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  By the time Piers returned, Frederick had finished clearing up the dressing room. “If you want a step stool, I’ll build you one. I’ve spoken to Lord Schofield, young Frederick. You are now officially the assistant valet. You shall tie his lordship’s cravats for him from now on.”

  “Assistant valet?” echoed Frederick. “Me?”

  “That’s right. He’s even agreed to increase your wages.” Piers glanced around the room and beamed at how tidy it was. “Your new duties begin at once. Tie his lordship’s cravat.”

  “Now?” Frederick put the smoothing iron back in the fire to heat. “This instant?”

  Shaved and dressed, Lord Schofield strolled into the dressing room in his shirtsleeves. “This instant. Why not?”

  Frederick couldn’t think of any reason why not, so he set to work preparing his lordship’s neck cloth. It took longer than usual, for Frederick was determined not to blunder. He worked with his lightest touch, making the edges of the neck cloth smooth and sharp as the blade of a knife.

  “Look up at the ceiling and hold still, my lord,” said Frederick, when it was time. He tied the knot and tweaked the fabric into place. “Now, lower your chin.” Soon Lord Schofield was wearing a properly tied cravat.

  For once in his life lost for words, Lord Schofield spent fully five minutes studying his reflection in the looking glass. Then he clapped Frederick on the shoulder and shook his hand. “I’d no idea you were so deft, lad. Well done!”

  Frederick, speechless with happiness at such praise, could only hold out Lord Schofield’s jacket. Lord Schofield slid into it and slapped Piers on the back. “It’s official. You now have an assistant valet, Piers. A better life for all of us.”

  Lord Schofield confirmed his new position with Mr. Kimball at once. The butler made certain Frederick knew every detail of his new position. Frederick would still clean his lordship’s boots, but only his lordship’s, not the rest of the household. There would be no more chamber pots, except for his lordship’s, and no more scrubbing of floors. He didn’t have to sleep among the upper servants, as they were still pressed for room, so Frederick chose to keep his bed in the laundry, where the fire made things cozy and hot water was plentiful.

  Bess heard the gossip of his good news before he had a chance to tell her, and she congratulated him on his good fortune. Bess had good news of her own. “Now that the season is ending, his lordship is going to spend the rest of the year in the country.” Bess threw her arms around Frederick and spun them both in a circle. “So are we! Isn’t that grand? We’re going to the country!”

  “The country?” Frederick repeated blankly. “What country?”

  Bess stopped hugging Frederick and shook him briskly. “This country, silly. Mr. Kimball was allowed to choose which of us servants stay here and which come along to Skeynes, and we are among those who are to go.”

  “Skeynes?” Frederick echoed.

  “Yes, the Schofields’ estate, Skeynes. It was ever so grand there once, and I don’t care what anyone says. It will be grand again.” Bess bounced a little more in sheer excitement.

  Frederick thought it over. “Just us? Must be a lot of work, moving to a new house.”

  “What is wrong with you, Frederick? You aren’t usually such a goose. Quite half the staff is coming,” said Bess. “We’re to go on ahead to be sure the house is fit before Lord and Lady Schofield’s arrival. And it’s not a new house, but an old one. It has been neglected in the past few years, but before that it was as elegant as anything.”

  “Wait a moment. How many houses does his lordship have?” Frederick asked.

  Bess hesitated, counting on her fingers, then waved the question aside. “Dozens, I suppose. But he only lives in a few of them.”

  “A few? You can only live in one place, surely? Why have more than one house?”

  “For the income,” Bess replied. “Rents and leases and all that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, I understand.” Frederick thought it over. “If this Skeynes place is so wonderful, why does his lordship live here and not there? Why was it neglected?”

  Bess lowered her voice. “All I know is, his lordship’s older brother died there. The whole family took against the place. Wouldn’t set foot there. But ever since he and her ladyship returned from their wedding journey, his lordship has had men busy repairing the place. My aunt who lives near there says it’s been years they’ve been at it. The work is finished at last, so Mr. Kimball says. When the season is over, we’re to go.”

  “Which season?” Frederick asked. “Summer? Autumn?”

  “The social season, cloth-ears!” Bess was obviously happy to tutor Frederick. “From spring to midsummer, all the rich folk bring their daughters to town to marry them off, those rich enough or pretty enough to find a match. By this time of the summer, everyone is either married or bored out of their wits with parties and gossip, so they all go home. They let the harvest restore their pocketbooks, they spend the hunting season chasing all over the countryside after a pack of hounds, and as soon as Yuletide is past, they plan when to return to London and start all over again.”

  “But if their daughters have all been married off, why must they do it over?” Frederick asked.

  Bess poked him. “Don’t be simple. They must do something to keep busy, mustn’t they? It’s not as if they have floors to scrub. Geese fly south in the winter, and rich folk go to the country in the summer. That’s just the way things are.”

  6

  IN WHICH FREDERICK LEARNS SOME HISTORY

  Neither Frederick nor Bess had ever ridden in a private coach before, so the long jolting journey from the city to the wilds of Gloucestershire was a great adventure. Bess went inside the carriage with Mrs. Dutton and the maids. Mr. Kimball was riding on top of the coach with Frederick.

  When at last the excitement of seeing the countryside had lost its novelty, Frederick began to find the sway and rattle of the carriage lulled him. To keep from falling asleep, Frederick peppered Mr. Kimball with questions.

  “How long before we arrive?” Frederick asked. “How often do they change the teams of horses? Have you made this journey many times?”

  “Not for hours,” Mr. Kimball answered. “They change horses every twenty-five miles. In the past, I made the journey to Skeynes often. If the weather stays fair, it is a grand excursion. Skeynes is a noble house, the finest such property for miles in any direction. Lord Schofield did right to bring it back into good repair.”

  “Why was the place so neglected?” Frederick asked. “Because his lordship’s brother died there?”

  “Is that the gossip these days?” Mr. Kimball shook his head at such a notion. “No matter how great his sorrow, no true gentleman would let grief distract him from the welfare of his tenants and his property. No, Skeynes was left to itself for a time because it was cursed.”

  Frederick nearly fell off the coach. “Cursed!”

  “Steady on,” said Mr. Kimball. “The curse was broken. It took eleven wizards to remove the evil spell, and by the time they did, half the place was smashed to bits. You have no notion of the damage wizards can do when they set their minds to it.”

  Frederick couldn’t help asking, “Worse than brownies and hobgoblins?”

  “Brownies and hobgoblins? What have they to do with anything?” Mr. Kimball gave him a curious look but went on readily. “Far worse than that, I’m afraid. The curse was set upon the house by Sir Hilary Bedrick, one of the wickedest wizards who ever lived. He cast it the night he learned that the marquis had escaped the trap Sir Hilary had set for him. He meant to use Lord Schofield the same way he’d used his older brother, Edward. By great good fortune, young Thomas saw through his scheme and was able to flee the country.”

  “Lord Schofield, you mean?” Frederick tried and failed utterly to imagine sturdy Lord Schofield as a young man.

  “That’s right. He had been studying magic with Sir Hilary. Right along, Sir Hilary fooled everyone. Just as he had sucked magic from Ed
ward Schofield until he killed him, he was sucking magic from young Thomas. He went on stealing all he could, even after Lord Schofield escaped.”

  “How could he do that if Lord Schofield had run away from him?”

  “To use their magic best, wizards must focus it. They put the magic into some object that looks quite ordinary. The focus can be anything, a ring or a walking stick or a lapel pin. Sir Hilary stole Thomas’s focus and used it to siphon off his magic.”

  “But Sir Hilary was caught, wasn’t he?” Frederick asked. “Lord Schofield got his focus back?”

  “In the end, aye.” Mr. Kimball smiled. “Lady Schofield helped. This was back in the days when he was courting her, of course. Talk of the town, they were. Fretted his lordship’s mother so, she came all the way from Paris. His mother, Lady Sylvia that is, took a liking to our young Lady Schofield and gave her blessing to the match. Game as a pebble, that young lady.”

  Frederick wanted Kimball to get back to the point. “What about the curse? How was it broken?”

  “I don’t mean to leave bits out of the story,” Mr. Kimball said, “but you ask too many questions. With Thomas safe out of the country, Lady Sylvia found wizards to break the curse, and lucky she did, for his lordship couldn’t tell there was a curse on the place if it bit him on the nose. That was part of the curse, you see. He couldn’t tell it was there. Even Lady Sylvia had difficulty sensing it, and she’s a prime wizard herself.”

  “What was the curse?” Frederick demanded.

  “Sir Hilary hated all the Schofields, and he wanted them to die. So that’s what the curse was. Death to the Schofields. Lady Sylvia had married in, so she was not subject to the curse. But her surviving son was cursed to choke on Sir Hilary’s hate.”

  Frederick could not help asking, “Why did he hate them so?”

  “Magical ability runs in the Schofield family. He wanted their power for himself.” All disapproval, Mr. Kimball shook his head. “A wicked man, no loss to anyone now he’s dead.”

  Half afraid of the answer, Frederick made himself ask the question that leaped into his mind. “If Sir Hilary killed his brother, did Lord Schofield kill Sir Hilary?”

  “That he didn’t,” said Mr. Kimball. “Sir Hilary had the worst sort of criminals for friends. As he sowed, so did he reap. His accomplices killed him.”

  “Oh.” Frederick felt relief that such a man was dead, and that no one he knew had been connected with the death. “But the curse outlived him?”

  “The Royal College of Wizards shattered his curse to bits and swept it away forever,” Mr. Kimball replied. “I promise you, no one would find me within fifty miles of the place if I thought otherwise. Sir Hilary is in his grave. The spells he cast can’t harm anyone anymore.”

  Mr. Kimball’s tales of magic made the journey seem short. For Frederick, who considered the view from atop the coach the finest in the world, it was all a thrilling adventure, until it began to rain.

  Chilled to the bone, with every stitch he had on soaked, Frederick gave up feeling sorry for Bess, stuffed inside the coach with five other passengers, and felt sorry for himself instead.

  “Pluck up,” said Mr. Kimball, when Frederick was so weary and cold he was ready to fall off the lurching carriage into the muddy road. “We’re nearly there. Only five miles to Skeynes from that crossroads we just passed. Be there in no time.”

  Nearly there in Mr. Kimball’s terms was nothing like nearly there in Frederick’s opinion, but at last, the carriage horses turned off the road to follow a freshly graveled driveway. The drive brought them through a park toward a house the size of a palace.

  Even from a distance, even in the rain, the place was enough to astound Frederick. He thought he’d seen big houses in London. This house was many times larger than the one in Mayfair. It was almost a city all by itself. Skeynes was made of stone and glass. As the carriage approached, Frederick saw that a few of the windows already glowed with lamplight, although it wasn’t yet dusk. Through the gloomy weather, Skeynes shone a welcome to the weary travelers.

  Frederick couldn’t make himself believe such a beautiful place had ever been cursed by anyone or anything. It looked like a royal palace out of the stories Vardle used to tell.

  When at last they walked into the servants’ hall at Skeynes, Frederick was so weary the stone floor he was dripping on seemed to float beneath his muddy feet.

  “Take your boots off before you go one more step,” Mr. Kimball ordered. “No need to track in more muck.”

  Dizzy with sleepiness, Frederick obeyed him. He found a place beside the fire and folded up in a dripping heap. Then, despite his discomfort, Frederick fell asleep before anyone even noticed he was there.

  In the morning, Frederick felt much better. The fire had dried his clothes. The floor had already been scrubbed clean of yesterday’s mud. But he was surprised and annoyed to discover someone had slipped half a dozen dried beans into his boots while he slept.

  “It was probably one of the footmen,” Bess told him when he complained at breakfast. “Remember the time you were sleeping in the laundry room and Jamie hid pease pudding in your breeches?”

  “Oh, is that who did it?” Frederick promised himself he would stay well away from whichever footman Jamie turned out to be once he returned to the house in London. “Mr. Kimball didn’t ask Jamie to come along to Skeynes with us, did he?”

  “He didn’t, so someone else must find you a tempting target. If you insist, I’ll help you find out who did the dried beans. But after all, it was only beans. Throw them away and forget it. If you make a fuss, next time it will only be worse.”

  “I don’t know about that. The footmen out here in the countryside may not be as inventive as the ones in town.” Frederick sampled his bowl of porridge. “Oh, this is good.”

  Bess nodded. “My mother always told me there was nothing like the cream from the home farm at Skeynes, and she was right.”

  Frederick stared at the dried beans. “Or maybe it’s just the wrong time of year for pease pudding.”

  “What is this on the floor? This is sour milk!” Mr. Grant’s shouting made the kitchen rafters ring. “Who spilled milk and walked away without mopping it up? Am I among savages? Is this the way one makes cheese here in the howling wilderness? Has this kitchen never seen a scrub brush until now?”

  “Hop it,” Bess advised, “or we’ll both be stuck here scrubbing.”

  7

  IN WHICH FREDERICK FEELS AT HOME

  Skeynes was, Frederick discovered, the center of a whole new world. In addition to the great house and its stable block, there were outbuildings, a home farm, and what seemed like miles upon miles of gardens, fields, and forest.

  Night and day, dozens of servants and farm laborers were busy at Skeynes. In London, Frederick had grown used to the divide between upper servants and lower servants. Now he discovered another divide, this one between London servants and local servants. All the London servants knew each other. All the local servants knew each other. But more than that, if the local servants weren’t all blood relations, they behaved as if they were.

  Bess had cousins aplenty among the local servants. The moment her work was done each day, they swept her off to catch up on family news and gossip. Frederick missed her. Strangely, he did not feel lonely. Although Skeynes might as well have been a foreign country, Frederick felt at home there from the very first morning.

  In London Frederick’s work had begun at daybreak, when the delivery wagons rumbled past and the cabs and carriages started the endless scurry of their day. At Skeynes, Frederick’s work also began at daybreak, but there was not a sound of traffic anywhere. Not that it was quiet. If anything, Skeynes was noisier than London. For one thing, there were the birds. Frederick had seen birds in the city, sparrows mostly. In the countryside, there were more kinds of birds singing at once than Frederick had ever heard of before, more than he could count. There were also roosters, hens, and the occasional screaming peacock.

  Fro
m Lord Schofield’s bedchamber and dressing room, windows looked out over gardens, but Frederick had little chance to admire the view. He was too busy bringing the rooms into a proper state of cleanliness and order. With Lord and Lady Schofield expected any day, there was a tremendous amount of work to be done, from the attics and box rooms at the top of the house to the cellars beneath it.

  The state of the cupboards in his lordship’s dressing room was dreadful. Frederick spent his time clearing cobwebs and dusting. There would be no point in unpacking his lordship’s wardrobe in a place that would dirty the clothing immediately. He took his time and did a thorough job. Frederick liked the sense of drowsy peace he found as he worked. Sometimes he felt that old sense of companionship, as if someone worked near him, just out of sight.

  Before long, Frederick had Lord Schofield’s dressing room looking as neat as a pin. The whole staff worked as hard as Frederick did and soon, in the matter of comfort and cleanliness, there was little to choose between the London house and Skeynes.

  But in Lord Schofield’s dressing room one morning, Frederick noticed soot in the grate of the fireplace. From the look of the debris he found, he suspected a bird was nesting up the chimney. Frederick wondered when the staff at Skeynes last had a proper chimney sweep in.

  That evening at the long table in the servants’ hall, Frederick remembered the soot. “Mr. Kimball, may I ask when the chimneys were last swept here?”

  Mr. Kimball, seated at the far end of the table, was listening to Mrs. Dutton and did not hear the question. Frederick was too far away, seated with Bess and the local servants.

  To his surprise, Rose, one of the few local maids Bess was not related to, slapped his wrist and burst out laughing. “Chimney sweeps! Don’t remind us!” Still giggling, Rose turned to her sister Nancy. “Dreadful flirts, they were. How many did they send us?”

  “Lost count after three,” Nancy said. “Could have been an army of climbing boys up in those chimneys, with all the noise that lot made.”