dark disapproval. “You did not ask to be excused, lad.”
“Nay, sir. I am not leaving.”
“Then where do you think you’re going?”
Even Olivia was puzzled by the boy’s action.
He paused beside Bennett. “I...don’t like to talk much either. But if you’d like, I’ll talk for you.”
Bennett looked thunderstruck. The servant, Minerva, clapped a hand to her mouth. And Quenton’s look darkened to fury. “You will take your seat at once, lad. And when we’re finished here your governess and I will have a little...”
Before he could finish, Bennett reached a hand to Liat’s. For a moment he merely