Magic Below Stairs by Caroline Stevermer Page B

will stand us all champagne.”
    â€œNever mind a few sips of champagne,” Mr. Kimball said. “If it is a boy, there will be brown ale enough for young Frederick here to swim in.”
    Frederick didn’t know how to swim even in water. He didn’t see any sense whatever in trying to swim in ale, but before he could say so, Rose looked up from her plate frowning a little. “The nursery wants a good cleaning before then.”
    â€œThe nursery is clean this minute, Rose,” Nancy said. “Only this morning, I swept the hearth myself. Spick-and-span, it is. The king himself couldn’t ask for a cleaner nursery.”
    â€œThe quiet of the countryside, that’s what her ladyship needs,” Mr. Kimball said. “Good food, plenty of rest, and no fretting. We must all work hard to see Lady Schofield is well taken care of. A healthy child, safely delivered, means everything to the future of this family—and therefore to our own future here in the household.”
    â€œ When in November do they expect the baby?” asked Rose. “The fifth of November would be good. Bonfire Night.”
    Nancy giggled. “Before the carriage was put away, the stable boys were making bets on the birth date. Go to them if you want a wager. You can pick the date or just bet if it will be a boy or a girl.”
    â€œMuch good a girl would do us,” said Rose. “Only a boy can inherit the title.”
    â€œStop it!” said Bess. “It’s only August. Months and months to go. Anything might go wrong in the meantime. Anything!”
    â€œQuite right,” said Mrs. Dutton. “Bad luck to behave as if this is all safely settled. Think of the trouble the poor lamb has had in the past.”
    â€œMore than bad luck,” said Mr. Kimball, “it is bad form. The peace and quiet of the countryside is all very well when doctors prescribe it to their patients. Don’t make the mistake of thinking anyone has prescribed it for us. Our standards do not drop merely because we are away from London. Rose and Nancy, must I order you to leave the table? Stop that giggling.”
    â€œWhat trouble has Lady Schofield had?” Frederick leaned close enough to murmur to Bess. “What did you mean, anything might go wrong?”
    Softly, Bess explained to Frederick. “This is the second time Lady Schofield has fallen pregnant. She lost the first baby. Last time, the moment the labor pains came on her ladyship, his lordship fell ill himself. Terrible, the misery he was in, and for once, no complaining from him, not a word.”
    â€œNot a word?” Frederick did not believe it. He knew Lord Schofield was free with complaints, often over the tiniest things. “Truly?”
    â€œYes, truly. Lord Schofield was as brave as could be, while her ladyship, well!” Bess was all admiration for Lady Schofield. “She was braver than that. She was like the Spartan lad who let a fox gnaw his vitals.”
    Frederick stared at Bess. “There was a fox?”
    â€œNo, of course there wasn’t. Wait. I don’t mean to confuse you. It’s only a story,” Bess explained. “Her maid told me. In ancient times, the Spartans trained their children never to admit to pain. A boy was caught with a fox—I can’t remember what he was doing with a fox stuffed in his shirt, so don’t ask me—and he never said a word, even though the fox chewed at him the whole time.”
    Mr. Kimball dismissed the servants, and everyone pushed back from the table still talking among themselves. The next chance he had, Frederick whispered to Bess, “Then what happened?”
    Bess stopped clearing the table to gaze at Frederick. “It was dreadful. Sorrow and grief for months afterward. Lord and Lady Schofield were so sad.”
    â€œAbout the fox, I meant. What happened to the boy with the fox?”
    â€œOh, to the Spartan boy?” Bess went back to