Mad Jack (Sherbrooke Brides 4)

“What? Oh, she told him yet again that she’d had her taste of the marital flesh and she believed, given the evidence of him standing right there in front of her, that he would provide her nothing that would enhance either her experience or her current well-being.”

“Aunt Mathilda, you said all that?”

“It’s what she would have said if she’d wanted to,” said Aunt Maude. “Your great-aunt Mathilda is a moving speaker, an orator of great breadth, when she wishes to be. I believe with the vicar, however, Mathilda merely had to look down her nose at him and let it quiver just a bit. It told him quite enough. She does not believe him to be worthy of any of her excellent oration.”

Aunt Mathilda nodded complacently. “That’s right. Mortimer killed Martha, after all.”

Maude cleared her throat again. “He probably didn’t do it on purpose, but he did take Martha for a walk, as we already told you, it rained, and she died. He was very sorry. But now he wants Mathilda.” She stopped, gave a deep sigh, and continued. “It’s a pity that he couldn’t have prayed to prevent the fire and the flood. But he didn’t. There is quite a bit of damage from both the fire and the flood, and so there was no choice but for us to come to you and throw ourselves upon your mercy. Will you let us remain with you for a bit of time, dear boy?”

This was quite the strangest thing that had happened to him in some time. Gray looked from Mathilda, the orator if only she felt like orating, to the slight, more informative Maude, pictured their mother’s Chippendale dining room chairs floating out of a house onto a front lawn, grinned at them, and nodded. “It would be my pleasure, ladies. May I also offer my assistance in the repairs being made to your home? I can send my man down to Feathergate Close to ensure that everything is going the way you wish it.”

“No,” said Mathilda.

“Actually, my lord . . .” said Maude, leaning forward. Then she just stopped. Gray blinked as he saw his mother’s lovely pale green eyes in Maude’s face, pale green eyes that were also his. Maude looked briefly at Mathilda, then cleared her throat. “We have men we trust entirely doing the work. We feel that everything is being done as swiftly as possible. We are content.”

“I see,” said Gray. He took a drink of his own tea, now tepid. “Naturally you are welcome in my home.”

“Alice,” said Mathilda.

“My mother Alice?” Gray asked, an eyebrow up in question.

“Ah, yes, your dear mother,” said Maude. “She was such a lovely little girl. We missed her sorely when she was wedded to your father, although that was so long ago we’re not really certain if that is precisely what we miss. But you know, your father took her away immediately. We saw her only twice between her marriage to your father and your birth. Why, I believe the last time we saw you, you were a very little boy. Ah, yes, whenever we thought of dear little Alice, we missed her.”

“Bloody rotter,” Mathilda said and stared hard at Gray.

“What Mathilda means, if she felt like explaining things more fully, is that we weren’t at all certain at the time if your father was truly an excellent enough gentleman for our little niece. Your mother was so very gentle, so loving, so—well, weak, to spit out the truth of it. I imagine that had your father been a saint, Mathilda would still feel he wasn’t good enough for your mother.”

“He was a vicious rotter,” Mathilda said again, more forcefully this time. She was staring hard at him.

Gray looked from one old lady to the other, then slowly nodded. “Yes, you’re quite right. My father was a rotter of the first order. Ah, I see. You wonder if I’m like my father. There’s no reason for you to believe me, but you should. I’m not at all like my father.” They obviously didn’t know what had happened those many years ago. He wondered why not. Surely anyone who’d wanted to know could have easily found out everything.

“Now, ladies, allow Quincy to bring Mrs. Piller to you. She is my housekeeper, was my mother’s housekeeper before I was even born. She will know exactly which bedchambers would please you the most.”

“There’s Jack,” said Mathilda. “Jack needs a room as well. Close.”

More than one word, Gray thought. This must be incredibly important to her. Perhaps she was readying herself to orate.

“Jack?”

Maude patted Mathilda’s knee and nodded, making the fruit on her bonnet tilt to the side. “Yes. We brought our young, er, valet with us. His name is Mad Jack. Since he assists both Mathilda and me, we would appreciate it if he could be placed near us. Perhaps he could sleep in a dressing room off one of the bedchambers?”

“Mad Jack is your valet? A boy whose name sounds like a highwayman’s sobriquet?”

“Well,” Aunt Maude said, after a very brief eye flicker toward Mathilda, “it’s really just Jack, but our boy, Jack, is also a bit on the energetic side, not wild, mind you, but he does many things, some of them stimulating enough to turn an old lady’s hair quite white.”

“Hmmm,” was all Gray could think of to say. He did blink, but if either of the great-aunts noticed it, they paid it no heed. They really had a valet named Jack whom they called Mad Jack? It wasn’t at all expected, but on the other hand, who cared? Gray said, “Perhaps you’d care to give me just a hint of some of the stimulating things that Mad Jack might do here at my house?”

Mathilda said, “Not a blessed thing. Forget ‘mad.”’

“Yes, that’s right,” said Maude. “Our little Jack is all that is calm and serene when he’s in a stranger’s house, particularly one as grand as this.”

Fascinating, Gray thought, and said, “All you have to do is consult with Mrs. Piller. Where is this Jack?”

“He’s probably sitting quietly in the entrance hall,” said Maude, “guarding our luggage. He’s a very good boy, very well mannered, very quiet, at least most of the time, at least in strange houses. You’ll never know he’s here. We’ve had him with us forever, very nearly. Yes, Jack’s a very sober lad, loyal as a tick, and he prefers to keep to himself when he’s not keeping us. He won’t cause any harm, no ruckus at all, he’s a studious, quite inoffensive boy. Do just as Mathilda said. Forget the ‘mad’ part of his name. It is simply a fancy, a silly name that an old lady simply plucked out of the air of her burned and flooded house.”

“Jack is also welcome, with or without his highwayman’s sobriquet. Now, since we’re all related, and perhaps you ladies do care that I’m above the ground and not under it, I should like it very much if you would call me Gray.”

“Grayson,” said Mathilda. “That’s your name.”