No Ordinary Gentleman

That’s why my ancestors fought for independence, I guess.

Chrissy turns sharply, her white bob as sharp as knives at her jaw. “Not me.” She eyes me like one of the crows sitting on the stocks I’d passed outside. “I’ve served this family for thirty-five years, and my mother before me, and hers before that. This place might not belong to me, but it’s as much a part of my family history as it is the current duke, a man of honour and principle, no matter what others might say about him.”

That in itself tells me more than I need to know. It’s probably best I keep my mouth closed. I don’t want to end up in the stocks with only crows for company. Maybe the odd rotten tomato or two.

“That would be the thirteenth duke? My, what a beautiful fireplace.” Maybe flattery will work, I think, as I stare up at the mantel that is also taller than me. I wonder who dusts the thing.

“Aye, that’s right.” Chrissy preens like a hen fluffing her feathers, like the duke was her kid, not her employer. “It is himself that turned this place around after it was left to rack and ruin by the duke before him.” She gives a slow, sad shake of her head.

“His father.” Just checking.

“He was an eejit, God rest his soul,” she says, her mouth pinched in disapproval. “The same for his father before him, if truth be told. Between you and me, the twelfth duke didn’t leave his son with a pot to piss in. Back then, we were all owed back wages fir lookin’ after the place. Meanwhile, he swanned around the world chasing girls half his age, leavin’ misbegotten—” She halts quite suddenly, sending me a quelling look like I’d encouraged her to gossip about the people she works for who she may or may not esteem. “Anyway, the current duke made his fortune trading on the stock markets. Apparently, he was a wiz at it, straight out of university. Though Lord only knows how much it’ll take to bring this place back to its heyday state. Well, him and the builders.”

It looks like Chrissy’s allegiance is to the dukedom or maybe the castle, but not the duke. Excluding the current duke, because the sun shines out of his ass, apparently.

“When was its heyday?” I ask, glancing at the suits of armour flanking the arch we’re walking towards. This place may be centuries older than the cottage I slept in last night, but it’s in much better shape. Wood gleams, and the lights sparkle overhead, the scent of beeswax polish and ancient stone permeating the place. It’s hard to put into words, but the place smells alive, not dead, no matter when its prime was.

“Probably sometime back when those over there had actual bodies in them,” she says, following my gaze to the shiny suits.

Yikes! “Back when boiling oil was a visitor’s deterrent?”

Chrissy just laughs, then points out an iron railing to the right of the wall. “You can see the dungeons down there.”

I make my way over the small square of railings that stand a little lower than chest height. Leaning over, I release a long breath as I stare down at the square cut into the stone floor. Covered with glass, I see nothing but my own reflection, not that this is enough to stop the hairs on the nape of my neck from lifting.

“That just blows my mind.” I can’t even imagine living in a place, eating, drinking sleeping, knowing that downstairs, humans once faced horrors beyond my imagination. Imprisonment. Fear. Torture. Speaking of torture; “Chrissy, did you hear the screeching last night? It sounded like a woman was being murdered. I mean, I know that wasn’t really what was happening, unless someone was committing a massacre.” Because the noise went on and on.

“Peacocks,” she mutters, as though this were a curse word.

“Oh.” Enough said. Chrissy is not a fan of the peacocks.

“Come along, then,” she says, her expression changing from murderous to content in the blink of an eye.

I dutifully (and eagerly) follow Chrissy out of the space, thankful to get away from the topic of peacocks as well as the sad souls dancing on my grave. As the saying goes.

As we continue on out whistle-stop tour, she points out rooms included in the visitor ticket pass. Though we don’t pause long enough for my satisfaction, I’m sure there will be other opportunities. We tread the worn carpets of the long gallery, which looks exactly as it sounds to be. The lengthy room is filled with portraits of the castle’s previous inhabitants, depicting faces and fashions from eras long passed. There’s a huge room, the stateroom, which features a fireplace I could almost stand up in and carved with the family crest, the walls concealed by faded tapestries depicting battles and hunting scenes. Nothing says relax and put up your feet like the portrayal of death and destruction. Next comes a huge dining room set for a formal dinner for thirty, then a lady’s parlour, her embroidery still lying on the arm of a chair as though she had only just stepped out of the room. Quickly following comes an opulent salon, then a pretty sitting room. The rooms seem to go on and on.