He said, “I got an icebox.”
Alex stopped her chewing. “Does the ice melt and leak all over the floor?”
“Yes, but not so much as Mr. Moore’s earlier ones, so I’m told. This one was made by a Mr. Hubalto Custer of York, sawdust stuffed in the sides to keep it cold. It’s a marvel, Aunt Alex. My cook complains about slipping in the puddles and breaking her leg, but her food stays cold, so she shakes her head and says, ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.’”
Grayson’s uncle Douglas, the Earl of Northcliff, said from the breakfast room doorway, “Cook informed me she won’t have one of those ugly heathen boxes in her kitchen.”
Grayson said without pause, “The champagne stays perfectly chilled.”
Douglas grinned. “Perhaps another conversation with Cook is in order.” He grabbed the basket, sat down, and ate a nutty bun in two bites. Alex deftly pulled the basket in front of her. The breakfast room was warm, the air smelling of cinnamon. Grayson felt very good indeed. He hadn’t seen his aunt and uncle in too long a time, and in his youth, Northcliffe had been his second home. They spoke of his father, Ryder Sherbrooke, who’d rescued children since he’d been a very young man. Douglas said, “In Ryder’s last letter, he said there are now fourteen children living at Brandon House, the newest addition a little boy, around five years old, Ryder thinks. Max is his name. He prevented the boy’s sale to a brothel.”
The countess cocked her head. “Goodness, why a brothel? What would a little boy do in a brothel? Run errands? Clean boots?”
Douglas cleared his throat, opened and shut his mouth. Grayson said immediately, “Yes, he would be a boot boy,” and he took the last bite of his first nutty bun. “What do you suggest I do with the children today?”
As a distraction, it served. Alex said, “Take them to see the white cliffs at Eastbourne and go down to the beach. I know the water is always cold—”
Douglas said, “It’s cold enough to freeze your parts off, Grayson. The children? They’ll scream and splash each other and have a magnificent time. If you remember, all you boys always did. And they’ll try to drown you, so be on your guard.”
“Oh, I remember. When Mr. Ramsey brings them down after their breakfast”—Grayson checked his pocket watch—“in about fifteen minutes, I’ll ask them. Thank you, sir, for letting the children ride the twins’ ponies. Should I ask Mr. Ramsey to come with us? He seemed to like P.C. especially, said something about having a little girl around was a pleasure after noisy little boys, and P.C. told him smartly she was just as noisy. I’m only sorry James and Corrie and the twins are in London. He scrawled me a quick note, told me he’d been invited to speak at the Royal Astronomical Society. He said it was possible Prince Albert would be there. He was very excited.”
Alex nodded. “Yes, he’s presenting his paper on one of the rings of Saturn. As for Corrie, she promised the twins a visit to the Tower. I believe she hired a guide to tell them all the bloodthirsty details of all the royal beheadings over the centuries. I was surprised when the twins’ tutor, Mr. Ramsey, asked to remain here at Northcliffe. He said he didn’t like London, said it made him physically ill. He did not elaborate, so there’s a question. He then offered to look after the children we told him you were bringing with you. James and Corrie are planning on coming home next Wednesday to see you and Pip. Then, my dear, you’re going to be dragged around to visit every single relative in the area. The last count, I believe, is about twenty.”
Grayson took another bite of his nutty bun as he listened to Aunt Alex talk about her gardens, how people still stopped to look and explore. Uncle Douglas grunted. “One of these days I’m going to look out the window and see a face staring back at me.”
Alex laughed. “I’ve been wondering if we should charge an admission fee. What do you think, Grayson?”
Grayson shook his head. “Let people bless you for allowing them to see the splendor of your gardens without lightening their pockets. Your beneficence will spread far and wide.”
“That will mean we’ll have hoards of visitors coming here,” Uncle Douglas said. “Of course, the twins would love that. I can see them offering to guide people around—for a small fee.” They spoke about James and Corrie’s twin boys, Douglas and Everett, brilliant, both of them, naturally.
When Alex paused to chew another bite of nutty bun, Grayson said, “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went walking around your beautiful gardens, Aunt Alex. I saw a magnificent black stallion come out of the home wood to drink out of your ornamental pond. Is he one of your horses? A neighbor’s?”
His uncle Douglas frowned. “A black stallion, you say, here on Northcliffe property? At the ornamental pond? I have two blacks, but they’re not let loose at night, too dangerous. A pity Corrie isn’t here—she knows every animal within five miles of Northcliffe.”
Only one nutty bun left. Three hands went toward the basket. Alex was the fastest. She laughed, paused. “You are our guest, Grayson, but—” She took a big bite. “Sorry. Tell us more about the stallion.”
Grayson took a sip of strong black oolong tea, only a dollop of milk, just as he liked it, and said slowly, “It was odd, but I don’t think the black stallion belongs to anyone. Actually, he looked like he was his own master.” He shrugged. “Like he was also something else altogether.”
His uncle reached over and punched his arm. “Come on, Grayson, don’t romanticize a horse or turn him into a character for one of your stories. What was so unusual about the animal?”
“Silver reins and bridle, an odd, ornamental affair. It looked very old.
Alex leaned forward. “That is unusual. Do you think he threw his rider? But what would anyone be doing in our home wood?”
No time for more discussion about the black stallion. They heard the children’s excited voices, a babble of words, laughter, arguments, a couple of kid-snarls between P.C. and Barnaby. “Ah, my troops have arrived.”
There was a knock on the door, and Mr. Ramsey stuck his head in. “My lord, my lady, Master Grayson. I have the children. They are, ah, rather insistent to be gone.”
“They always are,” Grayson said, tossed down his napkin, and rose. “Pip, P.C., Barnaby, come and bid a polite good morning to his lordship and her ladyship.”
Barnaby made a credible bow and confided to Douglas, “I want to be a lordship when I grows up.”
P.C. punched his arm. “Grow up, not grows. And you can’t be a lordship, Barnaby. Everyone knows you have to be born a lordship or it’s all over. However, you will be my husband, and that is every bit as fine as a lordship, isn’t it, sir?”
Douglas studied the small boy—ten years old or thereabouts, Grayson had told him—the dark-red curly hair, the bright blue eyes. He said to P.C., his voice deep and serious, “Being your husband would make him a king, P.C.”
P.C. poked Barnaby’s arm again as she beamed at the earl. “That is what I tell him, sir. If he ever disagrees, which he sometimes does because he’s an ignorant boy, I smash him.”
Pip said to her, “Your mama says Barnaby speaks the King’s English like a little Etonian, whatever that means. But don’t we have a queen, Papa?”