A Duke of Her Own

“What, my lady?” he said, starting to stammer because he was that sort of man.



Eleanor was her mother’s daughter, even though she didn’t choose to act as such most of the time. She pinned the butler to the wall with one look and then said, softly, “The kitchens, Popper.”



Oyster gave a little whine by her leg. At least someone knew when she meant business.



“Of course, my lady,” Popper cried, pulling open the green baize door at the back of the entrance hall so quickly that it banged against the wall.



“Eleanor?” she heard Villiers say behind her.



She looked at him over her shoulder. “Housekeeping matters,” she said coolly. “You continue on with whatever you were doing. Play some chess or something.”



She heard him snort. He followed her through the door, but she paid him no mind.



“Tell me about Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land, Popper.”



“I do hope that breakfast was to your satisfaction, my lady?” Popper trotted backwards down the servants’ corridor, at imminent risk of bouncing into a wall. His round face was creased with anxiety.



“Perfectly acceptable,” Eleanor said dryly. “No prayers delivered with my eggs.”



“Prayers?” Villiers echoed.



They reached the kitchen. Popper thrust open the door and then flattened himself against the wall to allow her to pass.



“Prayers?” Villiers asked again, from a few paces behind Eleanor. But she had turned into a woman intent on battle, a species he recognized, so he wasn’t surprised when she ignored him.



The kitchen was enormous and appeared to have changed little since medieval times. One wall was taken up by a fireplace with five spits rotating before it, thanks to a half-asleep boy operating some sort of a treadmill with his feet. Every last inch of the other walls was covered with shelves holding china, held upright by small wooden dowels. There were rows of teapots fenced in and adorned with strings of onions and garlic. Up above hung strings of sausages and cuts of other meats that Villiers couldn’t identify.



There had to be ten people at work, carrying food about, stirring things on a big iron stove, washing crockery, or in the case of an elderly gentleman, sleeping in the corner.



“Lady Eleanor. His Grace the Duke of Villiers,” bellowed Popper.



A large woman turned about from the stove and squinted at them. “I don’t hold with visits to my kitchen.” She turned her head. “Witless, if you don’t keep them spits turning I’ll put you on one of them!”



“Sister Busy,” Popper said, wringing his hands. “Make the duke and lady welcome. Be charitable, Mrs. Busy, be charitable!”



Eleanor advanced to the center of the kitchen. The cook had scarlet cheeks and small eyes, not to mention a huge, dripping ladle.



“I would like some bacon for breakfast,” she said, walking forward as if the ladle were no threat.



The cook’s small eyes narrowed. “I don’t hold with pork,” she said shrilly. “The spice of idolatry, I call it! And what are you doing, bringing a mongrel into my kitchen!”



“Bacon is meat, and it is nourishing meat,” Eleanor said coldly. Villiers had never heard quite that tone in her voice before, and he was glad of it. “I want bacon and eggs sent up to the nursery immediately.”



The cook slammed her ladle back into the large pot so hard that boiling soup splashed out on the stove and the floor. “So this is what you’re about!”



“Indeed,” Eleanor stated.



Why on earth was she fussing over the children’s breakfast? Villiers could have told her that Tobias had it all in hand, what with his bribes to the footman, but there wasn’t time to interrupt.



“Food is not meant to be gorged with gluttony or greediness,” the cook said shrilly. “Nor to be eaten by those who are an abomination under the Lord!”



For the first time Villiers noticed that Eleanor held a riding crop, and he grew a little concerned. She was running her fingers over it as if it were a delicate ribbon. Mrs. Busy didn’t look like the type of woman to be intimidated.



“I would hesitate to categorize anyone as indulging in gluttony,” Eleanor said, her eyes lingering unpleasantly on the cook’s admittedly abundant curves. “But I do know that those children cannot thrive on a diet of gruel.”



Villiers froze.



Mrs. Busy’s small mean eyes darted to him and then back to Eleanor. “Meat breeds foul temptations! Carnal provocations! Those children are the seed of the devil and their appetites will be strong.”



“You are the foul face of the devil,” Eleanor said, taking another step forward.



She didn’t do anything with the whip, but the cook flinched.



“If you do not send up a nourishing meal, including at least two kinds of meat, within the hour, I will have you turned out on the road, Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land Busy. You will no longer be so busy. Do you understand me?”



Mrs. Busy didn’t answer. A drop of sweat ran down her forehead.



“She understands,” Popper said, popping up between them. “She does, don’t you, Sister Busy? She knows that the children are innocent creatures who aren’t to blame for the circumstances of their wicked conception. Children, Sister Busy,” he implored. “Just children.”



“Aye,” the cook said slowly.



Villiers stood behind Eleanor, the truth of it slowly sinking in. Apparently the gruel Tobias complained of wasn’t just Mrs. Busy’s idea of a child’s diet, but something of a purgative. Thank God, Tobias had taken care of himself.



Eleanor’s face looked as if it were carved of the finest marble, as if the goddess Athena had come to life.



Mrs. Busy was no match for her. “I’ll send them breakfast,” she said, wilting.



“And every meal, as long as those children are here. If I hear that there is the least inadequacy, if you misplace an herb or forget an ingredient, I shall return.”



“I shall not. I sought merely to curb the—the—”



Something in Eleanor’s gaze warned against an explanation.



“I’ll send excellent meals,” Mrs. Busy said hastily.



“Good,” Eleanor said. “Then I’ll bid you good day, Mrs. Zeal-of-the-Land Busy. Oyster, come.”



Villiers waited until she left the kitchen, because he didn’t want Eleanor to feel that he didn’t trust her success. Mrs. Busy didn’t stir, just waited, with her eyes fixed on him. “My children are not an abomination,” he stated, hearing his own cold voice and knowing there were few brave enough to endure the sound without flinching.



“That they are not,” Mrs. Busy readily agreed, showing that she wasn’t one of the brave.



Villiers turned to go.



“But you are!” she burst out. “Verily, I must say the truth and that is that thou dwellest in the tents of the wicked and feedest the vanity of the eye.”



Apparently she didn’t care for his coat. Or perhaps it was the embroidery that was spurring her censure.



“I am moved by the spirit to say so!” Mrs. Busy insisted.



“As long as the tents of the wicked are replete with the smiles of beautiful women,” Villiers said, “I shall be happy.”



“I shall daunt the profaneness of mine enemies,” Mrs. Busy stated. “When sin provokes me, I shall not be silent.”

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