Chapter Nine

Reverend Shackleford was a troubled man. He was very much afeared his eldest daughter had become completely addled. She appeared to have lost whatever small sense of decorum she’d possessed and was now running wild around the countryside as though she had nary a care in the world with her siblings in willing tow.

The Reverend was sure the absence of her husband was very much at the forefront of her riotous behaviour, and should the Duke ever decide to return, this wildness would cease immediately. The problem was, it might also result in his daughter being sent away in disgrace. Sighing, Reverend Shackleford saw all his aspirations about to be trampled in the dust. He couldn’t even reprimand Grace, since she now far outstripped him in rank.

This called for some kind of action. The problem was, he had no idea what action to take. Should he write a letter to his son-in-law urging his immediate return to Blackmore? Could a mere clergyman urge a duke to do anything at all?

Tare an’ hounds, he was in the suds and no mistake. So far, he’d managed to keep the sorry state of affairs from Agnes, which hadn’t been too difficult since she generally only moved from the sofa to her bed, and up to now she’d not questioned the reason why silence suddenly reigned in the house for most of the day. The problem was, in two days hence, little Anthony was due his monthly ‘afternoon’ with his mama, and it was certain the catastrophe would then be out in the open. It was no good him trying to come up with some kind of cock and bull story – she could spot a Canterbury tale a mile away.

If Agnes found out, his life would truly not be worth living. Clambering to his feet, he resolved to seek out Percy. Two heads were always better than one, and he always seemed to come up with his best plans when prompted by his curate. The Red Lion would ensure complete privacy while they came up with a strategy. Calling Freddy to him, he hurried out of the house before Agnes could ask for her salts.

Two hours and three tankards of ale later, neither man had come up with anything remotely useful. The Reverend was beginning to think his only option was to lock all eight daughters up until Grace’s husband decided to come home. However, that wouldn’t stop the gossipmongers from having a field day the minute his grace stepped foot back in Blackmore. That was providing the sordid details hadn’t already reached him in Scotland. The Reverend felt his collar tighten uncomfortably at the notion of what the Duke would do once he found out.

What they needed was something to replace the gossip. Something that would overtake the current preoccupation with the Duchess of Blackmore’s scandalous behaviour.

“We could pay someone to kidnap her?” Percy offered desperately when the silence became too oppressive.

The Reverend paused with his ale halfway to his mouth. Staring into its amber depths, his eyes narrowed in a way that curdled the recently consumed steak pie ominously in the pit of Percy’s stomach.

∞∞∞

Grace retied her long hair in its ribbon as she hurried round the side of the house towards the kitchen. She was hot and tired and was hoping the cook, Mrs. Higgins, had made some of her delicious lemonade. She was looking forward to spending a peaceful half hour in the sanctuary of the kitchen before dressing for dinner – a custom she still found tiresome in the extreme. Especially when she spent every evening meal alone in the silence with only a book for company.

While the housekeeper had initially voiced her disapproval at the idea of a duchess spending time in the kitchen, Grace knew both Mrs Tenner and Mrs Higgins secretly enjoyed her company, and over the last two months, she’d spent many an hour learning how to both cook and look after a house. While the latter was certainly a desired skill of a chatelaine of such a large mansion, as a duchess, she didn’t need any of the former skills. That said, at least if she managed to persuade her husband to banish her, she would be able to look after herself and her sisters. The thought of having a small house somewhere with her siblings was becoming more and more appealing. Much more so than living a lonely life in solitary grandeur.

As the weeks went by with no word from Nicholas, she had finally accepted that her husband had no intention of making her his wife in the fullest sense of the word, or indeed allowing any closeness between them. If she was to be denied the solace of children, she had decided she would do her utmost to ensure a future for herself elsewhere. She knew the Duke of Blackmore would be very unlikely to divorce her given the scandal it would cause to his family name, but if she continued with her current course of action, he would be certain to wish her out of his sight.

So, she’d enlisted the willing help of her siblings, and together, they had occupied themselves in all manner of dubious activities as publicly as possible in the hope that word of their conduct would reach her husband’s ears. Today had seen all nine of them hiding in a hay cart, jumping out and nearly giving the unsuspecting farmer an apoplexy as he began to unload.

So far unfortunately, while they were clearly the talk of the village, the gossip didn’t appear to have travelled any further, and Grace had no idea what else to do to get her absent husband’s attention.

She entered the welcoming dimness of the kitchen, enjoying the respite from the heat. The July weather remained oppressively hot, and Grace fanned herself vigorously with her handkerchief as she seated herself at the kitchen table. Mrs Higgins clucked disapprovingly at her mistress’s dishevelled state as she first wiped her hands on her apron then poured the young woman some cooling lemonade. Mrs Tenner was nowhere to be seen, and looking down at herself, Grace was grateful the housekeeper was not on hand to see the unkempt state of Blackmore’s Duchess. Brushing off the stray bits of hay clinging stubbornly to her skirts, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d finally gone too far in her efforts. Luckily there were no other servants present, and suddenly unaccountably ashamed, she quickly finished her drink and tried to make herself a little more presentable before Huntley caught sight of her. She knew the butler would waste no time in reporting her scandalous behaviour to his master – if Nicholas ever deigned to come home. However, she genuinely liked the elderly butler and didn’t want him to think too badly of her. Although as she tiptoed past the butler’s pantry, she feared she may have already gone too far.

∞∞∞

“Sir, I’m not entirely sure this is a good idea.” Percy was struggling to cover his face with his necktie. “I mean, I think it very questionable that the Almighty would wholly approve of our plan.”

“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” panted the Reverend as he squeezed himself into an ominously itchy woollen jacket he’d ‘borrowed’ from their only stable hand .

“But Sir, what if she has an apoplexy? I’m certain the Almighty wouldn’t approve of that.”

“My daughter’s made of sterner stuff, Percy, and mayhap a small fright will convince her to behave in the dignified manner befitting her station.”

“I hardly consider putting a sack over her head and dragging her from her bedroom to be a small fright,” protested Percy, much to the Reverend’s irritation.

While he had to admit they were indeed clutching at straws, word had today reached him of his daughters’ latest exploit, and Reverend Shackleford knew it was time to take matters into his own hands.

They were currently closeted in the Reverend’s study, waiting for the sun to set. They would then endeavour to sneak out of the vicarage without anyone being the wiser, although judging by the noise upstairs, sneaking out unobserved was going to be a feat in itself. They were each partaking of a fortifying tot of brandy which the Reverend insisted was purely medicinal and not likely to see them both headed below stairs alongside Old Nick once they’d been put to bed with a shovel. “At least no more than abducting one’s own daughter,” Percy could be heard muttering to himself darkly. Reverend Shackleford chose to ignore his curate’s sudden attack of the vapours, deciding to focus instead on the finer points of their plan. Or, as he thought privately, the bits that were most likely to put them in a hobble.

“Now don’t forget, Percy, we are to take her by surprise when she retires to her bedchamber.”

“But how the devil are we going to get into her bedchamber?" Percy’s expletive showed the extent of his agitation, and the Reverend was beginning to fear his curate was simply not up to the job.

“Leave that to me, lad,” he replied soothingly, before knocking back the rest of his brandy. “You just follow my lead.”

“Freddy, stay.” The Reverend took out a large ham bone he’d pilfered from the kitchen earlier, confident it would provide the necessary distraction to dissuade the hound from thinking to follow them.

Ten minutes later, they were taking a shortcut across the fields towards Blackmore. While nobody had actually spied their leaving, the apprehension of it had led the Reverend to tread in a large cow pat and a strong smell of manure accompanied them as they approached the shadowed mansion.

“We’ll go around the side,” the Reverend advised his curate in a loud stage whisper. “Grace informed me that the scullery maid usually leaves the basement door open in case of a rendezvous with her sweetheart.” Percy looked over at the Reverend with a scandalous expression. “Does the young woman have no morals?” he asked faintly. “And how is it that the Duchess allows such behaviour underneath her roof?”

The Reverend snorted. “Are we talking about the same Duchess who was last seen bursting out of a hay cart?” He shook his head and sighed. “I think my daughter was hoping I’d see fit to speak with the cur in question and persuade him to make an honest woman of her maid. Grace’s heart is entirely too soft I fear.”

He pointed to a shadowed alcove, and without any further words, the two men tiptoed towards a set of dark steps.

Luck was with them as they found their way above stairs. The hall was dim, with the only strategically placed candlelight casting fantastical shadows over the walls. Everywhere was silent, and Percy began to feel himself sweating at the thought of them being caught in such a compromising position. Worse, there was a strong smell of the manure from the Reverend’s boots, and looking back, Percy could see a trail of dark brown patches. “Sir,” he whispered urgently, intending to beg his superior to abandon their mad scheme forthwith. The Reverend held up his hand for silence however, and habit caused Percy’s words to die in his throat .

“I think Grace is likely to be in the family dining room,” the Reverend whispered excitedly.

“We don’t know where that is,” hissed Percy, the very opposite of excited. “And we don’t know where her deuced bedchamber is either.”

The Reverend glanced over at his curate with a frown. This was the second time in as many hours that his curate had uttered an expletive. A previously unheard-of occurrence.

“Confound it, Percy,” he whispered, “this is no time to be chuckleheaded. We’ll wait in the shadows under the stairs until she makes her way to her chamber, then we’ll follow her. Simple.”

Percy’s wild eyes inferred it was anything but simple, and the Reverend knew if his curate decided to make a run for it, they’d both be in the suds. “Get a bit of pluck to your backbone,” he hissed, taking Percy’s arm and guiding him into an area of blackness. “No one will spy us here.”

Before Percy could repeat his concerns about the trail of manure they’d left behind them, a door opened at the end of the corridor, and light footsteps came towards them. It was Grace. She passed by them without detecting their presence but stopped as she reached the bottom of the stairs, lifting her head and sniffing with a frown.

“She can smell the cow shit you trod in … Sir,” Percy whispered hysterically. The Reverend felt himself begin to perspire. His curate was about to make a run for it. He could feel it in his bones. Deciding it was now or never, he hurriedly pulled his necktie over his face and burst out of their hiding place brandishing his sack. Grace just had time to turn towards them before he dropped the sack over her head shouting, “Help me, you dolt.”

Percy paused, then suddenly rushed out yelling, “Your money or your life!” causing the Reverend to stare at him open-mouthed, completely flummoxed for once.

“What on earth are you doing, Father?” Grace’s indignant words caused them both to turn confounded toward their captive whose head was still covered by the sack.