A butler’s primary purpose is to serve his employer thoroughly and discreetly. Valor is the first part of discretion. It also helps to possess a large dose of tolerance and a very, very short memory.
A COMPLEAT HANDBOOK
FOR BEING A MOST PROPER BUTLER
by Richard Robert Reeves
Rochester House
Somerset, England
1806
Pristine and perfect, the river wound through carefully tended forests, flirting here and there with the stone paved path before gently toppling into a wide, crystal clear pond. The deep blue waters reflected the flawless outline of a meticulously planned rotunda decorated with several columns and a pink marble fountain. Over the years, the rotunda had served as a trysting spot for lord, lady, prince, and pauper.
Over this astonishingly well orchestrated bit of idyllic beauty rose a nearby hillock. On it, set like a crown on a velvet pillow, sat a massive and stately manor house of lush gold brick, the mullioned windows sparkling enticingly in the late afternoon sun.
Rochester House was widely agreed to be the epitome of culture. The King himself had lauded the house and its furnishings as “the most exquisite in all of England.”
The comment had been made almost two score years ago, and at the time, the sixth earl had merely bowed his head ever-so-slightly to acknowledge it. Privately, of course, he’d been quite pleased, but it would have been ill bred to have appeared so. And a Rochester was never, ever ill bred.
Still, the earl allowed himself a generous amount of time in private to savor the King’s admiration. Each night, before closing his eyes, he remembered the words and the exact expression on the King’s face as he uttered them. It helped Rochester fall asleep and often gave him the most delightful dreams.
Except now, of course. Now, he was far too busy with the irritating duty of dying with dignity.
The dying part was, he thought, rather simple. It was the “with dignity” portion that was a struggle. But then, anything worth doing was worth a good fight. The earl had learned that caveat long, long ago.
To be honest, Rochester should not have been surprised that he was dying. After all, he was well past his seventieth year of age, a fact he attempted to hide from his peers by keeping to powdered wigs for as long as fashion allowed, the liberal use of rouge, and a superb wardrobe that dazzled the eye and removed notice from his sallow, sagging skin and wrinkled brow.
To further add to the illusions of youth, he’d also married a woman who was more than half a century younger than he. Ostensibly he’d married the lovely, vapid Miss Leticia Crowell for the express purpose of adding a beautiful woman to his household, much like purchasing a certain type of orchid to decorate one’s dinner table.
The truth was, Rochester was desperate for a child. He’d thought to marry, produce a son, and thus secure his lands, fortune, and title. He winced even now at the crassness of it all. It was so tawdry, this breeding aspect. Sex for the purpose of pleasure was an art. Sex in an effort to bring forth a mewling child – Rochester curled his lip.
He’d never thought he’d have trouble fathering a child. After all, he’d managed to father two very healthy ones years before he married, why would he have any difficulties after? Which was why he’d waited so long before tying himself to the demands of some silly chit who had to be told twice that one did not wear diamonds to a morning visit.
“Diamonds!” he muttered into the quiet of the room, then grimaced. “Before noon.”
It was demmed unfortunate fate possessed such a cruel sense of humor. Here he was, gasping his last breath, married to a chit with more hair than wit, and not a single legitimate son to inherit either his wealth or the Rochester name. The name he’d worked so hard to build into something unique, something memorable, much like this house, was destined to die with him.
His fingers curled over the single sheet of paper resting in his hand, the noise drawing his gaze. With the two names written here, he would make right all the things he’d done wrong. Even from the grave, he would maintain the quality of the Rochester name and keep the house in the family. It was a bold plan. But then . . . he was a bold man.
He smiled, wincing when a sharp pain rattled through his shoulder, the pressure on his chest increasing. Damn it, he had so little time left. Why had he waited so long?
The huge mahogany door that led into the earl’s chamber opened and a tall, perfectly groomed individual entered. The man was dressed in the deep black of a butler, his air stately and calm. He carried a silver tray covered with a linen cloth.
Rochester never allowed any but the most elegant of servants in his employ. Yet even he had to admit that his butler, the indispensable Reeves, was a gem among gems. There was something startlingly commanding about Reeves. Dark and slender, his hair traced over each ear with a distinguished stroke of gray. And his wicked way of putting a shine on boots that had caught even Beau Brummel’s attention.
Rochester had the world’s best butler and the entire ton was aware of it. Four times in the last two months alone, other members of the nobility had attempted to hire Reeves away, but Rochester knew the man’s worth and he paid the butler a fortune.
Reeves set the tray on the table beside the bed. He removed a silver cover to reveal an amber-filled glass.
Rochester’s hopes rose even more. “Bourbon?”
“Indeed, my lord.”
“But Letty said she’d poured my bourbon out the window!”
“Had I realized what my lady was about, I might have been able to talk her into a more rational act, such as sending the bourbon to your summer estate. Alas, I was too late.”
“Blasted interfering chit,” Rochester muttered sourly.
“Lady Rochester was distressed you refused to listen to the doctor’s good advice and continued to imbibe.”
“I may be ill, but I am not yet dead!”
“No, indeed, my lord. Fortunately for all concerned, I just this moment recalled I had hidden a stray bottle of bourbon in the cellar in case the troubles with France worsened and our supply dwindled.” Reeves paused. “A good butler always looks forward.”
“Reeves, you are a godsend,” Rochester said fervently, wetting his dry lips and struggling to sit upright.
Reeves assisted him, plumping the earl’s pillow and smoothing the sheets, all the little touches which made the butler so indispensable.
It took Rochester a few moments to catch his breath after such an effort, during which time Reeves discreetly removed a small vial from his pocket and held it over the coveted bourbon. A few drops plopped into the glass.
“Hold!” gasped Rochester, appalled. “What are you doing?”
“Putting your tonic in your bourbon, my lord.”
“I don’t want that damn stuff! It’s ghastly!”
Reeves calmly picked up a waiting spoon and gently stirred, the silver clinking against the fine glass. “No bourbon, my lord? None at all?”
“I want the bourbon, damn you! But not that vile tonic.”
“I realize that, my lord. So did the doctor when you had him ejected from the house by the footman.” Reeves pursed his lips. “I believe the man’s broken arm will heal in time, thank goodness.”
That had been a bit rude of him, Rochester realized, though the charlatan had deserved it. “I don’t need tonic.”
Reeves looked at the earl’s hand.
Rochester became aware that he was rubbing his chest with his palm, trying to erase the constant pressure. He dropped his hand. “Take that poison away! I won’t have it!”
Reeves put the spoon back on the tray and replaced the silver cover over the glass. “Very well, my lord.” He picked up the tray. “Will there be anything more? Some sherry, perhaps?”
Rochester sent his butler a sour glare. “Sherry is horse piss and water!”
“Just so, my lord.” Reeves bowed. “I, and the bourbon, will take our leave, then.”
“Do that!” Rochester said in a petty tone. “My valet, Miller, will fetch me a fresh glass of bourbon.”
“Your valet would indeed fetch you a glass of bourbon . . . if he knew where to find it.” Reeves walked sedately to the door, the tray delicately balanced on one hand. “Which, of course, he does not.”
“You said you found the bottle in the wine cellar so I shall have him look for it there,” the earl said testily.
Reeves paused at the door. “Was, my lord. The bottle was in the wine cellar. Now however, it is not.”
Rochester cursed, loud and long.
The butler’s bland expression never changed. But as soon as the earl’s outburst subsided, Reeves said, “I shall tell Miller to bring some tepid milk, to help with your bilious stomach.”
“I don’t have a bilious stomach and you know it! I—I—I—Oh blast you to hell! Bring me that damn bourbon. I only hope you have not completely ruined it with your poison.”
The glass of bourbon was in Rochester’s hand in a remarkably quick space of time. He sniffed it suspiciously, then took a sip. A warm tingle settled in his chest as the flavor flooded across his tongue. “Ah!”
Reeves smiled. “The tonic did not alter the taste too much?”
There was hardly any trace of the bitter tonic in the bourbon at all. Still, it would not do to let Reeves become too self important. Rochester needed the butler’s services too badly for that. Now more than ever. So instead of agreeing, the earl said testily, “It will do.”
Rochester took another sip, then lowered the glass and looked at his butler. “Reeves, I’m glad you’re here, for I’ve something to ask.”
Reeves picked up his lordship’s robe and placed it neatly in a large, gold leaf wardrobe. “Yes, my lord?”
“You are paid better than any butler in England.”
“Yes, my lord. I believe I am worth every pence.”
He had a point, Rochester thought grumpily. “I am not suggesting that you are not valuable. I only stated that you were paid well. You must agree with that.”
“How good of you to differentiate those two items, my lord,” Reeves intoned.
Rochester eyed him narrowly. “That sounded like sarcasm.”
Reeves gave a faint smile. “So it was. When I first began attending you, I did not possess such a skill. Perhaps I should ask for higher wages in light of such a skill.”
Rochester stared. “I should pay you for your sarcasm?”
"I would rather think of it as compensation for putting up with yours, my lord.”
Despite the ache that set on Rochester’s chest, a laugh burst from him. “Damn you, Reeves! I don’t know why I don’t horsewhip you for being so cheeky.”
“Probably because I know where the last and only bottle of bourbon is hidden.”
The medicine and bourbon were beginning to have an effect; the pressure in the earl’s chest lessened a little and a gentle glow enveloped him as he set the empty glass on the table beside the bed. “Reeves, all joking aside, I must speak with you. It’s about all of this—” He waved a hand to the room, indicating the entire property. “—when I die.”
“Shall I get her ladyship—”
“Good God no! Why would I want to do that? All that caterwauling—I won’t have it.”
“No, my lord. Her ladyship has the ability to reach a decibel most humans are unable to attain.”
“She’s a screecher. Wish I’d known that before I married the chit, but they always hide that sort of thing until it’s too late.” The earl sank into a gloom at this horrid thought and spent several moments mulling over the vagaries of women. Finally, he sighed. “But that’s neither here nor there. Reeves, you have gone above and beyond your duty since the day you arrived.”
“Thank you, my lord. It has been a privilege.”
“So it has been,” the earl said, pausing momentously. “Reeves . . . I have an errand for you. The most important errand you have ever had.”
Reeves set down the small hand towel he had been folding. “Yes, my lord?”
“Yes. Reeves, I want you to find my heir and see to it that he does not embarrass the Rochester name.”
Chapter 2
Resist the urge to over starch your employer’s cravats or muddy his boots in retaliation for some real or imagined slight. If you feel you must make a statement, it is most expedient to do so when the gentleman is eating. He will be in a more temperament mood and, at times, his mouth well-filled. For an astute butler, that could well be a Very Good Thing.
A COMPLEAT HANDBOOK
FOR BEING A MOST PROPER BUTLER
by Richard Robert Reeves
Standing on the cliffs of Dover, overlooking the wild North Sea, Captain James Llevanth grasped his cane tighter and limped to the edge of the cliff. The rock path that led from his cottage to this rocky promontory above the crashing waves and pounding surf was his sole solace. He loved the sea with a passion, but fate – and his mangled foot – had decreed he was to adore it from afar.
He winced as he looked down at his foot, which appeared annoyingly normal covered in a leather boot. It had not seemed a horrid wound at first; a bit of stray shot he’d caught during the heat of battle. It had hurt so little that he hadn’t known he was hit until afterwards, when one of his men exclaimed that his footprints were bloody. The worst came in the days afterwards. The wound hadn’t healed as it should, leaving a knotted mass of scar and bone deep aches.
It was cruel. Here he was surrounded with the scent of the sea, the sound of the ocean buffeting the wild waves, his own ship moored in the bay below. So close, yet unreachable.
“’Lor’ Cap’n!” came a voice from the path from the cottage.
The captain turned to find his first mate hurrying his way. “What’s toward, Stevens?”
“Batten the hatches! There’s a Lady O’ War headed this way and she looks ready to fire in our direction.”
Tristan looked over his first mate’s shoulder. There, marching down the ragged path that led into the garden, was a familiar figure. Smallish in size, shorter by a head than even Stevens, was a woman. She marched along without even looking at the path before her, attesting to the number of times she’d made the trip.
She reached the garden gate, flicked the latch to one side, entered the garden, and shut the gate smartly behind her. The wind tickled the bottom of her cloak, swirling it about her booted ankles and tugging at her tightly pulled hair.
Tristan glanced at Stevens. “I thought we were going to put a lock on that gate.”
“It’s on me list, cap’n.”
Tristan sent the first mate a flat stare.
“I mean t’say,” Stevens added hastily, “that I’ll see to it first thing this afternoon.”
Tristan nodded. When he’d first bought the cottage on the cliff, he and his men had been the only occupants for miles. In fact, other than an abandoned house that was almost hidden by brambles just a half mile down the rim of the cliff, they were the only structure in sight.
Tristan had liked the solitude and it had been with a sense of foreboding that one day, while looking out over the sea, he’d noticed that someone had cleaned away the brambles from the front of the empty house. His paradise was about to be invaded. Three months ago, a heavily laden cart had pulled up to the cottage and two women and their servants had alighted. Tristan’s life had taken a decided turn for the worse. “I don’t know why she insists on coming here.”
Stevens pursed his lips. “Perhaps she fancies ye.”
“And has decided to attract me hither by stealing my sheep and then hurling accusations at my head? I scarcely think it.”
Stevens lifted up on his toes as their visitor tramped up the path and out of sight a moment behind a large yew bush. “They say the doctor is smitten and wishes to marry the widow— the younger widow, not her mother, that is.”
Tristan flicked a hard glance at Stevens. “You have an uncanny ability to ferret out inane gossip. It’s a pity we were never sent to spy on the French. I’m certain the war would have been shorter simply by your efforts.”
“’Tis one of me many good qualities,” Stevens said serenely. “Ah, here she is. Full sail over the hillock, right on course.”
From Stevens, Tristan knew the young widow, Mrs. Prudence Thistlewaite, and her mother, Mrs. Emma Crumpton, had left London, bringing two servants with them, a starchy housekeeper named Mrs. Fielding, and Lucy, a rather pert upstairs maid with a pert nose and a full figure. Stevens apparently had a fondness for the maid, though it seemed she could not stand him.
Stevens said there were plans to begin a school of some sort, which might mean even more chattering hens in Tristan’s vicinity. He would not tolerate such madness.
From the first, his neighbors had attempted to establish cordial relationships, which he’d ignored. He never acknowledged their proffered invitations to tea and dinner and such. And when they’d finally ventured to visit him, he’d remained in his study and loudly refused to see them.
It had been quite rude of him, though he’d enjoyed every minute. After a time, they’d left him to himself. Until the mystery of the flying sheep, that is.
Stevens shook his head. “Gor’ help ye, Cap’n, but looks as if a bee has gotten up Mrs. Thistlewaite’s bonnet all the way to the foremast. Must be that blasted sheep again.”
Tristan looked back over his shoulder at the woman now struggling against the wind as she climbed the last leg of the path. For all her forceful movements, she appeared rather waif-like with a heart shaped face beneath a tightly pulled bun of brown hair that still managed to spring forth with a curious curl or two at the brow.
Of her shape, he knew nothing for he’d never seen her without her voluminous cloak, though he suspected from the delicate lines of her face and throat and the slender shape of her hands, that she was as trim a ship to ever sail the seas.
Not that he cared, of course. He was perfectly happy alone, slacking his lust with an occasional trip to the small town located at the base of the cliff. The inn there sported two exuberant maids, either or both for the taking, had one enough coin.
Besides, he recognized the cut of this woman’s jib. She was a stern, strict sort, the type of woman one might marry if one prized well-beaten carpets and hot food all for the mere price of listening to a harpy’s voice over the dinner table. Tristan liked eating his dinners in silence. As for his carpets, they were underfoot, so who cared of their cleanliness?
She reached the end of the path and planted herself before him, every line of her body, every nuance of her expression bespoke acute irritation.
Stevens nodded merrily, his sharp blue eyes watering a little in the blustery wind. “Ahoy there, Mrs. Thistlewaite! And what brings ye forth on such a day?”
“I came to speak with the captain.”
Tristan looked at Stevens. “You may handle this.”
“No, he may not!” Their visitor crossed her arms, her gloved hands gripping her elbows. “Captain Llevanth, I came to speak to you and no one else.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Her gaze narrowed, and despite his irritation, Tristan found himself noticing her eyes. They were wide and slightly uptipped at the corners, and of a remarkably rich brown color, rather like the darkest swells of a storm lashed sea and lined by the thickest of lashes overset by a lilting slash of brows. The lady’s frown grew. “You know why I wish to speak to you.”
Stevens leaned forward to say in what he probably considered a conspiratorial whisper, but was fairly close to a normal voice. “Cap’n, I daresay ‘tis the sheep once’t again. One of ‘em has a likin’ fer the lady’s garden, he does.”
Tristan shrugged. “What does she expect me to do about that? You cannot tie up a sheep. A wolf would get it.”
Stevens pondered this. “That’s true. There’s no real way to tether them that they’d stand fer. If ye used a rope, they’d just eat it. And ye can’t chain ‘em fer fear of rubbin’ sores on their little legs. We’ll have to tell her we can’t—”
The lady threw up her hands. “Please do not talk about me as if I was not here!”
Stevens looked from the lady and then back at the captain. “Cap’n, did you think we were talking to Mrs. Thistlewaite as if she wasn’t there?”
Tristan pretended to consider this, aware that the lady’s temper was rising by the moment. Just to irk her further, he let his gaze wander up and down her, lingering on certain areas as if he could detect her shape beneath the voluminous cape. “No,” he said finally, “I do not think we were talking to her as if she was not here since, if she was not here, we would not be talking about her – or to her – at all.”
"Oh!” She planted her hands on her hips. “Captain, if you wish me to take this matter to the constable, I will!”
Tristan sighed. “Very well, Mrs. Thistlewaite.” He reached into a pocket and found his pipe. “Tell me the sins of my unruly livestock. I hope they are not partaking of spirits. I will not stand for public drunkenness in my sheep.”
“Oh, stop being so absurd.” She eyed his pipe with disapprobation. “Must you do that?”
“Yes.” He packed the bowl with tobacco and tucked the leather pouch back into his pocket.
Her lips thinned. “Captain Llevanth, I moved to this location to establish a teaching seminary for young ladies. My mother and I are working hard to have things readied, including the placement of some tiles in the garden to make a walkway. We cannot do that when that sheep traipses in over and over, eats out herbs and sends our housekeeper into hysterics.”
Tristan lit his pipe, shielding the tinderbox from the wind with one hand. Fragrant smoke drifted from the embers, and was immediately whipped away in the stiff breeze. “Do you know what I’d do if a sheep was causing my housekeeper to have hysterics? I would rid myself of the housekeeper. She is obviously unfit for duty. Pity you’re not on a ship, you could just have her keel-hauled and stop her caterwauling that way.”
“Captain Llevanth, this is not a matter for levity.”
He raised his brows. “Mrs. Thistlewaite, I did not, nor do I now, wish you to be here. Which is why I also have no desire to see you successful in your endeavors to bring even more feminine distractions to this peaceful corner of the world.”
The widow lifted her chin. “Is that why you’ve been placing your sheep in our garden? To make us leave?”
“I don’t want you here, true. But I don’t care enough to go to such trouble as transporting a sheep anywhere. My sheep are marked and well within the free range law of the borough. They may go wherever they wish.”
The woman’s back stiffened. “Someone is putting them in our garden. They cannot be opening the gate themselves.”
He flicked a gaze over her face, noting the proud curves and pure line. It really was a pity his sheep weren’t behaving. He’d only purchased them to give the men an occupation.
Tristan hadn’t expected to be responsible for his crew once he’d left his ship. But somehow, after moving to the house on the cliff with only Stevens for assistance, the men had shown up, one and two at a time. At first all was well, but every sea captain knew the dangers of idle hands. To head off any potential trouble, Tristan set his men to the occupations available, including caring for the sheep, cleaning the galley, scrubbing the little cottage top to bottom, and anything else he and Stevens could come up with.
Tristan took a calming draw on his pipe, the warm glow of the ashes stirred by the wind. “Madame, perhaps you aren’t aware of this, but I am a captain. Captains do not concern themselves with sheep.”
“Who does then?”
“Stevens!”
The first mate stepped forward eagerly. “Aye, sir?”
“Listen to the woman for me. Pray let her think you are paying her the strictest attention. Meanwhile, I am going inside where it’s warmer.” Tristan turned and walked back toward the house, leaning slightly on his cane.
A flash of blue halted him in his tracks. Mrs. Thistlewaite once again stood before him, only now she spread her arms to either side as if to block his way. Tristan almost grinned at the futile gesture. Really, the woman had more tenacity than . . . well, just about anyone he knew. She was also rather pleasant to look upon if one ignored the fact she always seemed to be frowning.
She fixed those great brown eyes upon him once again and he noted that they sparkled angrily. Oddly, some of his own distemper melted at the sight.
“Captain Llevanth, I do not wish to speak to your butler. I always speak to Mr. Stevens and nothing is ever fixed.”
“Fixed? Is something broken?”
“My patience.”
“Your patience is not my concern.”
“Oh! You—you—you—”
“Brilliant return volley. Almost as good as shooting pea shot in retaliation for twenty pound cannon fire. Surely you can do better than that?” Tristan wasn’t sure why he was goading the lively widow but . . . a faint smile edged onto his face. It was an enjoyable pastime for all that. Surely it said something about the sorry state of his affairs that he both enjoyed and loathed arguing with his nearest neighbor.
Her arms dropped to her sides, though her posture remained charged with acrimony. “I did not come to exchange pleasantries with your first mate or to discuss cannon fodder.”
“Shot. Cannon shot.”
“Whatever you wish to call it.”
“Madame, I’ve said it before and again; this is not my problem. Shut your blasted gate – firmly. There. Your problem is now solved.”
She stamped her foot, her boot landing in a puddle and splashing mud upon the edges of the moss green skirts barely visible beneath the voluminous blue cloak. “Captain, the gate was shut. Firmly.”
“So my sheep are jumping the fence into your garden?”
“Yes. The white one with the black face.”
Tristan looked over his shoulder. “Stevens, do I have a white sheep with a black face?”
Stevens scratched his chin, his brow furrowed. “Hm. Seems I seen one of that cut not too long ago.”
“Is it possible that this particular sheep can jump a fence the height of the one surrounding Mrs. Thistlewaite’s garden?”
"By Peter’s watery grave, no!” the first mate said, chuckling at the thought.
She frowned, her fly-away brows looking even more elven. Before she could say anything, Tristan continued. “Stevens, is it possible for a sheep to fly?”
Stevens snorted.
“What about crawl? Could they crawl beneath a gate?”
“Lord, no! They’re too puffed up. Why they can barely fit through the gate upright and with it open as it is.”
Mrs. Thistlewaite’s full lips pursed into a scowl. “Captain, I do not know how your sheep manages to creep past my fence, but he does. And then he grazes through my spice bed like a great scythe, eating all of my herbs and—”
“Stevens?”
“Aye, Cap’n?”
“Do we have a garden?”
Stevens looked around them and blinked. “Why yes. Ye’re standin’ in the middle of it.”
Tristan took a draw on his pipe as he eyed the foliage that lined the path. “Are these herbs?”
“Aye, sir. Some of them.”
“Do any of our sheep cross the fence to eat those herbs?”
“Why no, Cap’n. Not once that I can remember.”
“Hmm.” Tristan noted the rising color in the widow’s face. Perhaps he enjoyed teasing her so much because she looked so very prim and perfect, her hair so severely bound, her cloak buttoned to her throat, her mouth a determined line that almost dared to be invaded. Plundered. Tasted.
He found himself staring at her mouth. The bottom lip was fuller than the top and gently rounded at the bottom. He wondered if it was as sensitive as it looked, how she would react if he kissed her and then gently—
“Captain!” she said, stomping a booted foot on his pathway. “That is quite enough of that.”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. Instead, he removed the pipe from his lips and flashed a wolfish grin. “My lady, I must beg to differ. I have just begun.”
