When Gill wanted to upend the table, smash the teapot, and rant, he instead passed Penelope her tea cup.
“Send Silforth to me.” Bella Summers spoke pleasantly, as always, but her first day back in London was not starting off pleasantly at all.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the Summerton butler said, “but Miss Silforth has taken a holiday with her family.” MacMillan’s burr was ever so slightly in evidence, while his loyalty to the dignity of Lord Summerton’s household radiated from his stately bearing. He was young to be a butler, with dark, curly hair and fierce eyebrows. He was sizable enough to have been a footman, though his coloring was wrong for such a post.
MacMillan had joined the household when Summerton had taken a wife. A young, handsome Scottish butler had been one of Penelope’s first blunders, though not even Mama-in-Law had been able to talk Penelope into sacking him. If Tommie were the viscount… Bella set that thought aside.
“What of Plover?” she asked.
“His lordship’s valet is also on holiday.”
Bella had not realized her host and hostess were from home. She and the dowager viscountess had arrived quite late last night to the Summerton town house, and such was the efficiency of the staff that the guests had been shown directly to commodious quarters.
Penelope had over the years learned the knack of managing her domestics. Bella had to concede that much, though the Summerton staff had been more than proficient before the present viscountess had begun swanning about the premises.
“Then you will please tell me where my brother-in-law and his wife have got off to,” Bella said, lifting the covers from the dishes on the sideboard. A savory omelet redolent of chives and cheddar sat in one warming dish, sliced ham in another. In the center of the table, a platter held orange wedges artfully arranged in a circular fan and decorated with some sort of blossoms. Had Tommie been here, he’d have gobbled up the fruit, and Mama-in-Law would approve of the racks of golden toast slathered with butter.
Though any kitchen could put on a decent breakfast.
MacMillan waited until Bella had completed her inspection of the buffet. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I cannot be specific regarding the whereabouts of his lordship and her ladyship.”
Bella took up a plate. “Spatting, are they? You can tell me, MacMillan. The beginning of the Season is a strain on everybody’s nerves. For the combatants to seek time in neutral corners would be understandable.”
MacMillan’s glance was almost… chiding? But no. He would not dare. “Perhaps his lordship and her ladyship sought to avoid that strain you allude to, but I honestly cannot tell you where they are, because I do not know, madam.”
Bella had heaped some eggs upon her plate and was choosing her slices of ham when the inspiration for MacMillan’s silent scold occurred to her.
Penelope and Summerton had married at the start of the season ten years ago. They had chosen to embark on married life rather than spend springtime courting before all of polite society, probably to save Penelope’s family the expense of both bride clothes and an unmarried lady’s spring wardrobe.
A year later, their firstborn child had had the bad form to expire on their wedding anniversary. Dreadful timing and beyond tragic, but so typical of children.
Perhaps Penelope had dragged Summerton off for some sort of marital mourning session. Bella did not particularly like her brother-in-law—he was too penny-pinching by half and always prosing on about some bill or legal precedent—but she would not wish such a dolorous interlude on anybody.
“I suppose in the absence of my host and hostess, the dowager viscountess and I will have to carry on as best we can. Let’s plan for an at home on Friday, MacMillan. Cakes, sandwiches, and champagne, I think. Champagne is always a nice touch during daylight hours. I must let all and sundry know the dowager viscountess is in residence, and she will want to renew her acquaintances.”
MacMillan narrowed arctic-blue eyes. “The pantries have not been stocked sufficiently to allow us to host an at home this week, madam.”
My, my, my. The laird of the larders was quite on his mettle. “Will you explain to my mother-in-law that this household is unable to procure a single afternoon’s worth of supplies even upon several days’ notice?”
“I would be happy to. The present viscountess gave a large portion of the staff leave as well. If the dowager thinks to hold any entertainments, she should know that we are shorthanded and will be for the foreseeable future.”
The Scots were so disagreeably stubborn, though as Bella took the place at the head of the table—why not, if Summerton wasn’t underfoot?—she realized that MacMillan would marshal the whole household in opposition to her.
“How long are we to be without a full complement of domestics?” Bella checked the strength of the tea in the pot swaddled in linen at her elbow. “This is China black. I prefer gunpowder.”
MacMillan took a pot glazed all over in greenery and pink blossoms from the sideboard and set it by Bella’s elbow. “I know not how long Silforth will be gone, but half the footmen and maids were given a fortnight’s holiday.”
Two weeks! Two weeks to lark about London without dreary Penelope to preempt Bella’s use of the town coach, without Summerton’s grim political droning. And yet, where had those two got off to?
“You may leave the China black at the far end of the table,” Bella said. “Mama-in-Law prefers it, and she will be down any moment.”
MacMillan did as he’d been told, for once, but then took up a post by the sideboard.
“You may be excused, MacMillan.”
“In the absence of a footman, I will tend the sideboard, madam. Lady Summerton would insist that her guests be shown the courtesy of proper service at breakfast.”
He had a way of making proper service—prrrroper sairvice—into another scold. Perhaps Tommie could be talked into hiring a Scottish butler for Lychmont. An older fellow… but no. If one was to have a Scottish butler, then one should have the pleasure of parading him about in his native dress, and older fellows did not do justice to the kilt as the younger men did.
“Do you have a formal kilt, MacMillan?”
He set the plate of oranges at Bella’s elbow. “I do not, madam.”
He was probably lying. The Scots were known for their mendacity. Worse than a lot of eight-year-old boys. At least they were good at fighting. Wellington had found their bellicose tendencies well worth the bother when Napoleon was being so odious.
Mama-in-Law sailed into the breakfast parlor looking enviably refreshed. “Bella, good morning. You will never regain your figure if you indulge your appetites to such an extent.”
Bella would never regain her figure, ever, because when it came to indulging his marital appetites, Tommie Summers knew no restraint. Somewhere between babies four and five, Bella had realized that the price of motherhood—another price of motherhood—was a wrecked figure. Would that Tommie could afford a few mistresses, but no. Tommie lacked the head for budgeting his means and lacked the heart to stray, more’s the pity.
“Travel taxes me,” Bella said, “and ham and eggs are hardly a royal repast, Mama-in-Law. MacMillan tells me the household is at half-staff, and Summerton and his lady are from home.”