Chapter Three
Two days had passed since Tristan had returned home and discovered that his father and brothers had bankrupted the family. Tristan and Marcus had gone over the family accounts together and seen that the solicitor had spoken the truth, that his family was about to lose everything. Some of the accounts didn’t add up; there were bills for things that didn’t make sense, and money going places that Tristan and Marcus could not account for. And lastly, there was Mr. Keene, who seemed to have wormed his way into his mother and sister’s favors and had access to the household accounts; there was also his mother’s new personal maid, Miriam, who was oddly protective of his mother. Tristan would let the annoying Mr. Keene go, but he seemed to have a job contract that couldn’t be broken.
That morning, Tristan, with Marcus’ help, had taken all the old clothes that he’d left behind when he’d entered the army to a second-hand shop and sold them. The clothes no longer fit as he’d grown several inches taller and broader in the shoulders. They had also taken two of his father’s snuff boxes that he’d found in his father’s desk, to a jewelers to sell. There should have been at least twenty boxes, but they’d only found two, which seemed odd. The money from the sale of the clothes and boxes had been enough to pay off the butcher’s bill and the green grocers, as well as the bakers. Tristan had told the butcher that they would not be ordering beef, lamb, or pork for a while, but only chicken or turkey. His mother wouldn’t be pleased, but it was better than eating porridge every day, as he’d done for three months while on campaign.
They still owed the wine merchant, the coal merchant, his brother’s tailors, the hay merchant and his brother’s clubs; in total the bills added up to well over five thousand pounds.
Tristan wrote down the payments he’d made in the household account book and sighed as Marcus stepped into what had been his father’s office, carrying a tray. He gave Tristan a nod before setting it on the large, round table a few feet away.
“Tomato soup and toast, with apple tarts, so what’s next, Captain?” Marcus asked as he set out the plates.
“My father and brother’s clothes and some furniture next, then in two days we will have to head for Avondale,” Tristan replied, getting to his feet.
“Which furniture do you mean to start with?” Marcus asked as he sat, and Tristan dropped to the seat beside him.
“The guest rooms and the parlors on the second floor, I asked Buttons, they haven’t been used in some time. The furniture should make enough money to settle the accounts with the tailors and at my father’s club. I sent messages to two furniture dealers, and both are interested in the pieces. I also mean to sell my brother’s horses. They should fetch a good price.” Tristan said as he reached for his spoon.
“Have you thought what you will say to the girl?” Marcus asked as he tucked into his soup.
“Some, I plan to tell her the truth and then beg her to marry me. Tell her it will be in both our best interests if we wed, that I will agree to whatever demands she wishes. That I want us to be equals in our marriage, that I will treat her with respect.” Tristan paused as he downed several spoonfuls of soup.
“Sounds good, but you might want to woo her a bit. I remember my sisters used to giggle and talk foolish about the things boys said to them, about the flowers brought to them. And my mother used to talk about how father had won her by giving her flowers and saying pretty things to her.” Marcus stated.
“Good advice, I will have to see if she will accept my suit first. Then I can try the wooing part.” Tristan stated.
The men ate in silence for a while, then Marcus looked up. “We will have to do something about that Keene fellow. I tried to look in your brothers’ chambers to find their clothes, thought we might be able to use them, but their rooms were locked. When I asked the weasel for the key, he said I had no right to go in them. I was about to argue, and your mother came up. She said I needed to mind my own business, and then her companion came up and told her it was time for her medicine, and took her away. And what is with her companion, the woman has the warmth of an icicle and as much charm.”
Tristan sighed heavily as he nodded before grabbing for his toast. “You’re right, but I’ve been putting it off. The man reminds me of that spy we found. Same furtive eyes and twitchy ways never looked you in the eyes. When we return from Avondale, I’ll find a way to deal with the weasel. He showed me a contract that my father supposedly gave him, saying that he can’t be let go for ten years. His pay is also outrageous; it earns a hundred and fifty pounds a year.”
Marcus let out a low whistle, “Tis an outrageous amount indeed. Well, after lunch, I’m going to demand the weasel cough up the keys or I’m going to break down the doors. You’re the heir; everything in this house belongs to you. If the weasel doesn’t like it he’ll feel my boot up his backside?” Marcus replied before turning back to his soup.
Tristan nodded in agreement; once again, glad he’d brought Marcus home with him, his large, muscular friend could be a force to be reckoned with.
“What are your plans once you are inside the rooms? Not that I don’t want to see what my brothers have hidden away.” Tristan asked.
“Well, we could both use new clothes. Why buy when there are three rooms full of fine clothes. I’m a fair hand with a needle after all these years; I figure your brothers should be near your size. We sold all your old clothes as they were too small and neither of us can keep wearing our uniforms every day.” Marcus said.
Tristan nodded in agreement, “That is an excellent plan, I could do with some new things as could you. I will help you with the weasel and the doors.”
Marcus chuckled before digging into his food.
* * * *
Tristan was losing his temper; he’d asked Buttons for the keys to his father’s and brothers’ room, only to be told that Mr. Keene had them. When Tristan had finally found him, in his mother’s parlor of all places, he’d refused to hand over the keys. Tristan had been forced to whisper a threat in the oily man’s ear to have him accompany him from his mother’s room.
“Mr. Ebenezer, I shall ask you one last time to give me the keys to my father’s and brothers’ room. If you refuse, I shall have you locked in your chambers.” Tristan said evenly, trying not to lose his temper. “You are also a hairs’ breath away from being thrashed.”
“I can’t do that, it would upset her ladyship to have them disturbed, and you can’t lock me in my chamber or thrash me, I’m an important man, and I have a contract that can’t be broken,” Ebenezer sniffed as he gave Tristan and Marcus a contemptuous look.
“While you claim you have a contract for your services, so that I can’t dismiss you, I am now the earl, which means I control where your services are carried out,” Tristan replied. He’d not tolerated disrespect from the men under him in the army, and he wasn’t going to from a servant.
“You wouldn’t dare send me away, or thrash me,” Ebenezer protested, glaring at Tristan.
“He would, now the keys.” Marcus held out his right hand. When Ebenezer just gave him a contemptuous look, Marcus slammed his fist into Ebenezer’s stomach, making him drop to his knees with a gurgle.
“Right, Mr. Buttons, would you and?” Tristan turned to look at the two burly footmen.
“Davis and Mitchel, sir,” Buttons replied.
“Thank you, Davis and Mitchel, would you please take him to his chamber and lock him in. But first remove any keys you might find.” Tristan ordered, “And see that there is a guard outside his door at all times.”
“It will be a pleasure, sir,” Buttons replied. Buttons nodded to Davis and Mitchel, who grabbed the wheezing Ebenezer under the arms and dragged him away.
“Now what, should we kick it in?” Tristan asked, looking at his father’s locked wooden door. The door appeared to be made of oak, and he didn’t relish trying to bust the lock and then pay to replace it.
“Nothing so crude, Captain,” Marcus reached down to remove a long, thin knife from his left boot, and a hairpin from his pocket. Marcus knelt before the lock, and after a few minutes of fiddling with the lock, there was an audible click. Marcus depressed the handle and the heavy door swung inwards. Marcus rose, dropping the pin back in his pocket, then slipped the knife back into his boot.
“I never knew you could do that,” Tristan said, giving his friend a thoughtful look.
“How do you think I was always able to find food and wine?” Marcus smirked, then motioned for Tristan to go first.
Tristian hesitated; he’d never been in his father’s bed chamber before. His father had never allowed him to enter his room; it had been a privilege reserved for his older brothers. Tristan took a deep breath and pushed the door wide to step into his father’s room. The room was dim, illuminated only by thin shafts of sunlight that filtered in past the heavy curtains.
Marcus strode across the room to pull open the curtains, letting the bright afternoon light spill into the room. To the left was a large four-poster bed that had been stripped of everything but a single white sheet, on the right was a fireplace with two upholstered chairs and a round table. Along the wall before the bed was a massive oak chest of drawers with a mirror atop it. Against the far left wall were two doors and a huge armoire.
“Doors first,” Tristian stepped up to the door on the left and twisted the brass handle, relieved when the door opened. Pushing the door open, he saw a huge dressing room, larger than his quarters in Malta had been. In the center of the dressing room was a large upholstered bench, to the left were floor-to-ceiling shelves, and the other walls were double racks of clothes, shirts, and jackets on top and pants on the bottom.
“Bloody hell, he has more clothes than a tailor’s shop,” Marcus commented dryly, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You’re right, we are going to sell them all, I don’t want anything of my father’s.” Tristan couldn’t remember one kind word from his father as a child, just cruel, cutting words or the strap. Tristan would be dammed if he lost his inheritance because of his father’s excesses, and if selling his father’s things helped solve the situation, all the better. Tristan shook his head at the cost of everything he saw, and stepping up to the closest rack, grabbed an armful of breeches. He stepped out of the dim dressing room and threw them on the bed, as Marcus followed him a moment later with more breeches that he also dropped onto the bed.
“What’s in here then, wash room?” Marcus asked turning to step over to the other door and open it.
“Bloody hell” Marcus said drawing Tristian’s attention. Tristian followed Marcus into a huge bathroom with the largest bath tub Tristian had ever seen. On his right between two windows was a white marble counter with a sink set inside it, and a copper hand pump. In the back corner of the bath room was a tall thin cast iron stove with faces on it. “It looks like something from a sultan’s harem.” Marcus shook his head as he gave the hand pump a try, quickly being rewarded by a stream of water. In a recess next to the stove was a water closet lined with light green tile.
Tristian simply nodded in agreement then stepped out of the bathroom in time to see Buttons stepping into the bedroom accompanied by another footman that was vaguely familiar, and after a moment Tristian recognized him as Jimmy, who’d been a groom when he’d left home.
“We found what we believe to be the keys to your brothers’ chambers, my lord,” Buttons held out two keys to Tristian, who took them with a nod of thanks.
“Thank you, Buttons, Jimmy isn’t it?” Tristan said, studying the footman closely.
“Aye, my lord,” The brawny young man replied.
“Please ask Jeremy to bring the coach around, then get some help to take these and all the clothes in my father’s dressing room down to it.” Tristian directed.
“You want me to take away his lordships’ clothes, my lord?” Jeremy asked.
“I do, all of it, even what is in the armoire and chest of drawers. It’s all to be sold.” Tristian replied.
“If I might, my lord, we have a wagon that is used for hauling larger things. There are several empty trunks in the cellars, we could store the clothes in them and place them in the wagon,” Buttons offered.
“Excellent idea, ask Jeremy to have both the wagon and the coach made ready in the stable. No need to give the neighbors more to gossip about.” Tristan said.
“I could ask some of the maids to come help with the packing,” Buttons suggested.
“Good idea, thank you, gentlemen,” Tristan said and saw Buttons nod before motioning James to follow him from the room.
Behind him Marcus yanked open the curtains of the window between the bed and the bathing room, letting more light into the room. The men looked about the room noting a wooden dressing screen folded up and leaning against the side of the armoire. Two low wooden night stands and a built in book case were against the wall by the door.
“I’m guessing the furniture goes as well?” Marcus asked.
“Aye, everything goes, even the carpet.” Tristan replied looking down at the expensive blue and green Persian carpet.
“I’ll get some paper and a pencil; we’ll need to make a list of everything we take out of here.” Marcus stated.
Tristan nodded, “Good idea, and thank you, Marcus.”
“For what helping out a friend when he’s having a rough patch.” Marcus shook his head. “You can buy me an ale and a meat pie later.”
“I’ll buy you two,” Tristan replied, earning a grin from Marcus before he stepped from the room. Marcus loved food, and ale. But they’d had scant little of either the past few weeks.
Tristan stepped up to the armoire to pull open the doors, revealing six silk dressing gowns, several gold and green silk waistcoats, and a dark red silk evening jacket. At the bottom of the armoire were ten pairs of shiny boots. Tristan frowned. Bright colors were not what he’d of thought his boring father would wear.
Tristan left the doors open as he stepped up to the chest of drawers to yank open the top drawer to reveal a silver-plated brush and comb, as well as at least fifty neatly folded handkerchiefs of both silk and fine linen. Tristan set the brush and comb atop the dresser, then reached inside feeling about for any cufflinks or cravat pins. When he found nothing, he shoved the drawer shut and yanked open the second drawer, it was filled with neck clothes. Tristan felt inside to find only neck cloths but nothing else. Tristan scowled in annoyance. His father had owned several fine cravat pins with matching cuff links, two gold watches, and a signet ring, yet he couldn’t find them.
Perhaps one of his brothers had taken them. He was closing the drawer when he heard a female footfall and turned to see his mother.
“What are you doing in here? You know you aren’t allowed in your father’s room.” His mother intoned, “Get out at once.” She looked at him like he was a child and pointed her finger at the open door.
Tristan took a calming breath as he regarded his enraged mother. “No, I am now the earl, and everything in this house now belongs to me. I am going through father’s things to see what there is that can be sold.”
“You wouldn’t dare, who do you think you are?” His mother protested.
“The earl, and as I explained, we are in danger of losing our home. Now, unless you wish to be sent to our rural estate, you can either help me or return to your rooms. Unless you wish to donate some of your old gowns.” Tristan had been in battle; he wasn’t going to let his mother treat him like a naughty child anymore.
“How dare you speak to her ladyship like that,” Miriam, his mother’s companion appeared beside his mother. She laid a hand on his mother’s arm while glaring at Tristan.
Tristan shook his head as he leaned on the chest of drawers. “I do not answer to my mother or to a servant. Now, unless you both wish to be sent away to the country estate, let me work.” Tristan replied.
“If you mean to sell his lordships things, you should let Mr. Keene do it.” Miriam said imperiously as she looked around, “Where is he?”
Tristan resisted the urge to curse. “He is in his chamber and will stay there until I decide what to do with him.”
“How dare you, release him at once,” Lady Sizemore snapped. She was now bright red and clutching at the string of pearls she wore.
“No, he was insolent and refused to give me the keys to father’s room, as well as my brother’s rooms. He has also refused several direct orders. Now, unless you wish to help me empty Father’s room you should leave.” Tristan said evenly.
“You can’t speak to her ladyship that way, and she needs Mr. Keene,” Miriam protested as she glared at Tristan.
Tristan regarded Miriam steadily; the woman was perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, and tall for a woman. She could also be considered attractive if she wore her dark hair in a less severe style. Why was she trying to protect Mr. Keene? It was very odd behavior.
“And why does my mother need my late father and brother’s valet? Surely he is not helping her dress?” Tristan queried.
“Good heavens, no, he reads to her and entertains her,” Miriam protested hotly.
“Mother will have to read to herself for now,” Tristan stated, wondering how he could get rid of Miriam and his mother so he could continue working.
“Ah, ladies have you come to help? An extra pair of hands would be welcome,” Marcus’ deep voice rumbled from the door.
“The nerve, you sir are no gentleman,” His mother huffed. “Come Miriam, I have a head ache starting. Tristan if you do this I shall never speak to you again,” Then with a snort Lady Sizemore sailed out the door followed by Miriam.
“I should be so lucky,” Tristan drawled, shaking his head in disgust.
Marcus stepped into the room with a portable writing desk under his left arm and dragging a small trunk behind him.
“These were in your sister’s room. Do you want to write or pack?” Marcus asked, dropping the trunk beside the bed.
“I’ll write, you have handwriting like an eighty-year old granny,” Tristan commented.
“That’s because while you were in your fancy boarding school, my eighty-year- old gran was teaching me and my siblings to read and write,” Marcus quipped.
“Oh, be quiet, it wasn’t a fancy boarding school, it was more like a prison for unwanted sons. You can start with the top drawer, it’s filled with handkerchiefs,” Tristan said as he opened the writing desk and set it on the table by the cold fireplace.
“Well, while this might not be fun at least no one is trying to kill us,” Marcus commented.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Tristan replied as Marcus began counting stacks of neatly folded handkerchiefs, before placing them in the empty trunk.
For once Marcus didn’t comment, he simply nodded, as Tristan looked about for a chair. Today his father’s room, then tomorrow they would do his brothers. Hopefully they would make enough money to settle at least a few of the debts hanging over their heads.