The oaks came to an end when the curricle burst onto the graveled drive that wound around in circular fashion in front of the mansion. Julien drew his horses to a halt in front of the great stone steps.
The last rays of sunlight cast their gold hue on the thick stone walls that rose up two stories, extending at the four corners to form round Gothic towers. Julien was seized by a feeling of agelessness, of being drawn back in time, away from the modern society of London. As he gazed at his home, he could not but respect his hard-willed ancestors who had ensured his birthright. St. Clair had been gutted on two occasions, the last being over one hundred and fifty years ago, during the interminable battles between Charles I’s Royalist troops and Cromwell’s Roundheads, but the earls of March had simply scrubbed down the smoke-blackened stone walls and rebuilt the interior. Julien knew as a simple fact that if war again ravaged England he would do just as his ancestors had done. St. Clair must never be allowed to fall into ruin.
No sooner had Julien alighted from his curricle than the great doors were thrown open and Mannering, the St. Clair butler for over thirty years, made his way down the ancient stone steps to greet his master. Julien’s eyes lit up at the sight of his old retainer. He knew full well that the smooth running of St. Clair resulted in great part from the competence of the faithful Mannering.
Mrs. Cradshaw, St. Clair’s housekeeper, followed closely on the butler’s heels, her plump, simple face alight with pleasure.
“Ah, welcome home, my lord,” Mannering boomed in his rich, deep voice, bowing low.
“It’s certainly good to be home, Mannering. I trust all goes well with Mrs. Mannering?”
“As well as can be expected, my lord, considering the years are making us all a bit rickety.”
Mannering beamed at the young earl, pleased that his lordship was never too high in the instep to be concerned about those in his employ. It was true that Mrs. Mannering had hidden the earl once years before when he’d unloosed all his father’s hunters into the formal St. Clair gardens. He could still remember the countess’s hysterical screams.
“Master Julien!” Mrs. Cradshaw bustled forward and swept Julien a deep curtsy.
Julien encircled the small, plump woman in his arms, a wide smile on his face.
“Your prodigal has returned, Emma. Is it too much to hope that there will be some blueberry muffins beside my plate this evening?” He gave her a gentle hug and released her.
“Fancy that, Edward,” she said, turning to Mannering. “Master Julien never forgets his blueberry muffins. It’s a good lad you are.”
“Indeed this lad would never forget. Moreover, François will not be arriving until well after dinner tonight. Far too late to turn up his artistic nose at my tastes.”
“What can you expect from those Frogs? Why, I had it on the best information that the Frenchies are so ignorant the ladies crush up blueberries and rub them on their eyes.”
“Why, Mrs. Cradshaw,” Julien said, “I have it from my best sources that the French think blueberries fit for only pigs and Englishmen. And perhaps as coloring for the ladies’ eyelids.”
She laughed and laughed, lightly tapping him on his arm.
“Now, Emma,” Mannering said, “his lordship looks worn to the bone and it’s time we got everything ordered away for his comfort.”
He turned to Julien and continued formally, servant now to master, “Your rooms are all ready, my lord, and since I do not see your valet—” he paused slightly to leave no doubt that he found Timmens an unnecessary encumbrance “I myself will attend your lordship tonight.”
Julien was amused by the rivalry between his two households but managed to maintain a serious expression. Poor Mannering. If he only knew that Timmens considered himself quite put upon to be dragged into the wilds of the North, into the company of persons he considered to be outlandishly uncivilized. Julien gave a brief moment’s thought to the dusty state of his normally gleaming Hessians. He could almost hear Timmens’s high, reedy voice reproaching him. It was remarkably irritating.
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